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Issue #6 by Steve Crosby
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“MIND WAR-GAMES”
Across the street, a car was on fire less than a hundred feet away. Farther down the street, a fire engine was forced to a stop by thrown rocks and bottles. The driver had been struck, lost control and careened the large vehicle into a building. Fires burned and people died less than a hundred feet away, and I did nothing.
Hidden in a trunk under my bed, the shield was only a hunk of useless metal. The symbol it represented didn't mean anything in the rest of the world. Any aid offered is viewed as interference or an attempt at control, and I would be placed in that same light. Even in France, where once I stoop proud at the sidelines of a parade celebrating liberation.
In a way, the carnage below was also a legacy of that final World War. France had been a country of rubble, with a decimated workforce insufficient for the rebuilding. The prospect of jobs drew immigrants who remained behind after their work was done. Now the work was gone, money scarce and discontent bubbling. A boy's death had lit the fuse.
As the fires danced in my eyes, I wonder what I could do, what I could say to those disenfranchised and forgotten. I couldn't beat them all, inflict injuries for which they had no means to treat. No words from me would have quelled the frustration in their hearts.
Sirens of a different sort could be heard. Heavy marching footfalls grew in force. Chaos would be met with orderly force. There would be death, and all I could do was watch. Watch, and hope that what I could accomplish tomorrow would somehow achieve something of worth.
# # # # #
Persistent beeps to the tune of Stupid Girl abruptly brought Cathy Webster to the edge of sleep. Blindly her hand groped for the phone, and drew it under the covers to her ear.
"Hullo? Whatchu want, Jack? Huh?"
The covers were thrown off of Cathy and, suddenly awake, she sat up in bed. The shape next to her rolled over, further wrapped in covers.
"I'll make some calls. Don't say anything, Jack. Don't say a thing until I get- You damn idiot, Jack. I'm going to kick your ass when I get there!"
The phone shattered against the wall. Quickly, Cathy threw on some clothes. "I need to head out," she told the stirring shape. "A friend of mine just confessed to murder."
# # # # #
Champagne is served to me in the lavish office suite. Elder statesmen and wealthy policy makers sip from crystal while discussing their country and the infant Union. It was the European Union that brought me to Paris.
"You can imagine the embarrassment if the constitution doesn't pass here," President Chirac told me. Perhaps he meant the embarrassment to France in the world's eyes, but I knew the political capital he had invested in the European Union. "Our youth here, they simply do not understand the problems in France and the rest of the world."
"Unfortunately, Mister President," I said in perfect French to counter his accented English, "I fail to see how I can help. As an American, nothing I say would carry any weight."
My words were met with a chuckle. "Ah, Captain, as always you underestimate your influence."
Again with English words. This man is a President and in his own country he's speaking a foreign language. I'm the one who should show respect, and I continued to do so.
"Some would listen to me, I suppose. Men and women old enough to remember me from the War. But with all due respect Mister President I think you're underestimating the mindset of France's young citizens. To them I'll be seen as an American trying to interfere in their policies. And you would be seen as a puppet of the United States," I added respectfully.
Boisterous laughter signaled the inclusion of Prime Minister Villepin into our conversation. "Oh ho, Mister Rogers, they already think that." He at least speaks to me in his native tongue of French. "Ironic, considering that your own country vilifies us."
President Chirac joined in the laughter, though I could tell it was somewhat forced. "Public perception is the farthest thing from my mind, Captain. Any help you could offer us would be appreciated." That time he was speaking French.
No, he wouldn't care about criticism. His career is at its end, beyond saving. But the Prime Minister, Chirac's de facto protégé, he could still advance, still maintain power. He could agree with my views on the European Union while objecting to my involvement, and criticize the President for seeking an American's endorsement.
Before I could give the reply that their government wasn't any of my business, a man's voice took my attention. Across the room I saw him, talking with influential diplomats. All the previous times we had met he wore the mask, but I had seen his face in photographs, knew his real name. It was Flagsmasher I saw. Immediately I acted, as I should have so many times before when instead I hesitated.
No shield to throw, so instead I ran. Several important men and women were shoved aside, one fallen to the floor. Next thing I knew was Flagsmasher on the ground I was on top of him and my hands were on his throat squeezing. In that face I saw the black mask he usually worse, as well as the white skull of Crossbones and the blood-red visage of Red Skull, who had done so much damage by gaining influence with my government.
Men took me by the arms. Security at these events was tight and they responded quickly. I was thrown off Flagsmasher, held back by large men it took everything in me not to break. My eyes didn't leave the terrorist, even when Prime Minister Villepin addressed me.
"Mister Rogers, this man is an honored guest and an integral figure in the burgeoning European Union-"
"This man is a terrorist!" I exclaimed. Flagsmasher was already getting up, rubbing at his throat. In his eyes I imagined a mocking laugh. "He's led assaults on numerous countries, including this one, murdered hundreds of people!"
After rubbing his throat, Flagsmasher straightened his tie. "Yes, I have committed some crimes, and been granted amnesty on behalf of the Swiss government. You know well my goals, Captain America. One government on one world, free of the senseless violence that separate nations love to heap upon one another. This European Union is one step closer to my dream."
He gave a good little speech, one that could have made his late father proud. I've heard the words before, however, and at the time I had believed the men who said them. Bucky had once said that trust was my biggest problem. What he didn't realize, what he didn't have the chance to learn, was that I only trusted everybody until they gave me a reason to not trust them.
"Isn't it best to turn an enemy into an ally, Captain," added President Chirac. "Particularly when we all share the same dream."
My body goes slack, relaxed. The security guards lessen their grip, but don't let go of me. "That is where you're wrong. His dream," I jerked my head at Flagsmasher, "is to show people the futility of symbols. His idea of building something worthwhile is to tear down everything else, and I'll have no part in it." I look each of the security guards in the eye. "Now, if you would please let me go, I'd like to leave."
# # # # #
Where the aristocratic and influential meet, eyes would typically follow their every move. Monitors displayed the violence perpetrated by Captain America, as well as his angry exit. Green lips curled into a smile at what the green eyes saw, and green fingernails tapped at the armchair.
A tall man with Aryan features appeared alongside. "Madame?"
"Our reports have been accurate." A long cigarette was brought to those green lips, and pale green smoke was exhaled into the air. The attendant was careful not to inhale the toxic fumes. "Inform the girl to proceed. We shall see what other urges this man is quick to pursue."
"Right away, Madame."
Immediately her attendant ran to do her bidding. Alone, she continued to observe. In the hallway, Captain America's image was captured punching a hole in the wall. Again her lips curled upward.
"Soon, my dear Captain, you will be able to release all your frustrations."
# # # # #
Smoke filled the entire office. She must have been smoking them all day, Free Spirit decided. An ashtray on the desk couldn't even be seen what with all the spent butts in it. The woman who leased the office sat at the productive side of the desk, smoking her cigarette as Free Spirit went on with her story.
"He wouldn't even see me for a visit. The man woke me up at the crack of dawn, told me he'd confessed to a murder, and he refuses to talk about it. I had tried going to the police, but they're stonewalling me. So all I really know is what was in the papers. This woman's body was found several days ago. She had worked in a Congressman's office - the same guy Jack works for - so the police went there to ask questions. Jack was placed under suspicion, they took him in for questions, and just like that he confessed."
No reaction from the woman, the detective that Catherine Webster, also known as Free Spirit, had gone to see, as the story reached its climax. She just sat there, smoking her cigarettes in practically the same pose.
"Tomorrow's the arraignment. For all I know he'll plead guilty there. I tried getting in touch with Cap-…with Steve, but haven't been able to get a hold of him. Aside from him, I don't know that many people who could really help me. Nobody that I'd be willing to approach without Steve backing me up. Avengers Mansion put me on an automated hotline, for crying out loud. Okay, there's a lawyer who kind of specializing in these kings of things, but he apparently had his partner killed. Wouldn't be the sterling defense, I know."
Almost all the cigarette had burned away. The detective snuffed it out amidst the mountains of butts, and silently lit herself a fresh one.
"I understand you've done work for - hell, I'll use his name - for Captain America before. You may even be related, I don't know but I heard something. Well, I'm a friend of his, Jack is a friend of his, so I'm hoping to treat this as a professional courtesy and help us out."
Done talking, Catherine breathed deep and waiting for Jessica Jones, owner and sole employee of Alias Investigations, to respond. There was no response. Jessica simply sat there, smoked her cigarette and considered the woman seated across from her.
"Well?" Catherine asked.
"Are you asking me to work this case for free?" Jessica asked. "Because as a matter of fact, Captain America is family, and even him I charge."
"What? No." Catherine reached into her jacket, pulled out a checkbook. "I have money. Oh, that whole 'professional courtesy' thing? No, no I meant, being that Jack's arraignment is tomorrow, you'd make it a priority. Push it ahead of all your other cases."
Jessica's eyes fell to the IN box on her desk, home to dust and spider-webs. "Oh, yeah, I'll get right on it. To hell with all of my 'other' cases." She took a long puff on her cigarette. "But just so you're prepared now, the ugly truth might be that your friend really did do it. I've seen it before. You think you know somebody, but the fact is that everybody is capable of anything."
"Not Jack," Cathy responded. "Not this. According to the papers, this woman died from a blow to the head while being sexually assaulted. I mean, even if he was under mind control, there are some things that people can't do. I read an article about it."
"What makes you so sure?"
Cathy gave a little smile. "Trust me. I once tried to fix him up with my sister, and she told me the whole skinny."
Jessica put her latest cigarette into the pile under which the ashtray lay. She extended her hand over the desk, which Cathy quickly accepted. "I'll get started right away."
# # # # #
The riots continued. Some people would say that Paris has a history of riots, but that could be said of any city. Protests were going on in New York City when I had left, though not carried out to the violent extent that I witnessed.
Why was it being allowed to go on? Enormous property damage, countless injuries and an extraordinary amount of bad press, but the government hadn't done anything to contain the violence nor to address the grievances of its citizens. Immigrants felt persecuted against, and youths felt they were being ignored.
It didn't feel right to get involved. I was an American, more, seen as a symbol of America. Would they even listen to me? That question didn't haunt me as I put on the uniform and took up the shield, because I knew the answer. At least somebody would be talking to them all.
Heat struck me as soon as I walked outside, accompanied by dark fumes and angry yells. Something hit the wall at a path close to my head. My ears heard glass breaking, or exploding in response to heat. In the light generated by the fires, my uniform was visible. Everybody could see what was walking down that street in Paris, past the violence and not doing anything to stop it.
More objects were thrown in my direction. Yells came directed at me, for the most part drowned out by the multitude of background noise. Some I could make out, French words that I wished I didn't understand. Frustration and anger often needs an outlet, I kept telling myself. Better to direct them at outsiders rather than your own country.
A rock struck the side of my head. Jubilant hoots followed this, but I heard only faint cries against the impact's echo inside my skull. Briefly I paused, shaken, but I soon continued walking. Nothing is bottomless. Momentum isn't infinite. A bottle broke at my feet, spreading glass that was crushed underfoot. Something, not a rock, maybe a piece of brick, hit my back, just under the left shoulder. More jeers, hoots and cursed yells. For over a block I walked through all of that.
Before long, crowds were congregating around me. I could feel whole group of young men following behind me, other groups gathered in front of me. Soon they would grow courage, I knew. Whatever would happen, I kept walking, showing no fear, ignoring them altogether. That was the most important thing. I did not even acknowledge them. Not when the hurled rocks and insults grew in frequency, nor when groups of young men and women closed in on me.
The first kick I saw coming, but I didn't do anything to avoid it or otherwise defend myself. It was a minor blow, not even disrupting my balance and I continued walking without pause. Fists were more difficult to ignore, but I managed me. My uniform afforded some protection, and my body had survived worse punishment over the years. Hands grabbed at my shield, tried to pull it away. I didn't pull back, but my arm was hard as stone, its grip unyielding.
Past the crowd and their violence I walked on. At no point did I force my way through anybody. People just moved aside, even as they hit and screamed at me. Some were upset that I was ignoring them, took it as a chance to vent at being ignored by their government. Standing at the side of the street was a young boy, likely brought out by his older sibling to watch the spectacle. He didn't look like he enjoyed himself, even looked a little scared. I gave him a reassuring smile before losing sight of him, and continued on my way.
By the time everybody was either too tired or lost interest in harassing me, the injuries on my body were numerous but all minor. My lip was bleeding a little and was beginning to swell, but that was the most serious injury of what's been done to me. Everything else, they were bruises that would leave me sore in the morning. It didn't matter. Soon I would be at the street, and they were all following me there.
The avenue des Champs-Elysées soon came into view, illuminated by the lights of high-end business fronts. Far off to the northwest I could see the Arc de Triomphe, though I knew nobody else could. When I began my walk nearly an hour ago from the east, I knew that notice would quickly have been taken, and action done. The junction onto the avenue des Champs-Elysées was cordoned off, guarded by French soldiers with their guns raised. Of course, the government wouldn't allow the civil disturbance to reach one of France's most historic monuments, let alone the heart of its business district.
Some of those following me slowed down or paused, but as before I paid them no mind. I approached the soldiers, my arms down in a non-threatening gesture. They recognized the star and stripes on my chest. The few times I've stood at odds with American soldiers, they had always stepped aside. Would the soldiers of France be any different?
"I go only to pay my respects at the Tomb," I told the men in fluent French. Their eyes are not on me. "No damage will be done. You have my word. Please, don't allow what began with death to end in bloodshed as well."
At no point until their response did I slow my advance. The barrel of one gun almost collided with my chest when it was raised. The soldiers stepped aside. I walked through unmolested. Everybody walking behind me also stepped onto the avenue des Champs-Elysées without incident. Separately, myself and them, we continued on to the Arc de Triomphe. Towering in the distance, the sight of it left me in as much awe as sixty years ago, during the victory parade after Paris was liberated.
Traffic had always been a problem around the Place de l'Étoile. In spite of the late hour and the disturbances around the city, automobiles drove down the street in volume. Every car stopped, fortunately and nobody was hurt. Horns blared and angry yells returned, a combination with the exhaust fumes that did not aid my head. Up the street I walked, past annoyed drivers in their unmoving vehicles. The arc de Triomphe loomed over me, and then I was under it, standing before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
I turned from the Tomb, and acknowledged for the first time the thousands that had followed behind me. "Ici repose un soldat Francais mort pour la patrie." I quoted the inscription on the slab perfectly. Here lies a French soldier who died for a country. In French, I continued speaking. "He lies here instead of in the Panthéon because the public wrote letters demanding such."
For a long time I talked, a man draped in the colors of the United States of America, but they were also the colors of France, and I addressed them in their language taught to me by members of the French Resistance during World War II. It was the resistance I mostly talked about. The French government had surrendered to German occupation but the people never did, and Charles de Gaulle had made it known with his speech that they were not forgotten by the outside world. A court-martial had sentenced de Gaulle in absentia to death for treason against the Vichy regime, but after the war had commuted a death sentence against Vichy France dictator Henri Philippe Pétain to life imprisonment.
I talked about the bravery of the French Resistance, occasionally glancing up at the names of French generals engraved on the inside walls of the monument. "Before Paris was liberated, General von Choltitz was ordered by Hitler to destroy all monuments, to destroy the city. That he refused, that he acted to avoid a complete uprising and fighting within Paris, is a testament to this city's beauty, and a reminder that authority only has power to those who obey it."
With pride I described the general strikes in Paris and skirmishes between Parisians and German occupiers. My eyes raised towards the very end of the avenue des Champs-Elysées as I remembered the victory parade. I had stood on the sidelines, proud to watch the French celebrate the victory that was wholly and rightly theirs.
That was as far as my personal recollections went. All I knew since was of the failed post-war government, de Gaulle's return and later criticisms. France had developed nuclear weapons without U.S. aid, launched their own satellite into space, and grew into one of the strongest economies in the world.
"Thirty years ago the Trente Glorieuses is said to have ended." Those thirty years, from 1945 to 1974 had been a remarkable growth in France's economy. "The cités were constructed then, and La Défense was redesigned." I raised my arm to indicate the massive skyscrapers far down the street. "Times have changed, and you've been told they won't last, that the government is doing everything they can to help. You don't think they have, that they ignore you or worse, and the angry bubbles over. This has happened in many countries, and Paris has seen many demonstrations."
Briefly I talked about the violence of the French Revolution, and the new elections triggered by the strikes and protests held in May of 1968. Change had been brought about, and nobody had died. At this point I paused. The same could not be said of these riots, due both to the deaths that had triggered the violence and of a man who had died in the hospital as a result.
"France will change," I said finally. "Your lives will get better, because you have made your voices and even now change is being forced. I can't tell you what's best for France, but in my opinion no change is better than that brought about by the will over the people."
Silence had fallen. The entire time I had talked, it had seemed like no other sounds had been made. I had no way of knowing how many had heard my words. I'd said everything that I felt needed to be said, however, so I walked out from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and towards the crowds. Hopefully they would let me pass without incident. There were things I needed to do tomorrow.
A young woman approached me, offered her hand and gave a name. It sounded vaguely familiar to me, so I accepted her hand and asked. "Do you have a relative who fought on the Vercors Plateau?" When Allied aid had been requested, I reached the Plateau to late to do anything but help bury the 600 bodies.
She smiled. "My great-grandfather. He mentioned you a few times."
# # # # #
The rest of that night had been uneventful, until maybe a half-hour before dawn. I stood at the window in only my boxer shorts, waiting for the first rays of morning light to break the horizon. Behind me the young woman I met earlier lay in the bed, asleep and content.
It was later, afterwards, that I tried but couldn't remember putting on boxers, or why. I had just had sex with a woman. Why would I have been wearing anything?
But at the time my thoughts were on more immediate things. A flash of green in the courtyard took my attention. Light green, it would have been almost indistinguishable in the darkness if not for a nearby street lamp reflecting off the yellow fringe. Green…with strips of yellow. Instinct put the shield in one hand as my other hand opened the window just in time for the shield for the shield to fly from my fingers.
My aim was true. The shield bounced off the terrorist's shoulder as I was diving out the window, careened off a wall and returned to my waiting hand moments before I landed on the ground. At almost the same time my bare feet touched the wet grass, he had fallen stunned a few feet away. Immediately I was on top of him, shield at his throat.
"Why are you here?" I screamed into the face I didn't realize was bare at the time. "What is HYDRA planning?"
"Capitaine! Capitaine!" Several men were running at me, dressed in the uniforms of the Police Nationale. They continued to call at me in French, asked what I was doing. Quickly I raised my shield and stepped away from the HYDRA agent. The French authorities had the right to interrogate prisoners on their soil.
But they weren't moving to arrest the terrorist. Two helped the man to his feet, while a third moved to keep me away and question me. He asked what I was doing, why I would assault an innocent man.
"Can't you seen he's a HYDRA agent?" I responded in French while pointing at the man. Morning rays had broken the horizon, was starting to bath the courtyard in light. I saw then that the man I'd attacked wasn't dressed in the green-and-yellow uniform of HYDRA operatives. Green trousers with a yellow belt and long-sleeved green shirt with suspenders over that. He wore no mask.
Embarrassed apologies spewed out of me. I had no idea how I could have been so mistaken. The innocent man I had assaulted wasn't seriously or even mildly injured, fortunately. I had only used enough force to place him in a position for interrogation. The officers took a statement and personal information from the civilian, and quickly sent him on his way. I tried to do the same there, assure the men that I would not leave the city and face any charges the man might choose to press.
But they insist that I should accompany them to the nearest precinct. Of course I agree, and when I request to go to my room to get dressed, they come to escort me. As I didn't have the key on me, a spare had to be requested at the front desk, compounding my embarrassment. Quickly, my embarrassment turned into horror.
Blood stained the sheets in my room. The young woman on the bed, dressed - oddly, I would reflect later - in a torn nightgown also dark with blood. She was quite clearly dead.
At my back and in front of me, the officers were reaching for their weapons.
Next Issue: As Free Spirit tries to clear Jack Flagg's name in the United States, Captain America stands accused in France! He's convinced of being trapped in a terrorist conspiracy, but in order to reveal it he must fight against those he once knew as allies!
Hidden in a trunk under my bed, the shield was only a hunk of useless metal. The symbol it represented didn't mean anything in the rest of the world. Any aid offered is viewed as interference or an attempt at control, and I would be placed in that same light. Even in France, where once I stoop proud at the sidelines of a parade celebrating liberation.
In a way, the carnage below was also a legacy of that final World War. France had been a country of rubble, with a decimated workforce insufficient for the rebuilding. The prospect of jobs drew immigrants who remained behind after their work was done. Now the work was gone, money scarce and discontent bubbling. A boy's death had lit the fuse.
As the fires danced in my eyes, I wonder what I could do, what I could say to those disenfranchised and forgotten. I couldn't beat them all, inflict injuries for which they had no means to treat. No words from me would have quelled the frustration in their hearts.
Sirens of a different sort could be heard. Heavy marching footfalls grew in force. Chaos would be met with orderly force. There would be death, and all I could do was watch. Watch, and hope that what I could accomplish tomorrow would somehow achieve something of worth.
# # # # #
Persistent beeps to the tune of Stupid Girl abruptly brought Cathy Webster to the edge of sleep. Blindly her hand groped for the phone, and drew it under the covers to her ear.
"Hullo? Whatchu want, Jack? Huh?"
The covers were thrown off of Cathy and, suddenly awake, she sat up in bed. The shape next to her rolled over, further wrapped in covers.
"I'll make some calls. Don't say anything, Jack. Don't say a thing until I get- You damn idiot, Jack. I'm going to kick your ass when I get there!"
The phone shattered against the wall. Quickly, Cathy threw on some clothes. "I need to head out," she told the stirring shape. "A friend of mine just confessed to murder."
# # # # #
Champagne is served to me in the lavish office suite. Elder statesmen and wealthy policy makers sip from crystal while discussing their country and the infant Union. It was the European Union that brought me to Paris.
"You can imagine the embarrassment if the constitution doesn't pass here," President Chirac told me. Perhaps he meant the embarrassment to France in the world's eyes, but I knew the political capital he had invested in the European Union. "Our youth here, they simply do not understand the problems in France and the rest of the world."
"Unfortunately, Mister President," I said in perfect French to counter his accented English, "I fail to see how I can help. As an American, nothing I say would carry any weight."
My words were met with a chuckle. "Ah, Captain, as always you underestimate your influence."
Again with English words. This man is a President and in his own country he's speaking a foreign language. I'm the one who should show respect, and I continued to do so.
"Some would listen to me, I suppose. Men and women old enough to remember me from the War. But with all due respect Mister President I think you're underestimating the mindset of France's young citizens. To them I'll be seen as an American trying to interfere in their policies. And you would be seen as a puppet of the United States," I added respectfully.
Boisterous laughter signaled the inclusion of Prime Minister Villepin into our conversation. "Oh ho, Mister Rogers, they already think that." He at least speaks to me in his native tongue of French. "Ironic, considering that your own country vilifies us."
President Chirac joined in the laughter, though I could tell it was somewhat forced. "Public perception is the farthest thing from my mind, Captain. Any help you could offer us would be appreciated." That time he was speaking French.
No, he wouldn't care about criticism. His career is at its end, beyond saving. But the Prime Minister, Chirac's de facto protégé, he could still advance, still maintain power. He could agree with my views on the European Union while objecting to my involvement, and criticize the President for seeking an American's endorsement.
Before I could give the reply that their government wasn't any of my business, a man's voice took my attention. Across the room I saw him, talking with influential diplomats. All the previous times we had met he wore the mask, but I had seen his face in photographs, knew his real name. It was Flagsmasher I saw. Immediately I acted, as I should have so many times before when instead I hesitated.
No shield to throw, so instead I ran. Several important men and women were shoved aside, one fallen to the floor. Next thing I knew was Flagsmasher on the ground I was on top of him and my hands were on his throat squeezing. In that face I saw the black mask he usually worse, as well as the white skull of Crossbones and the blood-red visage of Red Skull, who had done so much damage by gaining influence with my government.
Men took me by the arms. Security at these events was tight and they responded quickly. I was thrown off Flagsmasher, held back by large men it took everything in me not to break. My eyes didn't leave the terrorist, even when Prime Minister Villepin addressed me.
"Mister Rogers, this man is an honored guest and an integral figure in the burgeoning European Union-"
"This man is a terrorist!" I exclaimed. Flagsmasher was already getting up, rubbing at his throat. In his eyes I imagined a mocking laugh. "He's led assaults on numerous countries, including this one, murdered hundreds of people!"
After rubbing his throat, Flagsmasher straightened his tie. "Yes, I have committed some crimes, and been granted amnesty on behalf of the Swiss government. You know well my goals, Captain America. One government on one world, free of the senseless violence that separate nations love to heap upon one another. This European Union is one step closer to my dream."
He gave a good little speech, one that could have made his late father proud. I've heard the words before, however, and at the time I had believed the men who said them. Bucky had once said that trust was my biggest problem. What he didn't realize, what he didn't have the chance to learn, was that I only trusted everybody until they gave me a reason to not trust them.
"Isn't it best to turn an enemy into an ally, Captain," added President Chirac. "Particularly when we all share the same dream."
My body goes slack, relaxed. The security guards lessen their grip, but don't let go of me. "That is where you're wrong. His dream," I jerked my head at Flagsmasher, "is to show people the futility of symbols. His idea of building something worthwhile is to tear down everything else, and I'll have no part in it." I look each of the security guards in the eye. "Now, if you would please let me go, I'd like to leave."
# # # # #
Where the aristocratic and influential meet, eyes would typically follow their every move. Monitors displayed the violence perpetrated by Captain America, as well as his angry exit. Green lips curled into a smile at what the green eyes saw, and green fingernails tapped at the armchair.
A tall man with Aryan features appeared alongside. "Madame?"
"Our reports have been accurate." A long cigarette was brought to those green lips, and pale green smoke was exhaled into the air. The attendant was careful not to inhale the toxic fumes. "Inform the girl to proceed. We shall see what other urges this man is quick to pursue."
"Right away, Madame."
Immediately her attendant ran to do her bidding. Alone, she continued to observe. In the hallway, Captain America's image was captured punching a hole in the wall. Again her lips curled upward.
"Soon, my dear Captain, you will be able to release all your frustrations."
# # # # #
Smoke filled the entire office. She must have been smoking them all day, Free Spirit decided. An ashtray on the desk couldn't even be seen what with all the spent butts in it. The woman who leased the office sat at the productive side of the desk, smoking her cigarette as Free Spirit went on with her story.
"He wouldn't even see me for a visit. The man woke me up at the crack of dawn, told me he'd confessed to a murder, and he refuses to talk about it. I had tried going to the police, but they're stonewalling me. So all I really know is what was in the papers. This woman's body was found several days ago. She had worked in a Congressman's office - the same guy Jack works for - so the police went there to ask questions. Jack was placed under suspicion, they took him in for questions, and just like that he confessed."
No reaction from the woman, the detective that Catherine Webster, also known as Free Spirit, had gone to see, as the story reached its climax. She just sat there, smoking her cigarettes in practically the same pose.
"Tomorrow's the arraignment. For all I know he'll plead guilty there. I tried getting in touch with Cap-…with Steve, but haven't been able to get a hold of him. Aside from him, I don't know that many people who could really help me. Nobody that I'd be willing to approach without Steve backing me up. Avengers Mansion put me on an automated hotline, for crying out loud. Okay, there's a lawyer who kind of specializing in these kings of things, but he apparently had his partner killed. Wouldn't be the sterling defense, I know."
Almost all the cigarette had burned away. The detective snuffed it out amidst the mountains of butts, and silently lit herself a fresh one.
"I understand you've done work for - hell, I'll use his name - for Captain America before. You may even be related, I don't know but I heard something. Well, I'm a friend of his, Jack is a friend of his, so I'm hoping to treat this as a professional courtesy and help us out."
Done talking, Catherine breathed deep and waiting for Jessica Jones, owner and sole employee of Alias Investigations, to respond. There was no response. Jessica simply sat there, smoked her cigarette and considered the woman seated across from her.
"Well?" Catherine asked.
"Are you asking me to work this case for free?" Jessica asked. "Because as a matter of fact, Captain America is family, and even him I charge."
"What? No." Catherine reached into her jacket, pulled out a checkbook. "I have money. Oh, that whole 'professional courtesy' thing? No, no I meant, being that Jack's arraignment is tomorrow, you'd make it a priority. Push it ahead of all your other cases."
Jessica's eyes fell to the IN box on her desk, home to dust and spider-webs. "Oh, yeah, I'll get right on it. To hell with all of my 'other' cases." She took a long puff on her cigarette. "But just so you're prepared now, the ugly truth might be that your friend really did do it. I've seen it before. You think you know somebody, but the fact is that everybody is capable of anything."
"Not Jack," Cathy responded. "Not this. According to the papers, this woman died from a blow to the head while being sexually assaulted. I mean, even if he was under mind control, there are some things that people can't do. I read an article about it."
"What makes you so sure?"
Cathy gave a little smile. "Trust me. I once tried to fix him up with my sister, and she told me the whole skinny."
Jessica put her latest cigarette into the pile under which the ashtray lay. She extended her hand over the desk, which Cathy quickly accepted. "I'll get started right away."
# # # # #
The riots continued. Some people would say that Paris has a history of riots, but that could be said of any city. Protests were going on in New York City when I had left, though not carried out to the violent extent that I witnessed.
Why was it being allowed to go on? Enormous property damage, countless injuries and an extraordinary amount of bad press, but the government hadn't done anything to contain the violence nor to address the grievances of its citizens. Immigrants felt persecuted against, and youths felt they were being ignored.
It didn't feel right to get involved. I was an American, more, seen as a symbol of America. Would they even listen to me? That question didn't haunt me as I put on the uniform and took up the shield, because I knew the answer. At least somebody would be talking to them all.
Heat struck me as soon as I walked outside, accompanied by dark fumes and angry yells. Something hit the wall at a path close to my head. My ears heard glass breaking, or exploding in response to heat. In the light generated by the fires, my uniform was visible. Everybody could see what was walking down that street in Paris, past the violence and not doing anything to stop it.
More objects were thrown in my direction. Yells came directed at me, for the most part drowned out by the multitude of background noise. Some I could make out, French words that I wished I didn't understand. Frustration and anger often needs an outlet, I kept telling myself. Better to direct them at outsiders rather than your own country.
A rock struck the side of my head. Jubilant hoots followed this, but I heard only faint cries against the impact's echo inside my skull. Briefly I paused, shaken, but I soon continued walking. Nothing is bottomless. Momentum isn't infinite. A bottle broke at my feet, spreading glass that was crushed underfoot. Something, not a rock, maybe a piece of brick, hit my back, just under the left shoulder. More jeers, hoots and cursed yells. For over a block I walked through all of that.
Before long, crowds were congregating around me. I could feel whole group of young men following behind me, other groups gathered in front of me. Soon they would grow courage, I knew. Whatever would happen, I kept walking, showing no fear, ignoring them altogether. That was the most important thing. I did not even acknowledge them. Not when the hurled rocks and insults grew in frequency, nor when groups of young men and women closed in on me.
The first kick I saw coming, but I didn't do anything to avoid it or otherwise defend myself. It was a minor blow, not even disrupting my balance and I continued walking without pause. Fists were more difficult to ignore, but I managed me. My uniform afforded some protection, and my body had survived worse punishment over the years. Hands grabbed at my shield, tried to pull it away. I didn't pull back, but my arm was hard as stone, its grip unyielding.
Past the crowd and their violence I walked on. At no point did I force my way through anybody. People just moved aside, even as they hit and screamed at me. Some were upset that I was ignoring them, took it as a chance to vent at being ignored by their government. Standing at the side of the street was a young boy, likely brought out by his older sibling to watch the spectacle. He didn't look like he enjoyed himself, even looked a little scared. I gave him a reassuring smile before losing sight of him, and continued on my way.
By the time everybody was either too tired or lost interest in harassing me, the injuries on my body were numerous but all minor. My lip was bleeding a little and was beginning to swell, but that was the most serious injury of what's been done to me. Everything else, they were bruises that would leave me sore in the morning. It didn't matter. Soon I would be at the street, and they were all following me there.
The avenue des Champs-Elysées soon came into view, illuminated by the lights of high-end business fronts. Far off to the northwest I could see the Arc de Triomphe, though I knew nobody else could. When I began my walk nearly an hour ago from the east, I knew that notice would quickly have been taken, and action done. The junction onto the avenue des Champs-Elysées was cordoned off, guarded by French soldiers with their guns raised. Of course, the government wouldn't allow the civil disturbance to reach one of France's most historic monuments, let alone the heart of its business district.
Some of those following me slowed down or paused, but as before I paid them no mind. I approached the soldiers, my arms down in a non-threatening gesture. They recognized the star and stripes on my chest. The few times I've stood at odds with American soldiers, they had always stepped aside. Would the soldiers of France be any different?
"I go only to pay my respects at the Tomb," I told the men in fluent French. Their eyes are not on me. "No damage will be done. You have my word. Please, don't allow what began with death to end in bloodshed as well."
At no point until their response did I slow my advance. The barrel of one gun almost collided with my chest when it was raised. The soldiers stepped aside. I walked through unmolested. Everybody walking behind me also stepped onto the avenue des Champs-Elysées without incident. Separately, myself and them, we continued on to the Arc de Triomphe. Towering in the distance, the sight of it left me in as much awe as sixty years ago, during the victory parade after Paris was liberated.
Traffic had always been a problem around the Place de l'Étoile. In spite of the late hour and the disturbances around the city, automobiles drove down the street in volume. Every car stopped, fortunately and nobody was hurt. Horns blared and angry yells returned, a combination with the exhaust fumes that did not aid my head. Up the street I walked, past annoyed drivers in their unmoving vehicles. The arc de Triomphe loomed over me, and then I was under it, standing before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
I turned from the Tomb, and acknowledged for the first time the thousands that had followed behind me. "Ici repose un soldat Francais mort pour la patrie." I quoted the inscription on the slab perfectly. Here lies a French soldier who died for a country. In French, I continued speaking. "He lies here instead of in the Panthéon because the public wrote letters demanding such."
For a long time I talked, a man draped in the colors of the United States of America, but they were also the colors of France, and I addressed them in their language taught to me by members of the French Resistance during World War II. It was the resistance I mostly talked about. The French government had surrendered to German occupation but the people never did, and Charles de Gaulle had made it known with his speech that they were not forgotten by the outside world. A court-martial had sentenced de Gaulle in absentia to death for treason against the Vichy regime, but after the war had commuted a death sentence against Vichy France dictator Henri Philippe Pétain to life imprisonment.
I talked about the bravery of the French Resistance, occasionally glancing up at the names of French generals engraved on the inside walls of the monument. "Before Paris was liberated, General von Choltitz was ordered by Hitler to destroy all monuments, to destroy the city. That he refused, that he acted to avoid a complete uprising and fighting within Paris, is a testament to this city's beauty, and a reminder that authority only has power to those who obey it."
With pride I described the general strikes in Paris and skirmishes between Parisians and German occupiers. My eyes raised towards the very end of the avenue des Champs-Elysées as I remembered the victory parade. I had stood on the sidelines, proud to watch the French celebrate the victory that was wholly and rightly theirs.
That was as far as my personal recollections went. All I knew since was of the failed post-war government, de Gaulle's return and later criticisms. France had developed nuclear weapons without U.S. aid, launched their own satellite into space, and grew into one of the strongest economies in the world.
"Thirty years ago the Trente Glorieuses is said to have ended." Those thirty years, from 1945 to 1974 had been a remarkable growth in France's economy. "The cités were constructed then, and La Défense was redesigned." I raised my arm to indicate the massive skyscrapers far down the street. "Times have changed, and you've been told they won't last, that the government is doing everything they can to help. You don't think they have, that they ignore you or worse, and the angry bubbles over. This has happened in many countries, and Paris has seen many demonstrations."
Briefly I talked about the violence of the French Revolution, and the new elections triggered by the strikes and protests held in May of 1968. Change had been brought about, and nobody had died. At this point I paused. The same could not be said of these riots, due both to the deaths that had triggered the violence and of a man who had died in the hospital as a result.
"France will change," I said finally. "Your lives will get better, because you have made your voices and even now change is being forced. I can't tell you what's best for France, but in my opinion no change is better than that brought about by the will over the people."
Silence had fallen. The entire time I had talked, it had seemed like no other sounds had been made. I had no way of knowing how many had heard my words. I'd said everything that I felt needed to be said, however, so I walked out from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and towards the crowds. Hopefully they would let me pass without incident. There were things I needed to do tomorrow.
A young woman approached me, offered her hand and gave a name. It sounded vaguely familiar to me, so I accepted her hand and asked. "Do you have a relative who fought on the Vercors Plateau?" When Allied aid had been requested, I reached the Plateau to late to do anything but help bury the 600 bodies.
She smiled. "My great-grandfather. He mentioned you a few times."
# # # # #
The rest of that night had been uneventful, until maybe a half-hour before dawn. I stood at the window in only my boxer shorts, waiting for the first rays of morning light to break the horizon. Behind me the young woman I met earlier lay in the bed, asleep and content.
It was later, afterwards, that I tried but couldn't remember putting on boxers, or why. I had just had sex with a woman. Why would I have been wearing anything?
But at the time my thoughts were on more immediate things. A flash of green in the courtyard took my attention. Light green, it would have been almost indistinguishable in the darkness if not for a nearby street lamp reflecting off the yellow fringe. Green…with strips of yellow. Instinct put the shield in one hand as my other hand opened the window just in time for the shield for the shield to fly from my fingers.
My aim was true. The shield bounced off the terrorist's shoulder as I was diving out the window, careened off a wall and returned to my waiting hand moments before I landed on the ground. At almost the same time my bare feet touched the wet grass, he had fallen stunned a few feet away. Immediately I was on top of him, shield at his throat.
"Why are you here?" I screamed into the face I didn't realize was bare at the time. "What is HYDRA planning?"
"Capitaine! Capitaine!" Several men were running at me, dressed in the uniforms of the Police Nationale. They continued to call at me in French, asked what I was doing. Quickly I raised my shield and stepped away from the HYDRA agent. The French authorities had the right to interrogate prisoners on their soil.
But they weren't moving to arrest the terrorist. Two helped the man to his feet, while a third moved to keep me away and question me. He asked what I was doing, why I would assault an innocent man.
"Can't you seen he's a HYDRA agent?" I responded in French while pointing at the man. Morning rays had broken the horizon, was starting to bath the courtyard in light. I saw then that the man I'd attacked wasn't dressed in the green-and-yellow uniform of HYDRA operatives. Green trousers with a yellow belt and long-sleeved green shirt with suspenders over that. He wore no mask.
Embarrassed apologies spewed out of me. I had no idea how I could have been so mistaken. The innocent man I had assaulted wasn't seriously or even mildly injured, fortunately. I had only used enough force to place him in a position for interrogation. The officers took a statement and personal information from the civilian, and quickly sent him on his way. I tried to do the same there, assure the men that I would not leave the city and face any charges the man might choose to press.
But they insist that I should accompany them to the nearest precinct. Of course I agree, and when I request to go to my room to get dressed, they come to escort me. As I didn't have the key on me, a spare had to be requested at the front desk, compounding my embarrassment. Quickly, my embarrassment turned into horror.
Blood stained the sheets in my room. The young woman on the bed, dressed - oddly, I would reflect later - in a torn nightgown also dark with blood. She was quite clearly dead.
At my back and in front of me, the officers were reaching for their weapons.
Next Issue: As Free Spirit tries to clear Jack Flagg's name in the United States, Captain America stands accused in France! He's convinced of being trapped in a terrorist conspiracy, but in order to reveal it he must fight against those he once knew as allies!