5/5/61 - The Things We've Done Together While Our Hearts Were Young - pt. 1

Freedom Force, May 5th, 1961
At Cape Canaveral for Alan Shepard's historic spaceflight
Back: Mrs. Liberty, Swiftfoot, Gold Standard, Dr. Chaos, Mr. USA
Front: Liberty Belle, Corporal Flag, American Lightning, New Man
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * * * * * * * * * 
 
"Remember, it's not enough to make history - 

you've got to arrange for someone to record it for you."

The Wind From Nowhere, J.G. Ballard (1961)

 

 * * * * * * * * * *

The wind blows across Bird Island, again, bringing with it the crisp, earthy smells of a Florida afternoon. It makes the trees sway and creak. Wild grass ebbs and flattens to mark its course. 

And, at its center, SPYGOD and the Crimson Assassin face one another from twenty feet away -- each ready to kill the other.

The tall Russian adjusts his grip on his wondrous weapon, making certain his foe's eyes are square in his crosshairs. SPYGOD looks at the guns he'd dropped by his feet, wondering if he can get to them in time.

The wind blows once more, and the Russian starts to count, ever so slowly.

Three... 

Two... 

One... 

And then-

* * *

"Oh, you have got to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD spits into his Freedom Force communicator as he gently disentangles his left foot from what's left of a man's backside.

Normally, he wouldn't be so gentle about it -- especially considering what this dark-red-wetsuited Russian Superspy had been saying, here in this gas station restroom, before he kicked the man's tailbone up into his sternum.

But the shoes are handmade Roger Viviers,!@#$ it, and he's not losing them to a Soviet !@#$hole if he can help it.  

"I wish I was, (REDACTED)," Dr. Yesterday sighs over the communicator: "We've got confirmed sightings up and down the coastline. SQUASH operatives are coming in from the shore, south of the Cape, and setting up weapons. And I'm sure you can guess what they're after."

"Half the !@#$ing free world knows by now," SPYGOD replies, pulling his foot free with one final, wet squick. The costumed fellow screams at the pain, but quickly shuts up once SPYGOD kicks him at the base of skull with his other foot -- propelling him right through the toilet stall wall, shattering him against the tile wall, and dropping him down into the commode.

"What was that screaming?" Dr. Yesterday asks.

"Had to flush the !@#$ toilet. Found a commie in the bowl."

"What?"

"Oh, never !@#$ing mind," SPYGOD shouts, running out of the Union 76 station's men's room, grabbing the pocket scope he always keeps on his person, and looking up the Florida coastline, seeing exactly what his ally was telling him.

There's a high-tech, collapsible pontoon boat, just up at Satellite beach. It's just like the one he saw land here -- at Pelican Beach park -- as he was making his way north, this morning. And when he went to investigate, and realized that the two men who'd come ashore weren't here for a full tank, he'd decided to pull off within range of his pocket scope, and see what they were up to.

One hastily-assembled, super-sophisticated soviet missile launcher later -- aimed due north, no less -- he realized the time for watching was over. So he'd driven up, weapons blazing, and eliminated the threat. Then it was just down to trying to get answers out of the one guy who'd had the sense to run into the station's outside washroom to flee his fate.

One ultra-brutal !@#$-kicking -- along with a rather rough poison-tooth removal -- later, what SPYGOD had learned had made him rather upset, to put it mildly. Not only because of what he had learned, but also because of what this !@#$ simply did not know. 

And as any spy could tell you, that's what sinks the fleet.

"Did you call the !@#$ troops in, yet?" he shouts, putting his scope away and getting ready to act.

"Mr. USA and Mrs. Liberty were already at the Cape. Gold Standard's airborne from Atlanta. Swiftfoot's bringing the others from DC, but it'll take a while to get them assembled-"

"We don't !@#$ing have a while, Bob. We got commies trying to stop the launch. And if they're out here, attacking in the !@#$ing open...?"

"Then there's someone inside, doing the real work," Dr. Yesterday realizes.

"!@#$ right," SPYGOD says, heading for his car, which is parked right next to what's left of the other operative, and their weapon: "And we only got a half an hour to stop this !@#$."

"Oh dear."

"You got that right! Tell our people at the Cape to lock it the !@#$ down."

"Already on it, (REDACTED)."

"Get in touch with Patrick and get their defenses up-"

"Who's Patrick?"

"Patrick Air Force Base, you !@#$ing twit. It's on the !@#$ way, and they'll get to them before I do."

"Alright-"

"And call the !@#$ President and tell him to call Nicki and tell that bald rat bastard !@#$ to call the whole !@#$ thing off if he knows what's !@#$ing good for him-"

"What am I, your secretary?" Dr. Yesterday sighs: "Don't you have someone at the Heptagon to make those calls?"

"Oh, I got that new guy they !@#$ing saddled me with, Fredericks or whatever. He's !@#$ing useless. You call the President."

"Well, okay-"

"And while you're at it? Tell your brothers to get it ready to go."

There's a moment of silence, then: "Are you sure? It hasn't been tested, yet. Anything could happen-"

"Yes. And it's called 'Freedom Force Fails in Flaming Fiasco,' right across the front page of the Daily Trumpet. Do you want to !@#$ing read that tomorrow while you're having your coffee, Bob?"

"No, (REDACTED), I don't."

"Then get Frank and Hector out to the port and tell them to fire it the !@#$ up," SPYGOD commands, taking care to step over the burned, still-crackling body of the other Soviet operative as he leaps into his shiny, matte black Aston Martin Spider: "I think it's time to show those Soviet clowns what American science can !@#$ing do."

He guns the motor, reverses over the lump of charcoal that used to be a man, flips the radio back on, and drives North for Cape Canaveral at top speed, ready to execute every last !@#$ing commie saboteur he sees along the way.

"Rawhide" by Link Wray plays on his radio. Afterburners kick his maximum speed from 90 to 150 MPH. His license plate reads BTFU01.

And it's 6:51 in the AM, just 29 minutes from launch...

* * *

SPYGOD really hadn't expected to have this kind of morning, but then he never does.

He'd been down in Key West, earlier that morning. That was after spending most of Thursday scouting launch locations for a special, one-man operation; the sort of thing he wasn't going to !@#$ing tell anyone else about, if he could at all help it. You don't just kill a foreign dictator for revenge and leave a paper trail, after all.

(Especially now they've got some brown-nosing schmuck watching over his every move, just to make sure he "sticks with the new program." !@#$ that.)

His cover consisted of making advanced arrangements for a certain double-agent, to make sure he'd have a smooth transition from the mainland to Havana after his upcoming "suicide." This involved getting a safe house updated and ready for Old Man (aka Ernest Hemingway), as well as preparing for his arrival. However, it also meant keeping an eye on the Cuban vampires, and making note of the nasty places they gathered when they came ashore to carouse, gambol, and drink yankee blood in the place they still refer to by its old, Spanish name: Cayo Hueso -- the Island of Bones. 

After a night of having to watch nightmarish things he'd just as soon light on fire, along with their subhuman, blood-addicted toadies, he was happy to move on to his own, personal errands the following day. After a few checks on locations he'd spied while traveling, he relaxed with drinks and some exquisite al fresco sex with a well-built Asian man-boy who waited tables at an oyster bar in Old Town. A few hours of that had left him spent and sober, yet unable to sleep, so he crept out of the fellow's house once he succumbed to slumber, climbed into his car, and drove back up the Overland, planning to make it up the coast in time to watch the launch.

He wasn't worried about the event, initially. Yes, the first American in space was going to be a big !@#$ deal. And, yes, it would be the sort of thing that might bring any number of jack!@#$es with a cause out to stop or sabotage it. But there were already going to be some members of the Freedom Force there, doing both PR and security, and if they couldn't handle it, well, he'd eat his hat.

(That and Mr. USA had made it clear he'd rather SPYGOD didn't cut in on his show, this time.)

But now he's !@#$ glad he didn't see if that round-bottomed peach of a man-boy wanted to go for another round, after all. He'd have felt really !@#$ stupid if he'd learned of a successful SQUASH operation while he was !@#$-deep in some oyster boy's !@#$hole. And he'd have felt even worse if it was against something this high profile.

And that was the old SPYGOD luck at play again -- the same obscene fortune that'd gotten him this far, and continued to surprise him. If he hadn't been alternating between speeding and slowing down? If that erratic trajectory hadn't brought him to this stretch of road, just now? If he hadn't noticed that pontoon?

(If he didn't already have a backup plan for something exactly like this in place...?)

No. No sense examining it. No sense second-guessing it. Clearly he was meant to be right here, right now, doing one of the things that only he can do.

If there's one consolation -- other than not having Jack get on his case about something -- it's that he was meant to be killing the idiots SQUASH had sent. So he takes extra care to annihilate every last one of the mother!@#$ers his car comes across as he races to the Cape, hoping every other order he'd put into play is also being followed.

Some days it's good to be a superspy. If his luck holds out, this will be yet another one of them.

And if not, then maybe today's when he learns that luck isn't everything...

* * *

"The Soviets?" Mr. USA sighs as he runs after Mrs. Liberty, heading for the control center's nearest exit: "Really?"

"That's what they're saying, (REDACTED)," she shouts back over the alarms, taking a little pride in running ahead of him, at least until he can take to the air: "Frogmen with rocket launchers, down the coast. SPYGOD's taking care of them, now, but he thinks that they're just distractions."

"He would," the hero grouses, knowing his old rival is probably right about this: "Same plan as always?"

"Same as always," she says as the door comes into sight: "You go high..."

"And you go low," he finishes, allowing himself the luxury of skipping just ahead of her, opening the door for the lady, and then whooshing up to the skies to see what the holy heck is going on, here.

As he scans the horizon, he can see a couple fires, further south from here. Narrowing his eyes, he quickly discerns the cause: a speeding, black sports car, firing incendiary rounds at every two-man squad of would-be saboteurs.

SPYGOD seems to be enjoying this, if the look on his face is any indication as he mows down yet another group of them. But he's not moving fast enough, and there's more up the way.

"Mr. USA, I presume?" he hears someone day, over his communicator. He smiles, knowing who it is.

"Gold Standard! I'm really glad to hear your voice."

"I'm about five miles out. Be there in ten seconds. What do you need me to do?"

"I've got the skies over here. You go south, and help SPYGOD knock out enemy emplacements along the coastal road. Look for pontoon boats. Two man squads-"

The whoosh of his gold-armored friend takes the voice away from him, just for a second. The man-machine flies by with all the power of a jet engine, giving him a thumbs-up as he does to indicate he understood. And then he dives down, preparing to attack from the north as SPYGOD sweeps up from the south. 

"All well and good," Mr. USA says, looking at the rocket as it stands by the construction gantry, waiting for the order to go: "But where's the real threat?"

"You see anything up there?" Mrs. Liberty asks, already standing by the rocket and looking around: "I've got bumpkiss down here."

"Not sure," he says, making a circle around the rocket and looking down, wondering what he's not seeing...

* * *

"Of course, Doctor Power would be away today, wouldn't he?" American Lightning says as the Swiftcar pulls up in front of the control area.

"Eben's got a life too, Robert," New Man says, jumping out of the open seat behind the conveyor belt Swiftfoot runs on to power the weird, smoking contraption (something like ten seats connected to a free-rolling, steerable track): "And other responsibilities."

"Like you'd know about responsibilities, Charles," Dr. Chaos snorts, brushing his blue hair out of his face and putting his tophat on: "Give it a rest-" 

"Codenames, folks," Corporal Flag chides his fellows: "We're on the job, now."

"Yes, we are," Freedom Belle says, taking charge before someone else can: "Swiftfoot, reconnoiter the area's edges. Look for anyone set up for mischief, and then get back here to me."

"YouGotItHon," Swiftfoot stammers, and then speeds off to do what his girlfriend has instructed. 

"The rest of you are going to pair up, go inside, and see if we can locate any saboteurs," the short, severe-looking woman says: "New Man, you're with Lightning. Corporal, you and Chaos go left. We'll go right."

"Why?" Corporal Flag asks, clearly not wanting to be in with the man dressed like a stage magician.

"Because it's your turn to make sure I don't atomize the structure while dealing with the bad guys," Chaos chuckles: "Jerry."

"Hey, now," the Corporal sighs, but quickly realizes he's a step behind the others, and not likely to catch up if he doesn't hustle.

The others don't like him much -- he knows this. Part of it's because, out of all the others, he's the only one that got to keep his wartime name as he actually was a Corporal; everyone else got the "Lieutenant," "Captain," and "Sergeant" taken away from them after Korea. And part of it was the fact that he came in during Korea, as a replacement for American Flag, who bought it during the push back from Pusan.

But the real reason is because, no matter how hard he tries, he just can't get a hang of how to take control of a mission. Everyone else seems to have it down pat, but whenever he opens his mouth to lead, everyone else just sort of brushes him off, leaving someone like Mr. USA, Mrs. Liberty, or Liberty Belle to step up and get things done.

(That and American Lightning, which is twice as galling. Who was that Negro to tell him anything?)

One of these days he'll get it right. He knows this. But until then, he's just going to have to eat !@#$ and wait for his chance. 

Maybe today it'll come at last. 

* * *

"Well, about !@#$ time," SPYGOD chuckles, watching as balls of fire explode up ahead of him, in the distance.

It's like a line of bombs hitting their targets, back in Europe. A golden streak flies just ahead of the blasts -- a huge, !@#$-eating grin shining behind its faceshield, its gilded hands giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up as it rockets towards his ally's car.

"Thanks for the assist, Ed," SPYGOD hails him over the communicator, just as he spins the car out to bring it to a halt in front of some bewildered beachcomber's summer house: "I think I !@#$ing got them all down here. Can you see any more?"

"Not now, but I'll go further down just to see if you missed any."

"Fair enough. And when you're done with that? Go right the !@#$ up and see if you can see anything past the coastal shelf"

"What should I be looking for?" the gold-suited inventor asks, just as he rushes over SPYGOD's position.

"Well, these !@#$holes didn't paddle all the way from !@#$ing Albania, did they? I bet there's a sub, parked just off the drop-off-"

"A bet, eh? Well, I'll wager dinner at Delmonicos that they just island-hopped up here from Cuba."

"Sure, but you're picking up the !@#$ drinks tab either way."

"You've got yourself a gentleman's agreement, good sir," Gold Standard chuckles, arcing up to see if he's won or lost this one: "Over and out."

"Too !@#$ing easy," SPYGOD says, leaping out of his car and looking back where he came from: "We saw them because we were !@#$ing meant to see them. And I bet they don't even !@#$ing care if we blow up their transport..."

He goes back into his car, reaching under the passengers' side of the dashboard to find the phone. A special, otherwise-hidden aerial goes up, and he places a call to the Heptagon.

"Home Seven here," his new subordinate says in his dreary, tired voice.

"This is Superguy One, calling in," SPYGOD says, using the ludicrous callsign the brown-nosing, DoD-appointee desk-monkey insisted he employ in the field: "I need some !@#$ing field advisement, and I don't have all god!@#$ day-"

"Sir! I've been trying to get hold of you since yesterday-"

"Never !@#$ing mind that, now, !@#$face."

"Sir, I don't think I got that last bit-"

"That's my new callsign for you. Like it?"

"Um, well-"

"Thought not. What's !@#$ing going on up there in Foggy Bottom? Did my messages get relayed?"

"Oh, you mean the ones you didn't trust me to relay for you, sir?" Fredericks says, not trying to disguise his bitterness: "Well, as far as I know, the answer is yes. The White House put me on hold forever, which means the President's making that call. And there's word of that ridiculous waste of taxpayers' dollars being put into a countdown at the port, so there's that-"

"And what do you have for me?" SPYGOD interrupts, watching as squad cars from Patrick AFB come zooming down the road at long last: "Did we receive any !@#$ing intel whatsoever that this was going to happen?"

"No sir, not an inkling-"

"I find that really !@#$ing hard to believe, !@#$face."

"Well, it happens to be true-"

"So what did you want to tell me?"

"Sir?"

"You said you were trying to get hold of me all day yesterday. Why?"

"Well, it's nothing I feel secure talking on an open channel about, sir."

"Anything related to this?"

"No, sir."

"So, what, you just found it !@#$ing annoying that I went off the radar for a day?" SPYGOD seethes: "Are the people you're reporting to really that concerned about where I !@#$ing go and what I !@#$ing do that you'd rather play babysitter than keep an eye out for the sort of !@#$ you're supposed to be looking out for? Like, oh, I don't know, !@#$ like this?"

There's nothing but silence on the other line, and SPYGOD realizes what that means. 

"Then this is how it !@#$ing goes, !@#$face," SPYGOD seethes: "The next call I get on this phone had better be some really !@#$ed good intel on what's really !@#$ing going on, here. Because I refuse to believe that SQUASH would try and pull something this !@#$ing amateurish off. Bulgakov's too !@#$ smart for that. Agreed?"

"Well, yes-"

"So either this is all a big !@#$ distraction for the real operation, or something's seriously wrong in Moscow. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir," Fredericks says, knowing how this is going to go.

"So I want that intel, !@#$face. I want it yesterday afternoon. Or I want your !@#$ reassigned somewhere I can't !@#$ing find you. Got that?"

With that he hangs up, disgusted. Then he parks his !@#$ on the extremely-warm hood of his car, pulls out a long !@#$ cigarette, and has a significant drag off it as he watches a troop carrier pull up to deal with the mess he just made, a quarter of a mile back.

"What are you !@#$ing up to, you commie creep?" he asks his far-away, wheelchair-bound nemesis, wondering if this crazy caper really has his stamp on it.

It's just after 7, now. Only 19 minutes to go...

(SPYGOD is listening to My True Story (Jive Five) and having a !@#$ton of Blatz.)

12/25/44 - Le Réveillon - pt. 2

* * *

premier cours

oie rôtie avec farce orange et gelées de pommes de terre

* * *

"Oh man, this is !@#$ing incredible," (REDACTED) says, ripping off a hunk of the massive, fragrant roast duck for himself, just before Faust -- who's risen to carve for the others -- can get to it. The others just roll their eyes and laugh, somehow knowing that's just the way he is.

(Though how they know is not any more certain than this place, here, or how two groups of sworn enemies are willing to sit and eat a meal with one another.)

"Good of you to wait, my friend," Faust says, smiling as he forks him some potatoes and stuffing to go with his duck: "I presume all would care for some?"

"Oh please," Major Force says, making a show of being polite, and realizing that his subordinate just does not care: "You're the one who carves at home?"

"I am," Faust says with a smile, making sure the man gets a good measure of what's on offer: "Well, it's been a while since I've had that pleasure. I've been rather busy, these last few years."

"Same here," the Major admits, waiting until all others are served before having some of his own. Faust serves Lightning, then Heimdall, then Nacht-Maske, and then himself. 

"Should we say grace?" Lightning asks: "I feel like we kind of skipped that part."

"I don't remember whether we did or not," Nacht-Maske agrees, looking around: "We just sort of were drinking, I think. And then the waiters brought the food."

"Well, if no one has any objections?" Faust asks, bowing and looking around -- especially at (REDACTED), who's scarfing down his plate. The man realizes all eyes are on him, stops chewing, and then nods.

"Sorry," he says: "Big family. If you waited you starved."

"I think we are in no danger of that," Nacht-Maske says, bowing his head and delivering it. 

The prayer is a simple one:

Vater, segne diese Speise
Uns zur Kraft und dir zum Preise.
Hilf, Gott, heut und allezeit,
Mach uns bereit fuer die Ewigkei

Amen

"Amen," Major Force and Lt. Lightning echo. (REDACTED) has already tucked back into his food, which -- as the others soon discover -- tastes as amazing as it looks and smells.

* * *

"I just think I've had much of a choice in things," Major Force admits, his mind reeling from the taste sensations he's enjoying: "I was in the Army before the war started. Everything since then's just been a big blur." 

"Why did you join the Army?" Nacht-Maske asks, pushing his plate away, as he plans to save room for dessert. 

"I just felt it was the right thing to do, though... if I'm honest? My father was in it. And so was my grandfather. And his father before him. We've had an unbroken line of men in uniform in my family, all the way back to the Civil War." 

"Which side?" Lightning asks, smiling a little. 

"The right side," he replies, clearly not wanting to elaborate. 

"You know, we'd get along a !@#$ of a lot better if you'd !@#$ing open up more," (REDACTED) says, shoveling down a succulent piece of duck, stacked high with gooey potato: "That's the one !@#$ thing that's bugged me since you joined up with us. It's like we're holding out our hands and you're just batting them away."

"It's not a leader's place to be friends with his men, Sgt," Major Force rebuts: "I have to be alone and above. If I come down to you, then it becomes harder to rise above you when I need to. And I can't lose that edge. Not in peace, not in war."

"I cannot disagree," Nacht-Maske says.

"I can't disagree more," Faust replies, getting some more duck: "I think you need to know when to be steel and when to be skin, yes. But a leader can be both. Especially when men are demoralized and uncertain."

"I'd love to see you ask Der Fuhrer to be soft and meek," Heimdall snorts.

"We don't need him to be. He is our symbol of our nation, which should be the rock upon which we stand. But though we lead for him, we can still be human beings. That's how I do it, anyway."

Lt. Lightning smiles, thinking of the last pieces of advice his father gave him before he went off to Boot Camp. General advice any man might give his son, along with the most important ones at the time -- how to take orders and how to give them.  

And how to lead from behind. 

* * *

les treize desserts

* * *

And then comes dessert: deceptively simple at first, and then more complex.

Plates full of crisp nuts and dried figs give way to succulent, fresh fruit -- the first some of them have seen in months. The apples, oranges, pears, and grapes are eagerly devoured, and then replaced by further delights, most notably black and white nougat, warm spiced bread, and light thin waffles.

Finally, a yule log, which everyone seems to have just enough room for a slice. Coffee, tea, dessert wines, warm milk...

"So..." Nacht-Maske says, barely able to think from all the food he's eaten at this table, this night: "After the war?"

"I'm going back home, finding the best woman I can find, raising a family, and telling my kids to go be better than they started out," Lightning says, patting his chest and wondering how they made this amazing coffee.

"That is all that's important to you?" Heimdall asks.

"Well, let me put it this way," Lightning says: "I get out of this war, I got another one waiting at home. Same one I left, really."

"Is it really that bad for you at home?" Nacht-Maske asks: "We were told you and those like you were all over the place. It's what we're supposed to tell our men, anyway."

"Oh we are, but we're treated like dirt under your foot. Basically, most folks would rather we just stayed invisible.

"Like, for example, back in town? You all are fighting us, and our men are stretched tighter than a bed at bootcamp. But you know what all the soldiers like me are doing right now? Driving !@#$ cars and cleaning up mess halls. They trained us to fight when we joined, but they won't give any of us guns and tell us to go fight now, because the rest of the men won't have it."

"A tragic waste of resources," Faust says.

"That's what I said. So yeah, I want my children to be better than this. I want them to earn their way, but I want them to be allowed to earn it."

"Hear hear," (REDACTED) says: "My people got the same !@#$ when they came over. No one wanted any Italians doing a !@#$ thing for them-"

"Or the Irish," Major Force chuckles.

"Yeah, well, maybe if they got sober enough to work," (REDACTED) shorts: "But at least we could pretend to be something else. My friend Rob, here? Good !@#$ing luck with that."

"So you may win a war here, only to have to fight another one at home," Faust says: "A sad thing. I wish you well in that."

"Not that you're going to win, of course!" Nacht-Maske quickly adds, which makes everyone laugh.

"I do not think the war will end for me," Heimdall says, still working on his spiced Christmas Bread: "I see myself fighting for Der Fuhrer until the day I die. I imagine it will be overseas, perhaps in your streets in America. Or perhaps in Asia, when we finally turn the tables on the Japanese."

"And what happens there?" Nacht-Maske asks.

"I think I will finally meet a worthy adversary, and he will best me. I will die happy to have met him, knowing my death will be avenged."

And he goes back to eating, hoping no one realizes all that was a lie. 

"Ah, that's !@#$ing crazy," (REDACTED) says, cutting some more Yule Log for himself: "I'm gonna kick !@#$ until they say we're done and then go back to New York City. And then..."

He thinks for a moment, and then shrugs and goes back to eating.

"And then you don't know?" Major Force asks, disbelieving.

"I haven't !@#$ing thought that far ahead yet," he admits: "I guess I'm too !@#$ing much in the here and now, you know?"

"I know how you feel," Nacht-Maske admits: "I keep thinking I'll get home to Berlin, and party like there's no tomorrow. I say I'll burn down the officers' clubs with my antics, maybe get disciplined, busted back down to corporal. But I just don't see it."

"You think you're going to die?" Lightning asks.

"No. Maybe. I don't know," the man sighs: "It's hard to see, you know? Ever since I got the power, the more time I spend in the darkness, the more it calls to me. Sometimes I dream I've died and gone to hell, but then I wake up and realize I went into the darkness when I slept, even without my mask on.

"One day, I'm afraid I'm going to forget to wake up."

That sours things a little, and there is silence for a time.

"I don't see a future for me, either, " Major Force admits: "Maybe that's why I can't open up to people, (REDACTED). I feel like I'm just passing through. I don't want to weigh you down with a memory."

"Too !@#$ late for that," (REDACTED) says, and there's some laughter at that.

"My wife will never worry, and my children will never want," Faust says, gesturing for one of the waiters to bring him some more coffee: "I will be the best father they could have. The best husband. And hopefully, in the future, they will remember that everything I did, I did for them."

"I'll drink to that," Nacht-Maske says, and all glasses of dessert wine or coffee are brought together for that.

It helps him forget that his fears are even more bleak and terrifying than he's willing to say.  

* * *

assiette de fromages

* * *

 "So this is the Reveillon?" Heimdall asks, helping himself to a slice of something gooey and tart.

"I guess so," Lightning says: "I had some people back in Paris tell me I had to go to one, when Christmas or New Years' rolled around. Now I see why."

"What the !@#$ does that mean?" (REDACTED) asks, not sure about some of the cheeses the others are enjoying.

"Well, it's a traditional feast amongst the French," Faust explains: "Reveil means 'wake,' which they use because they eat so !@#$ late. You gather your friends and family, and eat a wonderful meal, and stay up as late as you can."

"Does that mean we're friends, now?" Nacht-Maske asks.  

"Aw !@#$ no," (REDACTED) snorts: "I mean, no !@#$ing offense, but as soon as we're done here, I plan on killing your kraut !@#$es. I don't know how this happened-" 

"I've been wondering about that, myself," Faust says: "This is like a dream, isn't it? The sort where you're having lunch and suddenly your first school marm makes you a sandwich, and you talk for hours about something you never had in common, but yet you did." 

"The waiters all have the same face," Heimdall announces, looking around: "The stones are the same pattern, over and over again. The torches make the same swirls of flame, every minute, like the workings of a clock." 

"And you didn't tell us this before because...?" Nacht-Maske asks, to which Heimdall shrugs and has some more of the gooey cheese.

"So this is a dream," Lightning says: "Not a bad one, really. But !@#$ if I know what it means-" 

"It means we're family," Major Force answers: "Brothers in arms, I think. No different than any other soldier, just different sides of the war."

"I like that," Faust says, clinking his glass to the Major's: "But it still doesn't explain what we do next."

"Kill or die?" Heimdall asks, maybe a little too eagerly. 

"Fight and live," Lt. Lightning says.

"Maybe learn something to take back with us," Nacht-Maske hopes.

"Maybe go get some !@#$ing answers," (REDACTED) says, getting up from the table and, once he remembers how to walk, heading for the area where the waiters are bringing the food and drink from: "I'll be back. Gotta take a !@#$."

He wanders all the way down the hall, growing smaller and smaller as he does. How far down does the hall go? 

(And would anyone stop him if he just !@#$ed up against the wall?)

"He's quite a fellow," Nacht-Maske says to the others, once (REDACTED) is no longer visible.

You have no idea, a voice says to them.

They all turn to look at the being that spoke those words. The shock and surprise on their face is a palpable thing.

"How..." Major Force asks, looking around. They are no longer alone: all the waiters that have been serving them have appeared from nowhere.

And they all know them -- every single face is totally familiar. 

"Mien Gott..." Faust says, suddenly realizing something.

In a sense, yes, Werner. But that's not important now. We have other things to talk about, you and I.

Heimdall inexplicably starts to scream, reaching for his eyes. And then- 

* * *

 Der Faust die Vaterlandes and Sgt. Shatter stand in front of each other, shaken by what has just occurred. 

The blonde man's silver hands are gone. Sgt. Shatter's blade is also missing. And everything around them is dust and ashes.

It is as if they were in the center of a bomb blast. The trees are on fire, the snow is turning to steam, and everything around them for a mile is flattered and smoldering.

(Including the tanks they'd come to destroy.)

Lt. Lightning is cradling Major Force, saying things that (REDACTED) can't quite make out. Heimdall is knocked out cold, and Nacht-Maske is picking him up and spiriting him away, back into the darkness.

For a second, the only things in the world are those two men. There's no hate or anger on their faces -- only puzzlement and shock.

They know each other, somehow. Did they meet once? Did they have dinner together, somewhere?

Do they actually know each other's names?

They take a step back from each other. As they do, Faust's hands reappear, as does (REDACTED)'s sword.

The two men look at one another, and their extremities. And then they look back up again, and slowly nod.

"Merry Christmas," (REDACTED) says, reaching out a hand to shake.

"Froliche weihnachten," Faust says, taking it in his and giving it a firm and friendly pump.

And with that -- slowly, and with many looks over the shoulder -- they both walk away, back to where they came from. The war can keep for the night. 

It's Christmas, after all. 

* * *

The Battle of the Bulge went on until the 25th of January, 1945, but Bastogne was the turning point. When Hitler's primary offensive was shattered on the weight of the Allies' air and ground power, it was all the Wehrmacht could do to stumble backwards in an orderly fashion.

It's been said that was one of the major turning points of the European Theater. But maybe that's just how we deal with the fact that 100,000 Americans died to make that happen.

One other good thing: faced with incredible odds, certain people got their heads out of their !@#$es and let African-American men take up arms and fight, which led to the desegregation of the American armed forces. And about !@#$ing time, too.

Nacht-Maske was recalled to Berlin following the American breakthrough on the 25th of January. It's said he had a private meeting with Hitler, but no one knows what was said or ordered during it. All that's known is that, after that meeting, no one ever saw Nacht-Maske again. Not even ABWEHR, after the war.

It's like he vanished into thin air, or maybe something else.

Lt. Lightning survived that battle, and kept on going. After the war, he went back home, got a good job, got married, had kids, became a superhero, got divorced, wrote a best-selling autobiography, got remarried, had more kids. He died happy, surrounded by friends and family who loved him and thought the world of him. He was a veteran, he was a super hero.

He was a man. 

Heimdall surrendered to the Allies after Germany's surrender. Unfortunately, he surrendered to the Russians, rather than the Americans, and they scooped his eyes out with a rusty spoon before his trial. No one's really sure what happened to him, but rumors of a blind German prisoner in a Gulag made for "Super War Criminals" persisted up until the late 70's. That could, of course, be bull!@#$.

No one's sure what happened to his magnificent gun. 

Major Force died at the end of the Battle of the Bulge. He strode into a column of enemy soldiers and knocked them down until a bullet finally returned the favor. He was the last member of the Camp Rogers crew to die in Europe, and would later be recognized as America's first strategic talent.

He never told his fellow STs his real name. They had to find out by visiting his grave.

  

Der Faust die Vaterlandes disappeared into the war, shortly before Germany's surrender. He was last seen defending Berlin on the west, as the Soviets approached, and may have simply been annihilated during their advance. Or perhaps he saw a chance to get away, once he realized all was lost, and went back to Dusseldorf to find his wife and children. One can only hope he found them alive.

Rumors persist of his possible involvement in West Germany's postwar, anti-Soviet Strategic Talents program, but no one from that organization (or what remains of it, today) will confirm or deny anything. 

Sgt. Shatter may or may not have won the war in Europe for the Allies, depending on who you listen to. He went on to do several secret missions in postwar Europe, taking on both ABWEHR and the Soviets. He should have died several times -- due to both the odds and his own recklessness -- but somehow kept on going, as if someone was watching out for him.

Which is why, in the early 50's -- when it was decided that having superheroes running around with military ranks they hadn't earned was bad for morale -- a certain Warrant Officer from New York City was sarcastically codenamed "SPYGOD" by his handler. By all reports, he didn't like it at first, but, by the time he became the handler, the name had become as well-weathered as an old glove, and he kept it.

But why he doesn't use his signature superpower -- the basis of his wartime codename -- is not a subject he cares to bring up, these days.

(SPYGOD is listening to Le Huron Overture (Andre-Ernest-Modeste Gretry) and having more of that god beer)

12/25/44 - Le Réveillon - pt. 1

December 25th, 1944
Bastogne, Belgium
21:45

At night, in the forests surrounding Bastogne, there seems to be nothing but darkness.

The moon's waxing gibbous, and the skies are clear -- thanks to Patton's prayers, or so they say. But in the trees there is still snow, and when a good, strong gust of wind blows, the world turns into a dark and grey void. A cold and utter emptiness, within which nothing exists but the self, and one's thoughts and fears.

And the sound of terrible battle -- raging even on this night.

Moving silently through those trees are three men, all dressed in winter camouflage. They're some distance behind the front lines, stealthily advancing on the German flank. They have orders to deal with the tanks that the Allied bombing can't quite dislodge, after which they're free to deal with any other targets of opportunity that happen to wander into them.

Like the group of soldiers they just quietly dispatched, here in a slight depression they stumbled right into.

"That was scary," Lt. Lightning says, shaking his still-crackling hands in the cold: "For a minute there I thought they had us cold."

"You had to !@#$ing say that, didn't you?" Sgt. Shatter laughs, making his sword glow a little less.

"Laugh if you want, (REDACTED)," Major Force says, looking at what was left of the three men he battered without even having to touch them: "I told you to look where you were going. We should have died, here."

"Speak for your !@#$ing self, sir," Shatter replies: "Mama's angioletto's getting back in time to carve up some !@#$ Christmas rations tonight if I have to !@#$ing kill every !@#$ kraut in the valley."

"That's not on the menu tonight," the Major says, not really caring for his subordinate's tone, but not caring to yell at him about it here and now: "Where are we, Rob?"

"About a mile away from the target, sir," Lightning answers, looking around: "This direction, I think."

"Must be great to be your own !@#$ compass," Shatter says, making his sword go completely dark as he takes point, again: "I'll signal if I see something."

"That'll be a novelty," the Major hisses: "I swear, (REDACTED), it's like you're blind in one eye or something."

And the Sgt. -- really a Warrant Officer, same as the rest of them -- chuckles and moves forward, wondering how many more Germans he can "accidentally" stumble upon before his CO gets suspicious.

Or how many more it'll take before it's just him and Lightning, again. 

* * *

Halfway up a hill, overlooking the Strategic Talents' objective -- a group of tanks, hidden under camouflaged tarps -- a trio of black-clad men stand and watch.

"How close are they, Heimdall?' asks a tall, blonde man with silver fists.

The small, balding man with the large, complicated rifle looks through the scope again, and then over it, focusing his glittering eyes on the target: "A mile and a half away, Faust. There are three of them, in the trees."

"Can you recognize them?" the third member of the party asks, a smooth, black mask hiding his face -- with two bright stars for eyes -- and an officer's cap on his head.

"They do not appear to be wearing their uniforms under their coats, Herr Nacht-Maske. But one of them is the madman with the sword. The two behind him I am not certain."

"Can you get them from here?" the man with the silver fists asks.

"I can. And with the bullets I have, I can kill them all with one shot."

"Your command?" Der Faust die Vaterlandes politely asks the man in the dark mask.  

"I must admit I am torn, dear Faust," he replies, walking towards them with his hands behind his back: "On one hand, I wish to fight them, and test our mettle against these American heroes. I think it would do our men a great deal of good to see that they can die like any other soldier."

"And on the other?" Faust asks, trying not to smile.

"On the other, I would very much like to get out of this cold and back into the officer's mess. The meal they have prepared for us this night will be a splendid thing, and I do not wish to miss it."

"Are you more worried about the meal or morale, Herr Nacht-Maske?"

"Both, in truth. It would do the officers well to see us amongst them, do you not think?"

"I think I can make out one of the others," Heimdall says, squinting his eyes: "And if so... Herr Nacht-Maske, I am thinking the one in the back is the schwarze."

Faust raises his eyebrows, and the bright stars in the other man's mask narrow and burn colder: "Are you certain?"

"I am," he replies, wondering if the man truly doubts his abilities.

"Well then," Nacht-Maske says, bringing his hands out and rubbing them together: "We have no choice. Your bullets would destroy them all, and Der Fuhrer has ordered that, if possible, we are to bring that one back to Berlin, alive and in chains."

"Really?" Faust says: "What of the others?"

"Oh, them we can kill and arrange any way we wish, though I think our scientists would like at least some of the parts for study. But after the last Olympics..."

No more needs to be said. 

So Heimdall gets up from the ground and, in a few speedy movements, has broken down his fantastic weapon into something a lot smaller and sharper. Faust has unclenched his hands, feeling the waves of force emanating from them.

And Nacht-Maske -- the primary political officer for all of Germany's Ubermenchen -- reaches out to take their shoulders, and then leads them into the dark spaces between worlds.

And then, hopefully, to victory.

* * *

Sgt. Shatter feels it before he sees it. Things get a lot colder, and the darkness ahead of him isn't because of snow.

"Duck the !@#$ down!" He shouts, leaping backwards and igniting his sword for all its worth. Lt. Lightning runs to the Major's side, hands as bright as fire as he gets ready to hurl his namesake at whatever enemy's on the way. And Major Force turns and looks right behind them, knowing that's where the enemy's actually going to attack from.

His instincts save them all from instant death. When Heimdall leaps from the darkness, wielding something sharp enough to slice through the trees on either side of them, it's only a burst of kinetic energy from his outstretched hands that deflect the blow, and send the short man hurtling back the way he came. 

"Wilkommen Sie bei Bastogne, Amerikaner!" Nacht-Maske announces, striding from an impossible angle and hurling burning, black globs of night at everyone he can see. His shots go wild, but they're not intended to hit their quarry -- just keep them off-balance.

At the front, Sgt. Shatter gets out from behind the tree he ducked behind and gets ready to kill someone -- anyone. This is hardly the first time he's gotten to throw down with these super-krauts, and it won't be his last, either. He just needs for the !@#$er in the mask to stop sliding in and out of shadows, that's all.

Before he can get good angle on the man throwing the dark, he hears something right behind him. He turns and sees a tall, blonde man with silver hands -- gauntlets of some kind. And the smile on the man's face makes it clear that he's been his intended opponent all along.

"Guten Abend, Schwertkampfer," he says, hands up and ready to box. 

"Let's !@#$ing do this," (REDACTED) spits, and spins around, ready to test this man's metal against his. 

(REDACTED)'s sword is his will, made manifest by something that even the people at Camp Rogers could never figure out. Faust's gauntlets, by some weird coincidence, are the exact same thing -- taking the place of his crippled hands.

And when they collide-

* * *

"Okay, I know from beer," (REDACTED) says, holding up a pewter tankard in the direction of Faust's: "And this is !@#$ good beer."

"You Americans know nothing of beer," Faust laughs, but clinks his against the man's anyway.

"Are you kidding me? I got enough bathtub brewers in the family to know a good dark when I drink it, you dumb !@#$."

The blonde man raises an eyebrow, and then laughs uproariously. So do the other four at the table in the long and cavernous, torch-lit stone hall they've been drinking in since...

Since they can remember, really.

"I forgot, you all got rid of your alcohol for a few years there," Nacht-Maske says, looking somewhat plain and ordinary without his strange mask: "How could you have done this?"

"Bad mistake," Major Force sighs, having a sip of his own.

"Well, I don't know," Lt. Lightning says, swirling his around: "I think the temperance movement had a point, but it should have been voluntary. You should have had a choice. Not made it law."

"It's always the place of those who know more to see that those who do not are called into correctness, though," Heimdall says, putting his empty flagon down so one of the passing servers can fill it for him: "This is why we have moral leaders, to make us follow morality. Otherwise, we become nothing more than beasts."

"But Helmut, they took away their beer," Faust insists, waving his flagon: "We didn't even do that to the French."

And there is laughter from all parties on that note.

* * *

Hors D'oeuvre

huîtres à la sauce échalote

* * *

"We came up with Patton, when he !@#$ing got to town," (REDACTED) says between bites of oyster: "Mostly just doing damage control at the !@#$ front line. You know, 'this far and no farther.'"

"Further, Sgt.," Major Force chides him: "We'll teach you how to speak English someday."

"Mangiare merda, mafanculo," he replies, making a gesture that's unquestionable in any language. The Germans all laugh at this. 

"I did some time down in Rome, so I think we're on the same wavelength," Faust says.

"And since then?" Major Force asks.

"We were sent to the frontline in order to bolster morale, and provide a counter to your activities," Nacht-Maske admits, still picking around his course: "Der Fuhrer is counting on this being a decisive blow."

"Well, too bad our General knows how to pray," Lt. Lightning says.

"Yes, I heard about that," Faust says: "Did your Patton really make all your fighting men pray for good weather?"

"He did, and it worked, Fist of the Fatherland."

"Well, that's quite the claim Lt. Lightning."

"Oh, !@#$ it," (REDACTED) says between bites of oyster: "It's (REDACTED). I had enough of this codename bull!@#$. (REDACTED) from New York City."

"Werner," Faust says, raising a glass: "From Dusseldorf."

"Helmut," Heimdall admits, his eyes glittering like diamonds: "Strassfurt."

"Heinrich," Nacht-Maske states as he also raises his tankard, smiling as if enraptured by the brew: "Berlin."

"Robert," Lightning says, also raising his tankard: "Small town outside of Lexington with no name."

"How does your town have no name?" Major Force asks.

"Someone burned down the sign on account of it was full of people like me," he says: "So, way we figured, if they don't know what our town's name is, they can't come looking for us. So we stayed incognito."

There's laughter at that. And then the subject changes once, then twice, and yet again, and still no one's gotten around to asking Major Force his name.

And he does not offer it.

* * *

Soupe

soupe de haricots et de jambon

* * *

"I really didn't want to go, to be honest," Major Force admits, his face looking somewhat eerie under the flickering lights of the torches on the walls: "When they told me I was special, well, I sort of looked them in the eyes and asked 'what do you mean?' And then they said that I had one-of-a-kind physical qualities. The kind they were looking for. The kind that could help win the war."

"That's never a good thing," Faust nods, understanding all too well.

"So they ordered me to report to Camp Rogers, and next thing I know I'm getting injected with this stuff, along with five other people. I'm the only one who lived through it, but once I did, well, they fine-tuned it a little, and then brought in more people-"

"That's us," (REDACTED) says, slurping down his soup and hoping for more, provided he can flag down one of the mayfly-like waiters in this joint.

"And everyone's looking at me like I'm their older brother, or something. And all I want to say is that I don't know any more than they do, but the camp commander tells me I'm the leader, so... I lead."

"And a fine job you do of it, too," Nacht-Maske says, raising his tankard: "I've heard of your exploits. Every one of us has. You and that one fellow, Colonel USA?"

"Oh yes," Lt. Lightning says, tipping a wink to (REDACTED).

"I don't know why you always !@#$ with me about him," the man sighs: "He's a good guy, (REDACTED) is. You know he's got your back."

"There's something about him I just don't like," the Major says, shrugging.

"Jealousy?" Faust asks: "Sometimes I find I dislike people for the wrong reasons."

The Major shrugs again and goes back to his soup.

"They call him 'The Death Who Runs For You' on the frontlines," Heimdall intones, seemingly awestruck by the thought: "They say he killed Der Totenkopf at Normandy with just his little finger, just by poking it into his head."

"Eh, not really," Lightning says: "They had a knock-down and drag-out up and down the emplacements, once we broke through. By the time it was all over, neither of them looked all that good. But our guy was still breathing, and your guy wasn't."

"Maybe that's when he used his little finger," Faust offers, taking a sip of his beer: "Sort of like giving a good beast the mercy of a quick death when you bring it down."

If the thought mollifies Heimdall at all, he doesn't show it. But then, his eyes don't show much of anything.

Not to others, anyway.

* * *

Entree

pâté de foie gras en champignons forestiers

* * *

"The way I !@#$ing see it, it's a matter of standing together," (REDACTED) says: "It's like of like family, you know? You might !@#$ing hate your older brother and want to kill your younger brother, and maybe your sister's a stupid !@#$ on top of being a !@#$ and a !@#$."

"He's got a way with words," Lt. Lighting says, winking at the Germans. 

"Just because I went to school," he says, knuckling his friend in the shoulder. "But anyway, your family's a bunch of !@#$ in pants and shirts, and you know this. But if some !@#$er comes around and starts something with one of them? You forget all of that, and you grab a rock or a brick or a broken bottle and you start something right the !@#$ back."

"Because they're family," Lightning says, smiling because he's heard this story a million times before, and because it's true.

"!@#$ straight. Because they're your flesh and blood, and that means something. !@#$, it means everything."

"So you can hate them and hurt them, but no one else can?" Nacht-Maske asks.

"Give that man a prize!" he says, smiling and going for a shot of beer: "When your family's in danger, you put up your !@#$ fists."

"I can see that," Faust says.

"I would follow Der Fuhrer into Hell," Heimdall says with all due reverence: "Before him, our country was lost. We had nothing. No pride, no character, no will. We had forgotten what they meant. And then he came to us, and he spoke, and he showed us the meaning of these things that we had forgotten. And then we rose from the dust of the weltkreig, and became a proud people again. A proud nation. I gladly serve our leader, and our people through him."

There's a moment of silence, and then Nacht-Maske snorts: "Hitler is an imbecile."

"I beg your pardon," Heimdall tries to say, but he's quickly waved down.

"Helmut, you don't get summoned to meetings in the middle of the night and told that everything you understood to be true a day ago is no longer true at all. You don't look at battle plans and see the disasters he makes after the Generals give him sound advice. You don't have to listen to the group of freaks and circus people he calls on for occult advice. I do, because I am your political officer. And I can tell you, the man is insane."

"So what do you fight for, then?" Lightning asks: "Me, I want to be worth something. A lot of folks look at me and think I'm less than they are. I want to walk back home in my uniform, right down the !@#$ main street in Lexington, and say that I came here and fought for you, and !@#$ but you are going to show me the respect I'm due. Not as a black man, but as a man."

"I fight for Germany," Nacht-Maske admits: "I will fight to keep the Fatherland safe and strong, no matter who is ruling it. Hopefully, when that idiot we call a leader gets deposed or put out of the way, whoever takes over will keep it safer and stronger than it already is. But until then, I must be a patriot. It is all I ever ask of those who fight under me. It is all I can ask of myself."

"I'll show you what I fight for," Faust says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a billfold, tucked into which is a photograph. It's of a woman and two children, all pretty and smiling.

"Oh, hey," Major Force says, looking at it: "You're a family man, too?"

"Indeed I am. I've been married for six years, and I have two daughters. They're four and three. And when the first one was born, I looked into her eyes and I said that I would throw myself at a thousand bullets, just to keep her safe. Before then, I just moved through life, even through marriage, as good as it is-"

"Which he never stops telling us about," Nacht-Maske laughs.

"But when you make a life? It's like you had this wheelbarrow of money, all the time, and you finally bought something with it. You finally made a mark in this world. And whatever happens to you, or what you do, or what you think, this mark must continue on. And that's why I'm here, doing this."

"That and the hands," Heimdall says.

And Faust smiles and lets the others laugh it off. But anyone who knew him could see that his teammate had touched a real nerve, just then.

Not anything he cared to admit, though.

(SPYGOD is listening to Zemire et Azor Overture (Andre-Ernest-Modeste Gretry) and having the beer of the Gods)