1/12/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 1.5

Mr. USA, The President, Henri
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

It's strange, here in the grey zone, amongst the dead.

The physical world seems hazy and insubstantial. Buildings are seen as though through gauze. Letters and signs are somehow impossible to read, as though they were written in slowly swirling gibberish. The noises are inconsistent, conversations are muddled unless you're standing right next to the person, the smells are all bad.

And the Sun is always setting, off in the west -- its blood-red light casting everything that's actually here with an unhealthy, crimson pallor.

What is actually here? Not much, anymore. An occasional kingly chariot connected to long-dead horses, wrapped in bandages that flap in the constant, uncomfortably-warm breeze. Long wooden ships that crashed to the ground, their funerary majesty stripped by unknown hands over the centuries.

That and piles of bandages, all flapping along like tumbleweeds in the dusty breeze -- their occupants long since gone to their waiting reward.

Or something far, far worse...

The only other things that seem real, here, are souls. On this side of the barrier they shine like diamonds -- their colors ever-changing with their emotional states. Stand close and you can hear their heart's desires, repeating with every beat of that organ.

And if you say their name, then wherever you are, here, you will find them -- wherever they are -- with only a few steps.

Knowing that, it's only a few strides to take a pair of living ghosts from Neo York City to Rockford, Illinois, to the mansion where Ben Franklin hangs his rather florid collection of hats.

Right now the genius polymath turned seemingly-immortal sex god is upstairs, one of his more impressive bedrooms, doing his "morning exercises." Watching him go at it from this side of things might be an interesting diversion -- if only to see what everyone in, on, and around that bed is really thinking and feeling. But that's not why they're here.

They're really here to talk to the hired help: specifically Jess Friend, who's something of a bouncer / scheduler / wrangler / voice of sanity to America's last living founding father.

That voice of sanity is downstairs, now, arranging some semblance of a daily schedule, and fielding what's become a veritable avalanche of email. Thanks to the Terre Unifee's having made him an official government adviser, the secret of his longevity is well out of the bag, and any number of people want a piece of him.

Especially the historians, who are now tripping over themselves to get in an interview, or ten.

He's just about to tell that Walter Isaacson fellow -- for the tenth. !@#$. time. -- that Mr. Franklin is booked solid for at least the next month when he hears someone whisper into his ear.

Two someones, in fact.

He looks around, nods, and smiles: "We are alone, here, yes. And off camera. I fixed those spy things they installed when they thought we weren't looking."

There's a question asked, which is answered with: "No, he doesn't have any idea I'm talking to you."

Another question: "We're good to go on that end. He just needs the word and a timeframe."

A command, and he nods: "Alright then. I'll do that now."

A salutation: "And good luck to you two, too. Let's do this thing."

With that, they depart, and he rustles around in his desk for a special, small communicator he's had for some time. He's gone between wanting to press it every day and not wanting to be awkward, but now it has an entirely different significance.

GAME ON, he texts: HEAD OUT TOMORROW EVENING. 

That done, he presses the DESTRUCT switch on the small thing's back, and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. There's a sound like something going zap in a microwave, and, as the device very quickly turns into mulched plastic and melted solder, he wonders if this is treason or revolution.

But then, knowing what his employer would say to that, he decides he doesn't care.

Jess then regards the thankfully-brief, funky smell from the can, and goes back to thinking of the most delicate and professional way to say "Go !@#$ yourself" to someone who, for all his professional and academic achievements, has apparently not learned to take a !@#$ hint.

He wouldn't be the only one, really.

* * *

"I'm sorry," the grieving widow says, dabbing at her eyes with tissue: "I'm sorry I can't be more help. I just don't know anything more than what I've said, a thousand times before..."

"It's alright, ma'am," the blonde, young woman across from her says, leaning forward and smiling as kindly as she can, her black vinyl jumpsuit squeaking as she does: "I know this is difficult."

"But anything you can think of would be very helpful," the similarly-attired, equally-blonde young man to her left says -- so identical they could almost be brother and sister. 

And Karl and Jana are -- after a rather grotesque, Super-Nazi fashion. 

"I'm not sure there is anything. He was just so..."

"So what?" Jana pushes: "Happy? Sad? Elated? Scared?"

"Look, the lady's really tired," the widow's clearly-flustered assistant sighs, gesturing her portly hand towards her office door, beyond which a barely-restrained press corps barks and bays like dogs waiting to be fed: "Maybe we could do this another day?"

"Maybe not," the young man insists, leaning forward a bit: "Time is of the essence."

"They haven't even buried the man, for god's sake," the assistant says.

"Look," Karl continues, pointing to his notes: "For months, Australia and New Zealand resisted joining the Terre Unifee, They made promises. They made threats. They sent dignitaries and celebrities. But your two nations refused to budge..."

"... And then, suddenly, they both change their minds, fly to Paris, and sign on?" Jana finishes: "Which is strange enough, but then, not a day after getting back from there, your husband commits suicide in a rather... unique fashion..."

"Which the Prime Minister of New Zealand also does..." Karl continues, as if they were sharing the conversation.

".. around the same time..." Jana elaborates.

"... in almost exactly the same way?" Karl ends, at which point the two blondes look intently at the woman, who's gone white as a sheet.

"I thought... I didn't know," she stammers.

"No one does," Jana says: "There's been a complete press blackout on the details."

"I don't even think your government or the police know," Karl says: "Fortunately?"

"We do," they say in unison. 

"But you're not with the police?" the widow asks, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"No, ma'am," Jana explains: "We're better than that."

"We're Outlaw Journalists, ma'am," Karl announces, tapping his notes.

"Oh, well that's just the end of this, then," the assistant scowls, heading for the door to show them out: "When you showed me those TU passes, I thought-"

"Sit. Down." Karl commands, pulling a small but mean-looking handgun from his notepad and gesturing between the assistant and a chair by the door: "We are not leaving."

"I... I beg your pardon?"

"We don't have time for it," he insists, gesturing once more with such implied force that the assistant can't help but obey: "In just one day, we forget half of what happened to us. A day later, we remember even less than that. If there's anything to be remembered that might be helpful, it's now."

"So, again?" Jana asks, gently as possible: "Anything you can remember that you have not said?"

The woman goes from white to red, and then to pink as she regains her composure. And then, looking askance, she nods: "There was something he said... maybe a day before he left for Paris."

"What was it?" Karl asks, keeping his eyes -- like the gun -- aimed right at the assistant, who is clearly going nowhere.

"I went into his office, and he was talking with someone. I don't know who. It might have been the Kiwi Minister. Anyway, he saw I was in the room and then the conversation... well, it changed."

"How did it change?" Jana asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It was like he didn't want me hearing. And yet I didn't think it was a bad thing. Not like he was hiding something bad from me. More like... well, like I'd come in and caught him arranging a surprise party."

"What happened then?"

"Well, he made his apologies and hung up, and when I asked what all that was about, he just smiled and said 'The egrets, my dear. We need to see about the egrets.' But I thought it was a joke..."

Karl and Jana look at each other. Some decision is made between them. A split second later, she's leaned in to console her, and he's gotten up, strode across the room to the waiting assistant, and leaned in to whisper: "You and I are going to go to his office. You are going to give me complete access to his files, bank accounts, emails... everything. And then you're going to see us out and tell no one we were here."

"You can't threaten me," the assistant says, some measure of steel coming back into her eyes.

"No, but I can promise," he says, going back to a whisper: "And I promise you that, if you do all that, I won't tell her that you and her late husband have been having it off twice a week, in her bed, while she's off having her !@#$hole bleached."

The assistant looks up at him. He looks down at her. Seconds later, they're both up and heading for the Prime Minister's office. 

The unseen wink the twins give each other is both sweet and predatory. At long last, they have the story they've been hunting for, all this time. 

And they are not going to stop until they've ripped it open for the world to see -- guts and all.

* * *

"Oh, Mon Dieu," Lt. Vipond curses, wiping some of the red, stringy matter that used to be a d-grade supervillain off of his otherwise-spotless boots: "Did you have to kill them all?"

"We didn't kill them all," Yanabah sighs, helping Red Wrecker to toss another body onto the pile: "Maybe about half."

"More than half, Flower," Gosheven corrects her, stretching his head and neck all the way over from where he's actually standing to do so: "Six out of ten."

"I !@#$ing said 'about half,' deer-boy," she snorts, walking away: "Jesus !@#$ing Christ."

"The exact numbers are not important," the Lt. hisses. not impressed by their weird argument: "The police could have just shot them up. Why did you not use your powers?"

"If I'd used my powers, the capitol would be in pieces," Blastman shrugs: "Not that I wouldn't !@#$ing mind seeing that-"

"I used my powers," Myron smiles ruefully, hefting a hand weapon that looks like it came from H.G. Wells' gun rack: "I put a hole right in the !@#$ floor for America, Lt."

"And I sure as !@#$ used mine," Yanabah lies, tapping her guns: "One shot, one kill. Bang bang bang bang."

"So who gives the speech?" Shining Guardsman says, looking down at the four, motley-clad and badly-beaten villains they've collected -- all of whom are secured with his high-tech hand and foot clamps: "If Gold Standard was here, she'd be all over that."

"Got it from her old man," Blastman says, adjusting his pyramidal helmet and wondering when he can just go crack a beer: "He used to give this long !@#$ schpiel about justice and stuff when we captured folks."

"'Freedom requires justice, and when justice is denied, the Freedom Force shall be there to uphold what is right and good in this world,'" Myron quotes, making sure his gun's in good order before holstering it, again.

"Wow," Red Wrecker says, carefully getting the blood and yuck off her uniform: "That's pretty stirring."

"Always sent a shiver up my back," Myron agrees, smiling at her. 

"Okay, folks, we got incoming," Night Phantom says as he reappears, stepping from the shadow of a police barricade: "Bunch of press, right down Michigan Avenue. We ready?"

"I think we are," Gosheven says, holding up a hand before Vipond can say anything: "Everyone line up in front of these !@#$ing idiots, so they're between us and the cameras. Let me do the talking."

"I think we should have the Mayor say a few words?" the LT says, gesturing to the dopey-looking fellow who's lurking nearby, still messed-up from his short reign as King of Michigan: "How grateful he is that you have saved the day-"

"Oh !@#$, no," Blastman howls: "I wouldn't want that publicity-mugging jack!@#$ eulogizing a dead dog in the road."

"Me neither," Gosheven says, snapping his fingers at the mayor and indicating he should be elsewhere, now: "Giscard? You and the pilot get the dead on the transport and lift the !@#$ off before they get here. No bodies for the press to see."

"I beg your pardon-" the Lt says, but steps off as soon as Yanabah gets in his face.

"We do the fighting, we do the talking," she says, pointing him where he needs to go: "No bodies for the press to see, got it?"

He stammers, and nods, and goes to do what he's told. But something about the look in his eyes was clear: they would be paying for this. 

And soon.

"And you four?" Shining Guardsman says, looking down at his captives: "You shut your !@#$ mouths and be grateful we didn't let loose on you."

"We're not going to say anything, sir," one of them stammers, about an inch from peeing what's left of his costume: "We're going to cooperate fully. No trouble. Honest."

"Anarchists these days," Myron sighs, resisting the urge to kick the !@#$er in the !@#$.

"And, um, we all know what happens after all this, right?" Gosheven whispers.

"Totally," Red Wrecker says, smiling a little. And everyone nods and smiles right along with her -- determined and true.

"Okay, then, folks," Gosheven says as the cameras get within range of their big !@#$ smiles: "It's showtime..."

* * *

"... top story of the hour," the vacuous blonde on the television says as the the Team Alpha logo appears on the screen behind her, replacing the Le Monde 24 logo: "Team Alpha was involved in a fracas in the Michigan Statehouse, today. Apparently, a group of superpowered anarchists had moved in, and used mind control to get the politicians assembled there to battle for supremacy, no doubt to make some kind of deluded point. Within a half an hour, they had been curtailed and captured, and order was once again restored.

"However, the leader of Team Alpha, the Native American hero known as Gosheven, had this to say..."

The screen cuts to Gosheven's big, stretched-out grin as he mugs for the camera: "I got one thing to say to all you no-good folks out there. Criminals, anarchists, supercreeps... I don't care who you are, or what you can do. You make trouble of any kind on our watch, and it's Game (BLEEP)ing On, mother(BLEEP)ers!"

The other heroes laugh at that, and in the distance one can see some short, over-decorated fellow come rushing towards the camera to try and stop them from shooting any more. But before he can get there, it's shifted back to the blonde, who smiles just a little:

"Here now to talk about superheroes and public responsibility is noted social critic Elodie-Martine Gravois, whose most recent book, "Why We Should Do What We Are Told," has become an international bestseller-"

That's about all that Martha Samuels can handle of that, though, and quickly turns the television off, suddenly and strangely wistful for the late FOX News.

(Though, thankfully, not for long. Not even French state television news is that bad.)

She heads to the door of her apartment, picking up a pair of bags she's had waiting for some time. She puts them onto a table, makes sure she has everything, and then calls up her niece, who's out with John, right now.

"Hey Kaitlyn," she says: "How's it going out there?"

"Oh, fine," she says: "We're currently grocery shopping. Sale on oranges this week. You want any?"

"I think we're good," she smiles, knowing what she actually means: "I'm heading out, now."

"Oh!" she says: "So are you going to see Thomas?"

"I just might," she says: "Is John busy?"

"Well..." she starts to say, and then there's the sound of something breaking over someone's head: "Not now. Hold on..."

John -- aka Green Fury -- comes on the line, panting a little: "Hey Martha."

"How's the shopping?"

"Great. I think we're about done," he says, trailing off as more crunching noises are heard, along with some drug dealer gurgling back a scream as Kaitlyn takes him down: "Okay, we are done. Need us to pick you anything up?"

"No. I just wanted you to know I'm on my way to Neo York."

"Ah," he says: "Going to see Mark?"

"Well, technically it's business," she replies: "But hey, it's the Big Apple. Anything could happen."

"I'm sure," he says: "God bless, Martha. We'll hold down the fort."

"I know you will," she says, and lets it go at that.

She grabs her bags off the table. She looks in a mirror by the door and makes sure she looks like she needs to: just another suburban mother getting into her car to drive out of town, across state lines, and into Neo York City to see a lover, and a son.

Just that, and nothing more.

"Jesus, please let me do the right thing, here," she prays, thinking of why she's really going: "I want to trust him. And I do love him. But this is heavy stuff. Heavier than I've ever done before."

She stops at that, wondering if she's being cowardly, or just careful. Or maybe -- as her dad would have said -- the time for both have long since passed, and only action remains.

"So please," she begs: "Let me be your instrument, here. And tell me if I'm straying, okay? You know I'll obey you. I always do, even if I don't... you know what I mean, right?"

There's no real answer, as usual. But somehow she feels as though something's lifting her up as she walks out, locks the door for what might be the last time, and gets into the car. An unseen wind that lifts her spirits, bringing her from the cliffs of doubt into the path of certainty. 

She says Thank You to it as she drives away, not knowing quite why she's crying.

* * *

Some time before dinner, SPYGOD and Straffer both blink -- almost in unison -- and begin to move again. 

"Well, that was some awful !@#$," SPYGOD laughs, throwing a box of tissues at the television: "Next time I get to !@#$ing pick the shows, okay?"

"I thought you did?" Straffer playfully teases him.

"No, I distinctly said no !@#$ing cornball game shows."

"Are there any that aren't?"

"!@#$hole."

"You love it."

"I love yours."

"I love you."

And they snuggle and kiss, pretending for a moment they're just another couple, watching television on a weekday. No guards outside the door. No protestors outside the window. No looming threat of death, or worse.

(No cat from Hades striding around the room, bombed out of its gourd on satanic catnip and wondering where its favorite AK-47 has gone.)

The mysterious box is moved back where it was found, as surreptitiously as it was picked up, and they go into the next room to work on dinner. Maybe there's some touching involved as it takes shape. Some sly innuendos about cutlery and measuring, portions and ingredients.

Thai-Italian? Sure, it works. Just make sure the sweetness of the tomatoes doesn't overpower the coconut milk. Be certain the spices of two different continents mesh and blend instead of fight each other for dominance. Learn to love how the small, green eggplant takes the place of the large, purple one one normally uses for parmigiana, or how eagerly the noodles take the tomato curry.

How luscious the pineapple, how fragrant the aniseed. The blending of separate strengths, brought together to make an amazing whole.

Somehow dinner gets made in spite of the desire growing between them -- the slow savor that forms a countdown to the time after the meal when other appetites will be sated. Every passing minute makes it all the more sweet. Each motion and sideways look makes them all the hungrier for it. 

Eventually, it's there. The table is set, and the meal presented. Wine poured, bread sliced. The howling and cries from outside the sound of a wistful violin in a European cafe, mixed with foreign talk from just up the block.

They dine staring into each others' eyes, all the while. Each look a thousand words. Each bite a thousand suggestions. Sometimes they feed each other, sometimes only themselves.

And when they are done, and each and every crumb disposed of, they give each other one final look. 

"I love you," they say, one after the other. Then they all but hurl the plates from the table -- not caring where they land, or in how many pieces -- so they can make love on and around it with such force and fury that it shames the air around them.

Gunshots made of sex, their overlapping sensual echoes making the walls shake and boom. 

* * *

It's late night in Paris, now, and there are explosions coming from the President's office. 

Sometimes they're single. Sometimes controlled bursts. Sometimes there's some time between them, and sometimes they happen in long, unevenly-spaced eruptions.

At times like this, Henri knows not to ask or interrupt. He just puts on his headphones, listens to some more of that quirky, American jazz-rock he's recently discovered, and lets his leader's stress relief go unspoken. 

At some point he gets up from his desk and strides through the President's cluster of offices. It's well after everyone else has gone home, and the strange, heavy atmosphere here seems to loom over all. 

"Close your eyes and you'll be there..." he sings along as he heads for the front door: "It's everything they say... the end of a perfect day..."

"You know, I had that album," someone says -- a voice loud enough to cut through his headphones.

"Sir!" Henri says, stepping back from the doorway, clearly not having expected the President of the United States of America to have appeared there -- domino mask and all.

"Hello, Henri," Mr. USA says, extending his hand for a firm shake: "I'm sorry to drop in on you like this. I need to speak with the President."

"I see," Henri replies, taking his headphones off and then looking around, somewhat nervously: "He is in his office-"

"I know. I saw when I flew past."

"Oh," the secretary says: "Well, then, you probably saw-"

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

"I did," Mr. USA says, seemingly not phased by the noise: "And... I do need to speak with him. If he asks, tell him its about our mutual problem."

"I will," Henri replies, and, nodding, heads off, wondering if he'll be shot for his pains. 

At some point he re-appears, indicating that Mr. USA should come down and join him. He does, and, as soon as he's in the President's long office, he sees that he hadn't been imagining that the man had, indeed, turned his office into something of a rifle range. Pictures of SPYGOD are all over the wall with the door in it -- shot to pieces, with flattened slugs lying on the ground below them.

"Evening, (REDACTED)," the President says, putting more shells into the massive rifle he's cradling like a baby.

"Good evening, Mr. President," Mr. USA says, noticing that the screen on his desk is full of holes: "Everything alright?"

"Well, it occurred to me that this room is supposed to be everything-proof," the President explains, putting the gun down: "If they get the shutters up in time, I might even be able to ride out a small nuclear explosion. Can you believe that?"

"I can, yes," the President of the United States of America says, walking up to the desk: "We just got the same security system installed in the White House."

"You think you'll need it?"

"Maybe not," he says, shrugging: "But I think anyone there with me might appreciate the protection."

"Good point," the President says, looking away, and then up: "So, this is my executive firing range. I figure if Nixon could have a bowling alley put into the White House, well, why the !@#$ not?"

"Rank has its privileges, Mr. President."

"Agreed. Speaking of which, I see you've got your mask on?"

"Yes," Mr. USA says, tapping it: "It's got my GPS. Last time I tried flying over here I wound up in Portugal, instead."

"Must have been embarrassing."

"You have no idea," the hero chuckles, nodding to Henri, who's walked around the other end of the desk and is looking somewhat worried: "Mr. President, I have something I need to tell you. And I need to tell you, right from the start, it's not good news."

"You could have called."

"I don't know who I can trust, right now," Mr. USA sighs, looking around: "We've been so badly compromised... man, I feel like a !@#$ idiot."

"Well, let's talk about it, then," the President says, gesturing to a chair: "Henri? Bring us some beer."

The human worm scoots away quickly, and the men go back to their conversation: "What's happened, (REDACTED)?"

"It's SPYGOD," the hero says, sighing: "I have reason to believe he's planning a prison break."

"You do," the President replies, not sounding at all surprised.

"Yes," Mr. USA replies, clearly surprised at the lack of surprise: "It's a genuine plot. I'm not sure of all the pieces, yet, but I do know that Eclat being shot was the first part. Maybe a signal of some kind, maybe not."

"Alright," the President says, nodding: "That I hadn't considered. I figured he was killed for other reasons."

"Well, maybe, but that's not the worst thing," the hero says, leaning in: "He's got help."

"Obviously."

"More help than just a sniper, Mr. President. The heroes are on his side."

"Which ones?"

"All of Team Alpha," Mr. USA says, leaning back and shaking his head: "Most of them, anyway. I think they didn't try to bring The Owl on board because she's been angry with him since the trial. And Gold Standard... well, she's busy. Let's put it that way."

"But everyone who was on that transport, this morning, is involved?"

"That and Brainman."

"I see," the President says, still not sounding too surprised.

"You knew?"

"I did, yes," the President admits, grabbing the beer that Henri's brought him right off the tray: "And I was going to bring you in on this before I did anything."

"How did you know?"

"I have an unimpeachable source," the man says, patting his gun: "Let's just leave it at that."

"Alright then," Mr. USA says, nodding as he takes a sip of what he's been brought: "So what do you think we should do about it, Mr. President?"

"I say we stop them," the President says, extending a hand for him to shake: "I'll send the muscle. You cut them off. We move tomorrow morning. Capture if possible, kill if we have to."

"Agreed," the hero says as he takes the hand, not happy to hear these words said out loud: "It's sad, but..."

"But it's treason, and they know it," the President says, his handshake suddenly much more firm than it needs to be: "And we have to be as one on this, (REDACTED). We can't commit and then back down or off. They give up or they get put down. No second chances. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Mr. USA says, standing to go: "I'll go and give the orders. What about SPYGOD?"

"You leave him to me," the President says, grinning like a skull: "Welcome to Operation Zarathustra, (REDACTED)."

"Zarathustra?" the hero asks as the President picks up his rifle and points it at the far wall.

"That's right," the man explains, taking aim at one of the less shot-up targets: "Because this God is about to be !@#$ing dead-

BANG.

* * *

After that, there's just the warmth -- the long and sweet time spent in each other's arms, sweat cooling in the air.

No words, now. None are needed. Just the simple language of one body against another. Two heartbeats, one purpose.

One life, enjoined at the hips.

They lie at that just long enough to wonder if they're being indolent, and then get up, get dressed -- for the third or fourth time today -- and head to the window, just to see what their chorus of haters are up to now.

"Three have been here all day," Straffer notes.

"I think one of them went !@#$ing home, earlier."

"Really?"

"I heard him go," SPYGOD winks, and they laugh.

At some point, they both notice an older fellow, down there. Long coat, warm hat, thick gloves, carrying a nice cane. He's holding up a sign that says Scheissegott! much to the amusement of his fellows.

As he holds it up, he throws them a pointed look. One that says a lot, if you know what it might mean.

SPYGOD smiles and nods, ever so subtly, and makes the Vitarka Mudra with his right hand by his right eye: Be seeing you.

"Soon?" Straffer says, knowing what it means, especially as the old man departs the crowd.

"Soon," SPYGOD answers.

And they kiss once more as the night erupts in hate. 

* * * 

I don't speak in anger
though the chances that I've let
pass me by and now regret
I can't forget
They're haunting me
like a score of unpaid debts

(SPYGOD is listening to Discoteca (Pet Shop Boys - Remix) and having a Founders Dark Penance)

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)

12/26/12 - Randolph Scott - No Words But the Truth - pt. 5

12/7/12

"A date which will live in infamy."

There's no other way to say it. Not a one. Not if you've been paying !@#$ing attention, anyway.

(Or at least have an eye for unfortunate historical coincidences.)

At 9:35 AM, EST, the President of the United States stood in front of the Washington Press Corps, neatly wedged between two Strategic Talents: Mr. USA, who happened to be our Vice President, and Tempete Bleu, who happens to be France's best-known hero.

He thanked everyone for coming, as usual, and then launched into a speech that was, at least for the first five minutes, one of the best things I've ever heard come out of his mouth since the Reclamation War speech.

He spoke of our nation, proud and unbroken. He talked of how it had been tested during its history, time and again. He paid tribute to those who had fought and died to keep it safe, and those who had lived and toiled to keep it free and prosperous.

He reminded us of what we'd come through, lately. How we'd all been "broken on the wheel of others' ambition, and rolled down a steep hill to global catastrophe." He spoke of how we were nearly destroyed, both as a planet and as a species.

And how, as a single planet, we fought back and won.

All well and good, but then he began going further along that line, stepping further away from our comfort zone.

He said that, after having come together, and achieved mighty things as a single, unified planet, we had all gone back to being small and divided once more. He said that we had been so badly damaged by what our oppressors had done that getting back up again was going to require "that single strength, total and complete, wielded in such a way as to bring us from our knees to our feet, and from the ground to the skies, once more."

And maybe there were one or two people, there, who didn't know where it was going. But as soon as the token goon from FOX News started praying to Jesus (and the Secret Service hustled them out of the room), they all wised up.

Which meant they were all silent as ghosts when the President of the United States of America announced, then and there, that he was taking up the offer of the Terre Unifee to become its President.

He had not taken this step without a great deal of thought. He had considered other means, or so he said. He thought that America was strong enough to deal with its own problems, and come out stronger for it. He thought we could go it alone, and be an example to the rest of the world that self-reliance could carry the day.

But then he realized that this was selfishness and pride talking, not sense.

"As one world, we threw off our aggressors. As one world, we took our lives back from an enemy older than our recorded history, and more powerful than we can imagine, even now. As one world, we made war and won it.

"And, looking at our problems, and our challenges, and the dilemmas that faced not only America, but all other nations in the world, I had to ask 'What else could we accomplish as one world?'

"And once I began to realize what the answers were, I also realized that it was foolishness and vanity to deprive my fellow Americans of these great answers, and to, in turn, deprive the rest of the world of what our nation has to offer this world."

So he did it. He accepted the offer that the interim President of the TU had made to him, and took over its Presidency, effective immediately. 

And his first act as President of that body? To accept America's joining of that "noble body," courtesy of the new President -- the former Vice President, Mr. USA, who is apparently becoming our "national facilitator," whatever the !@#$ that means.

There were no Congressional leaders present. No Speaker of the House. No Senate Majority Leader. No Supreme Court Justices. Not even a !@#$ing Cabinet member, which is hardly surprising at this point.

Just two men, a podium, and the eyes of the world watching as our great Republic effectively disbanded its Federal Government, and handed its reins over to a world government.

There were a million questions, but none of them were answered. All they got was the speech, and the announcement, and a promise that -- whatever our crumbling Federal government has failed to do, or would not even try to accomplish -- help and aid would be coming as soon as possible.

Our rights are going nowhere, or so they claim. Our freedoms remain. All the TU are going to do is help, and who doesn't want that?

Someone started booing. I'm not sure who. But by the time the call was picked up, and people started shouting questions instead of asking them, the people who could have answered those questions were long gone.

All that was left were the reporters, and they had a stupefying story to report back home.

I never thought I would live to see this day. I never believed I would see our country admit that it couldn't take care of its own !@#$ problems. I never imagined that this President -- any President -- would effectively surrender his or her nation over to a third party, even if he was then going to be in charge of that third party.

Are we all Americans, now? Or are we citizens of the world, whether we would or not?

Do we still have the right to think and speak? Can we protest this? Is there anyone we can call to get this reversed if it doesn't work out?

And how long do we have to wallow around in broken promises and uncertain expectations before we get to tell them to shove their help where the sun doesn't !@#$ing shine?

I don't know. I feel sick. I feel like punching things, or people.

But the flags are coming down all over the nation, and being replaced with that !@#$ty, designed-by-committee travesty that the TU hands out to its signatories. Some collection of colors that mean nothing at all to anyone.

A rag with no !@#$ing history, except for what's in front of us, here and now. 

History? On December 7th, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Some say we knew it was going to happen, and most agree that we knew it might happen. But everyone can agree that we knew war was coming, whether we were ready for it or not.

Those bombs and planes brought an isolationist nation, scarred and broken by the Great War, back into the world, again. It got us into a conflict that would otherwise have ended with an enslaved Europe and shackled Asia. It turned us into a global power, and set us on a collision course for a long, cold war with an wartime ally turned ideological enemy.

That day made the future. Maybe every day does, but if you had to peel history back, day by day, like an onion, you'd find December 7th, 1941 right around the center -- stinking and rich.

Now, on a different December 7th, we're back in the world again. Only this time we haven't just rejoined it in order to save it, and ourselves.

We've surrendered to it, instead.

I never thought I would live to see this day. I'm not sure I want to. Everything I've ever known and believed and taken for granted has been thrown down to the ground, shattered like glass on bricks.

My ship in a bottle, smashed and ground underfoot.

But I've got to keep going. I've got to keep !@#$ing talking over the noise. Because it's who I am, and what I do.

And because I've got the biggest !@#$ing mouth for the job, right now.

God help America. God help us all.


(SPYGOD is listening to Woman on a Train (The FIXX) and having a La Fin Du Monde