Midmorning Revelations

Two secret agents were driving to the White House from the SHIELD headquarters to meet the president.

One tells the other: “I told you not to hire him.” 

The other, not even bothering to look up from the damage reports he’d been handed before he walked out of their building, responds: “Is now really the time for ‘I told you sos?’” 

And so the first says: 

“Considering eighty-nine people are dead --” Deputy Director Maria Hill was interrupted by her phone chiming. The hard line of her mouth dropped ever so slightly as she read the notification. “Ninety. Carstairs just killed himself.” 

A career soldier, Heavy Arms Chief Carstairs had been wading chest-deep in blood for SHIELD since Fury was a field agent. He was really religious, in a way that Hill usually had to call HR for, but amazingly he never tried to push his shit on other people. He was really, honestly, doing it for himself. Not to prove something. 

His agents said he went to church after every successful launch. He never told anybody that’s what he did, but when the boss leaves while everybody else is popping the champagne and comes back forty minutes later smelling like incense, you put the pieces together. Somebody who felt the need to repent every time they fired: that’s the kind of guy you want with a finger on the big red button. 

When he learned that he shot down five innocent people for no good reason and kickstarted a chain reaction that wiped out half the Northwest division-- Well. It didn’t take a super-spy to solve that mystery. 

“Mm,” SHIELD Director Nick Fury remarked. “Tell Saunders in Coulport he’s up.” 

“I’ll put him on the helicarrier with the rest of the replacements. The replacements for all the people who got killed because you hired the guy I wrote an official declaration asking you not to.”  

Fury put down his files.

“We promote Harrison to SWORD director, we get the Hulk.” He said, reiterating the terms of the agreement they’d made with the sitting President four years ago. 

In 2008, a radiation scientist had an accident. It was the kind of accident the world hasn’t seen in a long, long time. Since it happened on United States soil, it was technically a United States issue, which meant President Creed had authority over the investigation. Against all logic and reason, instead of turning it over to SHIELD (as every other country in the world had done for the past eighty years when events like this occurred), Creed kept it in-house. And, worst of all, he tapped General Ross to lead it. 

Ross hunted the poor bastard like a dog , and he used the full force of the United States military to do it. The investigation started in May, By June, SHIELD analysts estimated they had until Independence Day before a major city got caught in the crossfire. 

So Fury took one for the team, and now Banner lives in a nice hut on the wrong side of Baffin Bay with all the Xanax SHIELD can fit in a cargo plane. 

“I’d take a rampaging Hulk over Magneto,” Hill retorted.

A Hulk you can outsmart. Guys like Magneto, you have to outplay. And he wasn’t even the worst of their problems. Mad Thinker, the White Queen, Medusa-- the Raft prisoners hadn’t wasted a second after the power shorted out. 

Based on the tidal wave of random robberies and UFO sightings coming in from the coast of Maine in the last twelve hours, SHIELD calculated that at least eighty percent of their charges had escaped and were now doing god-knows-what across the Eastern Seaboard.

Hill sighed, feeling far older than she had any right to.

“Chin up, Hill. We can still fix this.” 

She chuckled humorlessly. “I think we blew past fixing fifty bodies ago.” 

“If I believed that, I wouldn’t bother getting up in the morning,” Fury said. 

The car stopped: they had arrived at the White House. 

“Nick. Maria.” President Creed greeted as the pair walked into the Oval Office. 

A political wunderkind, Grayson Creed had won the White House in 2008 at only forty years old. He had run, as far as Fury could tell, on that age-old platform of “a guy you’d like to have a beer with.” 

That was it: no policy plans, no stances on issues, just a nice guy. And hell, maybe he really was a nice guy, once upon a time. But politics will make slime out of saints. And as nice as he may have been, Creed was far from a fucking saint. 

Creed gestured to the armchairs he’d had an aide set up in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”

They did. 

“So,” Creed asked, leaning leisurely back in his armchair. “What’s this I hear about a DEFCON-2 level threat happening on US soil?”

Shit . Hill thought. 

“That’s a bit of an overstatement,” Fury began smoothly, “Did you not have a chance to look at the files we sent over--” 

“I did,” Creed confirmed. “And the ones from the Defense Department, and the ones from the governor of Maine’s office, and--” At this, Creed chuckled.

“I’ll be honest with you, Nick, just about every single agency with access to satellite feeds or a police scanner.”

Creed raised up the thick pile of papers that had been cluttering his desk for Fury and Hill to see. He picked the topmost neatly-stapled collection of sheets off the top before putting the rest down. 

“This one’s my favorite: at 0500, Bangor City Police asked for national guard backup because of a,”

Creed squinted his eyes comically at the paper in his hand.  “A toad-man attacking city hall.” 

“Yes, well-” Fury tried. 

“With an army of frogs .” 

Hill jumped in. “Mr. President, we’re aware of the case you’re speaking of, and a strike team has already been dispatched to that location--”

Her phone buzzed again. Facial scanners got a hit on the Hate-Monger at an airport in Argentina. Double-shit. 

Hill raised her phone up triumphantly, screen side facing her. “And they’ve just taken him into custody. Problem solved.”

Creed looked unconvinced. 

“Mr. President, we completely understand your concerns,” said Fury. “Public safety is actually what we came here to talk to you about. Over seventy percent of the Raft’s population was placed there as a precautionary measure.” 

That was true. No other prison on the planet was equipped to deal with super-powered prisoners. No prison ever could, if SHIELD was doing its job right. That meant that every single criminal on the planet with observable superhuman abilities, no matter the severity of their crimes, was placed in the world’s only super-supermax. Which, by virtue of being the world’s only super-supermax, required all inmates to serve for life to maintain the secrecy of the Raft. Tax evasion, terrorism, rape, robbery: if you had a tail or telepathy, they might as all be the same word. 

“And while there may be one or two more… dramatic cases, our data scientists have calculated only a point-four percent increase in crime nationwide while we clean this up,” Fury explained. 

“And how long is that going to take?” Creed asked. 

Time to drop the bomb. 

“Four years,” Hill told him. 

Creed’s eyes widened almost comically. Four years of supervillains running amok, of random street toughs with shiny new bones to pick against the United States government having unregulated access to the public, to the free press --“I-- is that-- is that at best or at worst?” 

Fury didn’t bother trying to sugarcoat it. “At best.” 

Creed exhaled. “Christ,” 

He hung his head and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. It was from that position, unable to look the agents in the eye, that Creed asked, “How much do you need to get that down to one?” 

Hill reined a coughing attack to hide the surprised chuckle that dragged out of her.

That wasn’t how this worked. Fury would say, “It’s gonna take four years,” and then Creed says the rich-white-politician version of “you lazy fucking shit,” to which Fury is supposed to respond in kind with the civil servant version of, “None of this ever would have happened if not for your goddamn crony,” and so on and so forth until SHIELD gets half of what they actually need and—

Fury raised a single eyebrow. “That sounds like an offer, Creed.”

“That’s because it is.” 

Fury and Hill gave no indication of their incredulity, but they didn’t need to. Creed knew just as well as they did how this dance was supposed to go. 

Creed raised his head to face the agents, the picture of honest guilt, “Fury, despite what you may think of me, I’m not an idiot. I know Harrison was the ringleader of this mess, and you only put him in charge because I was too proud to listen to you about Banner, and I--”

Creed sighed, ashamed. “Whatever you need, it’s yours. Blank check.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Hill said. 

Creed reached into a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper, written on official presidential letterhead. It was covered in legalese, but a sentence near the bottom, next to Creed’s signature and the national seal, stood out. “The United States hereby grants full emergency powers to the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate.

Creed pushed the paper across his desk to his guests.  “Congress already signed off.”

Fury took the sheet into his hands, examining it for some kind of loophole or forgery. It was genuine. The totality of the United States military was now at their disposal. “Thank you, Graydon. This will go a long way.” 

“It better ,” Creed said bitterly, “I used up about every favor I had getting it through. Now get out there and catch these bastards.” 

Fury gave him a slight nod. “Yes, sir.” 

“So he’s up to something,” Hill said once they were back in the car. 

“Yep,” Fury said. 

Hill had to hand it to the president, he was one hell of an actor. The shell shock morphing into shame, the three-to-five manly wiped away tears-- hadn’t been squeezing a letter opener under his desk, Hill might have believed him. 

“Do we have the manpower to look into it?” Hill asked. 

“Nope.” Fury told her, popping the ‘p,’ because he was an asshole nobody’d bothered to tell gallows humor wasn’t funny. 

“Fuck .”

Reed Richards, Victor von Doom, wherever you are-- I hope it was worth it. 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“I don’t know when I’m coming home, Uncle Boris, things are a bit complicated right now,” Victor spoke into the mouthpiece of Marygay Dinkins’ aging wall phone in his native tongue. 

As they were all technically dead, and knowing it was functionally impossible to find parking in New York City in even the best of circumstances, it was agreed the next best place for their wayward quintet to land would be Susan and Johnny’s aunt’s house on the coast. 

Roberta had successfully, if inexpertly, maneuvered the Manna into the small wooden dock on the back of the property about five hours ago. 

Tearful reunions were had, explanations quickly given. Victor had to applaud Marygay Dinkins: she accepted their being exposed to extraplanetary mutagens, then apprehended and later attacked by a shadow arm of the ruling government a lot quicker than he would have expected. 

Since then, all but Victor had settled down somewhere to sleep, for the first time in a week, without a gun to their heads. 

For as simple as Reed’s tasks were, work was slow-going with only a single consumer laptop and Marygay’s practically antique PC. Combined with the inordinate amount of time and effort needed to compel HERBIE into completing any task, Victor had only finished the to-do list a short while ago.

He then, foolishly, thought it would be wise to inform Boris and the rest of the Zefiro back in Latveria about the situation. 

The conversation had started with panic. The United States government had been kind enough to inform Victor’s extended family about his “death;” when his supposedly deceased voice came through the satphone, they immediately assumed that he was a mullo come back from the grave to torment them for the sin of not giving him a proper burial.

Twenty minutes of confirming that he was not a vengeful spirit later, the real interrogation began. What had happened, they had been so worried, so scared, the gadjos tracked down the caravan to let them know, Victor! One truncated recounting later, the conversation devolved into demands that he come back to Latveria right now, before something else happened. 

“Complicated?” Boris echoed, halfway across the planet with half of the tribe crowded around him as he spoke into the satphone. “Are you sick? Are you hurt?” 

I’ve been savaged beyond human comprehension. “I’m fine, Boris.”

“ Oh, no. ” Boris gasped. “ Has something happened to Reed?” 

Victor could hear the collected Zefiro murmur in fear on the other side of the call. 

Victor’s family loved Reed. 

The way you smile at him, Boris had said, once. The entire tribe had made the journey from Latveria to Vienna to watch their presentation on micro photovoltaic cells at the Leaders of Tomorrow Summit.

It’s the same way your mother looked at your father , he told Victor. 

“He’s absolutely fine. Better than fine.” Victor reassured them. 

Reed was actually passed out, quite literally poured over a twenty-year-old plastic-covered couch, but he seemed fine. Victor glanced into the living room. Yes, he was definitely breathing. 

“Then why can’t you come home?” Boris asked anxiously. 

“It’s complicated, Boris,” Victor insisted. 

"What does that--” Boris began, but the phone was seized from him before he could finish.

“Victor!” Magda Karela (née Maximoff)’s voice shrieked through the speaker. “I’ve only just heard! Kidnapped, again! Oh, you poor boy! Have you been eating?”

“Yes, Aunt Magda,” Victor intoned dutifully.

Magda clucked her tongue. “You sound thin! Don’t worry, I’ll start some fresh papanasi just for you! We’ll use your drone, it’ll be there by sundown!”

“Aunt Magda, that won’t be necessary—“

“Magda, the boy needs nutrients! Make him sarma!” Boris said from somewhere nearby.

“Shush, you!” Magda replied. “ What he needs is some comfort!” 

Victor gripped the handset like he was trying to strangle it. “Please do not send food. The drone is for medical supplies. It can’t transport unsecured food thousands of kilometers--”

Boris snatched the phone back from his wife. “Oh my! Doctor von Doom thinks he’s too good for home cooking now, does he? Not on my watch, young man. I promised your parents, God rest their souls, that I would look after you--”

Victor stopped listening, covering the mouthpiece with one hand so he could smack his head into the wall without the noise getting through. 

Then, like a Valkyrie come to take him to salvation, Sue entered the foyer.

“You know what? Susan’s just told me there’s been a breakthrough in the research, I have to go. Give Valeria and the twins my love. Goodbye.” 

Victor hung up the handset with more force than was maybe necessary. 

“Good morning, Susan.” He said in English.

She gave him a once-over. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” 

“On the contrary ,” Victor said tiredly, which kind of freaked her out. She’d literally watched him stare down army generals with less exhaustion in his voice. 

“Well, Marygay made breakfast for everyone if you want some.” 

“I would, thank you,” Victor said. 

The two walked the short distance to the kitchen; the smell of sizzling bacon filling the air with each step closer. 

Johnny and Ben were already seated at the kitchen counter. Ben was staring at an iPhone by his arm like his life depended on it. Next to him, Johnny was struggling to turn the pages of a graphic novel. 

 Victor said, “Susan, the child is wearing oven mitts.”

“I-- yeah,” Sue responded. 

Johnny looked up at the newcomers indignantly. “This is an autographed limited edition ! I had to wait in line for like five hours, there’s no way I’m gonna risk turning it into ash!”

Ever since they got home, Johnny had become anxious, bordering on paranoid, about his flames. He had taken a fire extinguisher to bed with him. 

As a scientist, Sue didn’t really get it. His mutation had stabilized; with each passing moment, his body was only becoming more and more accustomed to the new tissue responsible for his immolation. If he could turn it off on day one, while under the stress of being kidnapped, he could handle sleeping in his own bed. 

As a sister? He got kidnapped. He could wear nothing but a fire blanket for all she cared, as long as he was happy. 

As soon as they got a handle on everything, she was going to get him a therapist. A good one. 

And maybe a pony. 

Marygay reentered the kitchen, another pound of bacon from the garage freezer in her arms. 

“Victor!” She said, surprised. 

“Hello again, Ms. Dinkins.” Victor tilted his head a traditional thirty degrees downward in deference to her hospitality. Marygay blushed as red as the tomatoes she had been using for the omelets. 

“I hope you’re hungry! I’ve got bacon, ham, eggs, pancakes— chocolate and blueberry, french toast— take your pick!” Marygay said. “Any allergies I should know about? I can have Johnny pop down to the corner store--” 

“Why do I have to go?” Johnny protested. 

“Because he’s a guest, dear,” Marygay explained. “It’s bad enough that poor Reed had to sleep on the couch.”

“What you have here is more than enough, Ms. Dinkins. I thank you for your generosity.” Victor said. 

Marygay waved him off. “Oh, any friend of Susan’s is a friend of mine! I can hardly believe I’m finally meeting you! Victor von Doom, in my kitchen !” She tittered.

Marygay glanced back and forth like a drug deal lookout before leaning in to ask, “Did you really punch Tony Stark in the face?” 

“ Aunt Marygay, ” Sue said, embarrassed. 

“It’s fine, Susan,” Victor said as he made himself a plate. “I have not .”  

Victor actually wasn’t sure if he’d punched Tony Stark in the face. 

Boston, 2005. It was Victor’s first season as captain of the robotics team, and under his implacable leadership, State U had fought their way into the national championship. Their final opponent? The undefeated founder of the league: MIT. 

Stark, a proud MIT alumnus, had reportedly bet an egregious amount of money that MIT would continue that streak. Somehow that piece of information got back to Stark Senior, who threatened to cut Junior off if he lost that much gambling on collegiate robotics leagues. 

His trust fund on the line, Stark wasn’t afraid to fight dirty. 

He offered to take both teams drinking with him the night before the championship. Despite it being an obvious attempt at sabotage, and Victor explicitly banning any of his team members from going, every single one of them snuck out of the hotel to eat, drink, and be stupid. He followed them to Stark’s club with the intention of dragging them back to their rooms. But one thing, as they often do in Stark’s presence, led to another…

The next thing he knew, it was seven in the morning the next day and he was waking up halfway across town on the floor of a trolley car. 

By some miracle, he still had his wallet. He took a cab to the arena just in time to compete, albeit by himself: the rest of his so-called teammates were too hungover to even show up. But they were little more than set dressing in the first place. 

Stark was so confident in his victory that he came to observe the match in person. A mauve bruise besmirching his smug face, he watched in horror as Victor von Doom single-handedly obliterated MIT. 

Victor flew back to New York that very afternoon, trophy in one hand and first-class complimentary mimosa in the other. There was a technical issue with the other State U students’ bookings: they were forced to ride home on some kind of livestock cargo plane. 

“However, should the opportunity ever arise,” Victor said. “I’ll most certainly take it. The man is a noxious pimple on the face of American robotics.” 

Marygay laughed until tears came out of her eyes. 

“How come when he punches people, it’s funny?” Johnny asked. 

“Cause you don’t got his jawline,” Ben answered. Even with a giant sock on his head, Vic was pulling.

“Oh, Victor!” Marygay cooed. “Is Reed going to be joining us anytime soon? I feel like it’s been ages since I last saw him!” 

Victor glanced at the clock. “He won’t be up for about fourteen hours or so, I’m afraid.” 

Sue did the Reed Richards Insomnia Rebound Formula in her head. “He didn’t sleep for three days ?” 

“The siren’s call of his father’s research was too much to bear,” Victor lied. 

Reed’s embezzled guilt had kept him up for three days straight, but the others didn’t need to know that. 

“Fuckin’ Doctor R,” Ben muttered, before remembering the company he was in. “Sorry, ma’am.” 

Maygay snorted. “I live with a teenager, hon.”

“HERBIE called about an hour ago,” Victor changed the subject. “Reed and myself have been returned to the living, and lawyers are on standby for the rest of you. A car should be here to take us to the Baxter Building any minute now.” 

Ben looked up from his staring contest with the iPhone. “All of us?” 

“I’ve asked them to send their heftiest vehicle to accommodate you, Grimm. Apparently, it's the same Limousine they use to transport champion horses to races.”

“Oh cool—“ Johnny started. 

Victor put that bull down before it could even see the china shop. “Under no circumstances can you drive it.” 

“I appreciate the offer, but as soon as I get through to Debbie I’m going home,” Ben said, tapping the phone. The screen cracked a little. 

“ Hey! ” Johnny said, regretting letting Ben borrow it.

“Whoops. I’ll get you another one, Matchstick.” Ben said apologetically. “How much are these things anyway, eight dollars?”

Johnny groaned in disgust. 

“What, ten? Twenty ?” Ben asked. 

“I hate old people,” Johnny muttered, getting up from his chair. “I’m gonna go watch TV.” 

“Put your dishes away!” Sue called after him, to no avail. 

“Ben, that’s not a good idea.” She said, turning to face her friend. “There’s a lot of work to do, and it’ll go a lot faster if we have you on-site. Not to mention the media circus when all this gets out.” 

“You think the newspapers are really gonna care about some dumb mook who turned up after a week?” Ben asked, surprised. “ You guys I get, but--”

“An American soldier triumphantly returns, after all hope was lost, to his beloved wife. Yes, who onearth would want to see that.” Victor said sarcastically.

The sediment that defined Ben’s lips drooped. “Then you hafta send a car for Debbie too. I’m not going one second longer than I have to without seeing her.” 

“Very well,” Victor capitulated, damn his soft heart. “My publicist expects about three hours before the story goes live. That’s more than enough time to get from Yancy to Midtown.” 

“HEY, GUYS?” Johnny called from the living room. “YOU SHOULD SEE THIS!” 

Sue, Victor, and Ben had the exact same thought ring through their heads at Johnny’s announcement. Without having to say a word, they all hurried into the living room. 

What fucking now?

“I’ve been on TV so much these past few days,” Johnny said excitedly, eyes glued to Marygay’s CRT television set. He had very graciously decided not to sit on Reed, dead to the world on the couch, instead perching on the back like a bird. 

On-screen, President Graydon Creed was in the Oval Office, surrounded by secret service and reporters.

“---Deceased spy Edward Harrison tried to cover up the survival of the Argo ’ s crew as part of an al-Qaeda terrorist plot on our nation’s scientific establishment. However, I am proud to announce to the American people that it did not succeed. To the families of Reed Richards, Susan and Jonathan Storm, Victor von Doom, and Major Benjamin Grimm, I want to personally apologize--”

Suddenly, the feed switched to the back of a news van. It was the same woman from the candlelight vigil. 

“If you’re just joining us, that was President Creed, announcing that the Argo Five survived the crash of the Argo Space Station!” The reporter said, practically breathless. “I’m Alice Gleason, reporting live en route to Glenville, Long Island. Right now we’re on our way to interview Marygay Dinkins, aunt to Johnny and Susan Storm, about the news!” 

“You should fire that publicist,” Ben told Victor, who valiantly resisted the urge to punch him.

Johnny jumped off the top of the couch and rushed to the window, where the van was just pulling into the driveway. 

“HOLY SHIT THEY’RE HERE!” He shrieked. 

“Wurgh,” Reed said, the noise dragging him kicking and screaming back into consciousness. 

“Can I go talk to ‘em?” Johnny asked. “Please? Please? ” 

“ Absolutely not. What are you even going to say?” Sue hissed. 

Victor speed-walked back into the kitchen to look up the statement on Johnny’s phone. “We need talking points, an explanation. They could have told the media anything. Susan, you’ll have to be our spokeswoman.” 

“Wh-- Me? ” Sue asked, not far behind him. 

“It’s either you, the attention-starved sixteen-year-old, or Reed. Make your choice.” 

“I-I can’t go on TV!” Sue sputtered. “I haven’t taken a shower in like two days! I at least need some kind of concealer!” 

“I’ve got some, honey,” Aunt Marygay soothed. “You can even borrow my good pantsuit!” 

Sue buried her face in her hands. 

Back in the living room, Ben watched six more news trucks drive down the lane. “Damn it, they’re swarming like flies!” 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god ,” Johnny panted, practically salivating. 

“Wuz happenin’?” Reed asked drowsily. 

“I’m about to set the record straight, that’s what!” Johnny said unhelpfully. “Hold these!” He threw his oven mitts in Reed’s general direction. 

“JOHNNY!” Ben yelled as the boy made a break for the front door.

Ben tried to catch up with him, but the little bastard was fast , and he was about three hundred pounds heavier than he was used to being. Victor realized it was a lost cause before Ben did, yanking him by the arm into the relative safety of the curtained kitchen just seconds before Johnny opened the door. A mob of newscasters and their camera crews were waiting on the other side, about to knock.

“ Johnny Storm ?” One of them asked.   

“The one and only, baby!” He said, looking around for the lady he had seen covering his funeral. 

“Alice! Huge fan of the show. I got a few notes about the last one you did, though. I don’t know who told you Michael Snow is my best friend—“

They didn’t let him finish, breaking into questions. 

“Johnny, how did you and the others survive for four days in the Rocky Mountains?” 

“What caused the crash?”

“What’s Baxter Solutions' position on Congress’s new anti-space exploration bill?” 

“Huh?” Johnny asked, squinting against the flashbulbs. Who still used flashbulbs, anyway? “Um, I dunno. Anyway, Mike Snow is not my friend. And all the weed he sells is just oregano—“ 

Sue shoved Johnny behind her and back into the house. “No more questions at this time, thank you!” 

“Doctor Storm!” One intrepid reporter spoke over the groans of his fellows. “What do you have to say about the allegations that your team’s incompetence caused the crash?” 

That stopped Sue in her tracks. “ Excuse me ?” 

“Simon Utrecht of Nimrod Industries has alleged your blueprints had several major errors in them that could have been responsible for the crash.” The reporter explained, shoving through the crowd to get closer to Doctor Storm.

Who? Sue thought before she remembered the often-hyped, rarely delivering, commercial space travel firm the reporter was speaking of. 

“Wh-- Our competitors? There’s a bit of a conflict of interest there, don’t you think?” Sue asked. 

The reporter raised his microphone between them. “That depends. Is it true?” 

“There were no errors in our designs, and I’d stake my reputation on that. What happened was a freak accident,” Sue answered through gritted teeth. 

“Do you have any proof?” The reporter asked. 

“Our safety mechanisms are public information—” Sue replied. 

“Is Baxter Solutions facing any litigation because of this?” Another reporter interrupted. 

“No, and we won’t be. Now you would please—” 

“Sue! Is it true you’re pregnant with Channing Tatum’s baby?” The correspondent for E! asked. 

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” Sue shouted them down. “You want a statement? Here’s the statement!” 

The reporters all stared at her like starving men at a buffet, cameras and microphones at the ready. 

She took a deep breath in. Let it out.  

“Five days ago, we went to space. Due to a--” Wormhole thing that apparently the government knew about for decades-- “Sudden subspace anomaly, the station was destroyed, and we all nearly died.”  

Sue could feel the hunger rising in the crowd at her description, like sharks circling fresh blood, but she didn’t give them a chance to strike. “We’ve had an exceptionally bad week, and if past experience tells us anything, we might not get another. So I’m going to spend some of my limited time on this earth with my family. Get off my lawn.” 

Sue slammed the door in their faces. 

“I’m going to murder you,” Sue told her only beloved brother. 

“Yeah, cool. Do you think they got my good side?” Johnny asked, face smushed against the front windows, where the reporters were , actually, getting off the lawn. The horde returned to their trucks and drove off in an orderly fashion. 

For a second, Sue patted herself on the back— getting a whole bunch of vultures to leave the freshly squashed roadkill that was their business was no small feat!

And then Victor entered the foyer with some kind of modified radio under his arm. 

“Did you make another bomb?” She asked. 

“It’s a jury-rigged sonic dispersal device,” Reed explained, trailing behind him. 

“Patent-pending,” Victor added. He shot a smug grin at Reed. “And you thought the technology was a violation of human rights!” 

“It definitely is,” Reed replied. “It just so happens that violating human rights is what we need in this particular instance.” 

“How does a device that harnesses vestigial subconscious reactions to certain frequency patterns in the human motor cortex to compel people into returning to their homes, obeying all local and state laws as they do so, impede one’s civil liberties?” Victor asked.

Reed turned to his fiancé with a look that told Sue this was far from the first time they’d had this debate. 

“Honey, we’ve discussed this. Civil liberties don’t end with the prevention of bodily harm from the actions of other citizens.”

Victor made a noise like a bee just flew up his nose. “Seventeen-sixty-two called, it wants its’ short-sighted views on an individual’s privileges in a social collective back.” 

“Sixteen-fifty-one called, it wants the fallacy of negative liberty back,“ Reed fired back.

“ Fifteen-thirty-two called— “

Sue clapped her hands between their faces. “Guys .” 

“Oy! The Pied Piper ray missed one!” Ben yelled from the kitchen before Reed could prepare his rebuttal.

“It is a sonic dispersal device ,” Victor and Reed said reflexively.

Sue looked out the window. “That’s a weird-looking news van,” 

Johnny followed Sue’s eyes-- she was right, it was. If he had to describe it, he would have said it looked like an RV and a Cadillac had a one-night stand, got pregnant, and instead of telling their parents just threw the baby in a ditch. It was the dirtiest car he had ever seen with that expensive of tires. 

Victor peered over Sue’s shoulder. “Yes, that would be Roberta with the car. Make haste, everyone. The frequencies lose efficacy after twenty minutes.” 

“What? I haven't packed!” Johnny said. 

“Then you have eighteen minutes, thirty seconds to do so,” Victor told him coolly. He pulled the front door open and turned to Reed. “After you, my love. Even if the finer points of modern political theory escape you.”  

The pair bickered their way out the door and into the car.

Ben thumped into the foyer a couple minutes after them, a gigantic trench coat Marygay must have dug out from the darkest depths of the coat closet, and the oversized ‘WORLD'S BEST AUNT’ knitted cap Sue had made for Marygay when she was thirteen hiding most of his body from view. 

“I got just the thing, she says. Nobody’ll notice, she says,” He muttered, passing by Sue and Johnny to get out of the house. 

“So is this gonna be like a weekend, or like a week-type thing?” Johnny asked Sue once they were alone. “Cause I’m kinda running low on clean underwear—”

“What in the name of fuck were you thinking?” Sue asked. 

“I just got home, I haven’t done laundry yet!” Johnny said. 

“That’s not—” Sue began before she realized how pointless it was. She groaned in frustration. How, why, did he always do this? Play dumb when he should know better, derailing the conversation, the class— how long until it’s an actual train?  

“I don’t understand you,” She told her brother, ashamed and confused and furious all at the same time. “Ten minutes ago, I thought you were scarred for life, and now you’re chasing reporters ? This isn’t a game, Johnny!” 

“I know that!” Johnny shot back. “ I’m the one turning into a roman candle, remember?” 

“THEN ACT LIKE IT!” Sue roared. 

Upon seeing the look on her brother’s face, her own went transparent. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— What I meant to say was—“ 

“I’m gonna grab my shit,” Johnny mumbled, turning his back on her and walking further into the house. 

“Johnny,” She pleaded, but he was already up the stairs. “ Fuck .”