2765 - pt. 4

So how !@#$ed is !@#$ed?

Well, I'll admit it's seemed like forever since we were outside, but I really do not remember there being a big, tall, stark white marble wall wrapped around the !@#$ing place. I mean, I think we would have noticed on the way in.

And if I had noticed that, going in, I'm pretty !@#$ sure I would have noticed a giant face carved into the wall, looking down at us like it just scraped us off its giant, white shoe.

I'm wondering what this might mean when I take a good look at that scowling face, and see that it's female. And then I realize who it is, and I just about !@#$.

"Holy !@#$," I say: "That's Zalea Zathros."

"It isn't..." Mr. USA says.

"It is. Trust me."

"Are you sure?" the President asks.

"Well, I've shot at her enough times. !@#$, I have shot her enough times. That's her."

"No way," Mr. USA says.

"Yes," the giant face says in a loud, deep voice, the stone moving like flesh: "I am."

"Oh, that's not good," the President says.

"That's..." I start to say it's impossible, but I really should !@#$ing know better: "Let me guess. The Compuconqueror came here, too?"

"He did, yes," the stone head says: "And we welcomed him with open arms for the kind gift he brought us from the future."

"Is that what he told you it was?" I ask: "Wait til he comes back, honey."

"Oh, that is no longer a concern," she says, smirking, and I know exactly what she means by that. Kindness is weakness, here on Alter-Earth.




"So the whole city's alive, and they gave it to you to play with. Great."

"Play?" she smirks: "No. Shepherd. Protect. Occasionally discipline. But I reserve my play for... other things."

"Like what?"

She gives me that nasty smirk, again, and suddenly my head's being used as a TV Set. I see the face of a young man in extreme distress, and from the way he's babbling and moaning, I know it's my "friend" Juan, the Alternaut who's been over here since HONEYCOMB ported him through the dimensional barrier.

The view pulls back, and now I can see his head and shoulders. Further back, and I can see that all he has is head and shoulders. That and a bunch of tubes and pipes leading from it to his organs, which are secured and floating under the surface in a large tank of what I hope is nutrients.

Further back still and I see the nutrient bath is a weird shade of yellowy brown, and there are things floating in it. Brown things.

And then, once we're pulled back far enough that now that I can see the whole tank, I see that people are hanging their bare !@#$es over the side of the tank and !@#$ing into it.

A turd drops onto his head, and he tries to scream through de-diaphragmed lungs that just barely keep him oxygenated. The TV show picks that moment to go off, and I feel very, very sad that I couldn't have kept my promise to myself to just !@#$ing shoot him.

"You look a little pale, (REDACTED)" Mr. USA observes.

"Yeah, let's not !@#$ing get into that, right now," I say, looking up at the white face: "You feeling !@#$ing proud of yourself, you nasty !@#$?"

"Traitors and spies deserve no less," she answers: "You should approve. I am certain you have done worse things to the ones you catch?"

"Not like that I don't. Is that what he does, then?"

"You mean your reflection, here?" she says: "I could spend all day telling you the things that he does, but I think this has gone on long enough. You have intruded within my city. Within me. You have harmed its people and broken its laws. These transgressions will be severely punished."

At that moment, the wall shudders, and a number of nude, white marble statues of Zalea Zathros walk right out of it as though stepping out of water. They step forward and stop in eerie unison, staring at us with that haughty smirk of hers.

Mr. USA just smiles: "It's been a while since I got to let loose on walking statues, lady. I'm not impressed."

As if to answer him, the statues open, just slightly, revealing that they're not hollow, inside. Each one contains a nude, teenage girl, wide-eyed and in pain.

Zalea closes the statues back up again before they have time to scream, and suddenly Mr. USA isn't smiling, anymore.

"Can you shoot your way through an entire city?" the face and the statues all ask, as one: "Can you smash through innocents? There are many, many more where these ones came from. You will have to kill them all to get through me."

"That won't stop me, lady," he says, putting up his fists: "You all made a bad mistake, taking our President. Where I come from, that's an act of war. And if we're at war, then I'll kill every teenager on your planet to win."

The President's jaw just drops to hear him say that. I maintain a poker face, knowing it's bull!@#$, and hoping that's just him stalling her in the hopes that I've got something up my sleeve.

And yes, son, I do. We just have to give it time, apparently.

"You know, I like to say that I know everything," I say, holding up my gun in what could be misconstrued as a peaceful gesture: "But I have to say, I'm a little confused about something."

"Given your mental state, that is not surprising," Zalea says through her legion of press-ganged girls: "I'm detecting at least twenty chemical substances in your bloodstream."

"What can I say? Live hard, ride long, leave a pickled corpse. But let's just clear the air, here?"

"That depends on what you wish to know."

"How about 'Why?'" I ask: "What's the endgame, here? The me from here goes over there, to us, hamstrings my friend, here, and pretends to kill our President? Then brings him back here, running the risk that I'll follow?"

"Those are statements posed as questions. What is your question?"

"Well, it's just that it seems a really complicated scheme just to mess with me. There's dozens of other ways he could have put me out of the way. Why this one?"

The mouth opens, and for a moment I'm about to get my answer, or maybe an insult or two. But then there's a flash of light, and Simon Pure is standing right next to me, his silver suit gleaming with eerie light reflected from another world.

"Thank !@#$ing God you came-" I start to say, but then he scowls and hits me, right in the kisser. As he does, my entire life sails in front of my eyes, and I find myself literally reliving every sad and disappointing moment, stacked atop one another like a poorly-curated exhibit in a museum of personal failure.

As the exhibition unfolds, and I see my many mistakes and shortcomings, I keep coming back to a sad, solemn day, close to the start of the 21st century, when Dr. Yesterday and I, along with a few other strategic talents, saw to the freezing of one Simon Pure. After the fifth time I see him going under, and us locking the cryo-coffin down, I realize what this means.

It means that, while we've been rescuing the President, the nice, happy, but still confused kid I unfroze from his life support has fully come to, and found some things out.

It also means that, rather than being philosophical about it, or understanding that we had no choice, other than killing him in his sleep, he's gotten angry at having lost ten years of his life.

And that means that one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the planet is up, awake, and one temper tantrum away from destroying not only me, the President, and my ally, but possibly the entire world, or more.

In some ways, I almost wish I don't wake up. But when I come to, as I know I eventually have to, the scene has shifted.

There is no longer a white wall. There is no longer a city around  us. There is only bare earth, the President, Mr. USA, Simon, and a white, marble statue of Zalea Zathros who's screaming as she turns every which way but back to what she was.

"You wanted to live without limits?" Simon asks, watching as she splashes on the ground like water, and then rises up into a form that doesn't resemble anything so much as a gelatinous, deep sea creature. She continues to scream and shift, spiraling up, down, and out into a dozen other, less recognizable forms in the space of a few seconds.

All the while she's screaming and in agony. I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

"What the !@#$ just happened?" I ask, getting to my feet. I can see the President is white-faced and terrified, and Mr. USA is... well, I think the last time I saw him like that was one of the concentration camps.

"He made the city vanish," the President says: "He waved his hand and it all went away, like... like the tide going out. They had enough to time to scream, but then..."

I look around, and realize he's not talking out of his !@#$. The landscape looks exactly like Neo York City would have looked if you just scooped up all the buildings, filled in the basements and underground structures, and left nothing but the ground. I can still see their version of New Jersey, across the way, so I guess his rage had limits.

This time, anyway.

"You are worthless," Simon hisses, letting her drop to the ground in a rough approximation of her own form. Then the marble goes away and there's just Zalea, there, naked and afraid. She !@#$es herself in pain and fear and goes fetal, her eyes bugged right out of her head, and Simon can't resist kicking her in the !@#$.

"I think that's enough, son," the President says: "We're safe, now."

"Safe," he repeats, mockingly: "You do not want to be talking to me about safe, right now."

"Why not?"

"Ten years," he says, turning around so we can see the anger that's practically running from his eyes like tears: "Ten years. Three months. Ten days. Eleven hours."

"And you look magnificent," I say, smiling and hoping he just kills me quick. But better me than the President, and that's how this is going to end if it escalates.

"I don't know what you mean, son-" the President says, but falls quiet when Simon's suddenly up in his face.

"My name is Simon Pure, sir. I went to sleep in January of 2002. They told me they were going to help me, and I went to sleep believing them. Now I wake up and I find out I was in a metal coffin all those years, locked away like a criminal."

"Not a criminal," Mr. USA jumps in: "Simon, you have to believe me. We did it for your safety."

"I make cities disappear in my sleep. Tell me how my safety was at risk."

He's got nothing, and he knows it. So I say it: "Our safety, Simon. You're a good kid and you mean well, but you couldn't control your powers. We put you under in the hopes that one day we could find a way to make it happen. And, offhand, it looks like it's worked?"

"Yes, it does," he says, looking at his armor: "For now, anyway. This suit gives out in ten hours. That gives me enough time to find a replacement, or find someone who can fix it."

"So there's a plan?" I say: "Great? Why don't we just go back to our world, and then-"

"But maybe you could tell me why you didn't use this before," he says, now up in my face: "This suit was in the museum basement since before I was born. You can't tell me it wasn't on the list of options."

"It was, yes," I admit, seeing no sense in lying to him: "But, like you said, it was a quick fix at best. A day, maybe. And it would have been cruel to give you your life back, only to have it be gone again in less than a day."

"So what were you going to do when the day was up, this time?" Simon presses me: "Put me back to sleep? Put me back in that coffin? Forget about me for another ten years?"

"I was going to move heaven and earth to get you the help you needed," I said: "I have connections I didn't have, back then. I have more options. One of them would work out."

"You hope."

"Hope's all we have, sometimes," the President says: "And-"

"Thank you, Mr. President, I have seen your !@#$ing campaign posters," Simon spits, not bothering to turn around and look at him: "And unless you want to change into something easier to step on, I'd suggest you shut the !@#$ up and let the adults talk for a change."

"Hey!" Mr. USA says, putting himself between Simon and the President: "You will not speak to this man in that fashion, young man. This is the President of the United States. You will show him the respect he is due."

"He's just a man," Simon says: "I am..."

"You are a citizen of the United States of America. You are a young man who is expected to behave in a responsible and respectful manner. And you will respect this man and what he stands for."

Simon turns to look at Mr. USA, who's putting as much steel in his eyes as he can. If I didn't know any better, I'd never know he was !@#$ing terrified, right now.

Not for his life, of course. For the President's. For the world's.

Simon just shakes his head, and then waves a hand. Mr. USA has enough time to try and say something, and then he's gone.

Vanished, like he was never there. Even his footsteps in the bare earth are missing.

The President gasps, and I step forward to protect him, gun raised. Of course, the gun vanishes, too, a second later. Then the rest of my guns as well.

"Appeal to my humanity," he mocks me: "Tell me I have an obligation. Tell me to be grateful."

"How about I beg?" I ask, putting my hands up.

"Don't debase yourself-"

"It's what you want, isn't it?" I ask, getting down on one knee: "You want me to humble myself? To say that I'm sorry for abandoning you? I will."

"Too little, too late."

"And I'll go a step further," I say, just as he's about to wave me out of existence, or worse: "I'll tell you the truth, Simon. You were right. We could have gotten that armor out of storage anytime. We could have woken you up and told you what was going on, and tried to fix things with you being awake.

"But we were scared, Simon. We were terrified. And you know why, right?"

He blinks, and takes a step back, putting his hand down.

"It was January, 2002," I tell him: "There was a fight in Steubenville, Illinois. We weren't there too long. You did the things you can do, and the Hyperboys were locked up in no time. I know you remember that."

"I remember," he admits, and knows what's coming next.

"And then someone in town said something rude to you," I remind him: "He laughed at you because you weren't wearing a costume. He asked if you were the mascot. And I know you laughed it off at the time, but you were hurt. I know you were hurt."

"I was," he says, tearing up a little.

"And that night, while you were asleep, Steubenville disappeared," I tell him, watching his face fall: "The whole !@#$ing town, gone. 5000 people, gone. And not only was it gone, but other than the people who'd been with us that day, no one remembered it had ever been there."

He sits down on his haunches, white-faced and crying.

"That was in your sleep. And I know you didn't mean to do it. You're a good kid, Simon. You mean well. But you did it in your sleep. Unconsciously. And we were scared. We were scared you'd do it again. Or worse."

"I didn't mean to..." he whimpers.

"I know," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder: "And I know you wouldn't mean to do anything else, either. But what if you got angry at someone, and made them vanish? What if you got angry at a country, or a planet? What if someone broke your heart, or was mean to you? Could you really be sure you wouldn't fall asleep and make them disappear, too?"

He shakes his head, but he knows I'm right.

"So we were scared, Simon. And every time we thought about getting you out of there, we had to ask if we were sure that, when we did, we could be sure that whatever we were going to do would work. And even Dr. Yesterday... okay, even his wife couldn't figure out a way to be sure."

"His wife," Simon says, his face suddenly going from sad to angry again: "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

He just smiles, and I don't like the look of the smile: "'SPYGOD knows all.'"

"Well, don't believe the hype," I try to joke: "But look, let's get back to our world. I'm going to try and get in touch with Shift, okay? If there's anyone who could help you-"

He backs up, shakes his head, and screams. I try to calm him down but he won't stop screaming.

The world goes white and black, and we-

(Sephiroth - The Clock of Distant Realms. Oblivion)

2765 - pt. 3

So, when we last checked in with Mr. USA and yours truly, we went to the sickening abomination that is Alter Earth, trudged through a sea of blood, come, and !@#$ to the bottom level of The Prosperpinium, found the real President of the United States of America, and blew the happy unholy !@#$ out of the people who'd been mentally and spiritually torturing him for the better part of a month.

I did my best not to shoot anyone who was just here to beg favors from the ultra-white folks, down here, but the fact that I winged a few is not really weighing on my !@#$ing conscience, right now. Conversely, I don't know that Mr. USA held back at all, given how much red he's got all over his face and hands. But thankfully, I think most of the slaves were smart enough to run when their masters were splattered by his fists and feet.

(The clothing here repels liquids better than oil does water, and thank goodness for that.)

I let Mr. USA handle the gentle work, now, while I try to listen into comms chatter and find out what the appropriate response from the city's authorities will be. I can hear the IV and life support being torn off the President, and the moment the gag's off I half expect him to collapse into hysterics and beg us to get him out of here. But, to my surprise, he doesn't.

"Please tell me this is real," he says, getting up on shaky legs, leaning on Mr. USA for support: "Please tell me this isn't just another trick."

"It's no trick, sir," Mr. USA reassures him, helping him walk away from the chair: "It's us. It took us... well, it took him a whole month to find you, but-"

"A month?" the President gasps.

"Yes, sir. How long as it been here?"

"I... I lost..." he shakes his head and can't go on, weeping openly. I figure he meant to say he lost all track of time. And I figure the tears are for his wife and children.

So we let him cry, because it'll be a while before the enemy can muster a response to what just happened, here. And after everything we've walked through, and the horrors we've witnessed, it's the most human thing we've seen all !@#$ing day.

Also the most beautiful.

* * *

At some point, he stops crying so much and talks. 

He remembers how he got here, to Alter Earth, even if he didn't know where he was for a few days. On the day he was going to accept my resignation, a visitor came into the Oval Office and approached the desk, and then something happened. He said he felt weird, as though every piece of his being was being turned inside out and sent somewhere else.

Next thing he knew he was somewhere else, tied up and naked and gagged and blindfolded. Then he was beaten up in a dark room, "abused," (that's all he wants to say) dressed in those clothes, and marched through The Proserpinium in an evil and debased ceremony, with all tableaux and exhibitions going full !@#$ing tilt. 

They put him in the chair, and the people who ran this part of the show explained what had happened, up to a point. They told him he had been taken from The Otherworld (their term for us), and that no one would come looking for him here because everyone there thought he was dead. They told him that he would never leave this place, and would not be harmed, but he would not be allowed to die, either.

But he should not feel as though he were a mere captive! Oh, no. In this fashion, he was as Proserpine, Herself: raped from the world above, and taken down here, to the seat of Plutonian glory, to be treated as a queen.

As a sacred and royal captive, he would spend the rest of his days here, in this place. He would have the esteemed privilege of watching all the glory of the Mysteries unfold before his eyes. And if he came to love these things, in his heart, and truly embrace what was offered, then they would let him out, and he could spend his remaining days as one of the elite.

Was this not the most supreme of honors? Was this not a boon beyond compare? Was this not the gift of a lifetime?

Were they not !@#$ing merciful? 

Needless to say, the President, being the bleeding-heart, overly-compassionate, and generally well-meaning person I've come to know and loathe (and occasionally respect) did not see this as a privilege, an honor, a boon, or a gift. He saw this as torture, and a living !@#$ing death, and refused to cooperate. And he did his best to try and rise above what was happening, or at least imagine he was somewhere else.

Unfortunately for him, they anticipated this. They let him get so far, and then hooked up a machine that jolted the back of his knees at random intervals, just to keep him from nodding off into memories or dreams. He got six hours of sleep a night, when the place was closed, but the rest of the time his eyes had to be open and facing forward, so as to enjoy his special little gift.

The sadistic !@#$ers wouldn't even let him go insane in peace.

He gets done with his story just as I get word that they've sent in the Marines, as it were. Somewhere between 100 and 200 fully armored Police are on their way into the building, now, shock batons at the ready. They chant as they march, and while my Latin's a little rusty I'm pretty sure it's praise for Hades and Proserpine, and a promise of doom for us.

I wonder why they're not sending armed folks. Maybe they really think they can just weigh us down with their bodies until we run out of bullets or steam. Maybe they just have that much of a mad-on against guns in this town. 

Me, I'm not looking this gift horse in the !@#$ing mouth before I blow Mr. Ed's brains out. No guns in their hands mean easier going for us. And right now, that's all I !@#$ing care about.

"We need to end this," the President says, rising up steady on his feet.

"I agree, sir," Mr. USA says: "We are getting you home. I swear to you that before this day is over, you will be with your wife and children, again."

"No. Not me. This whole... obscene thing. This place. It needs to end."

"We'll be happy to trash it on the way up," I say, reloading my guns and noticing that some of the Whiter people we thought we'd killed were stirring and groaning.

"This world," he insists: "We are not leaving these people to this... mockery. We are toppling this government. We are not leaving until we have liberated this world."

"There's no point, Mr. President," I say, looking back: "This whole !@#$ing world's hardwired to be bad. You'd have an easier time winning every !@#$ heart and mind in Afghanistan-"

"I don't have time for your usual, sour nonsense, mister," the President lets me know: "You say you can topple governments for breakfast in the name of freedom? Then free. These. People."

"Sir, I think-" Mr. USA tries to say, but I cut him off.

"Look, Mr. President," I sigh: "I know you read the !@#$ing files on Alter Earth. I was there when you did. And I know you were !@#$ scared of the notion that there was an evil reflection of us, just hanging there, one dimensional jump away. And I am really !@#$ing sorry that you had to see it up close and personal, like this. But you might as well ask me to change the laws of !@#$ing physics. These people were wired up wrong from the !@#$ing get-go-"

"Don't you !@#$ing say no to me!" he shrieks, getting up in my face so fast you'd think he was a speeder in disguise: "You didn't see this! You can't know! You have no !@#$ing idea what I've been shown!"

"Oh, I have some idea, Mr. President. I just walked through hell to rescue your ungrateful little !@#$, didn't I? 

"Well I wouldn't have needed rescuing if they hadn't pretended to kill me to get your crazy, gunhappy !@#$ out of the way, now would I?"

"No," I say: "They'd have just killed you. For real. Maybe your wife and kids, too."

"I do not want excuses, (REDACTED)," he yells: "I want you to obey my orders for once. He's the most powerful superhero we've got, and you know how to break things. We smash this rogue nation-"

"Rogue world," I correct him, gently as I can, becoming all too aware that they can hear the marching, chanting cops, now, too: "Rogue populations. Rogue moral codes. Rogue Gods. Rogue destinies. We have no business trying to fix things here, Mr. President, because we can't, any more than they can fix us. 

"Every time they've tried to conquer us, they've failed. It's not because they don't have the firepower, or the might. It's because nothing they do !@#$ing  works. They can kill people and cause panic, but when it comes to putting a government together, or making us obey, it all falls flat on their face. 

"Our world rejects them, just like your body does to a splinter. That's why there's usually a time limit as to how long we could be over here, and them over there. The universe is trying to tell us something. Maybe we should listen?"

"That's just an excuse," he says, but I can see the wind's gone out of his sails. That and maybe, with the enemy's voices getting louder and faster, he's feeling the time for argument slipping the !@#$ away.

"Sir, please," Mr. USA says, putting a hand on his shoulder: "I know you mean well, I know you feel for these people, and I can't blame you for being a little hesitant to believe (REDACTED), after everything that's happened."

"Thanks, (REDACTED)," I tell him.

"But, sir, he's right. There is nothing we can do, here. We're in Hell, right now, and these people are condemned. There's no saving them. The best thing we can do is leave."

The President looks at me, then back at him, and sighs, nodding. 

Just then one of the half-dead, whiter folks raises up a little bit and, gurgling blood, lets the President know exactly how disappointed she was in him. How dare he turn his back on this most glorious of opportunities? Did he not understand how lucky he was to be seeing these things, down here, day in and day out?

"We should have killed you when you arrived, you fucking worm," the lady says: "May Hades grind your shade to paste, the better to soothe his sore feet on the worthless jelly of your soul."

Something in the President's eyes changes, just then. He goes from being angry at me for denying him a greater, seemingly more noble kind of revenge to being angry at the people who did this to him in the first place. Being that this is an excellent development, I hand the President the only gun I carry that won't break his wrist if he fires it. 

And I feel very !@#$ good to see him take it, walk over to that lady, and fire it at her face until there's no bullets in the gun, and no face on her skull. 

He stands there, looking down at her for a while. I let him. And then, when we really can't wait any longer, and I don't need super senses to know that the cops have run down to the 5th level, I walk back over, gently take the gun from his hands, and tell him what the plan is.

Not that it's a really great plan, or anything. It involves him staying right behind me, and us standing behind Mr. USA. Quite some distance behind Mr. USA, in fact, so he can take them out for us. 

Unsurprisingly, he's okay with this. So I put my off arm around his shoulder, pull out a gun that I keep for just such one-handed occasions, and give Mr. USA my special, little smile.

"Still want to kill the whole !@#$ing town?" I ask, just as a sea of white-armored cops turns the corner of the 6th and last level, thundering down at us as fast as their burdened legs will take them, and screaming at the top of their lungs.

"And how," he says, and, rolling up his sleeves, walks towards them very !@#$ing quickly.

The rest is white and red.

* * *

One thing that a lot of people don't know is that, while everyone swears they watched lots of Movietone news footage of Mr. USA (known as Captain Courage, back then, they actually didn't. 

Sure, the newsreels said it was him. And there were a lot of shots of him with the troops, before and after the battle. They really liked the ones where he was showing mercy to captured Germans, and accepting surrenders on behalf of the Generals.

But the bits where you actually saw him in action? Leaping into firefights and running between explosions, and picking things up and throwing them? Stopping tanks with a punch and laughing off bullets and shells?

Sorry to disappoint you all, but that was not him. That was an actor in a costume. Those battle scenes were staged well behind the lines, and the German tanks were captured. And the captured Germans were either Allied soldiers dressed up (usually the French, just to !@#$ them off), or out of work actors who'd followed the movietones to do work on propaganda just like this.

The reason is that, in an occasional moment of clarity, the Allied Command realized that it would be a very !@#$ing bad thing if the folks back home saw Captain Courage, Lieutenant Lightning, or any of the other Strategic Talents actually fighting. It would be hard to capture on film, for one, and really dangerous to be around.

And for another, it would be !@#$ing disgusting.

Why? Well, son, let's put it this way. You've heard me talk about how strategic talents liked to take tanks, artillery, and other battlefield objects and toss them around, but do you know what that really means?

Let's take a Panzer IV. They weigh about 25 tons? A ton is 2000 pounds. 

And how much do you weigh? Maybe 200 pounds? And maybe your friends are around that weight, too?

Okay. So imagine maybe ten of your fat!@#$, World of Warcraft-addicted computer friends, sitting in chairs pretending to be researching but really looking at internet porn. That's one ton.

Now multiply that by 25. That means 250 WOW junkies, all sitting around wondering if Leroy !@#$ing Jenkins is going to show up and !@#$-!@#$ their dungeon crawl.

Now imagine a person coming along, and picking all 250 of your friends up, over his head, and throwing them about a quarter of a mile. Hard.

Have you ever seen what a 50. caliber bullet does to a man's head, or body? Imagine something with a !@#$ton more destructive force going through an enemy soldier. 

Imagine slapping someone out of the way and seeing the center of their body just collapse into mush.

Imagine missing when punching at someone's head, but still causing a nasty, skull-rattling concussion, just like a near miss of a large bullet. 

Imagine being able to shrug off all conventional small arms fire, and only being knocked down, or just back, by artillery shells. 

Imagine only having to be worried about other Strategic Talents, which, as the war rages on, get fewer and fewer, and aren't replaced as fast as they once could have been. Which means that, after a while, you really don't feel the need to be all that !@#$ing careful.

And imagine that, when you aren't careful, losing all control on the battlefield becomes extremely !@#$ing easy. 

That, son, is why you never saw film of Mr. USA fighting. Not only did he not play nice, or fair, he didn't leave any Germans alive to surrender to him. Not because he's an evil mother!@#$er, or thinks the Geneva Convention was made for him to wipe his !@#$ty !@#$ on. But because in the heat of the fight, without any U-Men to slow him down, he would kill anywhere from 100 to 500 of the enemy in less than a minute, without even realizing he'd done it.

After a battle, I got drunk to celebrate, or honor the dead. He got drunk to stop seeing the faces of the dead, staring up at him, as though the vision of his world-destroying, near-godhood had been the most mind-blowing thing they'd seen in this life.

That and, just maybe, the last thought to run through their heads was how sorry they were to have not prayed to him for mercy, or deliverance. 

That's what we just sent up ahead of us. Right now, we're carefully walking through what little he's left behind. Every so often I shoot someone who looks like they're on the wrong side of dead or dying, and I recognize that they've got the same look as those German soldiers, back during the War.

The President doesn't know why I'm laughing. It's just nostalgia, really.

I hope so, anyway. 

* * *

The trip up seems a lot slower than the trip down was, oddly enough. Maybe it's because I spent so much of the way down in a daze, trying to convince myself to keep living through it. And maybe because I really want to get the !@#$ out of here.

The President makes most the journey with his eyes squinted or shut. I don't blame him. It's bad enough he can hear what we're walking through, but seeing the occasional remnant of what was left behind in the various alcoves and tableaux on the way down is nothing short of nauseating.

"Should have !@#$ing brought a flamethrower," I mutter after passing the area where the young boy's !@#$-stuffed mouth was being used as a jerk-off sleeve. The only salvation is that the couple that didn't want to be rude or anything was lying there, trampled to death in each other's !@#$-stained arms.

(And, yes, I shot them both in the noggin, on principle.)

By the time we did get all the way up to the top floor, I was smiling. Not long now, I thought. We'd call for Simon, he'd come get us, and then we'd be home, quicker than goose out of a !@#$'s butt.

But then I see Mr. USA, standing just inside the portico, by a statue of Hades mouth-banging Proserpine. He looks back at me, and sighs.

And then I look past him, and realize that we are, indeed, quite !@#$ed.

(Sephiroth - Uthul Khulture. And no, still no drinks)