12/23/12 - Mr. USA - A Square of Hell - pt. 1

10/18/12 

"So, is that all?"

The President looks around the conference room, down in the White House basement. Seated around the large table is what little remains of the Federal government -- along with a few, equally-notable people -- all gathered here to tell him what needs to be done, and what little they have to do it with. 

"I think so, sir," the head of the FBI says, looking around: "I admit, it's a tall list."

"Tall? This gives Mount Everest a run for the money," the President sighs, plopping his ream of notes down: "I mean, emergency measures alone... all the things that need to be turned back on... basic services... transportation... "

"Not to mention the military," the badly-scarred Secretary of Defense says: "Right now I've got about a hundred men and women on active duty. Everyone else got demobbed, and a lot of them are unaccounted for."

"Not to mention the economy," the newly-appointed Secretary of the Treasury says: "I'd like to be able to pay our men and women in uniform with something that actually carries some weight on the market."

There's some nodding on that. The President's about to answer that when one of the other people at the table coughs into his fist: 

"Not to mention the elephant in the room," the Speaker of the House says.

"Yes, Speaker Wheeler?" the President asks, knowing !@#$ well what he's going to say.

"Well, sir, I'll be frank," the large man says: "We're coming up on less than a month before the Presidential election-"

"Are any of my opponents still alive?" the President asks. A few of his cabinet members laugh, but it's a sour and heavy thing.

"Well, I'm sure a few of them are, sir. But there's a need to keep some kind of political continuity, here. And, on behalf of my party, and those of us in Congress, I'd like to think we're not going to capitalize on this tragedy to grab onto power, and-"

"Now you just wait here," the Secretary of the Treasury says: "We wouldn't dream of usurping power, sir. But you have to understand, we are in a mess, right now. You're talking about organizing an election, but there's whole states without electricity and water out there. How about we get our country back together again before we worry about who's running it?"

"Is that the official answer, then?" Speaker Wheeler asks, not missing a beat.

"That's the official word, yes," the President says: "I think we need to get our country up and running again before we look into an election. But you have my word that-"

"Sir, your word wasn't exactly worth a bucket of cat !@#$ before all this happened. Do you really expect me to go back to my people and tell them that we should just trust you?"

"Yes, you should," one of the other people in the room says before the President can answer: "That is exactly what you should say, because that is exactly what you should do."

"Now see here, sir," the Speaker says, getting up. But the moment Mr. USA stands up, and looms right over him, the other man quivers a little, and then sits back down. 

"Gentlemen, ladies, let's think about this," the hero says, looking from person to person: "America is in a tough spot, right now. We've just become free after months of being held in captivity. Our political continuity has been shattered, our former Presidents and important office-holders executed for crimes they didn't commit. I hear the Supreme Court's hiding in a bunker in Topeka, still refusing to open the door, but other than that, we're all that's left. 

"Us," he emphasizes, putting a hand on the table and squeezing. It cracks under his fingers.

"And is this how we're going to deal with their problems, and honor their pain and sacrifices? Arguing like little kids over whose turn it is to play with the wagon?"

"This is a little more than a toy wagon, sir," the Speaker says: "This is the United States of America, the greatest nation on the Earth-"

"I know that," Mr. USA says, leaning towards the man.

"And we have an obligation to make sure that they have the leadership they desire and deserve at this time. Don't you agree?"

"I do, but, whether you like it or not, Speaker Wheeler, this man is the elected and moral leader of our country," Mr. USA says, putting a hand on the President's shoulder: "He fought for our freedom. He marshaled our forces. He spoke to the people during the struggle to take back the world. And here he is, now, listening to what needs to be done and preparing to see how we can get it done."

"I swear to you, we will resume a normal election schedule as soon as the emergency is over," the President says: "But please let us do what needs to be done before then."

The Speaker looks at the hero, and then the President, and nods, slowly. And he remains silent for the rest of the meeting. 

* * *

By the time the meeting gets out, it's three in the morning. Most of the other people involved in it have long since gone home, citing mental and physical exhaustion from having to think, plan, and shout at one another for hours on end. In the end, there's only the Secretary of the Treasury, the President, and Mr. USA in the room, and when he leaves the President leans back into his chair, seemingly ready to collapse. 

"Wow," he says, staring at the ceiling: "That was... epic."

"That's one way to put it," Mr. USA says, pouring himself some now-cold coffee from the carafe on the center of the table: "I think we made a lot of headway, though."

"Do you think SPYGOD will agree to let his heroes help out?"

"I do," the man says, handing a cup over to the President, who accepts it ever-so-tentatively: "In fact, I already made sure of it before I suggested it. We talked about it yesterday, and he was rather keen to help."

The President smiles: "And you don't think the notion of handing our defenses over to state militias once the cities are under control is too... I don't know, reactionary?"

"I think it made the Speaker perk up a bit," Mr. USA says, sitting back down again: "But we're going to have to watch him."

"Agreed. He was waiting his turn at the bat, and now that he has it..."

"He wants to swing. And you're the target."

The President nods: "It's going to be a challenge. Just the emergency alone, and then all this politicking behind it."

"Well, Lincoln had his critics, too," Mr. USA says, winking and leaning back: "And rightly so, in many cases. But success is the best legacy you can leave, Mr. President. As long as we're back up and running in a year or two, all this anger and distrust will just be rain on the roof."

"You think so?"

"I know so," the hero says, taking a sip of his cold coffee: "You have to think long game, which is what you were doing all along, I think?"

The President smiles: "Glad someone recognized that."

The two men sit in silence for a while -- blessed and complete.

"I want you to be my Vice President," the man says, looking at him: "We'll have to go through proper channels, of course, but you're the right man for the job."

"Why would you say so?" Mr. USA asks.

"Well, you can make a room of angry people calm down like no one I've ever seen. You can unite people in a way that goes beyond politics. And you have clearly been thinking about how to put things back together for some time...?"

"I have, yes," he says: "Is there another reason?"

"I'd like to replace the best man I've ever worked with with the best hero we have," he says: "Is that enough?"

"Is the fact that I make your political enemies quake in their boots somewhere in that reasoning?" the hero asks, smiling just a little.

"Maybe just a little."

Mr. USA laughs, putting his coffee down and extending a hand: "You've got a deal, Mr. President. But there's two conditions."

"Which are?" the President asks, putting his hand out a little.

"We do it proper, like you said. And I am not going to run for President in 2016, or whenever," Mr. USA says: "I'll help out in an emergency, but I'm not making a career of politics. So no talking me into it, and if I decide I want it after all, you remind me of what I just said."

"I think I can honor that," the President says, putting his hand out all the way and shaking the man's hand: "But one further condition, on my part?"

"Yes?"

"This is now a beer meeting," the President winks: "Because if we're going to stay up and talk more about how we're going to work together, then I really need a drink."

And the two men laugh, and go to get that drink -- not aware that they are being watched every step of the way.

Watched by something that hates them both.

10/30/12

"So, what should we do, sir?"

The young woman in the blue costume is clearly uncertain. She's used to using her super-breath on looters and armed crooks. She doesn't know what to do in a case like this. 

And maybe that's the saving grace, here, Mr. USA thinks as he casts an eye over the barricade they've thrown up around the survivalist compound, ringing a massive, two-story house with shot-out windows. There are several young boys with guns, in there, and they're all pointing them out the window, waiting for an excuse to show their parents that they've learned what they taught them. 

As if to illustrate this, a gunshot rings out. It flies clear and true and strikes one of the police vehicles, parked back up the wooded road. The police yell and back up, but -- to their credit -- do not return fire.

None of them want to be reprimanded for disobeying the Vice President. 

"I think we go and talk to them," he says to Blue Speaker, putting a hand on her shoulder: "Hopefully we can make them see reason."

"And what if we can't?" her last surviving teammate asks. Orange Fire is clearly just wanting to do the obvious thing, and he can't blame him -- not with two of his friends lying dead between here and the house.

"Then you get your chance," Mr. USA says, getting ready: "But you just remember, son. The trail of weapons and explosives you've been tracking since Helena ends here, in that house. If you burn it down to the ground, your evidence is gone, and with it the information we need to stop this secessionist movement from getting the weapons it needs.

"I don't think your friends would have wanted that to happen. Do you?"

The young man blinks, looks askance, and nods. His eyes aren't glowing as brightly, anymore. 

"Alright then," he says: "Back my play. You'll know when the moment comes if I fail."

And, with that, he stands up, and walks around the barricade, heading for the bodies of the two heroes the secessionists struck down, not more than an hour ago.

"I need to talk to Mr. Harris," he says, his voice booming around the trees and mountains.

"And who the !@#$ are you?" one of the older boys shouts, not wanting to poke his head around the window: "We don't allow no salesmen on the property."

That makes the younger ones laugh.

"Tell him the Vice President of the United States of America wants to talk to him," Mr. USA says: "Tell him that there's a full division of Montana's finest right behind me, as well as the friends of the two superheroes he just had killed. Tell him that, right now, he can decide how this ends."

"What if he doesn't want to talk to you?" the older boy shouts, all sass and bravado: "What if we don't want to recognize your authority?"

"Then tell him that one of the men who fought to retake the country from the Imago is here."

That gets some more laughs: "Those !@#$ers? They left us alone, mister. We told them we didn't want none of what they were selling and they left us be. So the way I see it, you didn't retake !@#$. Not up here, anyway."

"Then tell him..." Mr. USA says, taking his mask off: "Tell him that the man who fought alongside him in Korea is here, and wants to talk to him."

There's a full minute of silence. One by one, the young boys leave the windows. 

The front door opens up, carefully. An old man with a long beard and immaculate hair steps out, walking as though his knees had been taken from him in the night, and his leg bones welded together. He throws his legs forward, step by painful step, towards the edge of the barricade, but never one allows his guest to see his pain.

"Captain Eben Harris," the old man says, giving Mr. USA a curt nod: "I didn't think you remembered me, sir."

"I remember your name," Mr. USA says, nodding back: "Eben is short for Ebeneezer, isn't it?"

"That's right," the old man says, smiling guardedly: "My mother liked Charles Dickens. Said she wanted to keep me humble."

"Well, better that than Bill Sikes."

"I guess so," Mr. Harris says, pointedly not looking at the dead superheroes at their feet: "You look older than the last time I saw you."

"Been an interesting couple of months."

"It surely has." 

There's some silence, then, as the two men take the measure of each other.

"So," Mr. USA says, putting his hands out: "We have a problem, Eben."

"I guess we do. You're on my property, threatening me and mine. I'd rather you were gone."

"I'm sure you would, but we can't do that, now."

"Because of these, here?" the old man says, still not looking down: "That's what you get when you send the foolish before the righteous, sir. There are casualties."

"And you don't feel upset about this?"

"Why should I? Those barricades are there for a reason. The signs make it clear we want no visitors. If you're too stupid to hold back when you're told to halt, then I guess that stupidity has a price."

"But you came to us, first," Mr. USA says, taking a careful step forward: "And we had to respond to it."

"What do you presume to mean by that, sir? We keep to ourselves, up here. And we expect the same courtesy."

"That kind of courtesy has to go two ways, Eben. You've been coming down into our world quite a bit, since the war ended. Riding a circuit, going from place to place, meeting to meeting. 

"And what have I been doing on this circuit, according to your people?" Eben says, turning in place as if addressing a crowd in the round.

"According to us? You've been going amongst the secessionists and talking to them."

"Is talking a crime?"

"Not normally. But you're doing more than just talking, Eben. You're plotting."

"Is there a difference?"

"You're trying to talk people into creating a new country, up here in the north."

"No crime in organizing, sir."

"No, but there's a crime in buying and selling certain kinds of weapons, down in our world."

"We have to defend ourselves, sir."

"And there's also a crime in doing anything that would jeopardize the security of America during this crisis."

Mr. Harris smiles and shakes his head: "You know this crisis isn't going to go away. It's going to last as long as you people in Washington need it to. And then there's going to be another crisis, and another, and before long we're all going to be in detention camps, doing the work of your Chinese paymasters."

"You really think that's true, Eben?" Mr. USA asks, putting his hands up a little higher: "Do you really think we sit around in the White House, planning to round up American citizens and put them in forced labor camps?"

"Maybe not all American citizens. But enough. And we know who it's going to be."

"White Americans with guns."

"Proud patriots, sir," Mr. Harris says, taking a step forward: "I got all God's children in that house with me. I got black, yellow, brown. I got two Jews and a Muslim. I even got a Catholic, for God's sake. And they're all in there, with their guns, ready to fight and die for their freedom."

"Freedom from what?" Mr. USA asks, putting his hands down.

"Tyranny, sir. Pure and simple government tyranny."

"How are we being tyrannical?"

"Oh, you follow us from state to state? You send spies into our meetings? You keep files on our coming and going? And then you send some wet-behind-the-ears kids with fancy costumes up here to... what the !@#$ were they doing, anyway? I was having some nice supper with my wife and suddenly I'm told there's two dead people in our front yard-"

"They were following your men," Mr. USA explains: "They bought a half ton of plastic explosives from a man in Helena. That man was one of our men. And we got your men saying some interesting things on tape, regarding what you want to do with all that explosive."

"Well, I don't know nothing about that," the old man says, shaking his head.

"You know all about it," Mr. USA insists: "You talk a lot at those meetings, Eben. You talk about how you're going to carve out a wide territory for yourself and defend it. You talk about armies and insurgencies, and how you're going to lead a life of freedom-"

"That's right, we are," Mr. Harris says, stepping close enough to shout right into the hero's face: "We are not ever going to pay taxes to Washington again! We are not going to be subject to your laws and your nonsense! We can't vote out your boss, so we're going to have our own! And you're just going to have to learn to like it, because a free people will not meekly surrender to criminals!"

Mr. USA nods, understanding: "I see, Eben. Believe it or not, I do."

"Then you tell me what I'm thinking, Mr. Vice-President," the old man sneers: "Let's hear what you think you know."

"When the Imago came, and took over the country, it must have been your dreams come true," the hero says, taking a step back: "No government, no taxes, no laws. And when they asked for your guns, and you said no, they just let you leave. You kept to yourselves and no one bothered you."

"That's right," Mr. Harris says: "The perfect government, if you ask me."

"Yes, until you figure that they were going to take your children from you, eventually," Mr. USA says, pointing to the house.

The old man shakes his head: "I don't know about that-"

"No, you don't. But I do. And I know that, as much as you hate and fear the government, you're a sensible enough man to know that when an enemy's coming that doesn't recognize your political differences, you clasp hands with your enemy and fight for everyone's lives. 

"And I know that the thing that they were afraid of is on its way to Earth, Eben. it's coming here. It will kill us all, including you. And you will not be able to stop it with your guns and plastic explosives."

"Well, we'll see about that," Mr. Harris snorts, looking up at the sky: "I figure if it can bleed, we can kill it."

"You won't get the chance."

"And how do you figure that?" 

"Because we don't have the time, Eben," Mr. USA says, taking a step back up to the man, and looking down at him: "We don't have the time to deal with it and with you at the same time. We don't have the time to deal with you making us weaker when we need to be strong. We don't have the manpower, the resources, or the willpower.

"And after this, here?" the hero continues, pointing to the dead heroes on the ground: "I hate to say this, but we don't have the patience, either. Not for someone who's more upset that his dinner got interrupted than his people shot and killed two officers of the law."

The old man finally looks down at the bodies, and does so for quite some time. 

"So what are you saying, sir?" he finally asks, looking up.

"I'm saying that you need to decide whether I need to kill you, right here and now," Mr. USA says: "I'll be quick about it. I'm not a cruel man. But I don't have the time to debate politics and freedom with a man who wants to stab us in the back when we're trying to come together, again, as a nation. I can't spare the time or the effort.

"And I figure, with you gone, your followers will fold," the hero adds, smiling grimly.

"You think that?" the old man says, closing his eyes: "Do you really?"

"I know that," Mr. USA says: "I saw you in action, Captain. I saw how you rallied people to your side, in that one battle, whatever mountain we were trying to take. I saw how you turned scared boys into fighting men."

"I remember that, too. What's your point sir?"

"My point is that, I know that if I hadn't taken a few of those Chinese bullets for you? Those men would have become boys all over again, and we'd have lost that mountain right then and there."

The old man looks at the hero, nods once more: "You're not wrong, there. I can't help but see that look in my people's eyes. That awful fragility. It's like there's all this broken glass behind their smiles, and sometimes I'm the only one holding it all together."

"I've seen that before," Mr. USA admits: "In war, in peace. Normal people and heroes. People need to be led, Eben."

"That they do. And I shudder to think what they'll do when they don't have me to rein them in, anymore."

"Then come back to us," Mr. USA says, putting out a hand: "You don't like the government? You're not the only one. Things are going to change, and soon, and you can be part of that change. Help us put together an America you'd want to be part of, again."

The old man looks at his hand, and for a second Mr. USA thinks he's going to take it. But then his face twists in a look of utter, total hate, and he pulls something from inside his coat.

"No!" Mr. USA shouts, holding up a hand and trying to put himself between the old man and the sharpshooters up by the cop cars. But he can't handle all the angles at once, and a few bullets get through -- turning the old man's head and chest into wet, red soup.

The man's body flops down by the bodies of the two heroes. The small, black Bible he'd reached for falls from his hand and into their blood.

Everything goes loud and noisy, just then. And by the time the Vice President can collect his wits enough to tell everyone to stop shooting, the house has detonated (courtesy of a half a ton of plastic explosives) and there's nothing left around him but ashes.

And he realizes just how badly he's been played, here, today.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Fool (The FIXX) and having a Strong Dark Ale)

12/22/12 - The Owl - The More I See the More I Fall - pt. 3

12/8/12

"So what do we do, then?" The Owl asks, looking around an overly-opulent conference hall full of American Supers.

The resulting silence is deafening, and disheartening -- especially since they just spent the last couple hours complaining about how things seemed to be happening too quickly, and outside of their control. The Imago being tried, sentenced, and punished. The massive geo-political shakeups that have just occurred. The hideous slaughter that just happened in Israel.

And what just happened to Doctor Power.

And while they could have claimed to have some hand in those things, given that the person who ordered them all here -- SPYGOD -- was somewhat directly involved with them, he was now nowhere to be seen.

(Though, given everything that's happened over the last few days, that might not be so strange after all.)

"Well," the new New Man coughs, raising a hand and addressing the group: "If you don't mind one of the new guys saying something...?"

"I don't mind at all," Gold Standard says, shrugging her shoulders: "I think we're all pretty much new, here."

"Some of us, anyway," an old man with a long beard says: "Some of us are old as dirt."

"Speak for yourself, Brainman," the old New Man says, winking.

"Please, just call me Rakim..."

"Well, you know we've got some new folks, here,," Blastman adds, looking around the room: "But I see that we don't have any of the really new folks. I'm not the only one who noticed that, right?"

He isn't. For some reason, the new wave of American heroes -- the ones who escaped the chemicals in the water, and lived quiet lives under COMPANY scrutiny -- are not here, today, in this quaint St. Louis hotel. The meeting is only what's left of the old hands, their namesakes and descendants, and the occasional reformed villain.

"You know, I think you're right," the old New Man says, leaning back in his chair: "Son, I think you have the floor."

"Well, let's put it on the table, here," the man says, adjusting his sunglasses: "The Owl's got the right verb going. We need to do something. And I'd say that something is form a new group."

"What sort of group are you talking about?" the Shining Guardsman asks: "You mean like the Freedom Force?"

"Not like the Freedom Force, please," Yanabah snorts, crossing her well-muscled arms: "All I ever heard from great-grandfather was how much they argued whether they should do things or not."

"Well, after Korea, you can understand our reluctance," the old New Man says.

"After Korea, you got neutered," Gosheven chuckles, turning his hand into a pair of scissors and making 'snip-snip' motions.

"Now that's not fair," old New Man says, but, having been in Gosheven's head for so long, after the war, he realizes it for the joke it is and leaves it be. 

"Well, it's a whole new ballgame, isn't it?" the new New Man says, gesturing to The Owl: "We were actually making some headway talking with other Supers from other countries at The Z, when the Imago were being dealt with. And one of the things that's changed is the relationship between supers and their government. No one wants to go back to being told what to do by their elected officials, anymore. They want more autonomy, and less of a feeling of being a weapon, or a puppet on a string."

"Which is probably why SPYGOD had us meet here," The Owl adds, looking around: "I bet he's hoping we make something independent and keep it American."

"I bet you're right," Rakim says: "In fact, that's part of why I'm here."

"Other than being invited?" Gold Standard asks, still not quite willing to trust a former supervillain.

"Well, I could have opted out, same as everyone else. But I had the brain computer look at some long-range prognostications, based on current trends. And I think one thing that's pretty clear is that we're going to need some kind of large, national group of supers."

"Why not just go international from here on out?" Blastman asks.

"Well, we may need one of those, too. But if the largest, most powerful group winds up being international, then it's going to fall under the wing of the Terre Unifee. And that's going to mean that any countries that don't join it are going to have their heroes denied membership, or else be used as salespersons to persuade their governments to join up."

"Plus they could always be a little slow responding to emergencies of non-members," Yanabah points out: "Just to be !@#$ers."

There's a little chuckling at her frank assessment.

"America has now joined the TU," Rakim goes on, pulling out a printed report: "Which means that their supergroup is going to include American supers. And since the biggest profile super is going to be really busy for the next four years or so, they're going to pick someone in this room."

"And who knows who that will be," Gold Standard says.

"New Man, actually," the new New Man says, pointing to his father.

The old man blinks: "What do you mean, son?"

"I came to same conclusion," Rakim says, gesturing to the page: "You're a known quantity. You're a former member of both the Liberty Patrol and the Freedom Force, and you were in charge of the COMPANY for a while there."

"Oh please, let's not bring that up," he says, shaking his head: "Worst couple months of my life."

"You're also not too hyperpatriotic or flamboyant," his son continues: "You're well-meaning, humble, and dependable. You won't try to be in charge of the show, you won't undermine or undercut anyone, and you won't go shoving your smart American ways all over the agenda."

"In short, you're perfect for the job," Rakim finishes, folding up the paper and putting it away.

"I don't know whether to be insulted or complemented."

"I'd be pretty darn proud to be in a group like that," Blastman says, straightening his pointy helmet: "You don't want it, I got dibs."

There's some laughter, there, and then The Owl brings it back to earth: "So, excluding the old New Man, and boy do we need to get this name thing straight-"

"Still working on a new one," the new New Man says, smiling: "Your son totally took one I was working on."

"Should we invite him, by the way?" Shining Guardsman asks, pointing a gilded finger at The Owl: "I don't know why he's not here, come to think of it-"

"He's busy," The Owl lies, too quickly for her own liking: "That and travel outside Neo York City's a little difficult at this time."

"Too bad," the gold-suited man says: "I kind of like the idea of having someone along for the ride who can be in a million places at once."

"Well, I can try, but I think I'm too fabulous to split up," Gosheven announces.

"No one asked you," Yanabah snorts.

"No one cares-"

"Children, please," the new New Man says, holding up a hand: "Play nice."

"How about this, then?" The Owl says, gesturing to Rakim: "If we go by what's being predicted by Rakim's machine, and believe me, that thing was frighteningly accurate back in the day-"

"Oh, I remember," Blastman says, giving the old villain a squirrely look.

"Then we do need an American group. And we should do our best to keep it as disconnected with the government as possible. Let the new kids have their orders and see how they handle themselves, and maybe, after time, they can be let in. But in the meantime, we handle the things they're not meant to be tackling."

"Like what?" the old New Man asks: "Getting involved internationally?"

"I mean like the people we used to fight, once," she says, standing up beside the man's son: "What happened in Palestine was a wake-up call for me. I've been so busy dealing with fire trucks and petty theft that I'd forgotten that there's reasons why we exist. Science terrorists, global conquerors, threats too big for an army to handle, even one that's supposedly that of a world government."

"And if we band together, as American heroes, we can do what needs doing independent of that world government," the new New Man continues, nodding at what she says: "Because you know they're going to try and stick their !@#$ fingers into our business at some point."

"What about the COMPANY?" Night Phantom asks: "It really sounds like we'd just be duplicating their effort."

"I don't see the COMPANY lasting for too much longer," Rakim says, sadly: "I don't think we need a brain computer to figure out why, either."

No one wants to comment on that. 

"It'd mean being outlaws, of a sort," Gold Standard says, looking around: "We'd go from being licensed heroes to being vigilantes, again. Some might even call us outlaws."

"Well, some of us started out that way," The Owl points out.

"And some of us used to be that way," Rakim says, nodding to Blastman.

"And some of us don't give a !@#$," Yanahbah says, leaning forward: "There's good and there's evil. If we sit down and do nothing in the face of evil, we become evil. And if doesn't matter why we do nothing, either. If it's fear or laziness or letting some French bureaucrat tell us what to do, it's all the same."

There's some silence, then, and nodding.

"Then we are a team," the young New Man says, taking The Owl's hand in his and extending a hand out to another hero, nearby: "Are you in?"

They all are.

12/13/12

"... I mean, it's unbelievable,"  Martha says over the phone, watching the television in her apartment as a number of internationally-renowned Supers -- including the old New Man -- are addressing the press, right outside the Parisian headquarters of the TU: "Brainman had it right. He even predicted the name-"

"Never mind that," Mark Clutch responds: "Check out what's going down on FOX, right now."

"Oh, you know I refuse to watch that network," The Owl sighs.

"Well, so do I, but Farashuu actually likes it. So we're watching it, and-"

"Is that Skyspear's real name?"

"Um, yes," Mark says, not knowing how much he should say about that: "But we're watching that, and... oh, just flip it over, Martha. Trust me."

"You know I do, Mark. But someone had better be slugging Sean Hannity right in the jaw, or I'm going to be a little upset-"

But she closes her mouth as soon as she sees what's happening.

The camera is outside of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. in Neo York City, looking at the front steps. A massive group of overdressed TU soldiers are moving out of the front doors, their hands on their holsters.

And right behind them are SPYGOD -- who's holding Bee-Bee in his arms -- and Director Straffer, obviously being evicted from their home.

"Yes, this is it," the cameraman says over the loud jeering and boos coming from off-camera protesters: "This is history happening, folks. This man has lived like a king in this city for decades, and now, at last, he's being marched out of his throne room and being called to account."

"Oh my God," Martha says, sitting down: "They're doing it."

"Well, he got charged yesterday," Mark says: "You didn't think they'd leave him there, did you?"

"Well, maybe not," she says: "But wow, that takes some chutzpah. They're putting him out on the street at the same time they're announcing that they're making a new strategic talents organization..."

She thinks for a moment and clicks back to CNN, not exactly surprised at what she sees.

"In these times of trouble, Le Compagnie shall be there," the tall, imposing Frenchman with red and blonde hair says: "We shall salve the wounds and bind the breaks. We shall turn night into day and lost into found. Where there is strife, we shall bring peace, and where there is war or injustice, we shall be the ones to say 'no.'"

There's a great deal of cheering at that, and he smiles -- white and perfect as falling snow -- and raises his hands to them. 

"Men and women of the world, we are your saviors," he says: "Let us help you, and may we all help each other in the days to come."

More cheering, almost enough to make the world shake -- especially when the heroes all step up alongside the man and, in unison, bow or nod to the world.

"And that is the leader of this new group, France's own national hero, Tempete Bleu, speaking," the announcer says: "And we've just received word that, almost coincidentally, SPYGOD has been forcibly removed from his home in Neo York City and is being transported to special holding facilities, there to await trial for his role in-"

The Owl turns the television off. The phone continues to talk. She loves Mark -- maybe more than he knows -- but right now she can't listen to him.

She can only think of what this means for their own group, now, and what it means for the man she's still upset with, but has never stopped respecting.

Or loving like a father, at times.

"Oh please, God," she prays, clasping her hands around the phone: "Please help me to do the right thing, here."

12/22/12

It's three days before Christmas, and Martha is only just now getting her tree up.

She kept putting it off, much to Kaitlyn's chagrin. One night she said she had no energy, and another she said she had no time. The truth was that she really wasn't in the mood, as she'd begun to feel the sadness of a nearly-empty house, bereft of her father, her cousin, their butler.

Her son. 

But then Kaitlyn left a copy of The House Without a Christmas Tree out, right on the coffee table, and Martha realized that her sadness was causing collateral damage. So she sucked it up, and one night they took off for themselves, and they went and bought a tree.

And now she's decorating it herself, looping newly-bought strands of garland over it, along with festive, red and green balls, small tin angels, and the like. She hadn't gotten an angel for the top because Kaitlyn had insisted on making one, herself, but then she didn't think she could have gotten a new one, anyway.

The Samuels family had always topped the tree one of her great-grandfather's angels, cast in brass and lovingly cared for. And it had been destroyed along with the mansion, that terrible night, all those months ago.

She's about to start tearing up at the thought, but she banishes the sadness and goes back to work. She doesn't want Kaitlyn to come home, a bright angel in her hands, only to find her aunt weeping at the base of the tree.

"It's a beautiful tree," a strange voice tells her -- warbling and uncertain.

She spins around 180 dgrees, arms up and ready to strike. And then she puts her hands down, agog at what she's seeing.

It's her son, Thomas, standing before her. Only it isn't exactly him: his form is hazy and indistinct -- more of a hologram than the full physical projections he's been creating for himself.

"How are you?" he asks, his expression somewhat quizzical.

"I'm fine," she says, trying to get her heart rate under control: "I'm sorry. You scared me. I didn't know you could... come here?"

"So for once, I finally snuck up on you," he says, smiling wider than he should be able to: "That means I win the bet."

"I guess it does..." she laughs, weakly: "But that's totally cheating."

"Maybe," he says, and eases himself down on the sofa: "I remember grandfather saying that the only difference between cheating and being sneaky is whether you're the good guy or the bad guy."

"Yeah, I think Grandpa said that, once," she agrees, carefully sitting down next to him.

"He did," Thomas says: "I was three and a half, roughly. I don't think you knew I was in the room. I was sneaking around."

"I may have known you were there," Martha laughs: "Mothers have eyes in the back of their head about that kind of thing."

Not anymore, he says. Something about how she says it frightens her, just a little.

"How are you here?" She asks, hoping to change the subject.

"I'm borrowing a trio of defense communication satellites," he explains: "They're new ones. If I was playing by its rules I'd be appearing behind enemy lines to tell you to surrender, and that we can get at you anywhere. As it is, I'm here telling my mother I love her, and merry Christmas."

"I love you too," she says, smiling: "And Merry Christmas to you, too. But you're a little early."

"Yes. On Christmas I expect to be very busy," he explains: "Things are coming to a head. I need to be ready for them.

"On Christmas? How do you know?"

How many of your heroes are working with the secessionists?

She blinks: "How... did SPYGOD tell you?"

I told SPYGOD, remember?

"Yes, you did. Were you listening in when I talked to him?"

I listen in to everything, Thomas says, his eyes growing wider and darker: I hear people when they talk. I hear them kissing, planning, !@#$ing.

"Thomas, please."

Mark is in love with you, Thomas says: He's sleeping with the African hero, Skyspear, but he loves you.

Martha gasps and sits up, trying to get off the couch without panicking: "Thomas, how dare you tell me this! This is..."

"It's all my business, now," he says, sadly: "Too much. Too many things. I see everything, now. More than I should. More than I need to. But yet I have to be the one to do it. Do you understand?"

She shakes her head: "Thomas, I don't understand. I love you, I want to help you, but I don't understand."

Understand this, Thomas says, and he crackles and vanishes, only to re-appear standing up, by the tree: The darkness is coming. All must stand together against it. But not all that stand together will be together. There will be confusion and chaos. Someone must stand above it to lead. 

"Are you talking about that thing that's coming for us?" she asks, standing up: "Are you?"

Someone must stand above it to lead, he repeats: Be ready. 

And then he's gone, leaving her with an empty apartment, a million questions, and the terrible fear that her son is not acting on his own accord.

A car drives by, playing Christmas music at full blast. She wipes away a tear, takes a deep breath, and starts working on the tree again.

For Kaitlyn. For Mark. For the woman he's sleeping with, but not in love with. For Thomas.

And for herself. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Deeper and Deeper (The FIXX) and having a White Christmas)

12/22/12 - The Owl - The More I See the More I Fall - pt. 2

11/10/12

"...think he'll be fine," SPYGOD says, waving his hand in the air as he lights a cigar with his brain. One of the workers at the uptown pizzeria is about to say something, but then shuts his mouth as soon as he realizes who it is, and gets back to making more pie.

SPYGOD and The Owl are dressed in their civies, tonight, but it's not like anyone doesn't know who they are. After she got back to Chicago, Martha went on television and went public with her identity, promising the city that they could put a human face to the force that would be acting as emergency marshal. 

(And as for SPYGOD, it's a rare person who doesn't know his face, in or out of black leather.)

"I wish I could be that certain," Martha says, crossing her arms as she looks at the man across the table: "You didn't hear what he said to me. How he said it to me. Something... it's like they took what my son was and made a bad copy of him. No emotions, no kindness, no love."

"It's all there, Martha," the man says, putting a hand on hers: "He's just... how the !@#$ can I put this."

"Changed?"

"That's putting it !@#$ing mildly. Kid's been through something that most of us never will. Imagine having your entire consciousness pulled out of your noggin and uploaded into a computer the size of a city. Then imagine that you can remember everything, now, and take every !@#$ing thought and dream that you had, and examine them. Imagine being able to put it all together for the first time, ever.

"That's the sort of state of mind that people out East spend their whole !@#$ lives trying to achieve. And Thomas? He got it done to him. And he's riding the effects, same as anyone else would in that situation."

"And you don't think it's changed him for the worse?"

"Well," SPYGOD says, tapping his eyepatch: "When I put this !@#$er in, my brain melted down. I could see everything, clear as day, including a lot of things we just aren't !@#$ing meant to see. And I know it sure changed me, and it still does, a little every day. But I have my coping mechanisms."

"Yes, I know," she says, watching him chug down the tenth beer he's had in the fifteen minutes they've been here: "But I hope you won't be upset if I say I'd rather my son not go that route."

"Not at all," he replies, wiping the foam from his lips and flagging down the waitress for round 11: "But we talked, and I looked, and I listened. And I think he's going to be okay. He just needs some time to adjust to this."

"And what he said to Mark? About being..." she gulps: "Being a god?"

"'Like unto a god,' I think he said."

"That's still disturbing."

"That's what happens when you get powers, hon. I'd have thought you'd have been around enough supers to know that, by now."

She scowls, sighs, and looks out the window. The streets are bustling with bikers and boarders, all hurtling down the empty streets to their destination.The occasional bus or city truck proves the exception to the new rule of people-powered transportation. 

"I guess change is what we have for stability," she admits, taking a sip of her coke as he gets his 11th beer and puts in an order for another.

"That's the way of our world, yeah," he says, trying to smile: "But... he loves you. And he understands that you're afraid. And he wants you to come back and see him, when you can."

"I don't know if I'm ready to see him, yet," she admits, more than a little ashamed to say it: "What I saw on the news... dozens of him, walking down the streets. It's frightening."

"It's his new reality. He's literally !@#$ing looking in a million directions at once. We had an... interesting conversation about that."

"And it doesn't hurt having a man who can be in a million places at once helping with the crime problem."

"No, it does not," SPYGOD smiles, wiggling his eyebrows: "Crime's down 75%, and at the rate he's going I think he might have it down to 90%, once he realizes what he's really !@#$ing capable of."

"Like?"

"Well, he's still shy about intruding in on people," SPYGOD says, wondering when their !@#$ pie is going to get baked and get to their table: "As well he should be. But when he gets over that, and learns when to be proactive and not just reactive, I think he'll really come into his own."

"It's a fine line."

"It sure is. And I know your father was more cautious about that than I am."

"He was, yes. He felt everyone deserved the right to make the choice. And then, if they chose poorly, we would be there."

She smiles, thinking of her father, and wondering how he would feel about what's happened to his grandson. 

"True. But sometimes you have to be harder than that. You don't want to wait until Chemcrook poisons the water supply to bust him. You have to stop it before it happens."

"Agreed. But what about petty theft? Should he break some kid's wrist before he can slip it into someone's wallet?"

"If he knew it was about to happen with 100% certainty? Absolutely." SPYGOD says, tapping his finger on the table: "Maybe not break it, but a good thwack on the !@#$ing fingers, at least. Worked for me in school."

"If only we could all be so sure."

"Those Nuns were sure."

The Owl shakes her head: "You know, this is going to sound like a terrible thing for a Christian to say, but I never really liked Catholic schools. Everyone I ever knew who went to one either turned out really boring or really broken."

"I think that's the idea," SPYGOD says, smiling as their long-awaited deep-dish comes around the corner, loaded with extra everything: "Ah, here we go. I can't believe you have never eaten here in all the time you've been in this town, hon. This is pie, right here."

"I've had it recommended. I've just never been because, well... training."

"Ah yeah," he says, smiling as he gets ready to cut off a piece: "Couple slices of this will set your exercise regimen back weeks, if you're lucky. But I think it's worth it, once in a while."

"Well, your one-man army does march on its stomach."

"Amongst other things."

She blushes: "Really, (REDACTED)."

"Really, Martha."

"How's he doing?"

"He's great. We got him a new body that's even !@#$ing better than his old one."

"And better at !@#$ing?"

SPYGOD starts. Martha laughs.

"Did you just... you did not," he says.

"I think your bad habits are wearing off on me," she laughs, cutting herself a slice: "Something about the company you keep."

"I'll drink to that," he says, winking as he clinks his beer bottle against her coke glass.

* * *

"So," SPYGOD says, after regarding the empty pie pan for a time: "Team Chicago. How are they doing?"

"Just fine," Martha says, having a sip of her coke: "I was a little worried at first, given how quickly we came together and how much we had to do. But everyone you set me up with has turned out to be pretty good."

"No problems?"

"Eh, no more so than usual. People trying to balance their personal lives with being in costume. Personality conflicts, thankfully nothing major."

"No suspicious activity?" SPYGOD asks, leaning in and looking her in the eyes: "No times when you hear their excuse for being late and know they're !@#$ing you? No apartments full of contraband or money they got for looking the other way?"

"Not at all," the Owl says, leaning in and taking her voice down a notch: "But then, I have to admit I wasn't looking too hard. I figured if you trained them and vouched for them, I didn't have to worry about that?"

"Well, you'd think so," SPYGOD coughs into his fist: "But apparently we have some problems."

"Oh?"

"I've been collecting these kids when they popped up, all along," he explains: "I kept them under the radar, made sure they got training, had someone from the COMPANY keep an eye on them, and then had them ready to go in case of an emergency. Come the day, most of them performed just fine, and we lost a lot of them. Lost a !@#$ing lot of them, really."

"I know," she says, taking his hand in hers: "You did the right thing, (REDACTED)."

"Yeah, well, I'm wondering if doing the absentee team leader was such a !@#$ good idea, now," he says, leaning back: "That's one of the things your son's activities have turned up, Martha. He can see everything that goes on. So he could see certain members of Team Neo York City acting like !@#$ing crooks."

Martha gasps: "You're kidding me."

"I wish I was. I had to deal pretty harshly with one of them, yesterday, but he was just in with the mob, getting paid to look the other way. The other two I got on 24/7 surveillance to see if they go to their secessionist friends, and see where that leads us."

She blinks: "What are they doing, exactly?"

"Money and guns, mostly. But they're also giving them places to stay, and information on vulnerable sites and services."

"That's disturbing," she says: "And I bet you're going to tell me this isn't isolated?"

"No. I have reports from a few other cities that some of their new heroes aren't being too !@#$ing heroic."

The Owl nods, leans back, and considers this.

"In light of that, maybe I should be more forthcoming," she admits: "Two of my team members have been a little off, from time to time. I've put it down to stress and the life, but now that you mention this..."

"What do you mean by 'off'?"

"Weird hours. Being late. Things they don't want to talk about."

"Which could be part of the life, admittedly."

"But could also be suspicious, given what you've told me."

"Do you want me to handle it?" he asks, leaning in and giving her that look.

She looks at him, knowing full well what he means, and shakes her head: "My team, my responsibility."

"Your !@#$ if it goes pear-shaped."

"Well, let's just say I have faith I can pull this off," she smiles, gesturing for the check: "And I don't them to think I have to turn to you to deal with my problems."

SPYGOD smiles: "And you were worried you wouldn't be a good leader."

And Martha smiles, hoping he doesn't realize that her real reason is wanting to avoid dead supers -- even if they do deserve it.

11/24/12

"Aunt Martha?" Kaitlyn calls from upstairs in their apartment: "Are you still up?"

"I am, sweetie," she answers, turning down the volume on the large television she's been watching: "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"I couldn't sleep," the girl says, walking downstairs in her Spiderman pajamas, a blanket wrapped around her.

"Me either," Martha asks scooting over on the couch so the girl can sit down and lean against her: "Is it jet lag?"

"No," Kaitlyn says, looking at the television. On the screen, a man with blue hair and a sad face is answering questions at someplace that looks like a temple.

"Oh," Martha replies, turning it off: "I don't know what to say, honey. This has been a really bad couple of days."

"Is it true about what happened at the White House?" the girl asks: "What they said happened?"

"It's true," the Owl says, shuddering at the thought as she puts an arm around the little girl.

"And is it true about what Uncle Chaos says?"

"Yes, I think so. I wasn't there, but he doesn't have any reason to lie."

"I think it was a miracle," Kaitlyn says: "I think God worked through him. I just wish he could have done more, but..."

"I know," Martha says, holding her closer: "I wish God had done more, that day, too. But I guess we'll learn why someday."

They sit a while in silence, just breathing. For a moment, Martha wonders if she's gone to sleep in her arms.

"Are you still mad at them?" Kaitlyn asks.

"At Mr. Chaos? No, I'm not mad at him. Why would I be?"

"I meant uncle SPYGOD and USA."

"Yes, I'm still very mad at them," she replies, wondering why she didn't bring this up before: "Do you understand why?"

"I think so. I think you're angry at them because they couldn't save Grandpa."

"No, honey," she says, trying to explain: "I mean, that's part of it. But I'm really angry because they broke my trust, sweetie. We say that we're all going to be there for one another, thick and thin. And then they lie and don't tell us things, and..."

She pauses for a moment, not sure how much she should actually say. 

"But you said Uncle USA might have been able to stop what happened that night, at the mansion?"

"I don't know," she admits: "He says... well, he says there was a chance he might have destroyed time, or something. I don't know how true that is. I never played around with it, so I don't know. But I just feel like they could have done something."

Kaitlyn is quiet for a while, and then nods: "I understand."

"I don't expect you to be angry at them, too. That's your decision. But I want you to understand why I don't want to talk to them for a while."

"Do you think they did this to be mean?"

"No, honey, no," Martha says, turning to look Kaitlyn in the eyes: "I don't think they were trying to be mean or bad. They didn't think what they were doing was wrong. But sometimes that's the worst kind of wrong, when you think you're doing the right thing and don't tell other people what's going on."

Kaitlyn nods again: "Are you going to forgive them?"

"I have, sweetie," she says, looking at the dead television: "It's just going to take me a while to trust them, again. And if I can't trust them, I can't work with them. And that's really sad, but..."

She falls silent, thinking about how she's not sure she can trust at least two of the heroes she's in charge of, now, either.

And wondering what she should do about that, now that she can't call SPYGOD if it goes really badly.

(SPYGOD is listening to Wish (The Fixx) and having a Castle Rock Screech Owl)