12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 4

10:20 PM

"... and that's about when it all went wrong," Myron is saying, holding Yanabah's water bottle as Randolph stands nearby, rather fascinated by how this conversation has gone.

Not that it's much of a conversation; so much of it has been Myron talking while Yanabah just sits there, mumbling as she comes out of a bad drunk. But he gets the sense she's been listening, through the fug, and comprehending on some level.

"So, near as I can tell, that thing took my creativity," Myron continues, wishing he had a big !@#$ drink to go with this story: "Every time I've been screwed up, or screwed over? I've always thrown myself into some project or another. It's how I process it, or at least how I put it into the back burner until I can process it."

"That would make sense," Randolph interjects: "As long as I've known you, you've been tinkering with one thing or another. I guess you sitting all alone and doing nothing should have been a warning sign."

"Yeah, well, don't feel bad for not coming to help out," Myron says: "And I mean that, Randolph. The COMPANY sent some shrink and the only reason I let him in was because he threatened to have me !@$ing kicked out of my own apartment."

"Not like anyone'd let you into theirs..." Yanabah mumbles, looking up and over.

"It lives!" Randolph says in mock shock.

"Call the media," Myron chuckles.

"Too late," Yanabah sighs, pointing at Randolph.

"I'm off the clock, tonight," the reporter says, smiling weakly: "But I would like to hear more of this story?"

"Yeah, well, what's there to tell?" Myron sighs, handing Yanabah another small glass of water: "As soon as I realized what was wrong... well, as soon as someone made me realize what was wrong, I got up off my !@#$ and did something about it."

"That was the day before Christmas?" Randolph asks.

"It sure was. And I know you were busy."

Randolph coughs: "Yeah, you could say that."

"Weren't the only one," Yanabah says, casting a withering glare at Josie, who's been lurking just inside earshot this entire time.

"So I got back to work, catching up on my pile of projects. And, between that and some better social choices, and a lot of alcohol, I feel a !@#$ of a lot better."

"We got cursed, you dumb !@#$," Yanabah snorts, sipping at the water: "Can't drink your !@#$ way out of that."

"Well, here's the thing," Myron says, leaning in: "The deal was that we lost something precious, right? And that's what was animating that... thing in the White House. Right?"

"Right," Randolph says, nodding as he gets how this works.

"So the moment that thing wasn't in the White House, anymore? The moment SPYGOD did what he did? Where did those somethings go?"

Yanabah blinks -- once, and then twice.

"Then why the !@#$ haven't I felt better?" she asks.

"Same reason I didn't. I'd fallen so !@#$ far down without it that I didn't notice it was back."

 "You know, that makes a lot of sense," Randolph says, nodding: "Kind of like when you put a frog in a pot of water and slowly heat it up?"

The two of them look at him, and he coughs: "Not that I ever did that, but..."

"I think he's got it," Myron says, grinning: "So, all you have to do is figure out what it took, and then go looking for it. It's there, you just have to make it your own, again, somehow."

"You make it sound so !@#$ing easy," Yanabah sighs, spitting some of the water up.

"Well, it isn't. But it sure beats spending the party having to be forced sober."

"Or insulting people you don't know," Randolph adds.

"I know you," Yanabah says, giving him a very cold eye: "My Great-Grandfather told me about you."

"What did he say?"

She just smiles, taking the water out of Myron's hands and leaning back in her chair, perhaps a smidgen less drunk that she was: "Go and ask him."

Josie laughs at that. It's not a good-sounding thing.

"Well, on that note?" Myron says, getting to his feet: "I need to go find Skyspear and tell her what I learned. I'm sure she's stuck in some rut, too."

"Yeah,  well, I think that might be ending," Randolph says, pointing over to some of the other couches, where Mark and Skyspear are clearly not sitting together, anymore. Skyspear's got a hen party going on, and Mark's sitting all by himself, clearly dejected and looking around as if waiting for someone to come in.

"Duty calls," Myron says, looking down at Yanabah: "But you know, I never got a chance to tell you thanks for the Ice Palace. I wasn't in a good place, then, before or after we did that thing. But you came through on so many levels it's not even funny."

"Really?" she asks, just sort of looking up at him.

"Totally. I ever have to gamble the fate of the world on a suicide run into an ex-Supernazi base that's been taken over by aliens? I want you there backing me up."

"Because you secretly like me?"

"No, you're a nasty !@#$," he says, leaning in: "But you're our nasty !@#$. And I'm glad to have you on my side."

"!@#$ you, paleface," she snorts, flipping him the bird. But there's no edge to it, and he smiles, bows theatrically, and walks away.

"Nice guy," Josie says, coming closer: "You could do worse."

"Not my type," Yanabah sighs: "All yours."

"Not mine, either," Josie chuckles, looking at Randolph.

"No comment," he says, putting up his hands and departing the conversation.

"So, we cool?" Josie asks, making sure no one's listening.

"I think so," Yanabah says, not looking up at her: "But just for the record? Next time you !@#$ing toss me into the grinder without telling me what's up first? I will kick your sorry, pink !@#$ into the sky. And then I'll shoot whatever the birds don't eat."

"It's the nature of the grinder, Flower," Josie says, grinning and walking away: "Ought to be used to that by now?"

"!@#$ you," she mutters, glad the water's no longer fighting to come up when she sips it.

She looks around her, then, at the party she's been a stumbling wreck for most of. All the people talking, drinking, dancing, laughing. All the things starting, continuing, and ending.

The whole human drama, unfolding in miniature right in front of her, and she's been too !@#$ed up to handle it.

She remembers when she knew her grandfather / great grandfather / father was dead -- how she just knew he was in pain, then dying, then dead. She remember how all the pieces of her soul handled it, and somehow channeled their rage / grief / acceptance into one direction, and kept going. How she persevered, knowing she'd have time to mourn later, but needed to complete the mission now, or else his death would have been for nothing.

But she also remembers what a waste his funeral was, for her. How she couldn't handle being a part of it. How she stood on the outside of the circle while the rest of his family chanted and prayed.

How she couldn't even set foot in his house, or look at his grave from a distance.

His family -- her family -- had opened up to her. Anything she needed? Done. Anything she wanted? Brought. The People knew how to handle death, tragedy, and grief. They'd been dealing with it in overtime, ever since their lands got overrun, all those years ago.

How had she repaid them? Scorn, fury, and threats. And they got the message !@#$ quick, backed off, and left her alone.

Until she was ready for their help.

"Pride," she says to herself, looking at the water, remembering what Wayfinder told her that one time, after she'd killed and eaten those SQUASH idiots that'd tried to abduct him.

And, remembering that, she resolves to try and find it again, once her head no longer feels like something took a massive !@#$ in it. 

10:48 PM

"Yeah, well, that's how that goes," SPYGOD says, his features distorted slightly over the Nthernaut's projection: "He should have known better than to get involved with one of his own operatives."

"A sensible precaution," Faraj says, his hands behind his back as they converse: "But you must know that, in matters of the heart, not everyone has your... restraint."

"Are you saying I don't feel for my people?"

"Oh no, friend. I know you love them all. But there are many different kinds of love, and sometimes they wear each others' faces. Sometimes we don't know which is which until it's too late."

"Well, that's probably true," SPYGOD says, casting a glance at Straffer as he talks to folks he hasn't seen in far too long: "All the same, as long as I've known Ju-San, he's been mooning over that !@#$ alien robot. And the more he wanted her, the sloppier he got."

"And that's never happened to anyone else, ever," Faraj observes: "Not at all."

SPYGOD looks at him, knowing exactly what he means: "You !@#$ing suck, Faraj."

"I do indeed," the man smiles: "And receive few complaints."

"Question is, what the !@#$ are you going to do about Ju-San?" SPYGOD asks, taking advantage of the Nthernaut's optics to see where the man in question is, all the way across the floor (still dead to the world): "Man's got his !@#$ hands on all the big !@#$ things you're going to need when the !@#$ hits the fan."

"Not anymore," Faraj says, leaning in closer: "I've already made arrangements, in anticipation of this. The Organization is now under the control of the Space Service. Call it our Japanese Branch, if you'd like to. All their weapons and wonders are under our control."

"And Ju-San?"

"Also under our control," Faraj winks: "I think losing his woman and his job will force him into being useful, once more."

"You might want to be really !@#$ing  careful," SPYGOD says, looking back at Faraj: "He might not look it, but that man's !@#$ing dangerous. And that's saying something, coming from me."

"It usually is, but that has also been calculated," Faraj sniffs: "If he goes to his contacts, they will be neutralized. If he tries to take things back, he will be neutralized. And if the Organization doesn't like it, well, they're used to a total turnover every time their leader is dead or deposed. So this will just be business as usual, only instead of the head of the Japanese government deciding on their replacements, it will be me."

"And the President of the Terre Unifee."

"Provided I ask him in time."

SPYGOD just stares at him for a moment, and then smiles: "Man, you are one !@#$ ruthless son of a !@#$, Faraj."

"Would you trust the defense the Earth to anyone else?" Faraj asks, holding out his hand, quite pointedly, for a shake: "I'm not here to make friends and play games, (REDACTED). I'm here to make certain the human race lives to see this time, next year, at least. Any other consideration is secondary."

"And thank !@#$ for that," SPYGOD says, shaking it: "You do what you gotta do, man. I'll back your play."

"Good to know," Faraj says, and then -- sensing that he's hogged enough of the man's valuable face-time --  heads off to go talk to Straffer, who's in-between admirers.

"I hope I am not intruding?" someone asks SPYGOD, and he turns to regard the man: old, tall, and flinty, with a full, silver beard and thinning hair, dressed in a suit sharp enough to cut through steel. Black leather gloves. A wooden cane.

German accent. 

"Do I know you?' SPYGOD asks, a little uncertain.

"Aha! SPYGOD does not know all?" the man chuckles: "We have talked many times over the years, you and I. We just never met face to face, nor did I ever allow you to see mine."

"Jaeger?" SPYGOD says, almost disbelieving: "I thought you'd..."

"Oh, I did," the man says: "Officially. So far as my Government knew, I went down on the first day of the Invasion. The Imago's proxies blew up the building my organization was housed in when they took the Bundesrat."

"I wonder how they !@#$ing knew that?"

"They knew far too much, my friend. That much is clear. And I think this was a lesson I needed to learn. Even after all these years, some things are just never going to be as much of a secret as I'd like them to be."

"So why are you here, then?' SPYGOD asks: "Are you out of the game?"

"Oh no. I think it's time I played a new one," the old man smiles, extending a hand, somewhat carefully: "But before I did, I wanted to meet you face to face, this once."

"Why?" SPYGOD asks, extending a hand to shake the old man's.

"Because, the last time we did this, it was as enemies," he says, shaking it firmly, his eyes closed: "And now I hope we can be friends."

SPYGOD blinks. Twice. Then he gasps and almost takes a step back.

"You...?" he says: "Then... that wasn't...? We weren't?"

"I am still not certain about a great many things," the old man says, holding onto SPYGOD's hand: "Did we dream of that dinner? I never had a chance to ask my colleagues. We separated, not long thereafter."

"And we !@#$ing lost the Major the next day," SPYGOD admits: "And I never really asked my other friend..."

"But if you and I both remember it, then perhaps it was true."

"Perhaps," SPYGOD says, taking a step forward and putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "My god!@#$ contact in Die unsichtbare Direktion. All this !@#$ing time, and I never knew."

"You know you never did tell me what was so funny about our name," the old man says, winking.

"Eh, I don't think it !@#$ing translates well. But this is... wow. Jaeger. Wow."

For a moment they're both at a loss for words. Who hugs whom, first? Who can say, but before long they're embracing and laughing, like long lost friends. 

And maybe they are.

11:04 PM

"No, really, I can eat this," Rakim (sometimes known as Brainman) says, munching on the cheeseball from the somewhat perfunctory table of food, his long beard going up and down as he chews.

"But it's got bacon on it?" Shining Guardsman asks, looking quite out of place in his uniform and helping himself to some pizza slices.

"No, they're Bac-Os," the man explains, pointing them out: "I'd recognize that weird, cornflake-like texture anywhere, brother."

"So?" 

"So, they're not only vegetarian, they're also vegan," Rakim explains: "There's no bacon in them at all. Not even in the flavoring. They're Halal, Kosher, you name it."

"That's crazy," Shining Guardsman says, shaking his head: "Learn something new every day."

"Well, you can't say this party hasn't been educational," Blastman says, walking up and drilling Rakim with a stare.

"Cheeseball?" the man asks, gesturing to the badly-mangled snack food as the Guardsman decides to take his pizza and flee.

"Yes, you are," the hero says, scowling as he walks away.

"Hmmm," Rakim says, and has some more, wondering how long he'll need to ignore this stupid !@#$ before his former arch-enemy realizes what Rakim figured out a long time ago.

(A long time, he figures -- Blastman was never too bright)

"Anything good over here?" someone asks him. He turns to look at a lovely young lady, dressed in a red and white dress uniform.

"Oh, we've got everything," he says, gesturing to the table: "I was just explaining the virtues of this lovely cheese and bac-o ball, here, but I think the audience was more interested in the pizza they brought in."

"Oh, Sal's?" she asks, digging in to get a piece: "They went all out, didn't they?"

"I guess they did."

"Did you try some?" she asks between munches.

"Oh, I can't," he says: "It's got pepperoni."

"Oh, vegetarian?"

"Muslim," he says, smiling.

"Oh, okay," she says, nodding: "Well, you don't mind if I chow down, do you?"

"Of course not," he says: "It'd be a sad and lonely world if I couldn't eat with people who don't share my dietary restrictions."

"Oh, thank God," she says: "I've got some friends who get all up in my face about it."

"Now why would they do that?"

"Oh, I guess I'm hurting their feelings," she shrugs: "People are weird, sometimes."

"Very. I'm Rakim."

"Florence," she says, shaking his hand: "Red Wrecker when I'm on duty."

"Well, I used to be Brainman, but I'm trying to get away from that."

"Oh, you were..." she stops for a moment, and then nods: "You used to be a villain, once?"

"A long time ago, yes. It seems like a long time ago."

"So what changed?" she asks, getting another piece of pizza: "I mean, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Well, believe it or not, it was my hips," he says, smiling weakly: "I know for most people it's prison or a near death experience, but for me it was having my pelvis decide that my criminal lifestyle wasn't worth supporting, anymore."

"Really?" she asks, grabbing a chair and sitting down, and indicating that maybe he should do the same.

"Oh, it's okay. I like standing up, actually. I spent a lot of time sitting around. Still too much time, really."

"So, your hips?"

"Oh yes. They were painful. It hurt to sleep, it hurt to sit, to stand, to walk. It was pain all the time, everywhere. And the worst thing was that all the people who were supposedly my allies? The Legion? They just told me to deal with it myself."

"Didn't you have money?"

"Oh, if only! All my money went into my inventions, my dear. I was what you'd call a gadgeteer. All gizmos and cheap tricks. I had the Brain Computer to help me plan crimes, and all these tools to do them, but all the money went into making bigger and better tools, and fixing the computer every time it broke. Which was often."

"So no money."

"No. No money," he sighs, getting another cheese cracker: "And when I finally did have enough, it was all I had. And there I was, in the worst hospital in the city, dealing with the worst doctors and the worst recovery time. And that meant waiting around for them to be ready for you. Waiting to be healed up. Waiting for therapy. Waiting forever.

"And having all that time to sit around? To realize that all the bad choices you made brought you to a small, concrete room with bad curtains, and a succession of roommates you don't like who just wants to talk about all the petty things he's going to do when he gets back out? That's a punishment in and of itself. Worse than prison, really."

"So I realized, after they finally let me out, that this was one of those moments that I had to learn something from. And I did, I think. I decided to better myself, somehow, and for me that meant Embracing Islam."

"And then everything got better?" she asks, winking.

"No. I was still poor and living out of my secret lair with all my broken toys, but at least I had spiritual peace again," he says, smiling: "And then Mr. USA had to come bang on my door and get me back in the game, however reluctantly."

"And now you're a hero?"

"Well, I'm trying," he says, noticing that Blastman is still glaring at them from across the party: "I guess I'm as much of a hero as others are going to let me be."

She nods: "I think I'll let you be a hero," she says, somewhat sagely.

"Really?"

"Totally. A lot of the people I came up with, in this hero program? They went over to the other side on Christmas. Now I'm running with people I don't even know, half the time. No one's sure of anything, anymore."

"Well, neither am I," he admits.

"No, but at least you'll admit it," she says: "And that's a !@#$ of a lot better than some of these jerks in here."

"If I still drank, I'd drink to that," he says, grinning.

"Well, they won't let me drink, yet," she sighs: "But when I do? I'll have one for you."

And they shake on that -- fast friends in the making.

(Much to the chagrin of one onlooker, at least)


(SPYGOD is listening to Coming Up (The Cure) and having an Arrogant Bastard)

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Yanabah) - pt 2

By all accounts, whatever its past -- or maybe because of it -- Richmond, Virginia is a beautiful city.

Though the city may have been all but leveled during the Civil War, it's come back up from the rubble and ashes to become a near-perfect mixture of old and new. Picturesque, historic buildings share the same space as more recent constructions, without either seeming out of place. It's calm and peaceful, efficient and clean, and tranquil to the point where even the most cynical of visitors -- if they listen to the true stirrings of their heart -- would perhaps think of moving there, someday.

It's everything you could want in a State Capitol, and that's what makes this day especially sad.

By the time the Neo York City crew gets to their landing zone, just outside what's left of the State Capitol Building, itself, the immediate area has already been wrecked beyond recognition. The buildings are on fire, the streets are shattered, and heavy objects are flying through the air like rocks thrown by small boys. The calm has been broken by the sounds of sirens, shooting, and screaming.

Lots and lots of screaming.

The secessionists have taken the Captiol area, using the muscle of the turned Strategic Talents and leftover Legion Supervillains to hold and enforce their position. The Governor has been abducted from his mansion, along with his family, and is being held at the nearby Museum of the Confederacy. All available emergency services are too busy fighting fires and dealing with the wounded to mount a real rescue, to say nothing of rolling the armed belligerents back.

And -- just to make things worse -- a large number of the police have joined with the attackers, sensing that a chance to grab hold of their long-denied neo-confederate destiny has come 'round at last.

As for those in costume? They preen and pose, strutting upon the smoldering mountains of rubble like cockerels in near-human shape, and cheering like beasts baying over a kill. The ones long-known to be villains have merely revealed themselves for what they've always been, however hidden or dormant those personae were. And the so-called heroes have shucked their assigned uniforms and codenames for things more befitting their new, chosen identities.

Meanwhile the true heroes of the day -- the ones that held true to their oaths and their station -- lie dead or broken around them, lashed to signs and bolted to walls as warnings to some, and examples to all.

The appearance of much-needed, strategic intervention does not signal the end to the conflict, but merely a different stage within it. Speedsters whirl around the slow-moving, only to be outflanked by other, quick-moving types, and lured into near-endless races of doom. Powerhouses trade blows and fling weighty objects at one another, hoping to wear their defenses down. Those that can fly turn the sky into a protracted dogfight, those with strange offensive powers draw at fifty or more paces, and those with more interesting abilities find their foils and test them.

And as the colorful and the costumed rage on earth and in heaven, the real work gets left to those whose skills lie within darker avenues.

Call them the shooters, if you must: you wouldn't be the only ones. They're the Strategic Talents whose powers and abilities lie not within altered DNA or grossly enhanced bodies, but in their aptitude for ranged combat -- the magic that happens in the space between their eye and index finger. On a normal day, in any other fight, they'd be using their signature weapons to bring down their overpowered foes, knowing full well that they could take what damage they could do -- or maybe not, as the case may be.

But here, today, they are under orders to stun, only, if only because the eyes of the new world are watching.

And so, while the proud and the powerful clash loud enough to shame thunder, the sneaky and underhanded quietly  unleash their F-guns on the enemy combatants. The chittering, swirling rays of orange and purple that overwhelm the senses of anyone caught by them, and bring them down in seconds. Lines of traitorous police officers fall collapse where they stand, still trying to use their now-useless authority. Waves of hidden survivalists and secessionists are likewise brought down to the earth, as even their well-padded boltholes and improvised cover will not protect them from this.

And as they fall down, they are quickly disarmed, disrobed, and left tied up for eventual collection.

That accounts for most of the shooters, but in any battle there are always exceptions. One of those exceptions is stalking through the burning buildings and shattered ruins, carrying two large guns filled with ammunition meant to be used on the new breed of superhuman. Her orders are a simple-sounding task -- one she is uniquely suited to handle, given both her skills and temperament.

Find the new supers and kill them, no matter what.

Yanabah's been on the ground for exactly ten minutes. In that time she's shot no less than three of these turncoat newbies. Each time, she's carefully aimed for the eyes, making sure to put a spent uranium bullet through each pupil, the better to blow their brains out the back of their heads.

Because, while supers may be dense of skin or fleet of foot, eyeballs are hard to armor or protect, and brains are as fragile as a first kiss.

She's been careful, of course. She hasn't engaged anyone who's currently tussling with another Super, just to make sure they don't get any more blood on their uniform. And she hasn't shot anyone in such a way as to get the slaughter on camera. She finds a worthy target, slinks into position, takes careful aim, fires twice -- once from each gun -- and then slides away before anyone realizes where the shots came from.

Three volleys, three corpses, zero sightings -- so far, perfection, and she should be proud.

But as she creeps along, watching her fourth victim as she pummels one of her colleagues down, and preparing to line up that perfect, paired shot that will end her, she can't help but wonder why she isn't feeling more -- or even anything at all. Her heart isn't racing, she's breathing normally, and every time she pulls the triggers (and watches the front of their face blossom violently) she doesn't experience any of the emotions that she should. There's no joy, no pity, no hate, no revulsion.

It's as if she's moving through a scripted introduction for a videogame she's played a million times, and knows too well to be excited, anymore.

Something is missing. Something is wrong. Yanabah knows this, assuredly, but she can't figure out what's happened. And as she ends the life of her fourth victim -- blowing her up and back the second she stands up from her now-unconscious victim -- it's all she can do to go find victim number five, and hope that the answer presents itself in due course.

That's what her father/grandfather/great-grandfather would have told her, she's sure.

If only he was here to say it. 

* * *

"You know, you might want to put that gun somewhere else," Wayfinder says, looking the strange-looking Russian fellow in the eyes.

"No, my friend," the SQUASH operative says, re-adjusting his grip on the very large, Soviet-made pistol -- its barrel just out of the hero's reach, but aimed right at his forehead -- "I am thinking I will keep it on you for as long as we are talking, here. I think it will persuade you we are being serious, and should it not, perhaps I will aim it at your daughter."

Yanabah growls. It's not a pleasant sound, and the two large men standing on either side of her raise their guns reflexively, wondering where that came from.

It's the mid-eighties, and they're in a !@#$ty, chain hotel in southern Iowa, of all places. The COMPANY had them flown in to help with a rather curious missing-persons case -- one that resolved itself a little too neatly for anyone's liking. And, after it was done, the group paid them for their time, and then put them up here for the night so Wayfinder could get some rest.

Only there were three Russians waiting for them when they checked in.

One of them seems to be able to phase through objects, if their rather disorientating rush through the wall is any indication. He's the one doing most of the talking. The other two seem to be standard heavies, complete with staid, Soviet stares and handguns large enough to kill an elephant at 50 paces, and a lack of conversational skills.

But one of them brought a big, heavy briefcase. And Wayfinder knows enough to know what that means. So he knows he has to play for time, at least for now.

Yanabah stands there, dressed in the same kind of work shirt and jeans that he does. Only now she wears the silver and turquoise jewelry, all around her neck. It's both therapy and restraint, at this point.

(But they don't need to know that, do they?)

"So, this case we were working," Wayfinder asks: "That was your doing?"

"Of course," the man says, grinning to reveal a mouth full of bad, brown teeth: "We needed to get you out of hiding, and so we have. How convenient that you must always rest after such an exertion! So we brought you here, where there is only one hotel, and laid in wait."

"I'll tell them to be more careful, next time," the man says, rolling his eyes.

"Except that there will not be a next time, not for your COMPANY, anyway," the Operative announces: "We have a waiting transport. You will come with us, and get on board. You will travel with us back to our space, and we will use your unique skills to our purposes."

"Like !@#$," Yanabah spits: "I don't think you could afford him."

"You see?" the Russian says: "This country is all about money. There is no vision, here, my friend. You seem to be a man who understands about vision?"

"I also understand about freedom of choice," Wayfinder says, leaning up against the dresser. The Russian clears his throat and re-aims the gun.

"It's okay," Wayfinder says: "Just resting. I'm not really able to do more than stand here and talk, if you're scared."

"You will come with us," the man says, apparently not very afraid: "This is a surety. If not for your own sake, then for hers."

The two heavies pick that moment to raise their guns and aim them at her heard. Yanabah growls again, but has made no move to take her jewelry off. Maybe she's thinking they can get out of this without her having to kill them.

Wayfinder realizes there probably isn't, though, and -- cursing himself for doing so -- begins to bring the conversation down a darker, more doomed path.

"And if I say no?" he asks, standing straight up.

"Then we kill her," the man says: "Slowly, in front of you. We have privacy and time. You will watch the whole thing."

"She knew the risks when she signed up," Wayfinder says: "And I won't betray my people for anyone."

(He sees the look on her face. She's aware of what's going on. She's pleading with him not to do this -- not to make her go backwards, to what she was -- but he's steadfast in this.)

"Well, we have also brought the Machine," the Russian says, cocking his head towards the briefcase: "It will be crude, and painful, but we will ensure that we will have a map of your mind, and how it works. Not as good as the real thing, perhaps, but enough to replicate it surgically."

Yanabah growls again -- deeper and lower. The Russian's starting to wonder what's going on here.

"And I suppose you'll make her watch?" Wayfinder asks.

"Oh yes," he says, no longer as sure of himself: "If you wish to go that route, I am certain we can let her hear you scream."

That's done it, then. There's a clinking, almost wet sound as the jewelry falls from her neck and hits the floor. And then there's that howl that has no business coming from a human mouth...

Wayfinder's outside of the hotel room before the screaming starts. He hears a gunshot, maybe two, but then nothing but wet noises. Rending and ripping, tearing and chewing.

The howl that makes his blood run cold.

"Yeah, it's Wayfinder," he says into his communicator, which -- if he'd been thinking -- he would have found a way to tap the moment he realized they'd been ambushed: "We need help. We got held up in our room by three Ruskies. SQUASH Agents, they said. Yanabah's dealing with them right now, but...

"Yes, Yanabah," he repeats as something heavy gets slammed into the wall, just before a new wave of screaming erupts: "Maybe give us a couple hours before we go in, but you better get people here now. I think there may be more of them, nearby. They spoke of a waiting transport. Maybe check the nearby airfield, any airstrips within a ten mile radius..."

The screaming gets too loud to talk, then, so he turns it off and goes back to watching the door.

They had the curtains closed. They're being soaked with blood spatters. He can almost imagine the scene inside the room, right now: pieces of Soviet agents flying all over the room, the wet squelching noises.

The feeding.

"Creator, forgive me," he prays, knowing that this might just take her therapy all the way back to square one, but not knowing how else he could have ended that. Sometimes you just have to use what's there, and make amends later.

That and hope the cure wasn't worse than the disease.

* * *

Not far from the State Capitol, there's some buildings that haven't been set afire, yet.

Some of them are the Museum of the Confederacy, where the Governor's being held, and a firebreak has been established to ensure his safety (until it doesn't matter, anymore). And others are just outside the conflagration, at least for now. No flaming cars, wayward bolts of lightning, or gouts of fire have been lobbed their way, just yet, and any eyebeams have been focused on targets closer to the actual fighting.

So when trio of (mostly) bruised and battered secessionist supers use it to try and escape, they're reasonably sure they're safe in one of those alleys, for now.

"Man, that sucked," a tall, well-muscled woman in a red and white suit says as they walk along: "I can't believe we actually thought we could win."

"Shut it, Red," a long-haired man in black, riding leathers -- covered in Confederate patches -- and a pitch-black, handlebar mustache commands: "You knew there was a risk, here. This is just a battle, not a war."

"They say we're losing," a skinny, blonde man in purple and white says: "I hear the West Coast already went down in flames-"

"Just a temporary setback. You watch. I bet they're pulling the reserves out, now."

"And we're bravely sneaking away to meet them?" the woman says, turning to smirk: "Face it, bro. We got hosed."

The man in black takes a swipe at her, but she parries the blow with something approaching a languid gesture and leaves him to nurse what may be a broken wrist.

"Truth hurts, Confederateer?" the kid in purple and white asks.

"I told you, it's the Black Rider!" the man insists, stopping to stick his finger in the kid's face: "And the South is going to rise again!"

"Yay, racism," the kid sigh.

"Sneer all you want, Purple Haze, but this is a White Man's nation! And the sooner you get with that-"

"Remind me again why we shacked up with losers?" the woman in red interrupts, amused to see the steam rising from their supervillain's head as he walks right through him.

"Orders, hon," the kid says: "And not the kind you can ignore-"

He'd have said more, but then twin bursts from a pair of well-used 50 calibers turn the woman's head into a wet mess, making further conversation irrelevant.

"What the !@#$?" the Black Rider says, ducking behind some trash cans and looking around the alley. The kid just stands there, staring at what's left of his fellow hero on the ground.

Another pair of shots ring out, and the wall behind the kid explodes out at eye-level. He just stands there, looking in the direction they came from, and smiles a little.

"You know, there's a reason they call me Purple Haze," he says, turning just slightly invisible: "That isn't going to work too well on me, whoever you are."

"Where are they coming from?" Black Rider asks: "Can you see?"

"If you shoot that !@#$er, I'll consider us even and let you live," the kid says, taking a half-step away from him.

There's laughter at that, somewhere up the alley. It's not very comforting.

"You little !@#$!" the villain says: "If you weren't untouchable, I'd-"

"Run," the owner of the laughter says: "Now."

He does just that, without saying another word. He gets about as far as the other end of the alley before a single shot gets him, right in the !@#$. To his credit he keeps running, but the howling and pain echo for quite some distance.

And then Yanabah comes out of her hiding place and walks up to the kid in purple and white.

"You're the one who was killing people like me, back there," he says, looking at her.

"I was, yes," she says, smiling, her guns still pointed at him.

"How many have you gotten?"

"With your friend, there? Twelve."

"And I'm going to be lucky thirteen?"

"Well, you're the last one," she says, lowering her guns just a little and cocking an eyebrow: "I guess I'm going to have to try something different with you, since you got phasing powers and all."

"You don't seem afraid of me," he says, dropping into a defensive stance: "Do you just not think I can hurt you? Is that it?"

"Passing through things isn't much of a power," she says, putting the guns away and pulling out a rather large knife.

"Oh, but I can do more than that," he says, grinning as he moves his hands past each other in successive, sliding motions: "Imagine someone reaching into your chest and squeezing your heart valves shut. Or maybe just punching into your brain after passing through your skull. I can do a lot of damage, lady. And all I have to do is touch you."

"Yeah, about that," she grins, putting the blade up: "You come and try, wasichu."

"Now that doesn't sound like a nice word."

"It's not," she says, and lunges forward.

The man just stands there, his arms outstretched, expecting her to pass through him. Imagine his surprise when the knife slams into his breastbone, breaks on through, and cleaves his heart.

He tries to speak, but coughs up blood. He falls to his knees, disbelieving. And the moment he does, she lets go of the blade, pulls out her guns -- faster than anyone should be able to -- and pulls both triggers.

Only one goes off. Shooting the racist idiot must have emptied the clip, clearly. And so the kid falls down with one ragged hole where his eye was, and yet most of his head intact.

"Oh, right," she says, looking for a fresh pair of clips as she realizes the blade's slipped position a little "Phasing powers. But I bet I can shoot all day, wasichu. I got nothing but time, now."

"Why...?" he whispers, his mouth full of equal parts blood and air.

"Orders," she says: "Not that I owe you an explanation, you little piece of !@#$."

"But we're... following..."

"What?" she asks, looking down at him: "What are you saying?"

"We're following orders... also..."

She scowls, leaning down just out of the range of his hands: "Whose orders, pal? The Legion? The Secessionists? They don't count, you little !@#$. You had your own orders, and they were given to you by the COMPANY."

"So were these..." he says, the life fading from his eyes: "SPYGOD... told us..."

"Told you what?" she demands: "What did SPYGOD tell you?"

"To help... revolution... said it would come, and we'd... need to help it... join with Legion... fight the power..."

"Bull!@#$," she stammers, watching him die: "That's bull!@#$! You're lying!"

"No..." he insists, almost choking on his own blood: "SPYGOD... ordered us to... defect..."

She looks at him as he says this. She remembers what Wayfinder told her about the last words of the dying, when lies have no profit, anymore.

She realizes that everything this man had said is true.

It doesn't stop her from blowing the top of his skull completely off the second he dies, but she's screaming when she does it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cold Warning (Gary Numan) and having a Betrayal Imperial Red)

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Yanabah) - pt 1

Richmond, Virginia
10:05 AM

"I !@#$ing hate flying," Yanabah groans, closing her eyes as her silver and turquoise jewelry shivers against her skin.  

The TU Aero-Transport pitches up sharply at take-off, and all the Strategic Talents in the back -- packed in like oysters along the sides -- lean into it. Some of the more powerful ones carry the less strong along with them, leading to some much-needed chuckles.

No one's really in the mood to laugh out loud, though.

By all rights, they should have been spending Christmas day with their friends and families, or at least on holiday patrol. Unfortunately, all !@#$ picked today to break loose. Well-armed secessionists are fighting in the streets, having taken opposing sides in the question on America's political destiny.

And, seeing as how there's a !@#$-ton of them trying to take over Richmond, Virginia, that's what they're heading off to deal with.

Not that they'd have much of a problem doing that. There's a fair number of heavy-hitters on this transport, from what Yanabah can tell, which should be enough to deal with any number of sorry, neo-confederate idiots with more bullets than IQ. They usually are.

But there's a massive problem; just like every other major flashpoint, today, those normal idiots are being backed up by supers -- both villains and heroes, from the looks of things. Which means that, in short order, everyone in the transport is going to have to put the hurt on someone they might have been fighting alongside, just a couple months ago.

And no one is looking forward to that.

The flight evens out really quickly, and there's a few more chuckles as people lean forward again. At some point, someone asks if they're getting peanuts on this flight, which gets another chuckle or two. But no one cares to make any more cracks when the huge, tattooed, and pink-haired woman they call Josie looks back, her eyes dead as petrified trees, and just smiles.

"So what's the deal with the gorilla girl?" Yanabah asks the person next to her -- some brown-haired gal wrapped up in red, padded leather, strapped with every kind of bullet and grenade known to man, and cradling a highly-modified sniper rifle like it was the most precious thing on the planet.

"That's Josie," the Red Queen answers, adjusting the weird bandana over the lower half of her face: "They say she used to be big in the COMPANY, before the whole Imago went down. I guess she was Second's Second or Third, or something like that."

"I never !@#$ing heard of her."

"Yeah, well, that's the funny thing. I never heard of her, either, but she knows me, alright. !@#$ing knew everything about me. Even says she met me, once or twice, when I was..."

"Yeah?" Yanabah asks: "Don't leave me hanging, girl."

"When I was someone else," she says: "And that's all I wanna !@#$ing say about that."

"Bad scene?"

"You could say that," the Red Queen says, shrugging. When she looks away it's clear she's said all she wants to say, and Yanabah decides to respect it.

You don't argue with someone with a bigger gun with you, as she was told so many times.

* * *

It's 1971, out in Taos, and Wayfinder's rubbing his forehead, wishing people didn't know who he was.

"Look, Charlie," he says, looking at his long-time friend, sitting in the mental hospital's waiting room with the most dejected look on his face as the screaming down the hallway gets even louder: "I appreciate that you think you can come to me with this-"

"You have the gift of Sight, Wayfinder," the man says, looking like he hasn't had a wink of sleep in ages: "You know things no one can know."

"I just know where people are, Charlie. And maybe where they'll be, if I'm lucky. That doesn't mean I can help with your daughter."

"But you would know if that's her, right?"

"Isn't it?" the older man asks, looking down the hall to a room, where a certain young lady is being tied down to a bed by some very unamused nurses. Her mother's there, too, trying to talk sense into her, but the girl just won't stop screaming and fighting them.

"Well, you tell me," the man says, getting to his feet: "Ever since she run away she's been like this. It's like something just got inside her. You'd know, wouldn't you?"

"Well, maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't," he admits, looking his friend in the eyes and putting a hand on his shoulder: "If you want, I'll try. I figure I couldn't be here to help you find her when she ran away, the least I can do is make sure that's her in there."

"What do you need me to do?" Charlie asks, watching as the man sits down in a chair and closes his eyes.

"Just make sure no one disturbs me," Wayfinder says, screwing his eyes as shut as he can: "I mean no one. Don't touch me, don't talk to me. Close the !@#$ door and don't let anyone in, if you can."

"You got it," Charlie says, gladly closing the door and standing up against it. But Wayfinder doesn't notice. He's already left his body and started down the hall, intent on his quarry.

In spirit, he moves quicker than he could run. He's in her room before he knows it, looking down at her. He sees the colored fire of the souls in the room, each one unique, changing hue and shape with their emotions (mostly sad or angry, now). 

And he sees her, and what he sees jerks him right back to his own body faster than he intended.

"What's wrong?" Charlie's asking him, shaking him where he lays, on the floor: "My god, man. You started talking and fell over. I didn't want to touch you, but..."

"I'm fine," Wayfinder lies, getting to his feet and looking down the hallway, where his spirit just was: "Charlie, where did you say you found her?"

"Out west, in the wastes," Charlie says: "We don't even know how she got there. It's twenty miles out of town, and-"

"I need to make a call," he says, wondering if he can get hold of Doctor Power at this time of night, and if the man'll even know what to do. 

"Wayfinder? What's wrong with my daughter?"

"Charlie," the man says, putting his hands on both his friend's shoulders: "Her soul... it's been splintered. I don't know how else to put it."

"What? What does that even mean?"

"It's like someone took a hatchet to a tree, cut it down the middle, and left the hatchet in it. There's three people in there, now. And one of them's really !@#$ angry."

"Oh my God," Charlie gasps, his face going as pale as a tourist: "What can we do?"

"I don't know," he admits, hearing a terrible crashing and breaking from down the hall as whatever that angry being is finally succeeds in getting out of its restraints: "But I'm going to try and talk to someone who does. Meantime, you go down there and help your wife."

And as Charlie runs down the hallway, and Wayfinder tries to make his long-neglected Freedom Force communicator actually work, he hears a howl that shouldn't come from a human's mouth. It makes every hair on his body stand on end, and makes his blood stop in his veins. 

Because he knows what that is. And he knows he can't stop it -- not by himself.

"Blessed Creator," he prays, finally getting the small thing in his hands to work: "Don't let me be too late."

* * *

The supers spend about ten more minutes of travel time in silence, and then their leader finally decides to get up out of her straps and come down to say what's what.

"Alright folks, here's the deal," Josie says, wrapped in padded, black leather and strapped for a fight: "I'm sure you all watched the news, before you left. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that we really stepped in it, this time. For some reason we don't know, a number of our newest and brightest decided to go rogue on us. And they're backing up a bunch of people who don't exactly have our national best interests at heart, right now. Secessionists, from the looks of it."

"Yeeee-haw," someone drawls, and there's a few laughs and snorts.

"I'm serious, people," Josie says, and somehow it's enough to quiet everyone back again: "This is not good. These are, or were, our own people. We haven't discounted mind control or mental parasites, especially since it looks like the remnants of the Legion's involved. But we can't talk them out of it, or down from it, so it looks like we're going to have to do it the hard way.

"And I know you all know what that means."

No one there doesn't. If it was possible for them to be even more silent, they would.

"Now, as you may have guessed, Neo York City is already back under control. The idiots thought they could take it, but they didn't count on the Nthernaut getting involved. That's why most of you City kids are with us, on this one."

Yanabah looks around at some of them. Red Wrecker she's met before. The others she's seen, here and there. None of them look all that pleased at what's going on.

(Probably all messed up because of what their friends and teammates went and did, and what's happened to them because of it.)

"But since Richmond was the capitol of the Confederacy, I guess they want to try and take it over, so they've sent everyone they can spare to do that. It's one one big mess down there. I hear they talked half the police force into laying down their guns before they even fired off a shot, which may mean we've got a puppeteer, or maybe it means they all want jobs in their new America when the fighting's over.

"Either way? They aren't getting it. Because we're going to go in and stop them, stomp this in the bud, and get home in time for turkey dinner and presents. You got that?"

Everyone cheers. And for some reason, it doesn't sound forced. 

"So, rule number one," Josie continues: "No killing civilians if you can at all help it."

Yanabah coughs into her fist, maybe a little louder than she intends to.

"Is there a problem, back there?" Josie asks, looking in her direction.

"What if they're !@#$ing armed?" Yanabah asks: "I'm not !@#$ing bulletproof, here."

"All you shooters will be equipped with stun blasters," Josie says: "The rest of you? We don't need to see people coming apart on the nightly news, now do we? Control yourselves, people."

She addresses that to everyone. Something about how she says it seems to be aimed right at Yanabah, though.

"As for the Supers," she continues: "You put them down any way you can. Any way you have to."

There's some gasps over that, and some attempts to argue. She holds up a hand and glowers, and everyone shuts the !@#$ up.

"Look, people. You know how it is. I know they're our friends, or they were. But they signed up with the enemy. And even if they didn't? They're running around down there, tearing the town up and not caring about casualties. I have no idea what the civilian death toll is, right now, but it's not getting any higher on our watch.

"Gentle if you can, hard if you have to. But put. Them. Down."

She looks at Yanabah again, and this time she thinks she knows why.

Looks like she might not be getting stunners, today.

* * *

It's 1973, now, and the sun's coming up over the desert, making the cold go away. 

"Where are we going today, Great-Grandfather?" the little girl asks, poking her head out of the sleeping bag and looking at Wayfinder as he tends the fire, over by some boulders.

"Oh, so you're my great-granddaughter, today, are you?" he asks, smiling a little. He's making coffee in an old, Army percolator, and frying bacon in a pan that's seen better days. He's dressed down a bit, as the temperature's about to come up, but still wearing his usual checked shirt and jeans.

And silver and turquoise jewelry. Tons of it. 

"I'd like to be," she says, easing herself out of her sleeping bag and looking at the Sun.

"You shouldn't look right at it," the man says, carefully flipping over a piece of bacon: "It'll make you go blind."

"I don't need eyes to protect you, great-grandfather," she replies, giggling. Something about that makes him just a little afraid.

"I bet you don't. But I think the rest of you would like to see."

"I sure would," she replies. Her voice has become deeper, and her posture different. Lower to the ground, more feral.

"Ah, this must be my granddaughter," Wayfinder says, congratulating himself for figuring it out so quickly, this time. 

"You shouldn't let her be stupid," the girl snarls: "She thinks we just float in the air, here. Like a butterfly."

"Butterflys can sting," he says: "I think that's what they say, anyway."

"They say stupid !@#$," she replies, crawling out of the bag and looking around, her nostrils flaring: "I don't care what they think."

"Well, you should. They tend to outnumber us by about five billion."

"Not enough," she smiles. Her teeth are pointy, now.

"Is my daughter going to talk, today?" Wayfinder asks, putting some of the bacon onto a plate and putting it on the ground, as close to her as he can.

"I don't think so," his granddaughter says, crawling over to where he put the plate and all but shoving the food into her face: "She's busy."

"Doing what?" he asks, sitting down and getting himself some of the coffee.

"Stuff," she says, licking the now-empty plate: "She's never here. Always somewhere else."

"I'd sure like to know where she is," a voice says, and then Doctor Power's walking out from behind a nearby boulder, as tough he'd been there all along.  

What happens next is terrifying. The girl rises up and launches herself at him, almost too fast to see. But at the last moment she stops, snarls, and backs off, growling like a wolf.

"That's better," Doctor Power says, patting the silver jewelry he wears around his neck.

"Be polite, granddaughter," Wayfinder scolds her: "You know this man. He's a friend, not an enemy."

"You can't smell him like I do," she snarls: "He smells of the dark under the world. The First Sun is his friend."

"Maybe, but he's still your friend, and mine," he says: "Leave him be." 

"How's she doing?" the magician asks as she slinks away, as ordered.

"She's right here, wasichu," the feral girl snarls.

"She's fine," Wayfinder says, pulling another mug out for his visitor: "They all are. But I have to tell you, Eben, that was stupid. One of these days she's going to try for it."

"Well, I guess that's a while, yet," the magician says, sitting down and taking the coffee he's being offered: "Anyway, I wanted to know if you'd had much contact with your daughter?"

"Not much," the man says, having a sip and watching as his granddaughter watches them, occasionally turning into his great-granddaughter: "She pops in every so often, says something important, goes away."

"Have you ever tried to look for her?" Doctor Power asks: "Like you look for people?"

"You know, I haven't," he says, thinking: "I guess I thought I'd just see her in there, with the rest of them."

"Worth a try?"

"Might be," Wayfinder says: "But that would mean I'd have to leave her alone. I haven't done that since that one night..."

He shakes his head, remembering what was left of Charlie. And he'd only been gone a few minutes, at most...

"Well, I'm willing to contain her if you'd like to try," Doctor Power says: "I've handled more strenuous things, you know."

"I do, yeah," the man says, sipping his coffee, and watching the girl as she shifts from one persona to the next: "But she's not an experiment, Eben. She's my girl. Has been since her daddy died and her mother went mad. So if we do this, we do it careful, and you be totally honest about what you want, here."

The magician looks at his ally, wondering what that was about. But something in the old man's eyes tells him that it's best if he just shuts up and agrees. 

He never could fool Wayfinder the way he fools the others. 

"Agreed," Eben says, getting to his feet and taking a few more sips of coffee as the sun rises: "I'll come up with a gentle binding circle, and we'll figure out what we want to ask, and why."

"Sounds good," Wayfinder says, smiling at his girl as she smiles at him, her eyes not of this world.

* * *

And then they're over Richmond, and they can hear the sound of things going horribly wrong well before they land.

"Alright, remember your orders!" Josie says, handing large guns full of orange and green lights to people as they run off the front right gangplank (while those who can fly, hover, or zip along faster than cars head out the back): "No killing civies. Take down the supers any way you have to. Keep property damage to a minimum. And for God's sake, smile for the cameras!"

Yanabah is close to the front of the line, but Josie points her finger at her and gestures to the side. She obeys with some bemusement, watching as Red Queen gets her sniper rifle yanked from her grip, replaced with a very long model of the gun with weird lights.

"Long distance F-gun," she explains: "I know you like getting them from high up, hon."

"Thanks," Red Queen says: "Take good care of my baby. You break her, you're buying me ten more."

There's a rush of people, and then it's just Josie and Yanabah.

"So, is this where you tell me to stay here?" Yanabah asks: "Because you know me better than I know myself, and can't trust me in the field?"

"Oh, I know I can trust you," Josie says, reaching over to get something special -- some heavy case: "I can trust you to be one deadly lady with little or no restraint. And I can trust you to be sneaky and not be seen, too. And that's why I need you to do something special for me."

She hands out the case, and Yanabah opens it. Inside are two very large handguns. 50 calibers. The kind SPYGOD uses. 

"Holy !@#$," Yanabah says, picking them up, instantly in love with them. 

"That's one way to put it," Josie says: "But they come with a price tag, hon."

"Are these for supers?"

Josie nods: "The rounds are spent uranium. You're not going to find a lot of people on that field who'll handle them all too well. Especially if you go for eye shots."

She looks at Yanabah, who nods: "Any specific targets?"

"All the new kids," she says: "You find one, don't ask questions. Just retire them. Let the others handle the Legion. You handle ours."

"Because I'm an outsider?"

"Because you'll do it," Josie says: "And you don't care why."

Yanabah smiles: "It's like you really know me, after all."

"Not as well as I'd like," Josie says, hefting a very large gun, full of lights that shift between orange and purple: "For example, one thing I was never sure of. Were you Wayfinder's daughter or grand-daughter?"

Yanabah just smiles: "Why don't you !@#$ing ask him?"

And -- if only to avoid more questions -- leaps out into the drop zone, ready to kill some fresh-faced super-traitors.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Hunter (Gary Numan) and having an Albion Wendigo) 

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 3

9:37 PM

"I tell you truly, it is an honor to be here, meeting you," one of the Kingdom's lobster-like ambassadors says, her weird, glubbling speech translated by the wet, living things she wears to maintain pressure and atmosphere.

"I am pleased to meet you as well, friend from Atlantis," the blue-green, reptilian ambassador from the Inside (otherwise known as Mars) says, his body relatively unencumbered but his motions unsteady under the heavier gravity: "I knew that the Third World had a civilization, down below its great Oceans. But I am amazed that we can actually meet, here and now."

"You're amazed?" a floating, scabby ball with a viewscreen asks -- displaying a strange, yellowish, crablike being on the other side -- "When you people finally met us you were just delighted. What are we, gravel?"

"My friend from the Second World has a strange sense of humor," the reptilian fellow says, clapping his paws together: "I hope you will pardon him, friend from Atlantis."

"I tell you truly, this is such an amazing time," the Kingdom's ambassador says: "That we are all finally coming together, here at this Lightchange ritual!"

"They call it a party," the scabby ball says: "At least, I hope this is just a party. If they start sacrificing smaller creatures I'm logging out."

"Yes, Friend from Atlantis, I think this is a party, though it does have its ritual elements," the Martian says, pointing around: "For example, I do believe there are many mating rituals going on, here, tonight."

"Yes, I do believe I noticed," the lobster says, watching as Fred and Antonia talk up a storm, over near a quiet corner. They've gotten quite physically close to each other, but don't seem to notice this is a bad thing, or that the world is going on around them.

"And a few breakups, too," the Venusan says, looking at where Mark and Skyspear are sitting, having a much less comfortable talk as their hero friends go elsewhere and leave them alone.

"Breakup?" the Kingdom's Ambassador asks: "I tell you truly, I am not sure what that means-"

Skyspear slaps Mark, gets up, and walks away. Mark sits there, stunned, and doesn't follow her.

"Oh, I think I understand, now," the lobster says: "Endmate."

"Yes," the Martian says: "I suspect we will see many interesting things, here, tonight."

"True," the ball says: "But let's talk something else while we're here. Does anyone have any !@#$ idea what the !@#$ is going on?"

"What do you mean?" the Atlantean asks, uncertain of what some of his more colorful words are.

"Well, all I know is that all the space people I talk to? Their new Space Service? Those guys up on the platform in the white?"

"Oh, the ones trying to reason with that large fellow in the strangely-colored shirt?" the Martian asks, watching as Faraj all but scoops Ju-San up under one arm and escorts him away from Hanami's side (not that the man's resisting too much, as he is clearly broken.)

"Yeah, them," the Venusan says: "They're all worried about this thing that's coming to Earth, pretty soon. Some big planet-eating thing, apparently. No one can say the name right, as far as I can tell."

"Oh, yes," the Martian says, nodding: "We know of this thing, friend from the Second World. It came once before, and though we were far from it, its passing made many changes to our world."

"Such as?" the Lobster asks.

"We call our world the Inside," the reptilian being explains: "Once, there was no Inside. We lived on the skin of our world, and it was a lush and green place, filled with water and plants and animals. All was well, and then... it came."

"And it's coming around again," the Venusan says: "Well, !@#$. What are they planning on doing about it?"

"I tell you truly, we will do what we can," the Atlantean says: "But I am not certain what we can offer that those above the Barrier do not already have."

"Maybe someplace to go when everything above the Barrier is destroyed," the Martian says, shaking its head sadly: "Once we lived outside, under the sky. Then the sky was taken from us, eaten by the Hunger from Above. Now we live on the Inside, with what little we could save. And we dream of stars and skies, and hope to one day return."

"Don't you have some kind of fleet to deal with things like this?" the Venusan asks: "I mean, we got ships. Not a lot, but we got 'em."

"We have survived only by remaining Inside, friend of the Second World," the Martian admits: "Convincing my government to help would be very difficult. Especially since this is the thing that destroyed our world the first time. The current wisdom is to be quiet, and let it roll past us."

"I tell you truly, and with respect, that such an action seems less than grateful to these Overlanders," the Atlantean says.

"It is not that we do not feel for them, friend from the Kingdom, but that we cannot risk our own survival as a race for them. We have no desire to see our world destroyed a second time. Would you be any different, in our place?"

"I tell you truly that I understand your concern. But you do not need to be seen to be helping to be helpful."

"Well, that sounds like a weird line," the scabby ball sighs.

"I mean to say," the Atlantean tries to explain: "Can you not even send your ships to stand with them at the edge of their sky? Surely the creature would have no way of knowing you had interfered?"

The Martian's about to say something, but then falls silent, and thinks.

"Ah, you see?" the Venusan says: "I told you these Atlanteans were smart. But did you listen to me?"

"I listen to you all the time, friend of the second world," the Martian says, clasping hands with the Ambassador from the Kingdom: "It impedes my ability to hear wisdom, at times. And I believe my friend from the Kingdom has just given it to me. For that, I thank him."

* * *

 9:55 PM

"... and then, well, she asked me if I knew how to have a good time," a well-dressed Ben Frankin -- long hair back in a ponytail -- says, gesturing insouciantly as he tells the story: "And I said that the only way I could show her was to show her. And she said 'oh really? Well, I tell you what, Mr. Franklin. I'm going up to my cottage for the weekend. Perhaps you'd care to come up for a night and discuss this with me?'

"And, well, I do believe that every husband she had since then was quite sad, as they never quite lived up to that positively torrid week we spent together, Norma Jean and I."

The crowd around the old man laughs and applauds, and he bows a little.

"You are such a !@#$ing ham," Jess Friend whispers into his ear as the group of Gay Republicans dissipates, just as some really kicking disco song comes on.

"Oh come now, Good Jess," the old man says, grinning and patting him on the arm: "It's a good story. It was even mostly true!"

"Which part?"

"Well, the important part," he says, gesturing to the bar: "Let us have more of this wonderful drink I've discovered, and then perhaps I can tell you of the difference between a full truth and a half truth, and which is more preferable when trying to impress and amaze others."

"I think someone we know would have something to say about that," Jess says, and then just happens to see that someone walking towards them, carrying a big bottle of water from the bar, and looking like he'd rather be tongue-bathing kitten !@#$holes to make them poop.

"Why, Mr. Scott," Ben says, reaching out a hand to shake his free one: "We were just invoking you, good sir. Would  you care to join us for a drink? I have discovered this amazing new cocktail-"

"Can't," Randolph says, trying to smile and raising the bottle: "I've been drafted to help play 'babysit the drunk superhero.'"

"Oh, Wayfinder's granddaughter?" Ben asks, looking over in the corner where the large, pink-haired woman is still helping to glower her down into a chair, and Myron is sitting next to her, trying to talk to her but not getting anywhere.

"Yeah, she started early and got worse," Randolph says: "So Josie, being Josie, got her stationary and started finding people who weren't having fun and, well..."

"You were voluntold," Jess says, pointing to the water.

"Oh yeah," he hoists the bottle up: "This is her second. She might need a couple more after this. And then someone's going to have to make sure she doesn't !@#$ herself."

"That can't be fun."

"No. And neither is waiting in line for a bottle of water. You'd think I asked them to !@#$ in a cup and drink it."

"Well, that's not for me," Ben says, laughing: "Jess, I will go and get our drinks. I shall return shortly, gentlemen..."

And off he strides, right up to the bar in spite of the line -- because he's Ben !@#$ing Franklin, that's why.

"So how's looking after our national treasure?" Randolph asks, watching the treasure in question operate.

"It's a full-time job," Jess says, smiling a little: "How's our kids?"

"They... left," Randolph says, sadly.

"What?"

"Yep."

"What the !@#$ happened?"

"It's a long story."

"Are you okay?" Jess asks, putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "I mean, Jesus Christ. I thought you were all inseparable by this point."

"Well, you left, I guess they thought they could, too?"

The words leave Randolph's mouth before he knows what he's said, and then he's biting his tongue and not wanting to look his former partner in thoughtcrime in the eyes.

"Look," Jess sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, I shouldn't-" Randolph tries to say, waving his free hand.

"No, it's cool-"

"No, really," Randolph insists: "That was !@#$ing uncalled for. I know you got tapped to do this. And I know how important it was for you to do this. After everything that happened? You needed this."

"That's right," Jess says, nodding: "I did. And I thought you understood that."

"I do. I just... losing Helen, losing you, now losing them. I'm feeling pretty washed up, here."

"Yeah, I'll say," Jess replies: "You look like you went a few rounds with the Malort fairy."

"The what?"

"Oh God," Jess laughs: "You've never... oh man, whatever you do? Do not tell Ben you have never had Malort. He'll force you to have something so vile you'll never forgive yourself for having it."

"Can't be worse than this," Randolph says: "Anyway, listen. I think we need to talk-"

"Hey, Randolph!" a very loud voice shrieks from across the floor: "You coming with that !@#$ing bottle or what?"

"That's my cue!" Randolph says: "Coming, Josie!"

"But yes," Jess says, reaching out to shake his hand before he goes: "We do need to talk. And we will. If not tonight, then soon?"

"Yes," Randolph says, ignoring the hand and going for the hug, which lasts quite some time and almost ends in a kiss, but not quite. They both back away from that cliff a second before they jump into it, and then just look at each other, nod -- one after the other -- and disentangle.

And then they're heading away from each other, again.

* * *

(A letter)

Dear Randolph

First of all, we hope you are feeling better. When we found you on that park bench, last night, you were not at all well. We did our best to get you home in one piece, rehydrate you, and lay out provisions for this morning. Hopefully we were not too rough? 

(SPYGOD called us and told us to come and get you, in case you were wondering. He wants you to know he is neither upset nor angry. But there are things the two of you need to discuss, clearly.)

Secondly, you will doubtlessly not see this letter right away. But as you move about the house to start your day, you will surely see that we are not there. And you will surely see, also, that our rooms are clean and empty of most of our things, and our bags gone. 

And you will wonder what has happened, perhaps? And then come back to your room and see this note. 

We have left, yes. But please do not think that our leaving is a direct response to what happened last night. The truth is that we have been planning this for some time. In fact, we planned to tell you about this yesterday, over the Christmas dinner we did not have!  

But we had air tickets for this morning, and you know how difficult they are to reschedule on less than 24 hours notice, especially at this time of year! So we decided, reluctantly, to go ahead with our plan, knowing that you would understand. You know how efficient we try to be!  

The truth of things is that, while much of what you said last night was brought about by despair and drink, there was some truth to it. You are correct that, in spite of all we have seen and done, and lived and lost, there is still so much for us to learn. We are still so naive, still so innocent, still so wide-eyed at this amazing, larger world we were brought into when the Ice Palace was liberated.
And while we do not believe you meant what you said about leaving you to show we love you, we think it's time to do exactly that. Not because we love you (which we most certainly do) or because we don't (which we most emphatically do not)  

But because you are correct: It is long past time that we found our own way in this world. 

You have been a wonderful guide, in peace and in war, in good and in bad. You have shown us this larger world at its best, and its worst. You have shown us that the truth can make a difference, and that such truth is worth living for, worth fighting for, and worth dying for.  

You have shown us so much, but there is so much more to see. And as good as a guide and teacher as you have been, we realize that we must now find our own way, and our own truth.

When we were born, we were taught to expect a dark hole, filled only with pain, and we were told it was good. You showed us a world full of many different things, some joyful, some painful, and told us that we could make of it what we would. We were brought up to expect nothing, and you have given us everything.

You have given us a world. Now we must give something back, both to it and to you. 

So we have decided to strike out on our own, and record and see as much of this world as we can. If what we are hearing is true, and this wider world we have been liberated into is under a threat perhaps greater than we can overcome, then someone must make a record of it, if only so that those who come after us will have a window to view us through.  

And, with respect to certain American scientists, we do not think a gold record in a space probe will do. Not now that we have better things to record snapshots of our world upon, and fresh eyes to do so with.  

We have money. SPYGOD has seen to this. And due to our special situation, we have something approaching diplomatic immunity in the eyes of the TU. We can go anywhere, see everything, and ask anything of anyone.  

And we can promise that, by the time we are done, they will regret having been so generous with this. :)

You will pardon us if we do not tell you where we are headed, first. This will be something of a surprise for you, and we hope you will be at least amused. But we also know that you might try to come and join us, and this would defeat the exercise.

This is not goodbye. We would say Auf Wiedersehen. You know that this means "until we meet again," and we will.

We love you.

Gunther, Helga, Helmut, Jana, Karl

(SPYGOD is listening to One More Time (The Cure) and having whatever Ben Franklin's having)

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Randolph Scott)

Neo York City, New York
9:05 AM

The first thing Randolph Scott thinks when he hears a voice, rousing him from sleep, is that Helen's come back to him, somehow. He smiles and rolls over onto his back, smiling at the thought of opening his eyes and looking into her face. And maybe then he'll get up, and maybe they'll just stay in bed for a while, just to start Christmas Day off right.

But then he opens his eyes, and he sees that it isn't Helen waking him up, after all.

(How could she? She's dead. She died right in front of him, right there in his arms. And he still doesn't know if the last words she said are something she said through dying, bloody lips or something he just imagined, however strongly...)

No. It's Karl and Jana. And they look really worried.

"Randolph?" Karl says: "You have slept through three awakenings, now. Are you not getting up to cover the story?"

"What...?" Randolph asks, sleep still trying to pull him down: "What story?"

"There is fighting in the streets," Jana says: "It is all over the television."

Randolph's about to ask what fight, and what streets. But then he remembers what's been going on, here in America. He remembers that there's been a powderkeg, right under their feet, since before the Imago left.

And he remembers that the fuse got lit just under a month ago, right the !@#$ in front of him.

"Jesus !@#$ing Christ," he says, leaping out of bed: "You should have pulled me out and dragged me up, Karl!"

"We were just about to," Karl explains, holding up a computer pad: "There is movement in every state capitol. Shots are being fired and Governors are being seized."

"Secessionists?" Randolph asks as he heads for his closet to get his clothes. As he does he almost trips over Jana, who -- quite helpfully -- already has them out and ready to go. He looks at the closet, looks at her, thanks her with a smile, and starts pulling his black, padded gear on, one leg at a time.

"Karl, are they Secessionists?" he repeats, getting his shirt on.

"Of course, Randolph," Karl says, a little taken aback: "I thought you were having fun with me. Who else would it be?"

Randolph looks at his adopted Nazi clones, and smiles: "If it was anyone else? I'd be !@#$ing grateful."

* * *

By the time he gets downstairs, the other kids have a ton of information to give him. 

The attack started at 8:55 AM, EST, and was coordinated to go off simultaneously. The major targets seemed to be state Capitols, with an aim at either taking hold of the Governors, or else securing the Capitols against their coming in. In states further out West, there was word of elected officials being rousted from their homes, along with their families, and being roughly transported elsewhere.

And, based on what the live video feeds were showing, it was the Secessionists, alright. The "Remember Eben" shirts and pins gave it away, as did the presence of some individuals with obvious powers, high-tech weapons, or both. The leftover Legion members, come down from their compound to do their mighty thing at last.

But Randolph notes with sadness that some of those powers he sees smashing buildings, throwing police cars, and breaking guards and cops in half were members of the new crop of heroes: all the color-coded kids that SPYGOD had brought out for the Reclamation War. The ones he'd since deputized to police the cities and render aid in the absence of real Federal aid or authority, only now some of them are clearly on the other side of it.

He recognizes some of the faces from documentaries on the revolution, and knows that some of them were people he was cheering on, once. He may have even watched one or two of them at work, and seen them cry when they learned what their battle had cost them. 

Watched them mourn their dead friends and loves, just as he had at the end.

Of course, this would not stand. The National Facilitator -- Mr. USA -- was already on television, dressed in his new uniform and explaining that the might of the Terre Unifee was already on its way to America, ready to deal with this "disgraceful behavior." He, himself, would soon be heading out to deal with the bands that dared to come into Washington D.C., itself. 

"To those persons engaged in rebellion, I tell you now," he says, looking into the camera and glowering for all it's worth: "Stop this. Surrender. Lay down your arms and surrender. You will not be harmed if you cooperate. You will be given a fair trial. You have my word on this. 

"But you also have my word that should you continue fighting, there will be no mercy for you. None. I can guarantee you no shelter or aid when Le Compagnie arrives. I see you as my wayward countrymen. They will only see you as enemy combatants. And you've seen how they handle them, around the world.

"Surrender now, and be saved."

And with that, he waved a hand, levitated over the podium, and flew out of the Rose Garden, ready to make good on his threat.

"Well, you go, Mr. President," Randolph sighed, having his third cup of strong coffee in five minutes: "What else we got? Any obvious flashpoints we can get to from here?"

"We could go to the Governor's Mansion," Gunther offers, pointing to a screen showing what's raging outside the Executive Mansion, up in Albany.

"We could also go downtown," Helmut offers, holding up still photos of a battle raging in Times Square.

"I think there is a bigger problem," Karl says, looking at his pad and holding it up: "The compound in Montana. It is being attacked, now."

"How do you know where that is?" Randolph shouts, grabbing the pad out of his hands: "I told you not to look into that, Karl. We have to protect our sources."

"Yes, protect them," Karl says, tapping what the satellite imagery is showing: "And here is what we are protecting them from, yes?"

Randolph doesn't have an answer for that, now. All he can see are superbeings crashing down into the wooden palisades and temporary structures and bringing down the wrath of Heaven. Or at least France.

"Why them first?" Randolph says, having a sinking feeling as he remembers the people he met, there: "Why them first? This doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe they want to kill the head first?" Helmut asks: "If it is possible?"

"It's not even the head, really. They're important, but they're too decentralized."

"Unless they aren't," Jana says: ""You always said there was something strange about it. Perhaps this is where we find out what?"

"A long way to Montana, though," Helga says, consulting the map: "Do we know anyone who can fly us there in time?"

"I got something better," Randolph says, opening a nearby desk, rifling through his disposable, one-use-only cell phones, and finding the one marked India.

* * *

There are mountains. There are trees. There are buildings made of wood and metal.

And there is fire and screaming, everywhere.

Not far from what's left of the compound's gates, there's a noise like markers on a whiteboard. Five people appear from nowhere: Randolph, dressed for a fight; Karl and Jana, padded up and set to record it on camera; Dosha Josh, still in civilian clothes; and Anil, his face recently scarred, and his black trenchcoat in need of repairs.

"This is the last time we are doing this!" Dosha shouts above the screaming and explosions: "I made you one promise!"

"And I appreciate it!" Randolph shouts back, ducking as someone built like a tank goes sailing over their heads, trailing blood and teeth from what used to be his mouth as he goes: "You can !@#$ off if you want! Just come back when we call, okay?"

"Oh no," Anil says: "I'm not your Taxi service, you gaand."

"Anil," Dosha says, putting up a hand, and then glowering at Randolph: "One more ride, outlaw reporter. Straight home from here. And then we're quits."

The Indian pointedly extends a hand. Randolph looks at it, and then shakes it, knowing this is the end of their working relationship. And, with that, the two Indian men vanish, and it's just Randolph and his kids. 

Alone again.

"This is gonna get ugly," he says, unfolding a Tec-9 and striding forward: "Keep 'em rolling, but don't be afraid to duck and cover. I got my mike."

"Oh, don't worry," Karl says, holding his own weapon at the ready and looking around as Jana adjusts the focus on her shoulder-camera: "We'll be happy to go to ground."

And then they're through the burning, wooden gates, and wishing to God they'd just stayed at home. 

* * *

How does Le Compagnie make war? 

Ideally, they start by sending in their quick people. Speedsters zip through the target area, disarming where possible, and disorientating where not. Teleporters appear in key areas, turning off power grids and shutting down larger weapons, the better to keep their allies from being blasted by artillery, laser grids, or the like. 

Then the infiltrators make themselves known. Shape-shifters and disguise experts, doubtlessly there for days, rip off their masks and illusions and take high-ranking prisoners. They also free the prisoners and hostages of the enemy, if any, and see to their escape just before all !@#$ breaks loose. 

That !@#$ comes from above. Fliers and powerhouses, streaking or crashing down from the clouds without much warning. The tall towers, communications arrays, and any remaining weapons are gone in seconds. The gates smashed down. The way open and clear.

And then, everyone else swarms in. Fighters and brawlers, come to pummel and pulverize anyone left standing. Furious fists and feet, strange weapons, and strange abilities that make the average collection of armed thugs and mercenaries fold within minutes, if that.

That's the ideal procedure, of course. It works great against tyrants, dictators, slavers, mercenary camps, arms bazaars, and the like. It works fairly well when there are a few opposing supers to contend with, too, or maybe an entire army of them.

It breaks down a bit when there are non-powered -- though mostly well-armed -- civilians in the way.

The first thing Randolph sees when he rounds the corner into the main staging area is a man on fire. He can't scream any longer, but he can still run. And he's running away from the person who's set him on fire (some guy from Sweden with white skin, black lips, and eyes like burning rubies), but not getting very far.

Randolph watches as the man takes three more panicky steps, stumbles, and falls down dead. He had a six-shooter in his hand. His wife is screaming and trying to raise hers, getting their child behind her as she tries to fire.

The white-skinned pyrokinetic hisses something, his voice making heat ripples in the air. It might be to not be stupid, and surrender. It might be insults or mockery. But he either doesn't speak English or doesn't care to, and she's too scared and grieving to puzzle out what he's saying.

"!@#$er," Randolph spits, shooting his gun at the guy's feet.

The man turns around, surprised.

"You!" Randolph shouts to the lady: "Drop your gun, get down, and go find the other prisoners. He can't kill you if you surrender."

She's crying too much to respond, but she seems to understand. She drops the gun and kneels down, crying. Her daughter won't stop screaming.

The hero glowers and stomps over to Randolph, clearly not happy. But Randolph points to the cameras and smiles: "Press, !@#$-o. Care to comment on how you're doing, today?"

"Fan ta dig," the guy snorts, turning around and pointing to where the lady needs to go, which she eventually does. Once she's up -- and being bundled off by someone less ready to kill her -- the hero takes her weapon in his hands, reduces it to slag, and drops it into what's left of the man he just burned alive.

"So, you couldn't have just touched his gun and melted the barrel, huh?" Randolph asks him as he stomps off, looking for another fight: "Did anyone !@#$ing train you in dealing with people who don't have powers?"

No answer from him. But seconds later there's another scream as some guy with a pair of guns too large for him to use gets flattened into paste by a woman who's two sizes too tall. And then a rain of red follows as some poor woman gets picked up and hurled to the ground, hard enough to vaporize the body. Buildings full of well-armed men and women are set afire, turned to ice, disintegrated, or superannuated.

And while the super villains are still there, fighting alongside their underpowered charges, none of them seem to be caring about their welfare, any longer. They're fighting to save themselves, now. 

It's every cape for himself.

And Randolph strides through the thick of it -- ducking where he has to, firing when he must. He sees it all happen. He intervenes where he can. He asks questions of those who are still able to answer, and tries to get answers from those who think they are above question.

He is spattered with blood and less identifiable things. His face is streaked with dust and soot. Halfway through his mike cuts out and he has to shout to be heard.

But he does not stop. He can never stop. He has to go one more step, peek around one more corner, drag one more wounded survivalist idiot to where the prisoners are being held, berate one more "hero" for using their powers first and asking questions later.

He sees people die, all around him. He knows some of them from the time he came here, but many are complete strangers. But he sees in their eyes the same exact thing: anger and fury at the death of their dream. 

And it isn't until it's almost over that he realizes he hasn't thought of Helen this entire time. 

* * *

"So," Tempete Bleu says, putting his nose in a delicate, bone-white cup of strong coffee as he stretches his legs: "Did you see enough, here, Msr. Scott?"

"I did, yes," Randolph says, wiping his face with a towel some hang-faced functionary was kind enough to bring him.

"And what will you say?" the French hero asks, looking down the way at the smoldering pile of ashes that was the compound, just an hour or two ago.

"I'm not sure," he admits, looking at Karl and Jana, who are doing their best to stay strong in the face of it.

They're sitting on folding chairs in a TU basecamp that didn't exist until ten minutes ago. One of the speedsters set it up between heartbeats: assembling metal huts and reinforced tents faster than anyone could see. And then came a few dozen white and blue-garbed relief workers, ready to tend to the stricken and set up basic food services, as well as take charge of the living and the dead.

All members of Le Compagnie have a trailer of sorts. Randolph and the kids are sitting outside Tempete Bleu's,and being guarded by some well-armed, beefier fellows wearing red and white. They don't have their reporting equipment or weapons, anymore. 

All they have is coffee, warm towels, and what may be an understanding -- dependent on what happens next.

"You are not sure," the French hero repeats, putting his hand under his chin and looking askance: "Now, are you saying that to me because you are afraid of what I may do? Or is that the truth?"

"Stories don't always write themselves," Randolph says, having some of that coffee: "I came here to see what would happen. I figured it could go one way or the other. I'm not entirely surprised it happened this way, but I am shocked."

"Shocked?" Tempete Blue asks, a little amused: "Has your SPYGOD not told you about what happens in a war where those with powers fight those without them?"

"Is this a war, then?" 

"Yes," the French hero insists, his eyes flashing: "We are not kindly disposed to those who would brandish arms against us, Msr. Scott. I do not know what you may think of us, but we are not going to parlay with armed insurgents in a time of global crisis."

"No, I don't suppose you can," Randolph admits, sipping a little more of the coffee.

"And I am not sure I care to parlay with so-called outlaw journalists who enter a warzone, shoot at my people-"

"Shoot near your people," Randolph says: "People who were killing civilians-"

"If they had a gun, they were not a civilian any longer!" Tempete Bleu shouts, knocking the cup of coffee right out of Randolph's hand: "I do not care if it's men, women, or children! If you raise a weapon against us, you are a criminal! If you declare war against us, you are the enemy! And in war, the enemy is fought!"!

Randolph looks at his hand. He doesn't think it's broken, but it's going to smart for a few days.

"And in war, truth becomes the first casualty," Randolph says, looking the hero in the eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't know what my story is, just yet, but I'm sure it's not just 'Le Compagnie defeats American secessionist and super villain alliance.'" he continues, gently taking a Karl's cup -- as he's not having any -- and sipping from it: "There's something strange going on here, Mr. Blue-Storm-"

"Tempete Bleu."

"Something really weird. Because I don't think you didn't know this was here, up until today. I don't think you didn't know this was happening. And I don't think you didn't know what these people were planning, especially if you had infiltrators inside this camp for the last few days, or maybe all along."

"We struck at the moment when all heads were out of the sand," the Frenchman says: "If we struck too early, they would go back underground and we would lose them."

"Point taken," Randolph said: "But I don't think the Governors, State Legislators, and people who were caught in the middle of this would see it that way. They might even say you were reckless with their safety for not shutting this all down when you could."

Randolph smiles, and Karl chuckles. The French hero does not have any emotions on his face, but it's clear he's not very happy.

"So I let you leave, and you accuse us of poor handling?" he asks, returning to his own cup of coffee.

"You let us leave, give us back our equipment, unmolested, and we don't send the whole kit and kaboodle out into the world, unedited," Randolph says, smiling: "I've got it all saved somewhere else. I don't make a deadline, it goes out. All of it. 

"And I don't know about you, but I think I might want to keep a tight lid on your Swedish barbeque boy, at the very least."

"Ah, Helvete," Tempete Bleu says, smiling: "He is quite excitable, is he not? Still, a worthy addition to the team."

"You pig," Jana shouts, throwing her coffee at him: "You sickening pig! Did you not see what your people did? Did you not hear the screams?"

The French hero looks at his dirty suit, sighs, and gets a towel from the functionary: "I think this interview is over, Msr. Scott."

"Do we have an agreement?" Randolph asks, getting up and looking down at him.

"You may take your equipment, but not your weapons," the man says, not looking back as he towels the stains: "And you will ask permission to be at all such combats in the future. If you are not there with us, and you are armed, you will be treated the same way we treat all such people. And you have seen that, here, today."

"We sure have," Randolph says, bundling up Karl and Jana: "We'll show ourselves out?"

"You will be escorted out," Tempete Bleu says, getting up and pointing to the red and white guards: "

Messieurs? Ces imbéciles sortir d'ici. Tirer sur eux s'ils font des problèmes."

"Cochon ridicule," Jana hisses under her breath as they walk away, hoping he heard it.

On the way out of basecamp, after getting their things, they're marched past a  flimsy-looking pen for prisoners. It was quickly constructed just after the trailers were set up, and the less-wounded, non-powered prisoners were ushered in, there to sit and wait to be picked up. They're all wearing thick, metal collars, and the walls of the pen are blinking. 

The threat isn't even needed.

Randolph looks into the throng of dirty, bloody people and sees the woman whose husband was set on fire. She's sitting with her child and singing to her, trying to get her to sleep.

She doesn't look in his direction. He couldn't handle it if she did.

* * *

"Dude, what the !@#$ is your problem?" someone at SPYGOD's Christmas party asks Randolph. 

That brave soul gets a fist in his face for his troubles, and that's not the only thing he throws over the next thirty seconds -- most notably a can of beer at the television SPYGOD's attending his own party through. And thirty seconds after that Randolph's out on the wet, snowy street in front of the inn, on his face, with his coat being tossed after him.

"!@#$ you all," Randolph says, getting up: "!@#$ all of you! You hear me?"

No one does, at that point. So he stumbles to his feet, feels his face to make sure nothing's broken, and begins to walk home before he remembers he has no idea where the !@#$ he is.

Just like life, really. 

He shouldn't have come to the party, tonight. That much was certain. He got the invitation a week ago and just sort of snorted at it, all things considered, but as the night wore on, and the story began to wear upon him -- as it often does -- he began to think that maybe a drink or two with people who weren't journalists was just what he'd need.

Unfortunately, he was wrong. Because he wrote, and he drank, and he drank as he wrote. And once the story was done, and the monumental truth of what he'd actually written -- the story, itself -- smacked him upside the head with all the force of a sledgehammer, he was really in no fit state for any kind of company.

The kids tried to tell him. They did. They told him to stay home and relax. Have a warm bath. Sleep it off. 

He told them to !@#$ off. He screamed at them. He said horrible, hateful things that he never meant to ever say, about their naivete and innocence and wide-eyed wonder and the like.

He told them that if they loved him they'd leave him, just like everyone else, and go find their own way for once.

By the time he realized that was not the right thing to have said, he was already in a cab and getting out at the party. And it just got worse from there, because everyone there was either a Strategic Talent or a hanger-on, or someone from the COMPANY. And none of them were in a mood to talk about anything but what they'd just been through.

And, as is the custom of such people at such times, they got through the horror and the pain by trying to get plastered and make light of it -- things that Randolph was in no way able to handle seeing, right about then.

Especially when his story started going around the world, and people -- not realizing he was actually at the party -- started commenting on it.

He could handle being told he was a troublemaker and a putz. He could handle people wondering which side he was on. He could even handle it when some moron with more muscle than brains decided to expound on his opinion of "outlaw journalism."

But then some douche had to go and say the magic words: he said they had it coming.

"They did, huh?" Randolph asked the guy, who he'd maybe seen at one heroic function or another. Long green hair, big muscles, bad taste in holiday ties.

"Yeah, well, if you're in a war zone and you've got a gun, it better be pointed the other way," he said, smiling over his martini like it was some kind of !@#$ing joke: "Amirite? Amirite?"

"You stupid dog!@#$er," Randolph said, slamming his own drink down: "Did you even watch what I did? Did you? Or did you just catch the main parts and then tune the !@#$ out?"

"Hey, man," someone says, putting a hand on Randolph's shoulder. He shrugs it off and square up toe-to-toe with the other guy and asks him once more: "Did you?"

"Maybe not all the way through," the guy admits, clearly not too concerned.

"Then maybe you should watch it again, you !@#$," Randolph says, poking his finger in the guy's massive chest: "Especially the bits where I showed that there were kids in there. Did you see them?"

"Well-"

"Did you !@#$ing see them?"  Randolph screams, smacking the guy across the face: "Did you see those kids, hiding behind their parents? Did you see the old people being turned into giblets? Did you see those scared, stupid idiots who thought they were going to be protected, and then found themselves in a !@#$ war zone? Did you? Did you?"

The guy just looks down at Randolph, not sure what to do or say, here.

"My god," Randolph says, turning to harangue the crowd: "Don't you get it? That wasn't a good thing that happened up there. This is not a good thing that happened today. You didn't win a victory. You put down a sad and sorry thing that could have been handled nonviolently_''

"Pfft," some COMPANY Agent snorts: "Did you want us to talk them down from an armed rebellion?"

"You didn't have to !@#$ing kill anyone today!" Randolph screams: "You people! You've got powers, don't you? Didn't anyone teach you how to use them creatively? Ever?"

He looks at the television, from which SPYGOD is staring. It's the only way he can be here, tonight, due to house arrest.

"Didn't you teach these people anything?" Randolph shouts, walking closer to the camera in front of it: "Didn't you tell them that the American people are worth making exceptions for? That they're worth saving? Worth going the extra mile to help? Didn't you?"

"Well-" SPYGOD tries to say, but someone steps in front of the television before he can answer.

Someone rather big.

"Dude, what the !@#$ is your problem?" that guy says, and something about how he says it -- the total, buzzed vacuousness of it -- makes Randolph decide to stop talking and start punching.

Hence the fight. Hence the ejection. Hence his walking home in the snow and the cold, drunk and angry and bloody. No wonder the cabs won't stop.

At some point, he sits down on a park bench. He maybe dozes off for a bit, then. Someone tries to wake him up but fails, and he gets the sense that someone's moving him, but he doesn't !@#$ing care, anymore. Let them rob him, kill him. He doesn't !@#$ing care.

!@#$ it all.

But when he wakes up the next day, he's in his own bed. He's been cleaned up, put into his night clothes, and tucked in. They've even left breakfast, water, pain pills, and a bucket by the bed.

He smiles, thinking he knows who got him out, last night. But as he gets showered, and moves around the house, he can't help but realize that there's no one there but him.

At some point, he thinks to check by the bedside. There's a letter there, inside an envelope. It's signed to him.

And !@#$ him, but he already knows what it says.

"I love you," he says to them as he sits and gets ready to read his kids' long-overdue goodbye letter. To his credit, he doesn't start crying until the end.

And doesn't start drinking until he's read it three times, and is absolutely certain this is not goodbye.

(SPYGOD is listening to Stagger (Underworld) and having a Shut The !@#$ Up Ale)