12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 4

10:20 PM

"... and that's about when it all went wrong," Myron is saying, holding Yanabah's water bottle as Randolph stands nearby, rather fascinated by how this conversation has gone.

Not that it's much of a conversation; so much of it has been Myron talking while Yanabah just sits there, mumbling as she comes out of a bad drunk. But he gets the sense she's been listening, through the fug, and comprehending on some level.

"So, near as I can tell, that thing took my creativity," Myron continues, wishing he had a big !@#$ drink to go with this story: "Every time I've been screwed up, or screwed over? I've always thrown myself into some project or another. It's how I process it, or at least how I put it into the back burner until I can process it."

"That would make sense," Randolph interjects: "As long as I've known you, you've been tinkering with one thing or another. I guess you sitting all alone and doing nothing should have been a warning sign."

"Yeah, well, don't feel bad for not coming to help out," Myron says: "And I mean that, Randolph. The COMPANY sent some shrink and the only reason I let him in was because he threatened to have me !@$ing kicked out of my own apartment."

"Not like anyone'd let you into theirs..." Yanabah mumbles, looking up and over.

"It lives!" Randolph says in mock shock.

"Call the media," Myron chuckles.

"Too late," Yanabah sighs, pointing at Randolph.

"I'm off the clock, tonight," the reporter says, smiling weakly: "But I would like to hear more of this story?"

"Yeah, well, what's there to tell?" Myron sighs, handing Yanabah another small glass of water: "As soon as I realized what was wrong... well, as soon as someone made me realize what was wrong, I got up off my !@#$ and did something about it."

"That was the day before Christmas?" Randolph asks.

"It sure was. And I know you were busy."

Randolph coughs: "Yeah, you could say that."

"Weren't the only one," Yanabah says, casting a withering glare at Josie, who's been lurking just inside earshot this entire time.

"So I got back to work, catching up on my pile of projects. And, between that and some better social choices, and a lot of alcohol, I feel a !@#$ of a lot better."

"We got cursed, you dumb !@#$," Yanabah snorts, sipping at the water: "Can't drink your !@#$ way out of that."

"Well, here's the thing," Myron says, leaning in: "The deal was that we lost something precious, right? And that's what was animating that... thing in the White House. Right?"

"Right," Randolph says, nodding as he gets how this works.

"So the moment that thing wasn't in the White House, anymore? The moment SPYGOD did what he did? Where did those somethings go?"

Yanabah blinks -- once, and then twice.

"Then why the !@#$ haven't I felt better?" she asks.

"Same reason I didn't. I'd fallen so !@#$ far down without it that I didn't notice it was back."

 "You know, that makes a lot of sense," Randolph says, nodding: "Kind of like when you put a frog in a pot of water and slowly heat it up?"

The two of them look at him, and he coughs: "Not that I ever did that, but..."

"I think he's got it," Myron says, grinning: "So, all you have to do is figure out what it took, and then go looking for it. It's there, you just have to make it your own, again, somehow."

"You make it sound so !@#$ing easy," Yanabah sighs, spitting some of the water up.

"Well, it isn't. But it sure beats spending the party having to be forced sober."

"Or insulting people you don't know," Randolph adds.

"I know you," Yanabah says, giving him a very cold eye: "My Great-Grandfather told me about you."

"What did he say?"

She just smiles, taking the water out of Myron's hands and leaning back in her chair, perhaps a smidgen less drunk that she was: "Go and ask him."

Josie laughs at that. It's not a good-sounding thing.

"Well, on that note?" Myron says, getting to his feet: "I need to go find Skyspear and tell her what I learned. I'm sure she's stuck in some rut, too."

"Yeah,  well, I think that might be ending," Randolph says, pointing over to some of the other couches, where Mark and Skyspear are clearly not sitting together, anymore. Skyspear's got a hen party going on, and Mark's sitting all by himself, clearly dejected and looking around as if waiting for someone to come in.

"Duty calls," Myron says, looking down at Yanabah: "But you know, I never got a chance to tell you thanks for the Ice Palace. I wasn't in a good place, then, before or after we did that thing. But you came through on so many levels it's not even funny."

"Really?" she asks, just sort of looking up at him.

"Totally. I ever have to gamble the fate of the world on a suicide run into an ex-Supernazi base that's been taken over by aliens? I want you there backing me up."

"Because you secretly like me?"

"No, you're a nasty !@#$," he says, leaning in: "But you're our nasty !@#$. And I'm glad to have you on my side."

"!@#$ you, paleface," she snorts, flipping him the bird. But there's no edge to it, and he smiles, bows theatrically, and walks away.

"Nice guy," Josie says, coming closer: "You could do worse."

"Not my type," Yanabah sighs: "All yours."

"Not mine, either," Josie chuckles, looking at Randolph.

"No comment," he says, putting up his hands and departing the conversation.

"So, we cool?" Josie asks, making sure no one's listening.

"I think so," Yanabah says, not looking up at her: "But just for the record? Next time you !@#$ing toss me into the grinder without telling me what's up first? I will kick your sorry, pink !@#$ into the sky. And then I'll shoot whatever the birds don't eat."

"It's the nature of the grinder, Flower," Josie says, grinning and walking away: "Ought to be used to that by now?"

"!@#$ you," she mutters, glad the water's no longer fighting to come up when she sips it.

She looks around her, then, at the party she's been a stumbling wreck for most of. All the people talking, drinking, dancing, laughing. All the things starting, continuing, and ending.

The whole human drama, unfolding in miniature right in front of her, and she's been too !@#$ed up to handle it.

She remembers when she knew her grandfather / great grandfather / father was dead -- how she just knew he was in pain, then dying, then dead. She remember how all the pieces of her soul handled it, and somehow channeled their rage / grief / acceptance into one direction, and kept going. How she persevered, knowing she'd have time to mourn later, but needed to complete the mission now, or else his death would have been for nothing.

But she also remembers what a waste his funeral was, for her. How she couldn't handle being a part of it. How she stood on the outside of the circle while the rest of his family chanted and prayed.

How she couldn't even set foot in his house, or look at his grave from a distance.

His family -- her family -- had opened up to her. Anything she needed? Done. Anything she wanted? Brought. The People knew how to handle death, tragedy, and grief. They'd been dealing with it in overtime, ever since their lands got overrun, all those years ago.

How had she repaid them? Scorn, fury, and threats. And they got the message !@#$ quick, backed off, and left her alone.

Until she was ready for their help.

"Pride," she says to herself, looking at the water, remembering what Wayfinder told her that one time, after she'd killed and eaten those SQUASH idiots that'd tried to abduct him.

And, remembering that, she resolves to try and find it again, once her head no longer feels like something took a massive !@#$ in it. 

10:48 PM

"Yeah, well, that's how that goes," SPYGOD says, his features distorted slightly over the Nthernaut's projection: "He should have known better than to get involved with one of his own operatives."

"A sensible precaution," Faraj says, his hands behind his back as they converse: "But you must know that, in matters of the heart, not everyone has your... restraint."

"Are you saying I don't feel for my people?"

"Oh no, friend. I know you love them all. But there are many different kinds of love, and sometimes they wear each others' faces. Sometimes we don't know which is which until it's too late."

"Well, that's probably true," SPYGOD says, casting a glance at Straffer as he talks to folks he hasn't seen in far too long: "All the same, as long as I've known Ju-San, he's been mooning over that !@#$ alien robot. And the more he wanted her, the sloppier he got."

"And that's never happened to anyone else, ever," Faraj observes: "Not at all."

SPYGOD looks at him, knowing exactly what he means: "You !@#$ing suck, Faraj."

"I do indeed," the man smiles: "And receive few complaints."

"Question is, what the !@#$ are you going to do about Ju-San?" SPYGOD asks, taking advantage of the Nthernaut's optics to see where the man in question is, all the way across the floor (still dead to the world): "Man's got his !@#$ hands on all the big !@#$ things you're going to need when the !@#$ hits the fan."

"Not anymore," Faraj says, leaning in closer: "I've already made arrangements, in anticipation of this. The Organization is now under the control of the Space Service. Call it our Japanese Branch, if you'd like to. All their weapons and wonders are under our control."

"And Ju-San?"

"Also under our control," Faraj winks: "I think losing his woman and his job will force him into being useful, once more."

"You might want to be really !@#$ing  careful," SPYGOD says, looking back at Faraj: "He might not look it, but that man's !@#$ing dangerous. And that's saying something, coming from me."

"It usually is, but that has also been calculated," Faraj sniffs: "If he goes to his contacts, they will be neutralized. If he tries to take things back, he will be neutralized. And if the Organization doesn't like it, well, they're used to a total turnover every time their leader is dead or deposed. So this will just be business as usual, only instead of the head of the Japanese government deciding on their replacements, it will be me."

"And the President of the Terre Unifee."

"Provided I ask him in time."

SPYGOD just stares at him for a moment, and then smiles: "Man, you are one !@#$ ruthless son of a !@#$, Faraj."

"Would you trust the defense the Earth to anyone else?" Faraj asks, holding out his hand, quite pointedly, for a shake: "I'm not here to make friends and play games, (REDACTED). I'm here to make certain the human race lives to see this time, next year, at least. Any other consideration is secondary."

"And thank !@#$ for that," SPYGOD says, shaking it: "You do what you gotta do, man. I'll back your play."

"Good to know," Faraj says, and then -- sensing that he's hogged enough of the man's valuable face-time --  heads off to go talk to Straffer, who's in-between admirers.

"I hope I am not intruding?" someone asks SPYGOD, and he turns to regard the man: old, tall, and flinty, with a full, silver beard and thinning hair, dressed in a suit sharp enough to cut through steel. Black leather gloves. A wooden cane.

German accent. 

"Do I know you?' SPYGOD asks, a little uncertain.

"Aha! SPYGOD does not know all?" the man chuckles: "We have talked many times over the years, you and I. We just never met face to face, nor did I ever allow you to see mine."

"Jaeger?" SPYGOD says, almost disbelieving: "I thought you'd..."

"Oh, I did," the man says: "Officially. So far as my Government knew, I went down on the first day of the Invasion. The Imago's proxies blew up the building my organization was housed in when they took the Bundesrat."

"I wonder how they !@#$ing knew that?"

"They knew far too much, my friend. That much is clear. And I think this was a lesson I needed to learn. Even after all these years, some things are just never going to be as much of a secret as I'd like them to be."

"So why are you here, then?' SPYGOD asks: "Are you out of the game?"

"Oh no. I think it's time I played a new one," the old man smiles, extending a hand, somewhat carefully: "But before I did, I wanted to meet you face to face, this once."

"Why?" SPYGOD asks, extending a hand to shake the old man's.

"Because, the last time we did this, it was as enemies," he says, shaking it firmly, his eyes closed: "And now I hope we can be friends."

SPYGOD blinks. Twice. Then he gasps and almost takes a step back.

"You...?" he says: "Then... that wasn't...? We weren't?"

"I am still not certain about a great many things," the old man says, holding onto SPYGOD's hand: "Did we dream of that dinner? I never had a chance to ask my colleagues. We separated, not long thereafter."

"And we !@#$ing lost the Major the next day," SPYGOD admits: "And I never really asked my other friend..."

"But if you and I both remember it, then perhaps it was true."

"Perhaps," SPYGOD says, taking a step forward and putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "My god!@#$ contact in Die unsichtbare Direktion. All this !@#$ing time, and I never knew."

"You know you never did tell me what was so funny about our name," the old man says, winking.

"Eh, I don't think it !@#$ing translates well. But this is... wow. Jaeger. Wow."

For a moment they're both at a loss for words. Who hugs whom, first? Who can say, but before long they're embracing and laughing, like long lost friends. 

And maybe they are.

11:04 PM

"No, really, I can eat this," Rakim (sometimes known as Brainman) says, munching on the cheeseball from the somewhat perfunctory table of food, his long beard going up and down as he chews.

"But it's got bacon on it?" Shining Guardsman asks, looking quite out of place in his uniform and helping himself to some pizza slices.

"No, they're Bac-Os," the man explains, pointing them out: "I'd recognize that weird, cornflake-like texture anywhere, brother."

"So?" 

"So, they're not only vegetarian, they're also vegan," Rakim explains: "There's no bacon in them at all. Not even in the flavoring. They're Halal, Kosher, you name it."

"That's crazy," Shining Guardsman says, shaking his head: "Learn something new every day."

"Well, you can't say this party hasn't been educational," Blastman says, walking up and drilling Rakim with a stare.

"Cheeseball?" the man asks, gesturing to the badly-mangled snack food as the Guardsman decides to take his pizza and flee.

"Yes, you are," the hero says, scowling as he walks away.

"Hmmm," Rakim says, and has some more, wondering how long he'll need to ignore this stupid !@#$ before his former arch-enemy realizes what Rakim figured out a long time ago.

(A long time, he figures -- Blastman was never too bright)

"Anything good over here?" someone asks him. He turns to look at a lovely young lady, dressed in a red and white dress uniform.

"Oh, we've got everything," he says, gesturing to the table: "I was just explaining the virtues of this lovely cheese and bac-o ball, here, but I think the audience was more interested in the pizza they brought in."

"Oh, Sal's?" she asks, digging in to get a piece: "They went all out, didn't they?"

"I guess they did."

"Did you try some?" she asks between munches.

"Oh, I can't," he says: "It's got pepperoni."

"Oh, vegetarian?"

"Muslim," he says, smiling.

"Oh, okay," she says, nodding: "Well, you don't mind if I chow down, do you?"

"Of course not," he says: "It'd be a sad and lonely world if I couldn't eat with people who don't share my dietary restrictions."

"Oh, thank God," she says: "I've got some friends who get all up in my face about it."

"Now why would they do that?"

"Oh, I guess I'm hurting their feelings," she shrugs: "People are weird, sometimes."

"Very. I'm Rakim."

"Florence," she says, shaking his hand: "Red Wrecker when I'm on duty."

"Well, I used to be Brainman, but I'm trying to get away from that."

"Oh, you were..." she stops for a moment, and then nods: "You used to be a villain, once?"

"A long time ago, yes. It seems like a long time ago."

"So what changed?" she asks, getting another piece of pizza: "I mean, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Well, believe it or not, it was my hips," he says, smiling weakly: "I know for most people it's prison or a near death experience, but for me it was having my pelvis decide that my criminal lifestyle wasn't worth supporting, anymore."

"Really?" she asks, grabbing a chair and sitting down, and indicating that maybe he should do the same.

"Oh, it's okay. I like standing up, actually. I spent a lot of time sitting around. Still too much time, really."

"So, your hips?"

"Oh yes. They were painful. It hurt to sleep, it hurt to sit, to stand, to walk. It was pain all the time, everywhere. And the worst thing was that all the people who were supposedly my allies? The Legion? They just told me to deal with it myself."

"Didn't you have money?"

"Oh, if only! All my money went into my inventions, my dear. I was what you'd call a gadgeteer. All gizmos and cheap tricks. I had the Brain Computer to help me plan crimes, and all these tools to do them, but all the money went into making bigger and better tools, and fixing the computer every time it broke. Which was often."

"So no money."

"No. No money," he sighs, getting another cheese cracker: "And when I finally did have enough, it was all I had. And there I was, in the worst hospital in the city, dealing with the worst doctors and the worst recovery time. And that meant waiting around for them to be ready for you. Waiting to be healed up. Waiting for therapy. Waiting forever.

"And having all that time to sit around? To realize that all the bad choices you made brought you to a small, concrete room with bad curtains, and a succession of roommates you don't like who just wants to talk about all the petty things he's going to do when he gets back out? That's a punishment in and of itself. Worse than prison, really."

"So I realized, after they finally let me out, that this was one of those moments that I had to learn something from. And I did, I think. I decided to better myself, somehow, and for me that meant Embracing Islam."

"And then everything got better?" she asks, winking.

"No. I was still poor and living out of my secret lair with all my broken toys, but at least I had spiritual peace again," he says, smiling: "And then Mr. USA had to come bang on my door and get me back in the game, however reluctantly."

"And now you're a hero?"

"Well, I'm trying," he says, noticing that Blastman is still glaring at them from across the party: "I guess I'm as much of a hero as others are going to let me be."

She nods: "I think I'll let you be a hero," she says, somewhat sagely.

"Really?"

"Totally. A lot of the people I came up with, in this hero program? They went over to the other side on Christmas. Now I'm running with people I don't even know, half the time. No one's sure of anything, anymore."

"Well, neither am I," he admits.

"No, but at least you'll admit it," she says: "And that's a !@#$ of a lot better than some of these jerks in here."

"If I still drank, I'd drink to that," he says, grinning.

"Well, they won't let me drink, yet," she sighs: "But when I do? I'll have one for you."

And they shake on that -- fast friends in the making.

(Much to the chagrin of one onlooker, at least)


(SPYGOD is listening to Coming Up (The Cure) and having an Arrogant Bastard)

12/25/44 - Le Réveillon - pt. 2

* * *

premier cours

oie rôtie avec farce orange et gelées de pommes de terre

* * *

"Oh man, this is !@#$ing incredible," (REDACTED) says, ripping off a hunk of the massive, fragrant roast duck for himself, just before Faust -- who's risen to carve for the others -- can get to it. The others just roll their eyes and laugh, somehow knowing that's just the way he is.

(Though how they know is not any more certain than this place, here, or how two groups of sworn enemies are willing to sit and eat a meal with one another.)

"Good of you to wait, my friend," Faust says, smiling as he forks him some potatoes and stuffing to go with his duck: "I presume all would care for some?"

"Oh please," Major Force says, making a show of being polite, and realizing that his subordinate just does not care: "You're the one who carves at home?"

"I am," Faust says with a smile, making sure the man gets a good measure of what's on offer: "Well, it's been a while since I've had that pleasure. I've been rather busy, these last few years."

"Same here," the Major admits, waiting until all others are served before having some of his own. Faust serves Lightning, then Heimdall, then Nacht-Maske, and then himself. 

"Should we say grace?" Lightning asks: "I feel like we kind of skipped that part."

"I don't remember whether we did or not," Nacht-Maske agrees, looking around: "We just sort of were drinking, I think. And then the waiters brought the food."

"Well, if no one has any objections?" Faust asks, bowing and looking around -- especially at (REDACTED), who's scarfing down his plate. The man realizes all eyes are on him, stops chewing, and then nods.

"Sorry," he says: "Big family. If you waited you starved."

"I think we are in no danger of that," Nacht-Maske says, bowing his head and delivering it. 

The prayer is a simple one:

Vater, segne diese Speise
Uns zur Kraft und dir zum Preise.
Hilf, Gott, heut und allezeit,
Mach uns bereit fuer die Ewigkei

Amen

"Amen," Major Force and Lt. Lightning echo. (REDACTED) has already tucked back into his food, which -- as the others soon discover -- tastes as amazing as it looks and smells.

* * *

"I just think I've had much of a choice in things," Major Force admits, his mind reeling from the taste sensations he's enjoying: "I was in the Army before the war started. Everything since then's just been a big blur." 

"Why did you join the Army?" Nacht-Maske asks, pushing his plate away, as he plans to save room for dessert. 

"I just felt it was the right thing to do, though... if I'm honest? My father was in it. And so was my grandfather. And his father before him. We've had an unbroken line of men in uniform in my family, all the way back to the Civil War." 

"Which side?" Lightning asks, smiling a little. 

"The right side," he replies, clearly not wanting to elaborate. 

"You know, we'd get along a !@#$ of a lot better if you'd !@#$ing open up more," (REDACTED) says, shoveling down a succulent piece of duck, stacked high with gooey potato: "That's the one !@#$ thing that's bugged me since you joined up with us. It's like we're holding out our hands and you're just batting them away."

"It's not a leader's place to be friends with his men, Sgt," Major Force rebuts: "I have to be alone and above. If I come down to you, then it becomes harder to rise above you when I need to. And I can't lose that edge. Not in peace, not in war."

"I cannot disagree," Nacht-Maske says.

"I can't disagree more," Faust replies, getting some more duck: "I think you need to know when to be steel and when to be skin, yes. But a leader can be both. Especially when men are demoralized and uncertain."

"I'd love to see you ask Der Fuhrer to be soft and meek," Heimdall snorts.

"We don't need him to be. He is our symbol of our nation, which should be the rock upon which we stand. But though we lead for him, we can still be human beings. That's how I do it, anyway."

Lt. Lightning smiles, thinking of the last pieces of advice his father gave him before he went off to Boot Camp. General advice any man might give his son, along with the most important ones at the time -- how to take orders and how to give them.  

And how to lead from behind. 

* * *

les treize desserts

* * *

And then comes dessert: deceptively simple at first, and then more complex.

Plates full of crisp nuts and dried figs give way to succulent, fresh fruit -- the first some of them have seen in months. The apples, oranges, pears, and grapes are eagerly devoured, and then replaced by further delights, most notably black and white nougat, warm spiced bread, and light thin waffles.

Finally, a yule log, which everyone seems to have just enough room for a slice. Coffee, tea, dessert wines, warm milk...

"So..." Nacht-Maske says, barely able to think from all the food he's eaten at this table, this night: "After the war?"

"I'm going back home, finding the best woman I can find, raising a family, and telling my kids to go be better than they started out," Lightning says, patting his chest and wondering how they made this amazing coffee.

"That is all that's important to you?" Heimdall asks.

"Well, let me put it this way," Lightning says: "I get out of this war, I got another one waiting at home. Same one I left, really."

"Is it really that bad for you at home?" Nacht-Maske asks: "We were told you and those like you were all over the place. It's what we're supposed to tell our men, anyway."

"Oh we are, but we're treated like dirt under your foot. Basically, most folks would rather we just stayed invisible.

"Like, for example, back in town? You all are fighting us, and our men are stretched tighter than a bed at bootcamp. But you know what all the soldiers like me are doing right now? Driving !@#$ cars and cleaning up mess halls. They trained us to fight when we joined, but they won't give any of us guns and tell us to go fight now, because the rest of the men won't have it."

"A tragic waste of resources," Faust says.

"That's what I said. So yeah, I want my children to be better than this. I want them to earn their way, but I want them to be allowed to earn it."

"Hear hear," (REDACTED) says: "My people got the same !@#$ when they came over. No one wanted any Italians doing a !@#$ thing for them-"

"Or the Irish," Major Force chuckles.

"Yeah, well, maybe if they got sober enough to work," (REDACTED) shorts: "But at least we could pretend to be something else. My friend Rob, here? Good !@#$ing luck with that."

"So you may win a war here, only to have to fight another one at home," Faust says: "A sad thing. I wish you well in that."

"Not that you're going to win, of course!" Nacht-Maske quickly adds, which makes everyone laugh.

"I do not think the war will end for me," Heimdall says, still working on his spiced Christmas Bread: "I see myself fighting for Der Fuhrer until the day I die. I imagine it will be overseas, perhaps in your streets in America. Or perhaps in Asia, when we finally turn the tables on the Japanese."

"And what happens there?" Nacht-Maske asks.

"I think I will finally meet a worthy adversary, and he will best me. I will die happy to have met him, knowing my death will be avenged."

And he goes back to eating, hoping no one realizes all that was a lie. 

"Ah, that's !@#$ing crazy," (REDACTED) says, cutting some more Yule Log for himself: "I'm gonna kick !@#$ until they say we're done and then go back to New York City. And then..."

He thinks for a moment, and then shrugs and goes back to eating.

"And then you don't know?" Major Force asks, disbelieving.

"I haven't !@#$ing thought that far ahead yet," he admits: "I guess I'm too !@#$ing much in the here and now, you know?"

"I know how you feel," Nacht-Maske admits: "I keep thinking I'll get home to Berlin, and party like there's no tomorrow. I say I'll burn down the officers' clubs with my antics, maybe get disciplined, busted back down to corporal. But I just don't see it."

"You think you're going to die?" Lightning asks.

"No. Maybe. I don't know," the man sighs: "It's hard to see, you know? Ever since I got the power, the more time I spend in the darkness, the more it calls to me. Sometimes I dream I've died and gone to hell, but then I wake up and realize I went into the darkness when I slept, even without my mask on.

"One day, I'm afraid I'm going to forget to wake up."

That sours things a little, and there is silence for a time.

"I don't see a future for me, either, " Major Force admits: "Maybe that's why I can't open up to people, (REDACTED). I feel like I'm just passing through. I don't want to weigh you down with a memory."

"Too !@#$ late for that," (REDACTED) says, and there's some laughter at that.

"My wife will never worry, and my children will never want," Faust says, gesturing for one of the waiters to bring him some more coffee: "I will be the best father they could have. The best husband. And hopefully, in the future, they will remember that everything I did, I did for them."

"I'll drink to that," Nacht-Maske says, and all glasses of dessert wine or coffee are brought together for that.

It helps him forget that his fears are even more bleak and terrifying than he's willing to say.  

* * *

assiette de fromages

* * *

 "So this is the Reveillon?" Heimdall asks, helping himself to a slice of something gooey and tart.

"I guess so," Lightning says: "I had some people back in Paris tell me I had to go to one, when Christmas or New Years' rolled around. Now I see why."

"What the !@#$ does that mean?" (REDACTED) asks, not sure about some of the cheeses the others are enjoying.

"Well, it's a traditional feast amongst the French," Faust explains: "Reveil means 'wake,' which they use because they eat so !@#$ late. You gather your friends and family, and eat a wonderful meal, and stay up as late as you can."

"Does that mean we're friends, now?" Nacht-Maske asks.  

"Aw !@#$ no," (REDACTED) snorts: "I mean, no !@#$ing offense, but as soon as we're done here, I plan on killing your kraut !@#$es. I don't know how this happened-" 

"I've been wondering about that, myself," Faust says: "This is like a dream, isn't it? The sort where you're having lunch and suddenly your first school marm makes you a sandwich, and you talk for hours about something you never had in common, but yet you did." 

"The waiters all have the same face," Heimdall announces, looking around: "The stones are the same pattern, over and over again. The torches make the same swirls of flame, every minute, like the workings of a clock." 

"And you didn't tell us this before because...?" Nacht-Maske asks, to which Heimdall shrugs and has some more of the gooey cheese.

"So this is a dream," Lightning says: "Not a bad one, really. But !@#$ if I know what it means-" 

"It means we're family," Major Force answers: "Brothers in arms, I think. No different than any other soldier, just different sides of the war."

"I like that," Faust says, clinking his glass to the Major's: "But it still doesn't explain what we do next."

"Kill or die?" Heimdall asks, maybe a little too eagerly. 

"Fight and live," Lt. Lightning says.

"Maybe learn something to take back with us," Nacht-Maske hopes.

"Maybe go get some !@#$ing answers," (REDACTED) says, getting up from the table and, once he remembers how to walk, heading for the area where the waiters are bringing the food and drink from: "I'll be back. Gotta take a !@#$."

He wanders all the way down the hall, growing smaller and smaller as he does. How far down does the hall go? 

(And would anyone stop him if he just !@#$ed up against the wall?)

"He's quite a fellow," Nacht-Maske says to the others, once (REDACTED) is no longer visible.

You have no idea, a voice says to them.

They all turn to look at the being that spoke those words. The shock and surprise on their face is a palpable thing.

"How..." Major Force asks, looking around. They are no longer alone: all the waiters that have been serving them have appeared from nowhere.

And they all know them -- every single face is totally familiar. 

"Mien Gott..." Faust says, suddenly realizing something.

In a sense, yes, Werner. But that's not important now. We have other things to talk about, you and I.

Heimdall inexplicably starts to scream, reaching for his eyes. And then- 

* * *

 Der Faust die Vaterlandes and Sgt. Shatter stand in front of each other, shaken by what has just occurred. 

The blonde man's silver hands are gone. Sgt. Shatter's blade is also missing. And everything around them is dust and ashes.

It is as if they were in the center of a bomb blast. The trees are on fire, the snow is turning to steam, and everything around them for a mile is flattered and smoldering.

(Including the tanks they'd come to destroy.)

Lt. Lightning is cradling Major Force, saying things that (REDACTED) can't quite make out. Heimdall is knocked out cold, and Nacht-Maske is picking him up and spiriting him away, back into the darkness.

For a second, the only things in the world are those two men. There's no hate or anger on their faces -- only puzzlement and shock.

They know each other, somehow. Did they meet once? Did they have dinner together, somewhere?

Do they actually know each other's names?

They take a step back from each other. As they do, Faust's hands reappear, as does (REDACTED)'s sword.

The two men look at one another, and their extremities. And then they look back up again, and slowly nod.

"Merry Christmas," (REDACTED) says, reaching out a hand to shake.

"Froliche weihnachten," Faust says, taking it in his and giving it a firm and friendly pump.

And with that -- slowly, and with many looks over the shoulder -- they both walk away, back to where they came from. The war can keep for the night. 

It's Christmas, after all. 

* * *

The Battle of the Bulge went on until the 25th of January, 1945, but Bastogne was the turning point. When Hitler's primary offensive was shattered on the weight of the Allies' air and ground power, it was all the Wehrmacht could do to stumble backwards in an orderly fashion.

It's been said that was one of the major turning points of the European Theater. But maybe that's just how we deal with the fact that 100,000 Americans died to make that happen.

One other good thing: faced with incredible odds, certain people got their heads out of their !@#$es and let African-American men take up arms and fight, which led to the desegregation of the American armed forces. And about !@#$ing time, too.

Nacht-Maske was recalled to Berlin following the American breakthrough on the 25th of January. It's said he had a private meeting with Hitler, but no one knows what was said or ordered during it. All that's known is that, after that meeting, no one ever saw Nacht-Maske again. Not even ABWEHR, after the war.

It's like he vanished into thin air, or maybe something else.

Lt. Lightning survived that battle, and kept on going. After the war, he went back home, got a good job, got married, had kids, became a superhero, got divorced, wrote a best-selling autobiography, got remarried, had more kids. He died happy, surrounded by friends and family who loved him and thought the world of him. He was a veteran, he was a super hero.

He was a man. 

Heimdall surrendered to the Allies after Germany's surrender. Unfortunately, he surrendered to the Russians, rather than the Americans, and they scooped his eyes out with a rusty spoon before his trial. No one's really sure what happened to him, but rumors of a blind German prisoner in a Gulag made for "Super War Criminals" persisted up until the late 70's. That could, of course, be bull!@#$.

No one's sure what happened to his magnificent gun. 

Major Force died at the end of the Battle of the Bulge. He strode into a column of enemy soldiers and knocked them down until a bullet finally returned the favor. He was the last member of the Camp Rogers crew to die in Europe, and would later be recognized as America's first strategic talent.

He never told his fellow STs his real name. They had to find out by visiting his grave.

  

Der Faust die Vaterlandes disappeared into the war, shortly before Germany's surrender. He was last seen defending Berlin on the west, as the Soviets approached, and may have simply been annihilated during their advance. Or perhaps he saw a chance to get away, once he realized all was lost, and went back to Dusseldorf to find his wife and children. One can only hope he found them alive.

Rumors persist of his possible involvement in West Germany's postwar, anti-Soviet Strategic Talents program, but no one from that organization (or what remains of it, today) will confirm or deny anything. 

Sgt. Shatter may or may not have won the war in Europe for the Allies, depending on who you listen to. He went on to do several secret missions in postwar Europe, taking on both ABWEHR and the Soviets. He should have died several times -- due to both the odds and his own recklessness -- but somehow kept on going, as if someone was watching out for him.

Which is why, in the early 50's -- when it was decided that having superheroes running around with military ranks they hadn't earned was bad for morale -- a certain Warrant Officer from New York City was sarcastically codenamed "SPYGOD" by his handler. By all reports, he didn't like it at first, but, by the time he became the handler, the name had become as well-weathered as an old glove, and he kept it.

But why he doesn't use his signature superpower -- the basis of his wartime codename -- is not a subject he cares to bring up, these days.

(SPYGOD is listening to Le Huron Overture (Andre-Ernest-Modeste Gretry) and having more of that god beer)

12/25/44 - Le Réveillon - pt. 1

December 25th, 1944
Bastogne, Belgium
21:45

At night, in the forests surrounding Bastogne, there seems to be nothing but darkness.

The moon's waxing gibbous, and the skies are clear -- thanks to Patton's prayers, or so they say. But in the trees there is still snow, and when a good, strong gust of wind blows, the world turns into a dark and grey void. A cold and utter emptiness, within which nothing exists but the self, and one's thoughts and fears.

And the sound of terrible battle -- raging even on this night.

Moving silently through those trees are three men, all dressed in winter camouflage. They're some distance behind the front lines, stealthily advancing on the German flank. They have orders to deal with the tanks that the Allied bombing can't quite dislodge, after which they're free to deal with any other targets of opportunity that happen to wander into them.

Like the group of soldiers they just quietly dispatched, here in a slight depression they stumbled right into.

"That was scary," Lt. Lightning says, shaking his still-crackling hands in the cold: "For a minute there I thought they had us cold."

"You had to !@#$ing say that, didn't you?" Sgt. Shatter laughs, making his sword glow a little less.

"Laugh if you want, (REDACTED)," Major Force says, looking at what was left of the three men he battered without even having to touch them: "I told you to look where you were going. We should have died, here."

"Speak for your !@#$ing self, sir," Shatter replies: "Mama's angioletto's getting back in time to carve up some !@#$ Christmas rations tonight if I have to !@#$ing kill every !@#$ kraut in the valley."

"That's not on the menu tonight," the Major says, not really caring for his subordinate's tone, but not caring to yell at him about it here and now: "Where are we, Rob?"

"About a mile away from the target, sir," Lightning answers, looking around: "This direction, I think."

"Must be great to be your own !@#$ compass," Shatter says, making his sword go completely dark as he takes point, again: "I'll signal if I see something."

"That'll be a novelty," the Major hisses: "I swear, (REDACTED), it's like you're blind in one eye or something."

And the Sgt. -- really a Warrant Officer, same as the rest of them -- chuckles and moves forward, wondering how many more Germans he can "accidentally" stumble upon before his CO gets suspicious.

Or how many more it'll take before it's just him and Lightning, again. 

* * *

Halfway up a hill, overlooking the Strategic Talents' objective -- a group of tanks, hidden under camouflaged tarps -- a trio of black-clad men stand and watch.

"How close are they, Heimdall?' asks a tall, blonde man with silver fists.

The small, balding man with the large, complicated rifle looks through the scope again, and then over it, focusing his glittering eyes on the target: "A mile and a half away, Faust. There are three of them, in the trees."

"Can you recognize them?" the third member of the party asks, a smooth, black mask hiding his face -- with two bright stars for eyes -- and an officer's cap on his head.

"They do not appear to be wearing their uniforms under their coats, Herr Nacht-Maske. But one of them is the madman with the sword. The two behind him I am not certain."

"Can you get them from here?" the man with the silver fists asks.

"I can. And with the bullets I have, I can kill them all with one shot."

"Your command?" Der Faust die Vaterlandes politely asks the man in the dark mask.  

"I must admit I am torn, dear Faust," he replies, walking towards them with his hands behind his back: "On one hand, I wish to fight them, and test our mettle against these American heroes. I think it would do our men a great deal of good to see that they can die like any other soldier."

"And on the other?" Faust asks, trying not to smile.

"On the other, I would very much like to get out of this cold and back into the officer's mess. The meal they have prepared for us this night will be a splendid thing, and I do not wish to miss it."

"Are you more worried about the meal or morale, Herr Nacht-Maske?"

"Both, in truth. It would do the officers well to see us amongst them, do you not think?"

"I think I can make out one of the others," Heimdall says, squinting his eyes: "And if so... Herr Nacht-Maske, I am thinking the one in the back is the schwarze."

Faust raises his eyebrows, and the bright stars in the other man's mask narrow and burn colder: "Are you certain?"

"I am," he replies, wondering if the man truly doubts his abilities.

"Well then," Nacht-Maske says, bringing his hands out and rubbing them together: "We have no choice. Your bullets would destroy them all, and Der Fuhrer has ordered that, if possible, we are to bring that one back to Berlin, alive and in chains."

"Really?" Faust says: "What of the others?"

"Oh, them we can kill and arrange any way we wish, though I think our scientists would like at least some of the parts for study. But after the last Olympics..."

No more needs to be said. 

So Heimdall gets up from the ground and, in a few speedy movements, has broken down his fantastic weapon into something a lot smaller and sharper. Faust has unclenched his hands, feeling the waves of force emanating from them.

And Nacht-Maske -- the primary political officer for all of Germany's Ubermenchen -- reaches out to take their shoulders, and then leads them into the dark spaces between worlds.

And then, hopefully, to victory.

* * *

Sgt. Shatter feels it before he sees it. Things get a lot colder, and the darkness ahead of him isn't because of snow.

"Duck the !@#$ down!" He shouts, leaping backwards and igniting his sword for all its worth. Lt. Lightning runs to the Major's side, hands as bright as fire as he gets ready to hurl his namesake at whatever enemy's on the way. And Major Force turns and looks right behind them, knowing that's where the enemy's actually going to attack from.

His instincts save them all from instant death. When Heimdall leaps from the darkness, wielding something sharp enough to slice through the trees on either side of them, it's only a burst of kinetic energy from his outstretched hands that deflect the blow, and send the short man hurtling back the way he came. 

"Wilkommen Sie bei Bastogne, Amerikaner!" Nacht-Maske announces, striding from an impossible angle and hurling burning, black globs of night at everyone he can see. His shots go wild, but they're not intended to hit their quarry -- just keep them off-balance.

At the front, Sgt. Shatter gets out from behind the tree he ducked behind and gets ready to kill someone -- anyone. This is hardly the first time he's gotten to throw down with these super-krauts, and it won't be his last, either. He just needs for the !@#$er in the mask to stop sliding in and out of shadows, that's all.

Before he can get good angle on the man throwing the dark, he hears something right behind him. He turns and sees a tall, blonde man with silver hands -- gauntlets of some kind. And the smile on the man's face makes it clear that he's been his intended opponent all along.

"Guten Abend, Schwertkampfer," he says, hands up and ready to box. 

"Let's !@#$ing do this," (REDACTED) spits, and spins around, ready to test this man's metal against his. 

(REDACTED)'s sword is his will, made manifest by something that even the people at Camp Rogers could never figure out. Faust's gauntlets, by some weird coincidence, are the exact same thing -- taking the place of his crippled hands.

And when they collide-

* * *

"Okay, I know from beer," (REDACTED) says, holding up a pewter tankard in the direction of Faust's: "And this is !@#$ good beer."

"You Americans know nothing of beer," Faust laughs, but clinks his against the man's anyway.

"Are you kidding me? I got enough bathtub brewers in the family to know a good dark when I drink it, you dumb !@#$."

The blonde man raises an eyebrow, and then laughs uproariously. So do the other four at the table in the long and cavernous, torch-lit stone hall they've been drinking in since...

Since they can remember, really.

"I forgot, you all got rid of your alcohol for a few years there," Nacht-Maske says, looking somewhat plain and ordinary without his strange mask: "How could you have done this?"

"Bad mistake," Major Force sighs, having a sip of his own.

"Well, I don't know," Lt. Lightning says, swirling his around: "I think the temperance movement had a point, but it should have been voluntary. You should have had a choice. Not made it law."

"It's always the place of those who know more to see that those who do not are called into correctness, though," Heimdall says, putting his empty flagon down so one of the passing servers can fill it for him: "This is why we have moral leaders, to make us follow morality. Otherwise, we become nothing more than beasts."

"But Helmut, they took away their beer," Faust insists, waving his flagon: "We didn't even do that to the French."

And there is laughter from all parties on that note.

* * *

Hors D'oeuvre

huîtres à la sauce échalote

* * *

"We came up with Patton, when he !@#$ing got to town," (REDACTED) says between bites of oyster: "Mostly just doing damage control at the !@#$ front line. You know, 'this far and no farther.'"

"Further, Sgt.," Major Force chides him: "We'll teach you how to speak English someday."

"Mangiare merda, mafanculo," he replies, making a gesture that's unquestionable in any language. The Germans all laugh at this. 

"I did some time down in Rome, so I think we're on the same wavelength," Faust says.

"And since then?" Major Force asks.

"We were sent to the frontline in order to bolster morale, and provide a counter to your activities," Nacht-Maske admits, still picking around his course: "Der Fuhrer is counting on this being a decisive blow."

"Well, too bad our General knows how to pray," Lt. Lightning says.

"Yes, I heard about that," Faust says: "Did your Patton really make all your fighting men pray for good weather?"

"He did, and it worked, Fist of the Fatherland."

"Well, that's quite the claim Lt. Lightning."

"Oh, !@#$ it," (REDACTED) says between bites of oyster: "It's (REDACTED). I had enough of this codename bull!@#$. (REDACTED) from New York City."

"Werner," Faust says, raising a glass: "From Dusseldorf."

"Helmut," Heimdall admits, his eyes glittering like diamonds: "Strassfurt."

"Heinrich," Nacht-Maske states as he also raises his tankard, smiling as if enraptured by the brew: "Berlin."

"Robert," Lightning says, also raising his tankard: "Small town outside of Lexington with no name."

"How does your town have no name?" Major Force asks.

"Someone burned down the sign on account of it was full of people like me," he says: "So, way we figured, if they don't know what our town's name is, they can't come looking for us. So we stayed incognito."

There's laughter at that. And then the subject changes once, then twice, and yet again, and still no one's gotten around to asking Major Force his name.

And he does not offer it.

* * *

Soupe

soupe de haricots et de jambon

* * *

"I really didn't want to go, to be honest," Major Force admits, his face looking somewhat eerie under the flickering lights of the torches on the walls: "When they told me I was special, well, I sort of looked them in the eyes and asked 'what do you mean?' And then they said that I had one-of-a-kind physical qualities. The kind they were looking for. The kind that could help win the war."

"That's never a good thing," Faust nods, understanding all too well.

"So they ordered me to report to Camp Rogers, and next thing I know I'm getting injected with this stuff, along with five other people. I'm the only one who lived through it, but once I did, well, they fine-tuned it a little, and then brought in more people-"

"That's us," (REDACTED) says, slurping down his soup and hoping for more, provided he can flag down one of the mayfly-like waiters in this joint.

"And everyone's looking at me like I'm their older brother, or something. And all I want to say is that I don't know any more than they do, but the camp commander tells me I'm the leader, so... I lead."

"And a fine job you do of it, too," Nacht-Maske says, raising his tankard: "I've heard of your exploits. Every one of us has. You and that one fellow, Colonel USA?"

"Oh yes," Lt. Lightning says, tipping a wink to (REDACTED).

"I don't know why you always !@#$ with me about him," the man sighs: "He's a good guy, (REDACTED) is. You know he's got your back."

"There's something about him I just don't like," the Major says, shrugging.

"Jealousy?" Faust asks: "Sometimes I find I dislike people for the wrong reasons."

The Major shrugs again and goes back to his soup.

"They call him 'The Death Who Runs For You' on the frontlines," Heimdall intones, seemingly awestruck by the thought: "They say he killed Der Totenkopf at Normandy with just his little finger, just by poking it into his head."

"Eh, not really," Lightning says: "They had a knock-down and drag-out up and down the emplacements, once we broke through. By the time it was all over, neither of them looked all that good. But our guy was still breathing, and your guy wasn't."

"Maybe that's when he used his little finger," Faust offers, taking a sip of his beer: "Sort of like giving a good beast the mercy of a quick death when you bring it down."

If the thought mollifies Heimdall at all, he doesn't show it. But then, his eyes don't show much of anything.

Not to others, anyway.

* * *

Entree

pâté de foie gras en champignons forestiers

* * *

"The way I !@#$ing see it, it's a matter of standing together," (REDACTED) says: "It's like of like family, you know? You might !@#$ing hate your older brother and want to kill your younger brother, and maybe your sister's a stupid !@#$ on top of being a !@#$ and a !@#$."

"He's got a way with words," Lt. Lighting says, winking at the Germans. 

"Just because I went to school," he says, knuckling his friend in the shoulder. "But anyway, your family's a bunch of !@#$ in pants and shirts, and you know this. But if some !@#$er comes around and starts something with one of them? You forget all of that, and you grab a rock or a brick or a broken bottle and you start something right the !@#$ back."

"Because they're family," Lightning says, smiling because he's heard this story a million times before, and because it's true.

"!@#$ straight. Because they're your flesh and blood, and that means something. !@#$, it means everything."

"So you can hate them and hurt them, but no one else can?" Nacht-Maske asks.

"Give that man a prize!" he says, smiling and going for a shot of beer: "When your family's in danger, you put up your !@#$ fists."

"I can see that," Faust says.

"I would follow Der Fuhrer into Hell," Heimdall says with all due reverence: "Before him, our country was lost. We had nothing. No pride, no character, no will. We had forgotten what they meant. And then he came to us, and he spoke, and he showed us the meaning of these things that we had forgotten. And then we rose from the dust of the weltkreig, and became a proud people again. A proud nation. I gladly serve our leader, and our people through him."

There's a moment of silence, and then Nacht-Maske snorts: "Hitler is an imbecile."

"I beg your pardon," Heimdall tries to say, but he's quickly waved down.

"Helmut, you don't get summoned to meetings in the middle of the night and told that everything you understood to be true a day ago is no longer true at all. You don't look at battle plans and see the disasters he makes after the Generals give him sound advice. You don't have to listen to the group of freaks and circus people he calls on for occult advice. I do, because I am your political officer. And I can tell you, the man is insane."

"So what do you fight for, then?" Lightning asks: "Me, I want to be worth something. A lot of folks look at me and think I'm less than they are. I want to walk back home in my uniform, right down the !@#$ main street in Lexington, and say that I came here and fought for you, and !@#$ but you are going to show me the respect I'm due. Not as a black man, but as a man."

"I fight for Germany," Nacht-Maske admits: "I will fight to keep the Fatherland safe and strong, no matter who is ruling it. Hopefully, when that idiot we call a leader gets deposed or put out of the way, whoever takes over will keep it safer and stronger than it already is. But until then, I must be a patriot. It is all I ever ask of those who fight under me. It is all I can ask of myself."

"I'll show you what I fight for," Faust says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a billfold, tucked into which is a photograph. It's of a woman and two children, all pretty and smiling.

"Oh, hey," Major Force says, looking at it: "You're a family man, too?"

"Indeed I am. I've been married for six years, and I have two daughters. They're four and three. And when the first one was born, I looked into her eyes and I said that I would throw myself at a thousand bullets, just to keep her safe. Before then, I just moved through life, even through marriage, as good as it is-"

"Which he never stops telling us about," Nacht-Maske laughs.

"But when you make a life? It's like you had this wheelbarrow of money, all the time, and you finally bought something with it. You finally made a mark in this world. And whatever happens to you, or what you do, or what you think, this mark must continue on. And that's why I'm here, doing this."

"That and the hands," Heimdall says.

And Faust smiles and lets the others laugh it off. But anyone who knew him could see that his teammate had touched a real nerve, just then.

Not anything he cared to admit, though.

(SPYGOD is listening to Zemire et Azor Overture (Andre-Ernest-Modeste Gretry) and having the beer of the Gods)