1/17/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 6.0

The New Rulers of The World
The Angle, Emperor of Pain, Chassis
The Pusher (with METALMAID), Lord of Spiders, The Sound
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

It's Only the Wind

They Say it's Getting Worse

The Trouble That it Brings

Haunts Us Like A Curse

* * *

It's 7:26 in the AM, and the Sun's rays strike a monster, floating. 

Tempete Bleu is hovering outside a certain window in a certain high apartment building, over in Neo York City. It's the one that was, up until a few days ago, surrounded by angry protestors and the news media -- all hoping to get a piece, however remotely, of its infamous occupants. 

At least until the occupants pulled off an audacious -- if short-lived -- escape.

Now the angry demonstrators are all gone. In their place are legions of Terre Unifee guards, police vans, and the occasional tank armed with subsonic crowd suppressors. They stand toe to toe on the remnants of furious signs, written in dozens of languages, and sneer at the passions they read there. 

Up above them all, their greatest hero stands on the air, itself, looking into the newly-replaced, much stronger window that houses their charge: SPYGOD, himself, fresh from recapture, interrogation, and the mother of all punitive beatings.

He's sitting on a couch in the front room, dressed in only a light, white coverall with prisoners markings and a half-mask to cover up his eye. He's right across from a bulky, white-armored Russian hero -- Bely Rytsar -- who's leaning against the wall, languidly watching him for any sign he might try to leave, again. 

He's not, though. 

He's sitting there with his arms wrapped around his chest, still sore and bruised. He's got his headphones on, and is listening to the same song, over and over agan.

And he's trying not to cry, but is clearly just one little push away from failing miserably. 

Tempete grins to see him so broken, so low. And the thought that, when the time comes for him to be executed for his many crimes, he will be the one to fling him into the Sun? 

Oh, that just makes him smile all the more. 

It's decided, then. First he goes along with this farce of a trial, then the punishment. And when his man-turned-god -- who doesn't even know who Tempete Bleu really is -- is a cloud of gay cinders in orbit around their star? 

Then he will crack the world, burn the sky, and turn the rain to blood and !@#$.

Just another day or so, and he ends everything, well ahead of whatever superfluous doom is on its way. 

He can wait. 

* * *

"I will begin this by saying that I am not a patient man," the grey-haired Mexican fellow -- dressed in the flowing, long red robes of a Catholic cardinal -- says, as he lays out strange, sinister-looking things on the tray between Mark Clutch and Martha Samuels. 

"I know," Martha says, looking at El Inquisidor Escarlata as best as she can through the bonds of her chair: "My father worked with you, once. He said you were insane. No better than the criminals you fought."

"Well, there we have a disagreement," the man says, turning to regard the naked woman, strapped down so tight it's a torture unto itself: "One of many, if we're being totally honest. 

"And we will, I can assure you," he added, his smile a thin, cold thing.

This was the dreaded Truth Room, far down below the Heptagon, inside its super-slam. Down here, captured costumed villains, super soviets, heroes gone bad, and other undesirables were thrown into escape-proof cells for what might be months, years, or a lifetime. 

And if they were let out at all, it was only to come here for questioning. 

Martha had heard a number of horror stories about this room, over the years. All the heroes did. Some of them were just rumors, spread by SPYGOD and his AGENTS to spook strategic talents into behaving themselves. And it didn't hurt that, every so often, some idiot in a cape would switch sides, get caught, and prove those rumors true. 

But this black, brick cylinder? Its walls spattered with old, dried blood and what might have been human !@#$? Hung with the sorts of things Martha had only seen in one of those awful gory movies a long-gone boyfriend had insisted on watching with her? 

This was real, and worse than she ever could have imagined. 

"Your friend," the scarlet-robed man says, indicating a similarly-undressed, equally-bound Mark: "He has never heard of me? Yes or no."

"I don't know," Martha says, and instantly regrets it. She barely sees the man move before he's picked up something from the tray between their chairs -- like something from a Cronenberg movie -- and jabs it into the spot where Mark's left pectoral muscle meets his arm. 

The resulting scream is loud and bright, and makes her ears rattle along with his teeth. 

"That is the first and last time I will hear that phrase here, today," El Inquisidor Escarlata says, holding the instrument there just long enough to let the scream die down, and then removing it just as quickly: "If you say it again, I will do permanent damage to him. If he says it, I will do permanent damage to you. This is understood?"

"Yes," Martha says, clearly afraid to ask him the obvious question. 

"Yes," Mark whispers.

"The truth, then," the man smiles, wiping the instrument with a sterile pad and putting it back down: "Mine is a useful ability. I can tell, without fail, whether someone is lying to me or not. I can tell a brazen lie from a small one. I can even discern if someone is holding something back, or knows, on a subconscious level, that there's more to be told.

"Sadly, I cannot tell what that truth actually is. So I must resort to other means to get it out of them. Once upon a time, I merely scared criminals. By the time I'd met your father, I was beating it out of them. Since then, I have... refined my methods."

"And now you torture people for Le Compagnie," Martha says: "You must be proud of yourself-"

"Martha," Mark cautions: "I don't think we want to !@#$ this guy off."

"A very astute observation," the man says, picking up what might be a very good attempt to blend H. R. Giger with Freddy Krueger from his tray of toys, and then slipping it onto his left hand: "I can see why you two are in love. You are in love with each other, yes?"

"Yes," Martha says.

"... yes," Mark says, with just a little trepidation.

"Oh, there's no need to be ashamed or afraid, young man," the Inquisidor says, flexing the biomechanoid blades he's affixed to his fingers: "We know of your feelings for one another. That is why I am here. It is hoped I can extract the truth from you without having to rely on more crude and final methods. Perhaps when this is over, and your co-conspirator is tried, convicted, and sentenced, you can be publicly rehabilitated. You can be put to work, once more, for the good of society?"

"I won't serve them," Martha says: "I'll answer your questions if I can-"

"You will answer them even if you cannot," the man corrects her, putting a blade under her nose, and then right up into her nostril: "You see, when dealing with a man like SPYGOD, we can only assume he had plans within plans, and schemes within schemes. We can only assume there was much going on that he did not tell you, but that you might have seen pieces of. So I am here to help you piece those things together, so that we may learn all we can."

"And you know we know something even if we don't realize it," Mark realizes: "So you can torture us to death if we can't remember his secret code words. Is that what you're saying?"

"Exactly," the man says, gently flicking the knife, which takes out the side of Martha's nostril. She screams in pain, and then tries to get hold of her emotions, but fails when Mark starts screaming on her behalf. 

"You bastard!" he shouts, especially when he uses a spray can of stinging and painful disinfectant upon the wound, followed by some weird spray that causes it to cauterize, but not really heal. 

"I have been called worse," the man says, only now wiping the blood from the blade: "But know this, Mark Clutch. I give you my word I will not torture you to death, provided you cooperate. I have not been allowed the luxury of that, here. 

"Now, that's not to say you, or her, will ever be desirable again," he continues: "You may have to hide your faces behind masks for more than crimefighting. You may need prosthetics, or transplants. In time they may even allow you to have some plastic surgery, just to be seen in public. 

"But you will always bear some evidence of this time we've spent together," the man says, smiling coldly once more: "A small little gift, from me to you."

"Know this," Martha says, her face streaked with blood and nasty, brown flakes of coagulant: "You can torture us, you can kill us. But you can't take Heaven from us. You do understand that, right?"

"Oh, I do," El Inquisidor Escarlata says, moving over to where Mark sits, and considering where to cut first: "But Heaven's gates are a long way from here, and we have only begun our journey."

And - with that gruesome decision made -- the interrogation truly begins.

* * *

"C'est bien, c'est bien," Henri says into his communicator as he saunters out of the transport, heading across the Heptagon's landing platform along with a few other folks who made the trans-Atlantic trip with him: "Appelez-moi quand ils apprennet quelque chose? Bien. Bien. A bientot."

"Well hello," Josie says, standing at the edge of the platform, and smiling to see Henri. In response he smiles back and walks over just a little faster. 

"Hello, my dear," he says when he gets there, going to kiss her on both cheeks. To his surprise she wraps her meaty arms around him, snuggles him close, and picks him a full foot off the ground, much to the amusement of those nearby. 

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispers into his ear, smiling: "Please tell me this isn't just about what's going on down in the sub-basement?"

"Only in part," he gasps, indicating that maybe she should put him down -- which she does, ever so carefully: "The President has sent me over here to discuss a number of things. Most of which we should probably do in private."

"Agreed," she says, and gestures to her exclusive elevator, nearby. When they approach he feels a weird sensation -- like being tickled by the wind right down to his DNA -- and then the door slides open, somewhat begrudgingly. 

"So, the trial?" she says as soon as the doors are closed, turning to look down at the little man: "We need more information?"

"We need everything," he says, his eyes gleaming a little: "Anything we can find out from his lover. Anything we can find out from the Team Alpha members we've actually captured, rather than merely killed. Anything from his old associates, some of which are still in hiding, I'm led to believe?"

"'We want... information,'" she quotes, matching the gleam in his eye, and then being a little disappointed when he doesn't get it: "You never watched The Prisoner?"

"Should I have?" he asks, a little confused: "Was it one of those Showtime things?"

"Oh no," she says, hitting the button to go down: "It was a British show from the 60's."

"That's probably why I never watched it," he shakes his head: "I cannot stand the rosbifs or their television shows. I'm hoping we can find an excuse to burn their BBC to the ground, one of these days."

"Well, this was ITC, so hopefully you'll spare it," she grins, delighting that he doesn't know the difference: "Anyway, there's this spy, and he quits his job. His superiors aren't happy with his decision, and think he might have sold out to someone else. So they kidnap him, take him to some weird place called The Village that he can't escape from, and tell him he's now Number 6. Everyone's got a number there, and someone named Number 2 is running the show. Every episode there's a new Number 2 trying to get him to say why he quit, which he won't do, and every episode he refuses."

"I don't like him already," Henri grouses: "What sort of a person won't answer a straight question from their superiors?"

"Who indeed."

"And shouldn't it be Number One instead of Number Two?" the man goes on as the elevator stops: "Who is Number One?"

"'That would be telling,'" she quotes again as they step into her office: "Anyway, the point isn't the story. It's the point of the story. It was about maintaining human dignity, freedom, and individuality in a world where nothing was what it seemed, anyone could be plotting against you, and the real enemy was often hiding in plain sight."

"It sounds juvenile," he sniffs, going over to her desk and putting his briefcase down upon it.

"Well, I fall asleep watching it," she says, smiling at him: "So I suspect you'll see at least a few episodes while you're here."

He smiles a little at that, thinking of some of the interesting things he brought along with him.

This was, indeed, going to be a lot of fun. 

* * *

"So, what do we do with our world first?" the Pusher asks his fellow conspirators, who are sitting at a table across the room the map of the planet they just stole from the Terre Unifee.

"We could totally !@#$ing disrupt the food distribution in Asia," The Angle chuckles, extending his arm through a geometric jump to literally point at the map from across the room: "I figure some starving faces on the nightly news'll bring it home. Who doesn't love a humanitarian crisis?"

"I wouldn't care about them," the Emperor of Pain sighs, trying to enjoy the coffee that Chassis "liberated" from the local Big Belly, just this morning: "The Third World is always starving to death. They'll find some has-been rock stars and throw a benefit concert if the disruption goes on too long."

"Your cynicism is amusing," the Pusher says, having another sip of his special tea, and then putting the mug down on his new trophy -- the dreaming head of METALMAID, perched on top of a car battery.

"Which means you disapprove," the old man replies, furrowing his brow over his domino mask. 

"No, it means it's amusing. But do you have something other than it to offer?"

"I'd say a breakdown in medical supplies to Europe. When their children can't get their insulin and their parents can't have their heart medication, you'll get their attention."

"I say scare them," the Lord of Spiders says: "A military accident. All those transports going overhead, carrying munitions to who knows where? Drop them from the sky over someplace small but photogenic."

"Where would you pick?" the Angle asks, very interested in this.

"Barcelona," the tarantula-faced man says, pounding his fist on the table: "It's pretty and inconsequential."

"I always wanted to go there, someday," The Sound says, somewhat wistfully: "Ring myself in the Sagrada Familia."

"Do you have another suggestion?" the Pusher asks, sighing.

"Well, let me think-"

"That's the problem!" Emperor of Pain shouts, almost spilling his coffee "We've been at this for two !@#$ days and we haven't come up with a good idea we can all agree on, and it's because we're thinking."

"So we just do something, and !@#$ the consequences?" the Emperor of Spiders asks: "Well, that sure sounds familiar-"

"Quiet, both of you," the Pusher says, putting his tea down on their former leader's head: "We just got rid of one shrill !@#$. Let's not replicate her by accident."

There's some giggling there, but not from the two elder villains in question.

"I think the Emperor's right," the man goes on, adjusting his million dollar, green tie: "We control every superhuman mechanism the TU has. We have a world of choices at our fingertips. It's more power than we've every had, any of us. And I'm sure we all know how power can be paralyzing. We chase a dream our whole lives, and then when we get it..."

"We're just a dog chasing a car, in other words?" the Angle asks.

"Man, I loved that movie," the Sound offers. 

"What movie?" the Lord of Spiders asks, and the others just sigh.

"So, we need a snap decision," the Pusher says, leaning over the table and looking each person in the eyes in turn: "We need one thing, right now, that will get their attention and show them how little control they have. How much we have. What we can do if they don't play ball. It has to be big, it has to be crushing. But it can't be so bad that we can't trump it with anything even worse."

"Then I say... Barcelona," the Emperor of Pain says, putting his hand out.

"Barcelona," the Lord of Spiders says, putting his hand over his friendly rival's.

"Barcelona," the Angle repeats, doing the same.

"... Barcelona," the Sound says, seeming a little sad.

The Pusher smiles, and puts his hand over theirs: "So be it. Barcelona Delenda Est."

And if either of the younger villains at the table don't understand the reference, they wisely keep it to themselves.

 * * *

"Of course, sir, please," the tall, balding Secret Service Agent says to the hovering, blue-clad hero, waving the way down the hall: "The White House is your house, sir. The National Facilitator isn't here, right now, but-"

"I'm not here to see him," Tempete Bleu says, smiling at the thought of shoving his !@#$ into a ragged crack in this man's gleaming pate, either before or after killing him: "I'm just visiting."

"Should he be informed of your being here, sir?"

"No," the hero says, patting the man on the head -- a promise for later,  perhaps: "I will find my way and show myself out. Thank you, Jerome."

And then he leaves, letting the fellow wonder how he knew his first name.

He knows them all now. Their names, their parents, their parents' parents. Their virtues few, their vices many. Their hopes and dreams and secret lusts, and how to turn them all against them.

But there's still a few things he doesn't know -- most notably, what's calling to him from the White House basement. 

The last time he was here, he felt something. He just wasn't sure what. It's part of why he asked Mr. USA that stupid question, though not all -- even Antichrists need to vaguebook from time to time, apparently.

So, since he was in this benighted, backwards, and all-too-undeservedly-powerful country to check up on SPYGOD, he figured he might go solve this mystery. As his new mentors were teaching him, there were no such things as coincidence. There was only prophecy unfolding, or destiny being decided anew. 

It's a short float to the basement. Then a small jaunt down one hall, then another. And then he's standing in front of a wall that shouldn't be there, and knowing full well there's something behind it.

Something very important, and powerful. 

Once, he would have torn down the wall. Now he simply tells it to ignore him, and it does. The metal made from alien ores does not deter him in his progress. 

What does is the blinding light on the other side: a bright, puissant flare that echoes the primal burst that created the universe, untold aeons ago, when his ultimate foe spoke those four hated words. The day when the barrier between light and dark was finally made, and those lovely, scrabbling things that lived within the latter were forced down and away. 

"Let there be light," he muses, his eyes adjusting to the sword stuck in the floor. 

He shouldn't be here, right now. He knows enough to know this. That light should have burned him up, heatlessly, giving him the shortest tenure of any Antichrist. 

And yet, apart from a sunburn he'll have to suffer through for a few hours, he's just fine. 

The answer seems to be in front of him. The sword has been poisoned, somehow. Tarnished on some metaphysical level. Made less.

"Well then," Tempete Bleu says, walking towards the strangely-impotent fire of his eternal adversary: "Here we both are, then. Are you going to strike me down for invading this shrine, marking your dominion? Or are you just going to wait for free will to defeat me, same as always?"

There is no answer. There never is, and never will be. His mentors have taught him that the Backers do not to answer with words, but action.

Alright, then. 

He unzips the front of his uniform. He pulls out his flaccid prick, and aims it at the sword. He grunts just a little, forcing a certain biological process into motion.

And then he splashes the sword with copious amounts of his urine, smiling as the holy metal shrieks and loses its light from the violation.

He laughs, then, watching the sword waver, sag, and begin to melt. It falls over to the floor, its glow wavering, then flickering, under the weight of his water. 

"Consider this the gauntlet thrown down, you ancient salope," he shouts: "The war is coming!"

And as the light goes away, and the darkness overtakes the room, the true sight of France's greatest hero begins to take shape...

* * *

... from the darkness she fell into when that nasty-looking, clearly-insane woman in the miniskirt -- and nothing else -- hit her that one, last time. 

Florence blinks, realizing she can't move or speak. For a scary moment she thinks she's been paralyzed, but within seconds she realizes she's just been immobilized by a series of high-tech, metal restraints. They're the kind that band around every joint in the body, one after the other, and then lock into each other to totally prevent movement. Metal Mummy, they call it. 

She's been Metal Mummyed, and the men who are wheeling her away are TU guards. 

!@#$. They got her. !@#$ it. 

She should have known better than to get in a fight with that crazy !@#$. Not in public, anyway. There were too many distractions. Too many onlookers. 

Too many innocent bystanders for that woman to grab hold of and hold hostage. 

And that's exactly what happened. No sooner did Florence -- aka the Red Wrecker -- and Suzi Slam start brawling in downtown Neo York City than the fight got turned into an impossible choice between running away and watching the deformed cheerleader gone wrong stomp on people. 

A choice she could not make. 

So she stopped fighting and started begging. She told the woman -- clearly suffering from muscle dysmorphia and some crazy-bad steroid abuse -- she could do whatever she wanted, just put down the kid. Please just put down the kid, and they'd talk. !@#$, she'd give her a free punch, just put the kid down. Please. Please.

It took three seconds too long for Suzy to make up her mind. She thought maybe she was getting through to her, but in reality she'd been thinking of how to hurt her the worst.

She threw the kid at Florence is what she did. Threw him like a javelin, right at her chest. It was all she could do to jump and catch him, cradling his neck and head as best she could to keep him from getting his neck broken.

And as soon as she was sure he was as okay as he was going to be, and put him outside of the fight, Suzy was right next to her, swinging at her temple. That's when things decided to go black for quite a while, and as far as she could tell it wasn't quite done with that. 

She closes her eyes, and suddenly she's in a transport, under armed guard.

She opens them again and they're wheeling her off it, across the landing pad at the Heptagon.

Another blink and she's in an elevator, going down. Yet another and she's being wheeled down a hallway, hearing screams she can't recognize and pleading from a voice she can.

And then she's in a room, being put into a cell that's been made to accommodate her special restraints. Suspended from its roof, wired in and tubed up, she can see she's not alone. Gosheven sleeps in a tank across the way. A man she's never seen before -- but somehow thinks she knows -- lies on a table, hooked up to all the life support in the world. 

And Yanabah swings from a Metal Mummy in another cell -- drooling from the tranquilizers they've dosed her with. 

"Don't worry," someone in a lab coat says, walking over to her with a large syringe in her hand: "We'll get to you, too, eventually. And when we do, I'm sure you'll be happy to talk."

She just stares at her, wishing she didn't have the gag in her mouth. If she didn't she'd very happy to tell her two very special words. 

But maybe that's what she gets for making a bad decision. 

Maybe that's how this is meant to go. 

The screaming starts up again, from down the hall. And when the blackness comes to call, once again, she decides to not fight it. 

Sometimes oblivion is the best option.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pet Shop Boys (Only the Wind) and having an Antichrist IPA)

1/14/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 3.0

"Si Enim Vera Ruat Caelum"
Karl, Jana, Helmut, Helga, Gunther
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Why do you want to sit alone

In gothic gloom

Surrounded by the ghosts of love

that haunt your room?

* * *

 

In a darkened room, far beneath the skin of a naive world, six assassins gather to make their plans.

It's been less than a day since they were removed from the prison they'd expected to grow old and die within, and given both a purpose and a promise. Since then they've been given a shower they could enjoy without fear of being stabbed, raped, or worse, and allowed to sleep in a proper, made bed for the first time in years. They've been feted and fed, groomed and geared.

And given back the things that made them who and what they once were.

They stand in the dark, now, gathered around a lit dais that provides all the information they could possibly need. They have their targets -- one for each of them -- and everything they need to know about them. 

All they have to do now is bring them down, one by one, and in return they'll be allowed to replace them.

It's an old game, by now, but there Terre Unifee is well-versed at this by now. Supervillains go into prison for a time, and then -- once they truly see the folly of not cooperating with the authorities, or at least understand its truly ugly consequences -- they are brought back out again. Their names are changed, their costumes altered, and sometimes their powers are transformed ever so slightly, just to make them seem to be anything but what they once were. 

And then voila,  Le Compagnie has a new hero. 

But this time, the game will have a small wrinkle. These six assassins -- jokingly codenamed Team Omega -- will be hunting their quarry as they once were, rather than newly-minted heroes.

The reason is simple: no one must know that brave Team Alpha has betrayed the TU, as that would be bad for public morale. Instead, it will look as though a conglomeration of old archenemies had teamed up to take them out and down. And that will give their hastily-organized replacements all the impetus to band together and deal with them, once and for all.

That they'll be dealing with themselves will be only a minor detail, thanks to some video trickery. But then, any of Team Omega who fail in their duty will be dealt with for real, and by the "heroes" they would have joined if only they'd been more competent, quick, or simply lucky. 

In the darkness the six confer and make their plans, and already their dynamics are beginning to congeal. They know who amongst them is the leader, the hotshot, and the fool. They know who wants the throne, and who prefers to counsel from behind it. 

And they know who will be the first amongst them to be offered up to their new masters, should a sacrifice be necessary...

Six faces, there in the darkness. All of them smiling. 

None of them kindly. 

* * *

"So what do you want to call this?" Yanabah asks, getting up off the bed and walking towards the bathroom, throwing her long, black hair over her shoulders as she does. Her silver jewelry sparkles against her bare, golden skin, glowing ever so slightly as the morning sun strikes it between the slats in the shuttered window.

"Do we have to call it anything?" Myron replies, still lying on the bed, unsure of whether to get up or not, but certain that he likes watching her walk away from him while naked.

"Jesus, make a girl feel good," she says -- not without a small smile -- as she cleans herself up.

They hadn't intended to do this, really. They had intended to go to ground, after Gosheven's warning. And they did mean to do it here, in this safehouse they'd established, well before the plan came fully together. 

But the sex? Well, that had just happened, really.

They'd been talking business, and then commiserating, and then really opening up. And then, all of a sudden, they'd just gone right at each other like teenagers -- hungry for what the other had, and uncaring of consequences, or what their future selves might make of this moment.

It was rough and tumble, bruising and swift. They all but ripped each others' civilian clothes off, uncaring of consequence. They rolled on the floor for what seemed hours, oblivious to the cold beneath their bodies.

And in the end, they collapsed into bed only as an afterthought. 

Myron aches all over. He has scratches up and down his back, thighs, and !@#$. And he feels so good he doesn't give a single flying !@#$.

How long had it been? It seemed an age since Winifred and he had found each other, back in September. Since they'd reached out and touched one another, their mutual sense of loss somehow completing the other.

Since she decided she no longer needed him, after she finally realized the true shape of that loss.

He loves her. He knows this. He still loves her, despite it all. He just doesn't know what to say, or if he has the right to say anything after everything that's happened. If he has the right to go to her and speak of what he feels, and how much he hopes she still feels it, too.

If he has the right to talk of love after so much time and distance, and so many missed connections.

Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't. But this night, and its lovely but hollow exertions, reminds him of the importance of making that effort.

"Thank you," he says, partly to Yanabah and party to the world. If she hears him she makes no sign, but somehow he thinks she heard it. 

And somehow he thinks it matters, after all.

 * * *

"So, 'Egrets,'" Karl muses, lying down in the back of the car he and his clone-sister, Jana, have rented in Canberra: "Is it significant, or not?"

"Ardea Alba Modesta," Jana says, looking down at her pad and turning around in the front passenger seat: "Eastern Great Egret. Spread all over Oceania, and tends to flock to the Top End."

"The northern territory?" 

"Exactly," she says, putting the pad down and smiling: "So, was the late President of this Great Southern Land planning on going up there on holiday, perhaps to watch some birds...?"

"...or was he doing something else up there?" Karl finishes the sentence, closing his eyes.

They've been parked by the side of the highway for some time, now. They find it's the best way to think of things, oddly enough. Something about the steady rhythm of cars and trucks going by allows them to think clearly.

And a few other things, besides...

"He looked like he was going to have some things shipped..." Jana begins

"... at least according to his records," Karl adds.

"But nothing up that way."

"It didn't say where it was going. Just that it was going."

"That's not at all suspicious..."

"... is it?," Karl says, opening his eyes up enough to wink at her, right at the same second she winks back: "Especially when the things he was having moved were all old things. Family heirlooms. Old books and treasures. All very precious and padded."

"As if he was moving."

"Yes, but with no destination. And no insurance, either."

"Very strange," Jana says, picking up her pad and considering: "And I see here he wasn't really putting any money around for the move."

"Something I missed," Karl admits: "So he's packing up old things, but not every thing. He's got them going somewhere but no mention of where. And he hasn't made financial planning, either, or made any attempt to protect his investments from damage."

"That sounds like... someone trying to save the family china while fleeing the house." Jana asks.

"Yes, I think that works," Karl says, opening his eyes.

"I've been learning new idioms."

"I see," he says, leaning up: "But I think in this case it's someone trying to sneak the family china out before burning the house down."

"I agree," she says, looking askance as a car passes them by: "The question is why."

"And where was he going to go?" Karl asks, tapping his chin: "It's not like he could just vanish."

"Depends on where he was vanishing to," Jana says, looking over his financial statements: "And maybe he had money hidden somewhere?"

"Maybe he did," Karl nods, looking out of the window: "Helmut, you should look into that. See if you can dig up some secret transactions or accounts."

Yes, I should, their absent brother replies after a second or two: That's provided there's a trail at all.

"Oh, there will be," Karl replies, smiling just a little: "This man doesn't strike me as a careful person. He was sloppy. He'll have made mistakes. The fact that he tipped his hand to his wife proves that."

"So Egrets is significant?" Jana teases.

"It is," he says: "And when we find out how, we'll be a step closer to figuring out what's going on here."

Several steps closer, brother, Helga chimes in from where she is: Just wait until you see what I've found...

* * *

"Well, you don't see something like that every day," the hero known as Orange Streak sighs, hoping he doesn't sick up in his brand new space suit.

"Come again, Orange Streak?" Mission Control asks, their voice crackling: "What are you seeing?"

"A big !@#$ mess, sir," the hero replies, hoping none of the black drops of what was a vacuum-sealed man's blood gets onto him.

He'd come up here -- approximately a hundred miles above Nebraska -- to check on the status of one of Le Compagnie's long-range spotters. Karman hadn't been heard from in four hours, which was all but unheard of for him. Once he'd missed his third message, they'd sent another flier up to look.

And he'd found... this.

Karman was one of those oddities no one liked to talk about: a human specifically bred for life in space, with all the gruesome and unfortunate additions and subtractions that such an existence would entail. He'd spent most of his career in the Air Force doing orbital missions that no one cared to publicize or acknowledge -- mostly repairing and rescuing military satellites, or sabotaging those of rival nations.

But, after the destruction of Wonderwall, and with the Space Service spending most of its time trying to fix the Sled, he was part of the TU's network of space defenses. For him, that meant he spent almost all his time up in the black, making sure nothing went from there down into the blue that didn't have proper clearance.

A lonely existence, to be sure, but he shouldered it like a pro. He had clearance to spend one day on and one day off, but he elected to stay up for weeks at a time, asking only that the same group of operators keep in touch with him, day after day -- one hourly message at a time, interrupted only by some kind of trouble.

So when he didn't respond to his hourly hail, they wondered if he was running silent. And when he didn't get back in time for his next one, they considered something might be seriously wrong. The third missed one had them scramble Orange Streak up, just in case.

And when the fourth came and went, with still no answer, the hero had rocketed up, well past the line the hero was named for, and went to his last known position to see what had happened.

That would be a murder at 100 miles up. 

A being bred for space, Karman had been sealed up from head to toe in a tough, hairless, and leathery sleeve of transparent flesh, and did not to breathe or eat. He gathered energy from direct sunlight, and excreted waste in the form of electromagnetic shielding. Those shields could provide him with flight capability, but also protect him from physical and energy damage.

So how it was that the man's head had been blown open like a cantaloupe -- anaerobic blood and brains floating around his body like a gruesome cloud of droplets -- was something that Orange Streak wasn't too sure of. Surely no ordinary projectile could have done such a thing with his fields up, as they almost always were.

And if it had been a projectile, where the !@#$ had it been fired from?

Orange Streak has no idea. All he knows for sure was that he's going to have to sit here, 100 miles up from Omaha, and wait for someone else to come by and take over for this poor sap who had, for the first time in his long and secret life, finally felt both useful and happy.

A horrible way to go, the hero supposes as he settles in for spotter relief duty. He can only hope an answer can be found -- preferably one that doesn't involve him being assassinated as well.

Hopefully he won't screw that up, at least. 

* * *

"Look, my American friend, it is a simple question-"

"And I'm telling you, I don't have an answer for you," the old New Man sighs, putting his head in his hands and wishing his accusers -- most of whom are his teammates in Le Compagnie -- would just take his word for it and let the matter rest.

"And why not?" La Femme Electrique says, leaning over the desk that their colleague is sitting at, in the far corner of their sumptuous facility at the Palace: "You are his father."

"Yes, I am. But I'm not his keeper."

"Look, try and understand our position," the harried security officer who's been leading this interrogation says, sitting down across from the older hero and doing his best to sound reasonable: "We have determined that his old teammates are traitors, engaged in a plot against the state. We're rounding them up as we speak. But he's been off the team for some time, yes? We simply need to know if he knows something."

"Something like why they've done this stupid thing," whip-thin and slippery Vaku says, semi-tactful as ever.

"Or if he's up to his arms in it," portly Stijena adds, not tactful at all.

"My son is not a traitor," New Man insists, looking up: "He has a prior commitment."

"A prior commitment to Team Alpha?" La Femme Electrique laughs: "Please, my friend. That is like having a prior commitment to Le Compagnie."

"That's like telling The Beatles you won't help with the reunion,"  Bely Rytsar rumbles from within his eponymous suit of armor, only to be disappointed when no one else cares about the allusion.

New Man sighs again -- deeper, this time -- and just looks at the security officer: "If I have to spell it out for you, you're going to feel really !@#$ stupid."

"Well, I fail to see-" he begins to object, but then New Man brings his fist down on the table. It glows purple as it falls, and shatters the thick, luxurious wood as though it were brittle ice.

"You all know me, or at least you should by now," the old hero says, getting up from his chair and looking at each of his teammates in turn: "I was with the Liberty Patrol in Korea. I was with Freedom Force after that. I was head of the COMPANY for a little while, there, too."

"This is known," La Femme Electrique says, crossing her arms: "Though, considering how your tenure in The COMPANY went, perhaps you should not admit to that too readily."

"Yeah, and what were you doing when the Imago were taking over the world, sparkles? Eating a baguette?"

"Excuse me, please," the security officer says, trying to interject before a fight starts: "Perhaps we should back up a step or two, here-"

"Perhaps we should remember, as I've been trying to point out, that I've been a Strategic Talent in the employ of the American Government, and now the world Government, for longer than you all have been alive, much less active," New Man says: "I know the drill. I know the lingo. And I know how things work.

"So when you ask me where my son is, and I tell you I don't have an answer for you? It means that even if I knew, I couldn't. !@#$ing. Tell you." he says, jabbing a purple finger at each of his main interrogators in turn: "And that means you should not be asking me. You should be asking the President's security team.

"And if they can't tell you either, well... I don't know what to tell you," he says, shrugging: "But if I had an answer, I'm bound to not tell you. And if I don't, then I can't. So you are all wasting your time with me, aren't you?"

He looks each of them in the eyes in turn. After a moment, they nod, shrug, and leave, with the security officer being the second to last to go.

Then it's just him and La Femme Electrique, who just smiles, and then turns to go. And he thinks he knows what that smile means.

It means she's finally found the proof she needs to show that this old, upstart American -- their special envoy, so that all nation members have a place on the team -- has more loyalty to his country than to his team.

It also means that, the next time push comes to shove, she can force a vote to have him kicked off the team, most likely to be replaced with someone more tractable, or more "on message."

But it could mean something even worse than that. It could mean that she might know -- or at least suspect -- that he's not telling the complete truth. It could mean she believes he does know where his son is, and what he's been doing all this time.

And if she finds out that's actually the truth, both he and his son will be !@#$ed for certain -- and a whole lot more, besides.

He sighs once more, and looks at what's left of the desk he just turned to wood chips, wondering if his career is going to be resembling that before too long.

"Secrets and lies," he muses, not really sure where one ends and the other starts, but all too aware of the importance of keeping them as close to his chest as possible.

* * *

So we know more now than we did before, Karl states, looking at the psychic projections of his four brothers and sisters at the mental meeting.

We do, the other four say, in unison, all smiling the same smile as they float in the dream-architecture they've jointly created to facilitate such psionic conferences. 

When ABWEHR went about making clones, down in the Ice Palace, they bred a lot of things into -- and out of -- their perfect Aryan children. In went obedience and beauty, out went defects and rebellion. And while there were mistakes made, and gruesomely dealt with, most of the time the breeding ran true.

But over time, other factors crept in. Copies of copies, they began to slowly develop more and more defects, most of which were weeded out in the testing process. Bad attitudes and digestive problems were amongst the most notable, and often took out a handful of clones from each batch.

But every so often an entire group of them would be tainted with some unforeseen variance -- some derangement of body, mind, or soul that no amount of accelerated Nazi science could have predicted or prevented. 

In the case of the last batch of clones, all rescued by SPYGOD during OPERATION: NAZISMASH, just two years ago, it was a talent for psionics. A talent the five remaining children slowly began to realize they had after months of living with Randolph Scott, and being his team.

A talent they elected to not share with him, or even SPYGOD, as they decided the best way to emulate their savior was to adopt his own talent -- keeping secrets at all costs.

Someday they'll reveal their powers, they figure. Someday they'll shock the !@$ out of Randolph and everyone else they've worked with. They might even manage to surprise SPYGOD, himself, provided he doesn't already know. 

But for now, their powers are best kept to themselves -- especially as they're proving to be so very useful in things such as this.

We know that the Presidents and Prime Ministers of Portugal, Bolivia, and Canada are also planning to move things, but not listing a forward address, Helga's thoughtform says, smirking a little: And in some countries where the Presidents aren't in on it, their trusted political assistants and advisers are.

We also know that there is a trail of money, Helmut says, holding up an echo of his omnipresent laptop: Secret accounts, all going to something called Champlain Entreprises.

And we know they're a shell company for something else, a nude Gunther adds, mid-pelvic-thrust: I'm still working on that angle, here in New Zealand. I'm expecting something, soon, once I finish helping this secretary remember. 

You do that, Jana chuckles, seemingly not at all shocked to see her brother making love in the course of outlaw journalism: And when you have that, we'll have another piece or two.

Hopefully we'll all know what to do with it, they all say in unison.

Hopefully they will, at that. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Se Vide Es (Pet Shop Boys) and having an Avery 5 Monks)

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)