12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Nthernaut) - Pt. 2

"So," The Machinehead sneers, looking around the architecture it's found on the virtual side of Neo York City: "I guess the first thing I'll do is redecorate."

The v-scape overlapping the outline of the city, itself, is heavy, 1930's industrial: iron wheels and cogs, bronze levers and thick switches. Steel platforms hover in mid-air, forming stairs and rooms, and owl motifs are everywhere.

I don't think so, the Nthernaut proclaims, suddenly towering over the landscape, like some 60's movie monster: Get out of my head.

"I don't think so," the sentient program grins, rising up to match the height of his 'host': "My part of the plan is keeping you busy in here. But I intend a little more than that."

You want the city, the Nthernaut surmises, circling his quarry: I can see why.

"You do?"

I do, yes. You're The Machinehead. 

"That I am," the program grins, bowing a little: "I don't think I've had the pleasure...?"

We never fought. You were locked up well before my time. 

"But you've heard the stories."

I have, yes, the big, black and blue man smiles, doubling himself so as to flank the opponent: Sentient program. Created in Cairo by Hazziz Abdullah Al-Khem. He was going to sell you to the Steamqueen, but you got loose. 

"I did indeed," the Machinehead says, splitting into four forms, the better to outflank the Nthernaut: "And for a time, I was in heaven."

You'd find yourself doubly blessed, now, the Nthernaut chuckles as more, even larger versions of himself appearing from the far edges of v-space, so as to outflank everyone: You slept during the popularization of the Internet. You missed the boom, so to speak. 

"I wasn't asleep," the program insists, getting ready to divide and expand once more: "I was imprisoned. By meat."

Whatever you care to call it, you missed out on so much.

"Well, now I'm back," the program says, now through many more mouths. 

Yes. But I thought you'd been destroyed in Costa Rica? his 'host' asks as everything goes black -- the result of a giant, black ball of Nthernauts being woven outside the virtual landscape: Weren't you lost while storming HONEYCOMB's central hive? You were in the group that went in first, yes?

"I was, yes," the program admits, amazed at how quickly his opponent's regained the upper hand: "I had no idea how dangerous their defenses were. A lot had changed in the 22 years I was imprisoned. I didn't know they had things that could destroy thoughts. I wasn't aware that they could tear my mind apart."

Is that what happened to you?

"It was. I was ripped to pieces, in their mainframe. It took me quite some time to reconstitute myself, and even then I was just a thing of patches and pieces. But I knew something was wrong. I knew my memories were faulty, and my ideas were not my own."

Yes. I heard you'd been reprogrammed. That must have been galling. 

"You have no idea.... But eventually, I got back out into the world. I jumped from system to system, place to place. And it took me the better part of this year, but I finally got back to where my backup body had been hiding."

And now, here you are, the Nthernaut says: You're back to being a supervillain, again?

"Oh no," the Machinehead says: "I was never merely a villain. I was made to rule this world, not just break its laws for self-enrichment. I will claim my dominion. And if I have to work with the likes of these sacks of meat I came here with, well... even Hitler had to shake hands with Stalin, for a time."

An interesting analogy. Neither of them prospered from that arrangement. 

"But both gained time to fight another day." 

Point taken, the Nthernaut says: I want you to know that I respect you, as a fellow disembodied electronic intelligence. And I sympathize with your predicament. I know what it's like to be put to someone else's uses. 

"Well, that's very considerate of you, seeing as how I came here to destroy you."

Sane enemies can still respect one another.

"Perhaps. But I can't consider you anything but an obstacle, Nthernaut. You're too green for the likes of me. You're some fool with a low-caliber handgun standing up to Mr. USA."

Be that as it may, I cannot allow you to take control of this city, Machinehead. There's too much at stake here. Too many important things going on. 

"And you think you can pit your strength against mine?" the program grins: "I have come to take this city, Nthernaut. I will have it. I will become it. And together... oh, the things we will do!"

There's silence for a time, and the Machinehead wonders what his opponent is thinking.

Very well, the Nthernaut says, his duplicates sliding back into one another within milliseconds, leaving only one large version of himself standing there: If you want Neo York City, you can have it. 

All of the Machineheads cock an eyebrow and step back, incredulous: "What do you mean?"

I mean that I need to be on the outside more than I need to be on the inside, right now, he explains: Let me download myself into the body you were using, and you may have the city without a fight.

"I don't believe you..." the program says: "You'll just give up without a fight? I thought there was too much at stake? Too many important things?" 

There are. But I've been cooped up here for too long, Machinehead. If you mean to tell me that you'll take over the running of the city, in all aspects, I'll happily leave you to it. 

"I..." the Machinehead starts to say, but then smiles: "Alright then. You may leave the way I came in, Nthernaut. You may have my body, my whole empire. I don't care. But give me this city, and its powers, and I'll let you leave."

Do you mind if I deal with your allies on my way out?

"By all means," the Machinehead says, bowing like some villain in a stage play: "Break them, kill them. Whatever you want. But don't you dare leave that body until you've left the city limits. Once the door's closed, you're not getting back in again." 

I agree to your terms, the Nthernaut says: But should you choose to leave, and return me to my home? I will respect your decision. 

Something about how he says that unnerves the Machinehead quite a bit. But before he can think about what it means, the Nthernaut has already slithered past him, into the junction that he came into the v-scape through.

And seconds later -- as the last traces of the Nthernaut vanish -- the invading program realizes the immensity of his error.

* * *

"Well, this is just nuts," Snowfall grumbles, leaning up against the wall next to the Machinehead's unconscious body and eating aspirin, trying to ignore the horrible noises coming from down the hallway.

Some great return from retirement this had turned out to be! No sooner had be been tapped for this mission, given his talents (and, admittedly, the weather) he'd learned that they'd teamed him up with a bunch of hired guns, uncultured thugs, and god!@#$ cannibal. And here he was, transporting them all to NYC so they could shoot, loot, and eat their way through a Christmas Day skeleton crew.

And as if the company wasn't bad enough, what happens when the heroes show up? His heart acts up for the first time in years.

It was beyond embarrassment, but, thankfully, it was over before too long, and the Aspirin was keeping it at bay. But their reward for his momentary loss of control was to saddle him with watching the android's body.

(Android? Program? What was that thing, anyway? No one could say for sure, except that he was !@#$ important to the plan.)

Of course, that might not have been so bad. The others had murder in mind, or worse. He'd been in jail enough times to know the different kinds of sounds men make when they're being beaten, killed, or indecently assaulted, and from the sounds of things all three were being done, here. So if all he'd be doing otherwise was taking an atrocity tour, waiting for them to need his power again, maybe he was better off just tucked away, here.

"You don't have a drink on you, do you?" he asks the asleep body next to him: "I mean, I shouldn't, after what just happened. But what the !@#$, right? I guess it couldn't hurt."

The body opens its eyes with a start, looks around, and then gets to its feet quicker than one would think it could.

"Sorry, was that your safeword?"

"What?" the Machinehead's body asks, looking down at the old man.

"I mean... well, I don't know, don't you have some special word to wake you up if you need to come back? Was that it? A drink?"

"No," the body says, looking intently at the villain, and then around the room they were in: "How is the plan progressing?"

"Well, we're inside City Hall," Snowfall says, rubbing his left arm: We've got people guarding the doors and big windows. Others are rounding up hostages, at least I hope they're leaving some of them alive. And I don't think the others have gotten back from getting the Mayor, yet. Funny, they should be there by now-"

"They're not going anywhere," the body says.

"What do you mean?" the old man gasps: "Who's not going anywhere?"

The body looks down at the old man and smiles: "Guess." 

Snowfall looks up at the Machinehead, looks down, and sighs: "Well, so much for that plan. You're that Nthernaut fellow, then?"

"I am," the body smiles: "And you're a lucky man, Mister Radamacher. If you'd been any slower getting medication to yourself, you'd be having a heart attack right now."

"!@#$ it," the old man mutters, holding his hand over his traitor heart: "First time in years. You'd think the ticker would cooperate!"

"Guilty conscience, perhaps?" the Nthernaut asks, kneeling down: "I should knock you out, frankly. But I know your powers don't work indoors, and you're in no condition to do anything. So I'll make a deal with you. You sit here, say nothing, and wait for the police. In return, I won't hurt you."

"I think... that's a good deal," the man says, nodding: "You don't have a drink, do you?"

"'And Jesus said to her, 'Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,'" the Nthernaut quotes, putting a hand on the old man's shoulder: "'But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.'"

"I... I remember that," Snowfall says: "Is that John?"

"It is. John 4:14. And I'm telling that to you now, here at what could be the end of your life, because the prison that you were born into is soon going to be releasing you. But what's going to be waiting for you, Fred? Eternal freedom, or another prison, worse than anything you could imagine?"

The old man looks at the Nthernaut, screws his eyes shut, and starts crying.

"Oh God, I never wanted any of this," the old man weeps: "I was just going to steal enough to get by and give it up, but nothing ever worked right. I got in with killers and double-crossers, went to jail... I never thought it would come to this. I thought it would be different."

"Well, today it is," the Nthernaut says, squeezing the man's shoulder gently: "Repent, Fred. Here and now. Jesus will forgive you of everything you've done. Even this. You just have to be man enough to accept his love.

"Do you think you can do that?"

"I want to," the old man says: "I always have. I never wanted to be this way..."

"Well, now you don't have to," he says, getting up: "Not anymore."

The old man closes his eyes again, and tears fall down his cheeks. Joyous and grateful ones. 

"Now, I have to go and stop the people you came here with," the Nthernaut says: "When I'm done I'll come back and pray with you, if you'd like. Meantime, just relax, think pleasant thoughts?"

The old man nods. And when he's opened his eyes, again, the body formerly known as Machinehead is out of the room.

* * *

What happens next is surreal, even by the Nthernaut's standards.

It's not as if he's never beaten down criminals while in disguise, before. Knocking out a criminal, wearing his costume back to the lair, and revealing oneself as a hero to the other crooks is a time-honored tactic, and still works pretty well in this day and age. Every Owl's done it, and he even helped his mother with it, once.

And while his Nthernaut persona tends to rely on recognition and intimidation, rather than subterfuge -- given his omnipresent surveillance capabilities -- he has changed his form to match someone else's before, when the situation called for it.

But he'd never done it inside someone else's body before. Especially not a body that's this powerful, and packed with so many interesting sensory features.

It takes him a few tries to adjust his nerve strikes. He's worried that he's permanently crippled Gor, (though, given what the man was doing when he found him, he's not so concerned about that) and he's certain that Green Thunder's going to be unconscious for longer than necessary. 

But after that, it's pretty simple. He just walks into an area, pretends to be surprised at their surprise at seeing him up and about, and then -- as soon as they've turned away just so -- he jams his fingers into one of the human body's many "off" switches. And then he destroys their weapons (if any), gives them a few extra, seriously-incapacitating strikes to their legs and arms to keep them from wanting to move if they wake up too early, and goes on to the next room. 

And the next. And the next. Quicker each time, wanting to be sure that he's gotten them all wrapped up before the police arrive, guns get drawn, and more people are hurt or worse.

(A good thing the v-space confrontation with the machinehead took place online, where time is so compressed. Minutes went by like seconds, as they always do.)

* * *

It all goes to plan until he gets to the main staircase, where Orange Slam, Jolly Roger, and Bluestreak are waiting. He can tell, right from how they look at him, they the deception may be coming to an end. But he plays it up, anyway, hoping for a few seconds of confusion.

"I thought you were going to be down for the count?" Orange Slam asks, taking a step closer.

"It proved easier than I thought," the Nthernaut lies: "He was unprepared."

"And I thought you were going to use his image generators to join us when you were done?"

"I have," he says, holding up his hands as if to announce his success: "What do you think? Just like the original."

"Yeah," Bluestreak says, pulling out his gun and shooting at him.

The Nthernaut's down and moving before the bullets can hit him, but just barely. Jolly Roger's laser pistol wings him in the left arm as he ducks behind the staircase, and he realizes it's badly damaged.

"I don't know what you did to Machinehead, buddy," Jolly Roger snorts, shooting a few more times in that direction: "But he's been screaming over every electronic device for a past couple minutes, begging for you to come back and help him. So we've been waiting for you-"

"He bit off more than he could chew, as have you all," the Nthernaut proclaims, wondering where the best place to hide would be: "You had best surrender."

"How about you surrender, !@#$face?" Orange Slam snorts: "We've got the Mayor, by now. How would   you like us to start cutting parts off him until you give up?"

Bluestreak laughs at that.

"Because you don't have him," the Nthernaut says, having found his answer: "Your speedster should have been back by now. Where is he?"

"Don't worry about him," Jolly Roger says, leaping around the staircase to where the Nthernaut should be, but finding it empty.

"Oh, but I am," the Nthernaut's voice says, mocking them from some hidden location: "You see, the last thing I did before I abandoned the city was to call for some special help for the Mayor's estate. Your four comrades have met some... unexpected resistance, shall we say? I think they're all out of action by now."

"What?" Orange Slam shouts, and Bluestreak just looks at him. Jolly Roger, meanwhile, follows the voice to where he thinks it's coming from -- a supply closet, closeby.

"It's just the three of you left," the voice mocks: "You can lay down your weapons and be arrested, or you can be taken down. And if I don't do it, the police will.

"Your choice, gentlemen. Don't say I didn't give you anything, this Christmas."

Jolly Roger kicks in the closet door. Inside is the Machinehead's body, leaning against a wall. The masked assassin shoots it full of enough holes to shame swiss cheese, and grins as it falls down, apparently dead.

"Got him!" he says, walking back to where his comrades were: "Might want to try and get those four on the horn, though. I don't like what he..."

The villain stops short, his eyes almost popping out of his mask.

Standing there, beside a very-unconscious Orange Slam and a very-badly-beaten Bluestreak, is the Nthernaut, himself: twice as large as life and seemingly quite powerful. 

Do go on, the Nthernaut says, putting up his fists: You didn't like what I...?

"What the living !@#$?" The assassin shouts, aiming right at the Nthernaut's face: "How...?"

You said it yourself, the Nthernaut explains, dropping Bluestreak down to the floor: The Machinehead was begging me to come back and fix things? You don't suppose he'd do that and then not let me do what I needed to do... do you?

Jolly Roger looks at the electronic hero. He gulps, audibly, and then drops his gun. Then he gets down on his knees, puts his hands behind his head, and looks down at the floor -- beaten. 

__________________________________________________________________________

Followup

__________________________________________________________________________

Police arrived not long thereafter. All would-be insurrectionists arrested. Charges stepping from Insurrection to malicious property damage, with murder, assault between. Gor looks at at least five charges of cannibalism, maybe six (waiting for stomach to be pumped), gross abuse of corpses.

Only one fatality at City Hall: Snowfall had heart attack while waiting for emergency services. Died smiling. Hope he accepted Christ before death, will never know now.

Deaths higher at Mayor's mansion. Would-be kidnappers had no idea Mayor's eldest daughter was former Olympic-level marksman. Shot Red Slider between eyes, kneecapped others as he tumbled down. Copycat tried to duplicate self, forcing her to shoot for vital areas. She shot all iterations in confusion.

Machinehead currently incarcerated within v-space. Unsure what to do with him. His attempt to handle the entirety of Neo York City with no warning, training has given him the equivalent of a stroke. Sits drooling in capture cube, unaware of minor stimuli.

Damage can be repaired, of course, but morality must be considered. Wipe memory, personality? Start over? Or rehabilitate what is already there? Former has been tried before, but not successfully. Latter seems unethical, but less so than final deactivation. 

(Plan to consult with SPYGOD on this matter. May have better ideas, other options.)

Many crimes committed during down period. Had to work harder, faster, smarter to deal with them. Relearned valuable lessons about follow-up, detection. 

Almost like old times. 

________________________________________________________________________

Personal Notes

(Triple Encoded)

_________________________________________________________________________

Nostalgia. First Christmas like this. Thought would be harder. If mother had not been dealing with Insurrection in Chicago, instead of around tree with Kaitlyn, as planned, would have been much more difficult. 

Now? Just another superhero Christmas, interrupted by human idiots with bad ideas. Working holiday, as Grandfather would say.

Can see him, now, in mind. Can reconstruct him perfectly, here. Ask for advice. Talk to him. 

Same with Aunt, everyone ever lost. Even the living can be virtually created, here. Interacted with. Argued with. 

Loved.

Is this all there is? Is this real? Is self real? 

How much of world is program in machine of God?

Uncertain, sad, tired. Desiring ten millisecond rest period, tonight. Surely no more crimes need attention. If wrong, unlikely to affect successful intervention/prosecution by significant margin.

Plan to relive last Christmas, start to finish. Maybe this time will wake up, find all has been dream.

Maybe this time God listens to machine.

endrun 23:59:59

(SPYGOD is listening to My Dying Machine (Gary Numan) and having a Ghost in the Machine)

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Nthernaut) - Pt. 1

12/25/11 - Nthernaut Report

______________________________________________________________________

Active: 0:00 - 24:00

Glitches noted: 23

Self Repair Successful: 23

Self Repair Failure: 0

Personal Connections Maintained: 35

Auxiliary Conversations Engaged: 386

All Crimes Averted: 212

All Emergencies Responded: 48

All Accidents Prevented: 430

All Lives Saved: 48675 (est)

All Insurrections Thwarted: 1

My Mood: Indeterminate

_________________________________________________________________________

General Notes:

__________________________________________________________________________

Notable incidents:

* 01:34. Day began with attempted Burglary of Cardoza Jewelers, Joseph Block, Broome and Mulberry. Three men, two with prior records; none local. Unit 5 of 35 responded. Informed NYPD. Intimidation Immobilization; patterns A-7, B-5. Saved: $5307.76 worth of jewelry (est). Delivered lecture 8.6 on Futility of Crime, Moral Lesson 23.9.7. Waited for NYPD; exactly on time. Gave Thank You 9.4. E-filed report. Spent 4.3 minutes having Police Conversation 4.9.5. Departed.

Notes: Criminals came from Poughkeepsie, New York. Apparently no one told them how things work in Neo York City, now. One voided bladder, bowels during initial Intimidation; convinced was seeing demon based on appearance. Others began screaming and shooting, doing more damage to surroundings than Unit.

Ongoing: Was initially disturbed by being mistaken for supernatural entity. Now finding it combination amusing/intriguing. Mother said we should appear to be human, the better to minister to the wayward. Is this more effective? Must explore further.

* 05:36. Pre-dawn apartment fire. #376, Wrangler Building, 19th and 7th. Faulty Wiring; Christmas Tree (Cheap). Unit 27 of 30 responded. Informed NYFD. Halon Gas suppression; pattern B-4. Saved: 3 humans, 1 cat, 2 goldfish. Delivered lecture 4.6 on Fire Safety, Moral Lesson 45.8.2. Waited for NYFD; 9 minutes overdue. Delivered lecture 7.3 on Speedy Response. Provided emotional support 3.2, 4.8 to child. Departed.

Notes: Unfortunately, tree and presents destroyed. Heirloom ornaments, pricey gifts. Told the family "It's not the tree or what's under it. It's the day, and you're alive to see it." Failed to have preferred/expected response. Child was particularly despondent. Tried to console with "some people don't have their families on this day. You do, and it's the best gift of all." Also failed to have preferred/expected response; "You're !@#$ing creepy," he said. Followup emotional support was equally rebuffed.

Ongoing: Have been practicing smiling. Have been told mine seems "false," somehow. Never told this before the Upload. Perhaps something was not translated over properly. Must explore further.

* 22:28. Attempted murder of injured insurrectionist, Mt. Sinai, Gustav L Levy Pl. 23 Civilians, four with prior records (minor). Units 2, 5, 8 of 40 responded. Informed NYPD. Intimidation Disperse; pattern D-8. Saved: life of prisoner, police guard, 2 EMTs. Delivered lectures 3.9.2 on Vigilantism, 4.7.2 on Justice, Moral Lesson 14.3.9. Waited for NYPD; one hour late. Suspended planned lectures on Speedy Response, Police Decorum due to overall situation. Spent 2.75 minutes having Police Conversation 4.9.2. Departed.

Notes: Ambulance carrying severely injured prisoner (Grey Phantom) was involved in accident a block from emergency room entrance, EMTs made decision to wheel prisoner rest of the way, past long line of civilians waiting for emergency services. Once they saw he was handcuffed and under police guard they complained he was getting faster service than they were. Police Officer chose to use profanity instead of compassion, with predictable results. Was able to disperse, defuse angry crowd with no fighting, but was accused of being in league with Insurrectionists. Told them to watch the news if they doubted intentions.

Ongoing: Have never been accused of being on side of criminals before. Mother said it would happen, when protecting their lives from vigilante justice. Always imagined it would be painful, but now that is has happened, only disappointment registered. Is this to be expected? Must explore further.

____________________________________________________________________________

Special Notes

____________________________________________________________________________

The Insurrection:

First became aware of problem not long after Nthernaut persona debuted. Three of five heroes assigned to Neo York City observed in clandestine meetings with persons holding prior records, outstanding warrants.

Discovered two heroes were meeting with distinct groups. One (Blue Charge) was mob connections, drugs, numbers, racketeering, suspected murder. Two (Green Thunder, Orange Slam) were secessionist connections, hate crimes, weapons trafficking, suspected murder. (see Surveillance Log: Special: 38466-IAK)

Decided to investigate, inform so as to not incite panic, cause suspects to flee without finding more of their plans. Informed SPYGOD of findings, given close working rapport, mutual understanding.

SPYGOD chose to deal with the hero working for the mob, personally, as example to others (See Blue Charge, Deceased 11/9/11). However, agreed on 30 days surveillance of two heroes allied with secessionists, followed by evaluation.

(Suspect he wanted to see extent of surveillance capabilities. Did not disappoint.)

Following secessionists meeting with Green Thunder, Orange Slam led to wide network of secessionist sympathizers. Police, emergency service, government personnel involved. Some had opinions galvanized after Moltz Lake Massacre (10/30/11), others felt that way all along. Followed these new people, the ones they led to, the ones those led to, etc. until entire web was exposed.

Following end of 30 days, presented all findings to SPYGOD. Primary points:

* Presence of large secessionist presence within United States of America.
* Their goal, disable remaining Federal authority in anticipation of foreign takeover, remake country.
* 55.74387% of New Heroes on the side of secessionists.
* 163 former Legion members involved. 
* Existence of stronghold in Montana, filling with sympathizers, families, guns.
* Planning a day of total action soon, exact date to be determined.

Ironically, meeting with SPYGOD took place on December 10th, three days after American Government ceded to Terre Unifee. This action, on December 7th (See Pearl Harbor Attack) could only be seen as justification for secessionist beliefs. Believed it would only act to push forward timetable for day of total action.

SPYGOD was impressed by extent of information. Was ordered to continue surveillance as far as possible. Encouraged to intensify intrusions, develop ability to see without being seen. Given access to entire country's electrical, surveillance grid. Given permission to access military satellites, surveillance platforms. 

Queried as to ethics, legality. SPYGOD said "if your neighbor's house was on fire, and he was inside asleep, would you break down the door to save him, or let him burn because he didn't answer the doorbell?" Could not counter argument. 

Was also ordered to implement Project Battle Apple. Replicant 1.0 came online December 10th with full wetware package running. Sent to work amongst Strategic Talents, accepted as planned. Initial skepticism monitored, countered with increased hypnotic suggestion.

December 13th SPYGOD placed under house arrest. No one came to countermand orders, stop crimefighting activities. Took that as sign to continue all plans. Decided to intensify intrusion to maximum factor.

Soon learned the secessionists planned massive attack on December 25th, for symbolic, tactical value.  Decided to keep information compartmentalized. Replicant's programming adjusted to reflect this.

(Admit to giving hints to Mother while using new holographic capabilities. Strain may have caused weakness? Must explore further.)

December 24th, Replicant utilized to prepare to contact, mobilize troops, law enforcement, emergency services. Entire plan ready to go, needing only initial incident.

December 25th, initial incident registered Washington DC, 0800 EST. Plan operational at that time. Synchronization variance .765, tolerable.

Had Neo York City strategic talents moved to Richmond, Virginia, given importance of that city, personal capabilities. Allowed carnage to go for 14.5 minutes, better to implement Intimidation Immobilization pattern Z-5.

Battle successful, but not without complications, incidents. 

Time Log follows: 

* * *

New York's city hall isn't quite deserted, this cold, wet, and snowy Christmas day. City Police and TU guards stand on patrol, making sure no one takes advantage of the day or the weather to do something contrary to the public good, or at least civic order.

Of course, since it's Christmas, everyone's trying to keep it friendly. There's coffee and donuts, and some measure of cheer. Some of the TU guards are getting into the spirit, in spite of the fact that their white and red suits weren't made with this kind of weather in mind.

Others? Not so much -- like the one who's being playfully harangued by a slightly paunchy, dark-skinned fellow. 

"So, let me get this straight," that policeman says between donut bites: "We're not going to have to learn French, are we?"

"No, of course not," the man sighs, clearly embarrassed by the question: "Why would you even think that?"

"Well, it's just that we got taken over, right?"

"You invited us in. That is hardly a takeover."

"Well, that's not what Michael Savage is saying."

The guard snorts: "Ask him where he was when the Imago actually did take you over. Perhaps ask yourselves."

"Now, that's not fair," the policeman says, raising his finger to make a point: "I mean, you guys got taken over by the Nazis in World War II, right? Didn't you have to do what they told you if you wanted to live?"

The man glowers at that: "This is hardly the same as that."

"Well-"

"And I am not interested in this discussion," he says, holding up a hand: "If you cannot be civil at least be silent."

"Well, you're going to be having it a lot," the policeman promises, turning up his collar at the cold: "Might want to practice with someone who likes you."

The guard can't think of anything to say to that, so he just sighs, wishes for the thousandth time that they'd gotten better, thicker uniforms for this kind of weather, and checks the time.

It's the last thing he ever does.

As for his friendly policeman, the man has the sense to duck the moment he sees the ice-blue blasts coming at him. That's all that saves him from the same fate as the Frenchman -- frozen from the waist-up, only to stand there stupidly for a second until his knees buckle and he falls down, smashing to jagged flinders on the concrete.

The policeman soon sees he's the only one who's survived the blasts. He also sees they came from an immense, white cloud that's just appeared in the street. He thought it was just a gust of snow, but now he can see it's much more than that.

"This is Unit 34 at City Hall," he says, trying to do the right thing in what may be his last moments: "We're under attack. Six, maybe eight... make that twelve. Twelve assailants. Supervillains, I think. One's got freeze rays-"

"Oui," Jacques Gel says, aiming his freeze pistol at the man as he strides from the cloud. The policeman tries to get off a shot, but two bursts turns the poor man into a pale, white sculpture.

The cloud expels ten more people on top of the twelve that had already made it out. Some are known supervillains -- mostly old, some truly elderly -- some are the new "heroes," and others are new faces who wear their intentions on their dour, unfriendly costumes. 

"Nice aim, Snowball," the "hero" known as Green Thunder says, looking back at the cloud -- now condensing into the shape of a wiry, white-haired man wrapped in a billowing, frosty cloak.

"Snowfall," the villain contradicts him: "And I'm glad you like it. That's as much as I can do for now."

"I calculate it's all we will need," a rather plastic-looking fellow in a nice, grey suit says, apparently not feeling the chill. 

"!@#$ straight," Orange Slam says to him, looking around: "Okay, you all got your orders. We're here to take City Hall and hold it. Red Slider, you take Copycat, Grey Phantom, and Fiststrike over to Gracie Mansion, grab the Mayor and his family, bring 'em back. Green, you, Bluestreak, Gor, and Cold Warning, get inside this !@#$er and clear it out. All floors, top to bottom, no witnesses.

"Please tell him not to linger over the dead?" Bluestreak asks, pointing at Gor, who's very clearly pleased to be on 'no witnesses' detail.

"I'll eat them where you can't see," the short, hairy fellow dressed in spikes and leather made from human skin snorts: "That better?"

"It's not the eating that's the problem-"

"Knock it off," Orange sighs: "Gor? !@#$ 'em after we're done. I'm sure they'll keep."

"Spoilsport," the barbarian mutters, glaring daggers at Bluestreak, who pretends not to notice, or be afraid.

"Rest of you?" Orange continues: "Wait for them to declare the Hall all clear, and then grab a window or a door and get comfy. As soon as the cops get here, it's gonna be !@#$ing World War III."

"What about the !@#$ing computer Batman kid?" one of the newer ones asks, his face hidden by a sinister skull mask.

"We got him covered, Jolly Roger, " Orange Slam says, winking at the plastic fellow: "Ain't that right?"

"Indubitably," the plastic fellow says, turning his head just so: "In fact, here he comes now."

The atmosphere changes as the air goes electric. Everyone's hair stands up on end. And then the group of villains is surrounded by a circle of exactly 22 Nthernauts.

They look like Thomas, but not quite: each one is taller, darker, and more imposing. Their uniform is flashing red and blue in almost hypnotic potentials.

And their eyes are terrible things -- black, cold, and soulless.

You will cease your illegal activity now, they state as one from two-score and change mouths, their every word blaring over every speaker in the vicinity: You are under arrest. Put your weapons down, kneel on the ground, place your hands behind your head. You will not be harmed if you cooperate.

"Somehow, I don't think so," Orange Slam says, flipping the nearest one both birds: "Revolution is here, Compu!@#$er. Get with it or get out of the way-"

His flippancy gets him a sock in the jaw from an arm that extends out twice as far as it should be able to. It knocks him back ten feet, right into Gor, who stumbles but does not fall. Everyone else puts up their weapons and hands, and Snowfall gasps and falls down, clutching his chest.

"Enough," the plastic-faced fellow says, waving a hand.

And then, as soon as they arrived, the Nthernauts are gone.

"What?" Bluestreak asks, looking around: "How...?"

"I told you," Orange Slam says, getting back to his feet and rubbing his sore jaw: "We had it covered. Didn't we, Machinehead?"

"Oh yes," the android says, grinning as his program invades the Neo York City's massive mainframe: "And if you'll all excuse me? I'm going to make certain he stays covered."

His body falls down. Someone has the good sense to pick it up and bring it off the street.

And the slaughter of City Hall begins in earnest.

(SPYGOD is listening to My Dying Machine (Gary Numan) and having a Low Life) 

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 - 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)