12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Yanabah) - pt 2

By all accounts, whatever its past -- or maybe because of it -- Richmond, Virginia is a beautiful city.

Though the city may have been all but leveled during the Civil War, it's come back up from the rubble and ashes to become a near-perfect mixture of old and new. Picturesque, historic buildings share the same space as more recent constructions, without either seeming out of place. It's calm and peaceful, efficient and clean, and tranquil to the point where even the most cynical of visitors -- if they listen to the true stirrings of their heart -- would perhaps think of moving there, someday.

It's everything you could want in a State Capitol, and that's what makes this day especially sad.

By the time the Neo York City crew gets to their landing zone, just outside what's left of the State Capitol Building, itself, the immediate area has already been wrecked beyond recognition. The buildings are on fire, the streets are shattered, and heavy objects are flying through the air like rocks thrown by small boys. The calm has been broken by the sounds of sirens, shooting, and screaming.

Lots and lots of screaming.

The secessionists have taken the Captiol area, using the muscle of the turned Strategic Talents and leftover Legion Supervillains to hold and enforce their position. The Governor has been abducted from his mansion, along with his family, and is being held at the nearby Museum of the Confederacy. All available emergency services are too busy fighting fires and dealing with the wounded to mount a real rescue, to say nothing of rolling the armed belligerents back.

And -- just to make things worse -- a large number of the police have joined with the attackers, sensing that a chance to grab hold of their long-denied neo-confederate destiny has come 'round at last.

As for those in costume? They preen and pose, strutting upon the smoldering mountains of rubble like cockerels in near-human shape, and cheering like beasts baying over a kill. The ones long-known to be villains have merely revealed themselves for what they've always been, however hidden or dormant those personae were. And the so-called heroes have shucked their assigned uniforms and codenames for things more befitting their new, chosen identities.

Meanwhile the true heroes of the day -- the ones that held true to their oaths and their station -- lie dead or broken around them, lashed to signs and bolted to walls as warnings to some, and examples to all.

The appearance of much-needed, strategic intervention does not signal the end to the conflict, but merely a different stage within it. Speedsters whirl around the slow-moving, only to be outflanked by other, quick-moving types, and lured into near-endless races of doom. Powerhouses trade blows and fling weighty objects at one another, hoping to wear their defenses down. Those that can fly turn the sky into a protracted dogfight, those with strange offensive powers draw at fifty or more paces, and those with more interesting abilities find their foils and test them.

And as the colorful and the costumed rage on earth and in heaven, the real work gets left to those whose skills lie within darker avenues.

Call them the shooters, if you must: you wouldn't be the only ones. They're the Strategic Talents whose powers and abilities lie not within altered DNA or grossly enhanced bodies, but in their aptitude for ranged combat -- the magic that happens in the space between their eye and index finger. On a normal day, in any other fight, they'd be using their signature weapons to bring down their overpowered foes, knowing full well that they could take what damage they could do -- or maybe not, as the case may be.

But here, today, they are under orders to stun, only, if only because the eyes of the new world are watching.

And so, while the proud and the powerful clash loud enough to shame thunder, the sneaky and underhanded quietly  unleash their F-guns on the enemy combatants. The chittering, swirling rays of orange and purple that overwhelm the senses of anyone caught by them, and bring them down in seconds. Lines of traitorous police officers fall collapse where they stand, still trying to use their now-useless authority. Waves of hidden survivalists and secessionists are likewise brought down to the earth, as even their well-padded boltholes and improvised cover will not protect them from this.

And as they fall down, they are quickly disarmed, disrobed, and left tied up for eventual collection.

That accounts for most of the shooters, but in any battle there are always exceptions. One of those exceptions is stalking through the burning buildings and shattered ruins, carrying two large guns filled with ammunition meant to be used on the new breed of superhuman. Her orders are a simple-sounding task -- one she is uniquely suited to handle, given both her skills and temperament.

Find the new supers and kill them, no matter what.

Yanabah's been on the ground for exactly ten minutes. In that time she's shot no less than three of these turncoat newbies. Each time, she's carefully aimed for the eyes, making sure to put a spent uranium bullet through each pupil, the better to blow their brains out the back of their heads.

Because, while supers may be dense of skin or fleet of foot, eyeballs are hard to armor or protect, and brains are as fragile as a first kiss.

She's been careful, of course. She hasn't engaged anyone who's currently tussling with another Super, just to make sure they don't get any more blood on their uniform. And she hasn't shot anyone in such a way as to get the slaughter on camera. She finds a worthy target, slinks into position, takes careful aim, fires twice -- once from each gun -- and then slides away before anyone realizes where the shots came from.

Three volleys, three corpses, zero sightings -- so far, perfection, and she should be proud.

But as she creeps along, watching her fourth victim as she pummels one of her colleagues down, and preparing to line up that perfect, paired shot that will end her, she can't help but wonder why she isn't feeling more -- or even anything at all. Her heart isn't racing, she's breathing normally, and every time she pulls the triggers (and watches the front of their face blossom violently) she doesn't experience any of the emotions that she should. There's no joy, no pity, no hate, no revulsion.

It's as if she's moving through a scripted introduction for a videogame she's played a million times, and knows too well to be excited, anymore.

Something is missing. Something is wrong. Yanabah knows this, assuredly, but she can't figure out what's happened. And as she ends the life of her fourth victim -- blowing her up and back the second she stands up from her now-unconscious victim -- it's all she can do to go find victim number five, and hope that the answer presents itself in due course.

That's what her father/grandfather/great-grandfather would have told her, she's sure.

If only he was here to say it. 

* * *

"You know, you might want to put that gun somewhere else," Wayfinder says, looking the strange-looking Russian fellow in the eyes.

"No, my friend," the SQUASH operative says, re-adjusting his grip on the very large, Soviet-made pistol -- its barrel just out of the hero's reach, but aimed right at his forehead -- "I am thinking I will keep it on you for as long as we are talking, here. I think it will persuade you we are being serious, and should it not, perhaps I will aim it at your daughter."

Yanabah growls. It's not a pleasant sound, and the two large men standing on either side of her raise their guns reflexively, wondering where that came from.

It's the mid-eighties, and they're in a !@#$ty, chain hotel in southern Iowa, of all places. The COMPANY had them flown in to help with a rather curious missing-persons case -- one that resolved itself a little too neatly for anyone's liking. And, after it was done, the group paid them for their time, and then put them up here for the night so Wayfinder could get some rest.

Only there were three Russians waiting for them when they checked in.

One of them seems to be able to phase through objects, if their rather disorientating rush through the wall is any indication. He's the one doing most of the talking. The other two seem to be standard heavies, complete with staid, Soviet stares and handguns large enough to kill an elephant at 50 paces, and a lack of conversational skills.

But one of them brought a big, heavy briefcase. And Wayfinder knows enough to know what that means. So he knows he has to play for time, at least for now.

Yanabah stands there, dressed in the same kind of work shirt and jeans that he does. Only now she wears the silver and turquoise jewelry, all around her neck. It's both therapy and restraint, at this point.

(But they don't need to know that, do they?)

"So, this case we were working," Wayfinder asks: "That was your doing?"

"Of course," the man says, grinning to reveal a mouth full of bad, brown teeth: "We needed to get you out of hiding, and so we have. How convenient that you must always rest after such an exertion! So we brought you here, where there is only one hotel, and laid in wait."

"I'll tell them to be more careful, next time," the man says, rolling his eyes.

"Except that there will not be a next time, not for your COMPANY, anyway," the Operative announces: "We have a waiting transport. You will come with us, and get on board. You will travel with us back to our space, and we will use your unique skills to our purposes."

"Like !@#$," Yanabah spits: "I don't think you could afford him."

"You see?" the Russian says: "This country is all about money. There is no vision, here, my friend. You seem to be a man who understands about vision?"

"I also understand about freedom of choice," Wayfinder says, leaning up against the dresser. The Russian clears his throat and re-aims the gun.

"It's okay," Wayfinder says: "Just resting. I'm not really able to do more than stand here and talk, if you're scared."

"You will come with us," the man says, apparently not very afraid: "This is a surety. If not for your own sake, then for hers."

The two heavies pick that moment to raise their guns and aim them at her heard. Yanabah growls again, but has made no move to take her jewelry off. Maybe she's thinking they can get out of this without her having to kill them.

Wayfinder realizes there probably isn't, though, and -- cursing himself for doing so -- begins to bring the conversation down a darker, more doomed path.

"And if I say no?" he asks, standing straight up.

"Then we kill her," the man says: "Slowly, in front of you. We have privacy and time. You will watch the whole thing."

"She knew the risks when she signed up," Wayfinder says: "And I won't betray my people for anyone."

(He sees the look on her face. She's aware of what's going on. She's pleading with him not to do this -- not to make her go backwards, to what she was -- but he's steadfast in this.)

"Well, we have also brought the Machine," the Russian says, cocking his head towards the briefcase: "It will be crude, and painful, but we will ensure that we will have a map of your mind, and how it works. Not as good as the real thing, perhaps, but enough to replicate it surgically."

Yanabah growls again -- deeper and lower. The Russian's starting to wonder what's going on here.

"And I suppose you'll make her watch?" Wayfinder asks.

"Oh yes," he says, no longer as sure of himself: "If you wish to go that route, I am certain we can let her hear you scream."

That's done it, then. There's a clinking, almost wet sound as the jewelry falls from her neck and hits the floor. And then there's that howl that has no business coming from a human mouth...

Wayfinder's outside of the hotel room before the screaming starts. He hears a gunshot, maybe two, but then nothing but wet noises. Rending and ripping, tearing and chewing.

The howl that makes his blood run cold.

"Yeah, it's Wayfinder," he says into his communicator, which -- if he'd been thinking -- he would have found a way to tap the moment he realized they'd been ambushed: "We need help. We got held up in our room by three Ruskies. SQUASH Agents, they said. Yanabah's dealing with them right now, but...

"Yes, Yanabah," he repeats as something heavy gets slammed into the wall, just before a new wave of screaming erupts: "Maybe give us a couple hours before we go in, but you better get people here now. I think there may be more of them, nearby. They spoke of a waiting transport. Maybe check the nearby airfield, any airstrips within a ten mile radius..."

The screaming gets too loud to talk, then, so he turns it off and goes back to watching the door.

They had the curtains closed. They're being soaked with blood spatters. He can almost imagine the scene inside the room, right now: pieces of Soviet agents flying all over the room, the wet squelching noises.

The feeding.

"Creator, forgive me," he prays, knowing that this might just take her therapy all the way back to square one, but not knowing how else he could have ended that. Sometimes you just have to use what's there, and make amends later.

That and hope the cure wasn't worse than the disease.

* * *

Not far from the State Capitol, there's some buildings that haven't been set afire, yet.

Some of them are the Museum of the Confederacy, where the Governor's being held, and a firebreak has been established to ensure his safety (until it doesn't matter, anymore). And others are just outside the conflagration, at least for now. No flaming cars, wayward bolts of lightning, or gouts of fire have been lobbed their way, just yet, and any eyebeams have been focused on targets closer to the actual fighting.

So when trio of (mostly) bruised and battered secessionist supers use it to try and escape, they're reasonably sure they're safe in one of those alleys, for now.

"Man, that sucked," a tall, well-muscled woman in a red and white suit says as they walk along: "I can't believe we actually thought we could win."

"Shut it, Red," a long-haired man in black, riding leathers -- covered in Confederate patches -- and a pitch-black, handlebar mustache commands: "You knew there was a risk, here. This is just a battle, not a war."

"They say we're losing," a skinny, blonde man in purple and white says: "I hear the West Coast already went down in flames-"

"Just a temporary setback. You watch. I bet they're pulling the reserves out, now."

"And we're bravely sneaking away to meet them?" the woman says, turning to smirk: "Face it, bro. We got hosed."

The man in black takes a swipe at her, but she parries the blow with something approaching a languid gesture and leaves him to nurse what may be a broken wrist.

"Truth hurts, Confederateer?" the kid in purple and white asks.

"I told you, it's the Black Rider!" the man insists, stopping to stick his finger in the kid's face: "And the South is going to rise again!"

"Yay, racism," the kid sigh.

"Sneer all you want, Purple Haze, but this is a White Man's nation! And the sooner you get with that-"

"Remind me again why we shacked up with losers?" the woman in red interrupts, amused to see the steam rising from their supervillain's head as he walks right through him.

"Orders, hon," the kid says: "And not the kind you can ignore-"

He'd have said more, but then twin bursts from a pair of well-used 50 calibers turn the woman's head into a wet mess, making further conversation irrelevant.

"What the !@#$?" the Black Rider says, ducking behind some trash cans and looking around the alley. The kid just stands there, staring at what's left of his fellow hero on the ground.

Another pair of shots ring out, and the wall behind the kid explodes out at eye-level. He just stands there, looking in the direction they came from, and smiles a little.

"You know, there's a reason they call me Purple Haze," he says, turning just slightly invisible: "That isn't going to work too well on me, whoever you are."

"Where are they coming from?" Black Rider asks: "Can you see?"

"If you shoot that !@#$er, I'll consider us even and let you live," the kid says, taking a half-step away from him.

There's laughter at that, somewhere up the alley. It's not very comforting.

"You little !@#$!" the villain says: "If you weren't untouchable, I'd-"

"Run," the owner of the laughter says: "Now."

He does just that, without saying another word. He gets about as far as the other end of the alley before a single shot gets him, right in the !@#$. To his credit he keeps running, but the howling and pain echo for quite some distance.

And then Yanabah comes out of her hiding place and walks up to the kid in purple and white.

"You're the one who was killing people like me, back there," he says, looking at her.

"I was, yes," she says, smiling, her guns still pointed at him.

"How many have you gotten?"

"With your friend, there? Twelve."

"And I'm going to be lucky thirteen?"

"Well, you're the last one," she says, lowering her guns just a little and cocking an eyebrow: "I guess I'm going to have to try something different with you, since you got phasing powers and all."

"You don't seem afraid of me," he says, dropping into a defensive stance: "Do you just not think I can hurt you? Is that it?"

"Passing through things isn't much of a power," she says, putting the guns away and pulling out a rather large knife.

"Oh, but I can do more than that," he says, grinning as he moves his hands past each other in successive, sliding motions: "Imagine someone reaching into your chest and squeezing your heart valves shut. Or maybe just punching into your brain after passing through your skull. I can do a lot of damage, lady. And all I have to do is touch you."

"Yeah, about that," she grins, putting the blade up: "You come and try, wasichu."

"Now that doesn't sound like a nice word."

"It's not," she says, and lunges forward.

The man just stands there, his arms outstretched, expecting her to pass through him. Imagine his surprise when the knife slams into his breastbone, breaks on through, and cleaves his heart.

He tries to speak, but coughs up blood. He falls to his knees, disbelieving. And the moment he does, she lets go of the blade, pulls out her guns -- faster than anyone should be able to -- and pulls both triggers.

Only one goes off. Shooting the racist idiot must have emptied the clip, clearly. And so the kid falls down with one ragged hole where his eye was, and yet most of his head intact.

"Oh, right," she says, looking for a fresh pair of clips as she realizes the blade's slipped position a little "Phasing powers. But I bet I can shoot all day, wasichu. I got nothing but time, now."

"Why...?" he whispers, his mouth full of equal parts blood and air.

"Orders," she says: "Not that I owe you an explanation, you little piece of !@#$."

"But we're... following..."

"What?" she asks, looking down at him: "What are you saying?"

"We're following orders... also..."

She scowls, leaning down just out of the range of his hands: "Whose orders, pal? The Legion? The Secessionists? They don't count, you little !@#$. You had your own orders, and they were given to you by the COMPANY."

"So were these..." he says, the life fading from his eyes: "SPYGOD... told us..."

"Told you what?" she demands: "What did SPYGOD tell you?"

"To help... revolution... said it would come, and we'd... need to help it... join with Legion... fight the power..."

"Bull!@#$," she stammers, watching him die: "That's bull!@#$! You're lying!"

"No..." he insists, almost choking on his own blood: "SPYGOD... ordered us to... defect..."

She looks at him as he says this. She remembers what Wayfinder told her about the last words of the dying, when lies have no profit, anymore.

She realizes that everything this man had said is true.

It doesn't stop her from blowing the top of his skull completely off the second he dies, but she's screaming when she does it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cold Warning (Gary Numan) and having a Betrayal Imperial Red)

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (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) 

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Green Fury)

Los Angeles, California
5:47 AM

It's a quiet, Christmas morning in Bellflower, out in the areas where there's nothing but block after block of apartments. The Sun hasn't poked over the mountains, yet. Joggers are just stirring for their morning run, the only vehicles on the road are those with extremely early commutes on jobs don't get today off.

And three people in fairly ratty plainclothes are standing in front of a drab, two-story apartment building, getting themselves ready to kill a superhero.

"We sure about this?" Duane Redman (aka Blue Diamond) asks, looking around a little nervously: "I mean, can we actually do this?"

"We talked about this, man," Charly Mendez (aka Red Thunder) says, poking him in the shoulder: "This is what it's all about, right here."

"But, if you want to walk away?" Xadrian Kowalski (aka Purple Fist) adds, looking down at him: "You could still go."

"I could?"

"Sure thing, brah. I mean, it's a free country. That's what this is about, right?"

"Well, yeah," Duane says, still nervous: "But-"

"And after today? No one's going to be around to care about everything we've been doing for the movement. They'll either be in jail or dead, right?"

"Yeah, that's what I mean-"

"Except that we'll have to tell them that, when the moment of truth came, you ran," Xadrian interrupts, putting a very large hand on Duane's shoulder: "And while I'm sure Charly and I can take care of this little faggot, ourselves? Well... that might not look so good, going forward."

"Oh," Duane says, wishing he'd taken the time to !@#$ before this.

"Yeah," Charly says, poking Duane in the ribs: "You talked the talk, bro. Time to walk it."

"Or start running," Xadrian says, squeezing the kid's shoulder just a little too tightly: "Because we will let them know what you didn't do, brah."

"Okay, man," the hero says, feeling a lot less heroic today.

* * *

The sad thing was, it didn't have to be this way.

When the Reclamation War was over, and the Imago defeated, America had a choice. It could have gone back to the same, broken system it had before, or it could have gone a different direction. A direction in which the Federal Government was a small thing, and where the states had the real power. A direction where taxes weren't onerous, success wasn't punished, and meddling in others' affairs wasn't some kind of perverse virtue.

A direction where America was strong and brave -- just like the Founding Fathers had intended. 

They could have gone that direction, especially now that -- thanks to the massive influx of costumed heroes that people like SPYGOD had been hiding for years -- the country no longer needed a massively-expensive military to safeguard its borders and interests. Why build tanks when you had men and women who could smash cities? Why create fleets of aircraft when you had flies to patrol the skies?

All you needed was a sensible body to keep them under control, and surely the states could figure that out?

But no. No sooner were the metal-plated aliens defeated than the President of the United States came back from the dead, speaking of one nation, one people, and one government all over again. He spoke of putting the whole sobbing, expensive mess back together, warts and all. He promised Federal aid, Federal oversight, and Federal meddling out the wazoo.

He promised a return to the old ways, and didn't want to hear about anything else.

Unfortunately for him, the Imago had done at least one thing right in their time as global overlords -- they left the independent types alone. All the neo-Confederates, off-the-grid folks, extreme survivalists, secessionists, and refusers had their persmission to take off for the wilderness and build their own, better societies. So long as they left their guns and didn't leech off the electricity, the Imago were happy to see them go.

And in those wildernesses, by themselves, they built their own heavens on Earth, free from Federal tyranny. 

So when the President -- who was never their favorite person, anyway, having usurped the Oval Office -- returned from the grave, bringing a return to status quo as some kind of weird gift from above, it wasn't just a case of being denied a long-seated desire for independence.  They'd already had their taste of true, total freedom. They'd supped long and deep of it.

Too long and deep to meekly hand it back over, now that the things that had let them be were defeated.

Fortunately, they weren't the only ones unhappy at this turn of events. It turned out they had allies they never even knew of: rabidly-angry patriots, no longer willing to trust a broken government to save them from threats from above, and former super villains from the Legion, eager to remain free and wild in this new, post-invasion world.

And -- most tantalizing of all -- young heroes within the new influx who were, for one reason or another, all too willing to sign up with the secessionists, and fight from within to bring down the resurgent American government.

So ideas were exchanged, hands were shook, and deals were struck. Guns and explosives were secretly shipped up to the areas where the survivalists and secessionists held sway, and when the independents sent their people down and over to get more, they did so with strategic talents riding along. And with each passing day, the ranks of the secessionists became larger, more powerful, and better-armed than what Washington had to offer.

But that wasn't enough. It never is. 

You can have all the smart and sane preparations for a noble war that you want, but you need to have some kind of just cause for it, or else you wind up looking like belligerents when they write the history books. Imagine the Revolutionary War without the Boston Massacre, or World War II without Pearl Harbor.

Thankfully, they were able to engineer one. 

After the "Moltz Lake Massacre," the anti-Federal movement had its just cause. Pictures of Captain Eben Harris went up everywhere. The story of how his compound -- containing entire families -- was destroyed by the Vice President, himself was circulated everywhere. Terrible photos were spread hand  to hand, and broadsheets and underground newspapers circulated in every city and town in America, and as the Feds went crazy trying to tamp down on the "truth," they went and did the worst thing possible.

They played right into the Secessionists' hands by joining with the Terre Unifee -- on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, of all days!

Following that announcement, it was only a matter of time.  Plans were brought forward. Reserves were activated. All the pieces and people were moved around the board, and made ready for go as soon as possible, while the anger and fury was still a white-hot, palpable thing. All they had to do was agree on the best, soonest day to do it.

And, as fate would have it, the next best day was Christmas, when everyone would be occupied with celebration, family, and mourning.

So the jobs were handed out. Some had to attack, some had to defend. Possible allies were listed, and people made ready to approach them just before the real fighting started. Definite enemies were also listed, and others prepared to detain or dispatch them before they could cause problems. 

Amongst the chief preemptive targets were those new Heroes who would not side with the new order, to be dealt with by their own teammates.

And that, in a nutshell, is why three young men and women were getting ready to kill the person they'd been fighting alongside for about a month and a half. Not because they all hated him, though some did. Not because he was evil, though some considered him to be.

But because, for whatever reason, John Paulsen (aka Green Fury) was not at all sympathetic to the secessionist cause, did whatever he could to uphold Federal law, and had warned his team before that, the next time he had reason to suspect them of improper dealings, he was going straight to the top with proof.

For those offenses against the revolution, Green Fury was to die, here and now, before the conflagration he would have tried to stop could get off the floor. 

* * *

They've practiced for this, the three of them. They've taken notes on his strengths and weaknesses, what he can and can't do, where he will and won't be looking. They've prepared themselves to do this, time and again. All they have to do is work as a team and it'll all come together. 

That's the plan, anyway. 

Charly's the teleporter. She'll flit into his apartment, faster than thought, and find out if he's in his bed or not. He's not a quick riser, as they know, so he'll most likely be there, still smacking the snooze button on his alarm. 

Once she knows where he is, she'll teleport back down here, and get Duane (who can't be hurt by most things) and Xadrian (who can hurt almost everything). Then she'll flit them all up to his bedroom and take him by surprise.

With any luck, Xadrian will be able to smash the little !@#$er's head flat before he can realize what's happening. If he does, then Duane will just have to do his thing, putting himself between John and the others while Xadrian works to get in that one, lucky shot that will take his head off his neck.

Again, that's the plan. There's a few things that could go wrong, and maybe they would have been better off just planting a !@#$ bomb under his pillow, like their contact in the Revolution had suggested. But they were concerned about the other people living there, collateral damage, and the like. 

They're supposed to be heroes, for God's sake. 

* * *

"Yeah, they're here," John says into the small communicator, looking down at the street as his three "friends" make ready to come and kill him.

"No, I think I can handle it," he says, trying not to freak out: "I know this is bad, but I know how they think and how they fight. I think I'm good.

"Yeah," he says: "You're right. But if anything happens...?

"Okay, you got it," he finishes: "God bless you. Good luck to you, too."

And then he closes the communicator, puts it away, and checks his supplies one last time. He says a small prayer, hoping God will hear him, today.

"Man," he says, looking at the cross he's got around his neck: "Of all the days, why did it have to be your birthday?"

And then quickly leaves his bedroom for the living room, tossing something behind him as he closes the door and jams a damp towel in the crack with his foot.

* * *

Charly flits in, the air rippling around her, giving the reason for her name. The moment she appears at the foot of his bed, she sees a long, lanky form under a blanket, and smiles, assuming it's him under there.

She doesn't know it's just a body pillow and a bunch of wadded clothes under a sheet. She's not going to know, either. 

She takes a deep breath, getting ready to teleport. But the moment she starts to exhale, she starts gasping and choking, as if she swallowed something too big to handle. 

Knockout gas is normally rated 1 through 10. A 5 will knock out most normal adult humans. 8 is about as high as a normal adult human can handle without suffering extreme systems shock. 10 is what they use for rampaging zoo animals, inhuman monsters, and space aliens on a tear.

Charly just took a 12.

By the time she hits the floor, she's so deep in a coma that she'll need a team of doctors working on her skinny !@#$ for at least a month to bring her around. If she's lucky.

* * *

Xadrian and Duane stand ready for their teammate to return. But as the seconds pass by, they get increasingly nervous. 

Finally, Duane looks at his watch, scowls, and spits: "Something must have gone wrong."

"You think?" Xadrian says, shaking his head.

"How did something go wrong?"

"No idea," the big guy says, pointing to the other window of John's apartment: "Guess we're doing it the hard way, then."

"Oh no."

"Oh yeah," Xadrian grins, grabbing his teammate by the belt and the back of his shirt and looking him in the eyes: "You know you want to do this."

"Not like this-"

"Too late, brah!" Xadrian shouts, spinning around and around faster than anyone has any business going, and then -- at just the right moment -- launching Duane right at the window in a demented version of a Fastball Special.

* * *

Duane goes right through the glass like a wrecking ball, just barely landing on his feet. 

He takes stock of the situation really quickly. The bedroom door is shut, and the bathroom door is open. The room seems empty, except for furniture and books. 

And a weird looking white rod, just sitting there on the table.

Give Duane this, at least -- he's not stupid. He does not walk closer to it. He knows what it is, and why it looks like an owl.

And he knows exactly what it means, too. 

"Oh man," he says, about to shout to Xadrian for help, because if she's here then they are so !@#$ing !@#$ed right now-

But he doesn't so much as get out another word before the voice-activated sonic grenade goes off. And while his skin may be impervious to bullets, blades, blasts, and blunt trauma, his eardrums are not made of similarly stern stuff. 

Every piece of glass in the apartment shatters. Duane screams as he holds his hands to the sides of his head, not liking how they've become bloody fountains under his palms. As he kneels down, a steady stream of vomit gushing from his mouth, the last thing he sees before he goes unconscious is John -- wearing a gas mask/earpiece combination of some owlish make -- walking from the bathroom to the bedroom door, opening it up, and then walking over to what's left of the apartment windows.

And if he'd been awake, he'd have seen John wave to Xadrian, and hold up a two fingers in a "peace" salute. Or maybe he's just saying "two," as in "two down."

There's a funny kind of irony, there, but whatever the sonic grenade hasn't shut down, the somewhat-dissipated knockout gas finishes off, and within seconds he's gone, daddy, gone. 

* * *

"Son of a !@#$," Xadrian grunts, shaking his head as his teammate flashes him a faggy peace sign and walks back into the loud darkness.

He knows he should just run. He's got other things to do. They can write this off and just go ahead, really. What could he do to stop them, really?

But Xadrian does not run. People run from him, not the other way around. And he'll be !@#$ed if, after all this is over, they make jokes about how he backed down from a fight with this limp-wristed traitor.

"Alright, then," he says, taking a running leap and jumping up into the apartment, right through the same hole he sent Duane. 

The sonic grenade's down to a whimper, so he steps on it, smashing the table as he goes. But then the knockout gas makes itself known, and he has to run back to the window to get a gulp of fresh air before going back in to find his teammate. 

Of course, that's when he gets kicked in the !@#$ -- so hard he actually feels his tailbone crack. 

He turns around to see John standing there, hands up and ready to fight, wearing some goofy facemask that looks like it came from one of those stupid Anime things that Charly was always going on about. That's clearly the thing to aim for, then, but as soon as he reaches out to take it John's ducked and punched him in the ribs, the breadbasket, and then the jaw.

The jaw was one blow too many. The second John realizes how much that actually hurt, Xadrian grabs hold of his arm and flings him up against the wall. He soars and crashes through the cheap faux-wood, and slumps to the ground.

Right about then, Xadrian realizes something is seriously wrong. He looks down and sees that there's something poking out of his stomach. It looks like a metal throwing star, only somewhat owl-like in design.

"Son of a-" he says, and then the Owl Bomb explodes, knocking him off his feet, back through the window, and out into the street.

John gets up, ever so slowly. He's sure nothing is broken. He's bruised all to !@#$, though. And when he walks over to the window to look down and see what's become of Xadrian, he's limping just a little. 

Of course, that's when he realizes he's made a mistake. He doesn't see Xadrian's body lying in the street. Instead the man is hanging onto the ragged edge of the blasted hole by one hand, and is now swinging up with the other, reaching for the mask.

John leans back very quickly, snapping a kick to the face off. It crushes Xadrian's left cheekbone, but the large man's raging too much to let pain stop him. He's going to charge and smash forward until John's dead, and only then allow himself to collapse into the agony these injuries are causing him.

And that's when John realizes he's got to take it up a notch, after all.

* * *

"You see, John," Martha said, leaning over him for what seems the tenth time in five minutes: "The mistake you're making is that you're not surprising me."

"I'm not?" John sighed, trying to get up off the training mat. Martha smiled and offerd him a hand, but he'd learned what that led to, so he smiled and got himself up, which got a larger smile from his trainer.

"Nope," she said, putting her hands up into a defensive stance: "Every single thing you're doing? It's been done before. I've seen these kinds of moves a million times, so I  know how to block them all."

"So what's the solution?" he asked, wondering what he should do here.

"Show me something I haven't seen," she said.

"You said no powers."

"I did. This isn't about powers. This is about what happens when your powers can't get you out of it."

He sighed. Since they'd struck up a friendship -- and he'd confided in her about his suspicions about his teammates -- she'd insisted on teaching him a few things, just in case. He'd been glad of the offer, but so far all he was learning was how to eat mat.

"So, I should just... improvise?" he asked, trying to spring his steps a little.

"That's a start," she said.

"You look like a chicken, doing that," the Talon said, over by her perch, doing her homework.

"Well, maybe that's what this is," he said, sproinging up and down like something from a silly fighting game: "Spring Chicken Kung Fu."

Martha smiled, ducked down, and made to sweep his feet out from under him. He jumped the sweep and brought his elbows down towards her head, which she ducked expertly, but not without some surprise.

"See?" she said as he got up from tasting mat yet again: "That's what I'm talking about. A little quicker and you totally would have hit me."

"I think my chicken's cooked," he sighed.

"I think we're cooking," Martha grinned: "Now, how about you try to duck me?" 

And he did, however painfully. But day after day, he went down less and got up faster. Before long, he was able to surprise her once a day, rather than every so often. And then she showed him things that he didn't even know existed, in spite of the in-depth training he'd gotten in SPYGOD's hothouse program.

So much so that, by the time she considered him "halfway decent," he was having a hard time concealing his new tricks from his suspicious teammates, just because they were so efficient compared to what they'd been using. Sometimes, when they fought crooks and criminals, he felt like he was wading through oatmeal, and felt almost guilty about pummeling skels with clumsy techniques when he could just turn them off with a few nerve strikes.

But deception was also a martial art -- and one that could pay off better than any combination of strikes and feints. 

* * *

Xadrian screams and leads with his left fist, hoping to take John by surprise.

John slips to the "wrong" side of the blow, seemingly exposing himself to more damage from the other fist, and jams his left thumb right into the spot between Xadrian's jaw and his neck -- right into the lumpy bits.

Xadrian's eyes go wide as dinner plates and he starts to stagger, bundling John with his right arm as he tries to take him down.

John goes limp and brings his right hand down onto his opponent's face, flattening his nose with his palm so hard that something breaks under it.

Xadrian reaches up with his hands and slams them onto either side of John's mask, splintering it and leaving a very nasty cut on one side of John's face.

John howls in pain and returns the favor, striking Xadrian in the temples once, twice, three times until the man's eyes start to bug out. 

Xadrian tries to get his hands around John's windpipe, but the pain from the jab in the neck finally catches up to him and he finds he can't breathe too well. He can't really focus with a smashed maxilla and a mouth full of blood, either. And as soon as he realizes he can't see too well, on top of everything else, panic sets in and he chokes, stumbles, and falls down onto his chest.

John, for his part, does a perfect Spring Chicken Kung Fu stationary jump over his lurching opponent, landing right in the man's back and hearing something crunch under the balls of his feet. A vertebrae or two from the sounds of things.

Xadrian coughs, tries to say something -- "faggot," probably -- and then goes under from the pain and shock. He's still alive, but he's not getting up anytime soon.

"Oh God," John says, realizing how badly cut his face up. That's going to need stitches, maybe staples. Still, he's in better shape than Xadrian, and Duane...

"Oh no," John says, heading over to Duane, who is quite dead and still, having choked on his own vomit. The look on his face is horrific, and it's all John can do to kneel, say a tearful prayer, and close the man's eyes.

He fumbles for the communicator as he goes into the bathroom, looking for where he keeps the first aid kit. 

"Yeah, it's me..." he says, weakly.

"How'd it go?" Martha asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Not good... I mean, I beat them. But..."

"Are you seriously hurt?"

"No," he lies, wincing at the bloody gash and wondering where the bottle of wound sealant is.

"Are they?"

"Duane... Duane's dead," he says, getting ready to flush the wound with antiseptic: "Xadrian is not getting up again. And I think Charly took the full dose of the knockout. She was breathing last I checked her, but..."

He grits his teeth as the antiseptic does its thing. He's aware that Martha's talking to him, but he can't quite make out the words, until she says "You did the right thing, John."

"Did I?" he asks, thinking of the look on Duane's face.

"You were under attack," she says to him, her voice as strong as steel: "You defended yourself. You did not seek this confrontation. They did. You did everything you could to protect yourself. And by protecting yourself you defended others, because if you're not there to defend them, who will?"

He nods, realizing it's the same mantra so many other heroes have told him.

"So, did you defend yourself?"

"I sure did," he says, drying the gash out and getting ready to spray it full of sealant: "But they might not see it that way."

"Well, the ones who survived can discuss that with the authorities," Martha says: "And I just heard that they're on the move in your area."

"Then I better get in costume, huh?" John says: "Are you moving, too?"

"Already did," she says: "Talon took care of our little problems for us. I'm moving on their customers as we speak. So you'll have to pardon me, but-"

"Martha?" John says: "Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome," Martha says: "Next time you see me, we'll pray for them, together. But right now, you give them all the hell you've got to give. Got it?"

"I got it," he says: "Green Fury out."

And then he screams as the sealant turns his gash into fire.

* * *

Not five minutes later, Green Fury's out on the street in his uniform. The battle he fought in his own apartment for his own life is behind him, now. What's ahead of him is uncertain, but he knows he can face it for what it is.

And maybe he'll be able to surprise them, after all. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Climbatize (The Prodigy) and having a Furious)