A Corner of the Union

He banged his head against the wall as he reeled back in shock, frustration, and mockery.

"Oh, really, Mr. President?  You think team USA's gonna do great at the Olympics?  Clearly that is an important part of the current state of the union," he shouted sarcastically to the empty room.

He didn't normally get into politics, but for some reason, he was actually sitting this year, watching the State of the Union Address.  He was really glad that the station he was watching had explained some of the history behind it, but it also was kind of pissing him off now.  If it was just a random pointless speech, he would care ever so slightly less about how pointless it was.

. . . then again, he was frustrated by just about everything any politician did these days.

Who was he kidding?  He was only paying enough attention to get himself angry enough to post something clever on his blog . . . and there really was nothing worth writing about here.

So he closed his eyes.

He heard the door close and watched one of the most powerful men in the world walk to his desk and sit, head in his hands, letting out a huge sigh.

"Hello, Mr. President!"  The president quickly leapt to his feet, reaching instinctively for the phone that was no longer there.  "Sorry.  I borrowed your phone.  I'll get it back to you later.  Alright?"  The intruder's face and voice were both infinitely cheerier than the president, who looked both terrified and angry.

"Who are you and what do you want?"

"Straight to business then?  Alright.  I'm a victim . . . well actually a friend of a victim . . . well actually a friend of a friend of a victim."  He paused and stared into space for a moment.  "Anyway, I want justice."

The president didn't respond.  Instead, he began slowly edging his way toward the door they both knew was hidden in the wall behind him.  He managed to reach the handle, but before he could turn it, he found the intruder's hand holding his wrist.  "How did you . . . ?"

"Oh, Bill.  Can I call you Bill?"  It was an honest question.

The president looked confused, but the question seemed to catch him just off-guard enough to inspire honesty.  He spoke very slowly and cautiously.  "My name is . . . "

"I didn't ask what your name was," he said still innocently, but with a sudden spark of anger.  "I asked if I could call you Bill."

A sudden sternness overtook the politician.  "No.  You may not call me Bill," he said with more anger than he had intended and less dignity than he had hoped.  He tried to recover by stepping back toward his desk and straightening his jacket.

"Great.  So, Bill," the intruder said, walking back over to the seat he had been occupying before the president had so rudely forced him to get uncomfortable, "like I was saying, I want justice."

A sudden calm professionalism had overtaken the politician as he sat down at his desk.  "And what exactly do you want justice for?"

"Everyone and everything," the intruder said matter-of-factly.

The president had taken out a piece of paper and began writing on it.  The furniture in the room was arranged so that he knew the intruder wouldn't be able to see what he was writing, but he somehow knew that trying to keep secrets from this man wasn't going to work.  He avoided writing anything classified just in case.  "I think we all want that.  Don't we?"

The intruder leapt to his feet, gesturing wildly.  "Thank you!  Finally, a man who understands the people!"

"So what do you want from me?"

"I want you to sign an executive order officially making me a hero!"

"A hero?"

"Yes!  The United States' first superhero!  Just think how good that will look in the history books!"

"Look," he paused.  "I don't know your name."

"Oh sorry about that," the intruder replied cheerily.  "You can call me Lance."

"Alright, Larry . . . "

"It's Lance."

"Right."  The president smirked a bit.  "So, Larry, you realize that I can't really make anyone a superhero.  No one can be above the law."

Lance was suddenly standing behind the politician, gently rubbing his shoulders.  "Oh, Bill.  I think you'll find that I'm already above the law.  I just want you to make it easier on everyone and keep the authorities out of my way."  He leaned in close to whisper in the ear of the leader of the free world.  "And it's Lance."

He opened his eyes.

He must have dozed off.  Based on where the commentators were in their analysis of the president's speech, he had been out for hours.  He glanced out the window to check on the state of his little corner of the union.

Yep.  Still there.

Why did they need a two-hour speech to tell everyone that?

Annual Pedantry

He stifled another yawn . . . then gave up stifling them and let them flow freely.

It wasn't that his church's annual meeting was boring.  It was really more like . . . no.  His church's annual meeting was boring.  It wasn't always.  In fact, some years, it was downright exciting once they got on to something controversial like last year's time change proposal that he could have sworn almost came to blows.  This year, however, there didn't seem to be anything worth fighting over.

Lame.

He tried to listen to the members bringing up the same points and getting confused by the same reports and volunteering for the same things they did the year before, but that was a hopeless endeavor.  He tried to get involved in the conversations himself, hoping he could throw everyone a curve ball that would catch everyone off guard, but he couldn't focus enough to add anything.  He even tried to imagine that it was actually a mafia assemblage (the heads of all five families were present, after all), but there wasn't even enough excitement for him to make that work.

As they started to open discussion on the proposed budget for the coming year, he accepted that money was never going to be something that he could make sense of anyway and settled back into the pew.  He stretched out his arms, careful to make sure to keep them low enough that no one thought he was volunteering for something, and allowed another yawn.

And he closed his eyes.

He felt a warm breeze blowing on his face, filling his nostrils with their first glimpse of the outside world in years.  His first thought was that it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

His second was that it smelled like burned salmon.

His third was that he had no idea was burned salmon smelled like.

He opened his eyes and looked around at the ruined laboratory surrounding him.  Whatever had set him free of his confines must have been incredibly powerful to leave this kind of impression on his captors' fortress.  Broken glass covered roasted corpses and the ground surrounding them while large gaping holes riddled the walls.  A layer of ash gave everything the feel of an old black-and-white movie.

He smiled, reveling in his newfound freedom.  He felt a slight twinge of guilt about the joy he felt towards the bodies he was walking on, but it was so strongly outweighed by the relatively chemical-free air filling his lungs that he didn't actually care.

A sudden scraping noise on the large metallic door across the room pulled him away from his revelry.

He turned slowly, a manic grinning spreading across his face as his hands gently traced the trail he had taken since he had awoken.  As they moved gracefully in front of his face, he slowly curled his fingers into a fist and marched forward with sudden deliberateness to meet whoever was knocking on the door of his long-time home.

He reached the door just as it swung open to reveal a heavy-framed, humanoid form.

Without hesitation, he reeled around, lifting his left leg gracefully into the air and planting his heel hard on the figure's head.  Before he could figure out what kind of effect this had on his new visitor, he leapt through the doorway, lifted effortlessly off the ground, and flew off into the sunset.

"Great," a voice echoed from somewhere just beyond the horizon.  "Thank you for doing that!"

He opened his eyes.

Several people in the room had turned to look at him while others whispered to each other, gesturing at him with nods and even a point or two.  He took a quick inventory of himself to find one arm stretched straight up in the air.  His sister was giggling quietly next to him.

Uh oh.

He smiled up at the president of the church council and nodded curtly.

What exactly had he just volunteered for?

A Sold Soul

He thumbed through the cookbook absentmindedly, not really seeing anything on any of the pages.  His hands seemed determined to find a recipe that would spark the rest of his being into actually cooking something, but they weren't having any luck.  His mind simply wasn't there.  Actually, if he was being honest with himself, his mind hadn't been spending much time around his body at all that day.

He suddenly slammed the book shut and went back to his computer.  He could always order pizza.

Three unicorns, two llamas, and a course in oceanography (or was it oceanology?) later, he managed to force himself off of YouTube.  A quick glance at Facebook told him nothing new was happening anywhere at all in the world, so he tried to pull himself back to the real world.

No such luck.

After selling his soul for a username, he scrolled through the newest blue-birded abyss of his online life.  He then quickly shut his laptop before something else could suck him in.

And he closed his eyes.

He peaked through his eyelids at the chaos surrounding him.  How could he have done this?

They deserved it!

He tried to convince himself it was true, but it wasn't doing any good.  No one deserved this.  He glanced quickly at the corpse lying closest to his feet, not daring to look for more than a second.  She certainly didn't deserve this.  She had only been trying to help.

You couldn't stop yourself!

It may have been true, but it didn't change the fact that he could have simply never come here in the first place.  He could have stopped his niece from having anything to do with the Archers.  He could have turned his abilities in on himself a long time ago, and none of this would have happened.  So many things could have gone differently to stop him from ever getting to the point where stopping himself was a necessity.

You couldn't have known!

"SHUT UP!"  He screamed as loud as he could at the voices in his head.  They weren't helpful, and no one was around to offer him even the slightest odd look for chastising them.

No one is anywhere to offer you any kind of look!

Apparently yelling at them wasn't going to do any good.

Moreover, he knew it was true.

Far off on the horizon, a single standing structure caught his attention.  A dark pillar rising above a vast, blank . . . nothingness.  Within seconds, a wave of energy had carried him to its large metallic door.  He brushed off a thick layer of ash to reveal an all-too-familiar acronym:  L.A.N.C.E.

They were prepared for you!  They're still alive!

But do you really want them to be alive?

It's better than no one!

Is it?

"I told you to shut up!!!"

He easily threw open the heavy door, trying to remain void of hope . . . in either direction.

And he opened his eyes.

Who was he kidding?  It wasn't selling his soul!  It was simply adding another form of entertainment to his repertoire.  With the amount of free time he had, he could use all the help he could get to keep himself from getting bored.

Boy did he need a hobby.

Or maybe another job.

In the meantime, he took the advice of one of his fellow interwebbers and followed a link to what promised to be the best video he would ever see.

Ok.  So maybe it was selling his soul.

Blame it on Bacteria

He sat at the table, fingers poised over the keyboard of his laptop awaiting further instructions from their master. Admitting to being sick had already stripped him of his energy, dignity, and a day's pay. He wouldn't let it take this from him too. As it was, he had skipped a day posting on his blog because he simply hadn't felt up to it. He refused to miss another.

As he picked up his mug to sip on the broth therein, he prayed that a muse would see how pathetic he looked and take pity on him.

No such luck.

So he closed his eyes.

A sharp pain in his upper abdomen jerked him awake. Phase one of the transformation was starting.

What poor timing.

He looked briefly at the clock on his desk across the room before begrudgingly crawling out of bed, putting on his uniform, and making his way toward the bridge. The lift seemed to be moving unusually slow, but, then again, the transformation always seemed to make everything move in slow motion. He adjusted the collar of his uniform as he stepped out of the lift and walked quickly to his station. When he tried to log into his console, however, he found his hands twitching too uncontrollably to type.

Apparently phase two was starting.

Seriously. Bad timing.

He finally managed to steady his hands long enough to get logged in and to pull up the communication control panel. "We're online and ready to connect, Captain," he said confidently.

The captain turned quickly around with a slightly stunned look on his face. "Hemming! I didn't hear you come in."

"Sorry, sir," he replied professionally.

The captain laughed. "It's alright, boy. Relax," he said jovially before snapping back to business. "Open a channel to the admiral's ship."

Hemming nodded and typed away at his console. Hopefully, if he worked quickly enough, he could get through this conference before phase three started. Hopefully.

A fuzzy blue orb of holographic energy materialized in the center of the room and quickly formed itself into the shape of the Grande Admiral of the Left Fleet. "Captain Hunter. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly."

"Of course, Admiral," said the captain in a formal, militaristic voice reserved only for his superiors. "Have we heard from the Black Jacob yet?"

The admiral shook his head solemnly. "After their initial survey, their captain led a team to the surface. We haven't heard from the team or the ship since they landed."

"Is there an extraction plan?"

The admiral didn't answer.

"I thought not," said the captain somewhat sorrowfully.

Hemming suddenly noticed an interference pattern on his console. He adjusted their broadcast signal in an attempt to compensate, but not before the admiral's form flickered briefly. If his maestro had seen that, he would have been running laps on the ship's helm for hours. Luckily, he was the only technician in the room, so no one else seemed to notice.

The two commanders continued to discuss things far above Hemming's clearance status in codes that he could have cracked very easily if he had been paying attention. He had learned very early on in his training, however, that when commanders started speaking in codes and riddles, the less you knew the better.

He suddenly noticed the same interference pattern spike up again, stronger than before. This time, he caught it quickly enough that the conference continued without a single glitch. However, this time, he also noticed something very familiar about that signal.

Poor timing. Very poor timing, indeed.

As realization dawned on him, he had just enough time to sever the connection to the admiral's ship before phase three started. Captain Hunter wheeled around on him as the holographic orb faded away.

"What happened? Did we . . ." His voice trailed off as realization began to dawn on his face. "Gods help us," he said in a half-mumble. Hemming looked down at his face reflected in the console and found glowing green eyes staring back at him.

A sudden tickle in his nose and sharp pain in his throat made him feel as if his head was going to explode.

And he opened his eyes.

The powerful sneeze had left his whole head aching. It felt as though it had gotten stuck somewhere along the way and blasted its way out of him with no regard for civilian casualties.

He looked at the snot covering his hands and decided to take it as a sign. He wasn't supposed to write anything tonight.

He got suddenly very excited at the prospect of going to bed and a grin crossed his face.  A grin which faded rather quickly as he looked at the clock and realized that it was only 4:30 in the afternoon.

What jerk invented illness anyway?

Definitely NOT Sick

He trudged up the steps to his apartment after another pointless day at work.  As he reached in his pocket for his keys, he felt an all-too-familiar tickle in his throat that had been bugging him all day.  He tried to clear his throat, but it didn't do much.  He tried again.  Worthless.  As he got to the door, he went for one final attempt.

It worked.  Just not like he wanted.

After he spent a solid two minutes fighting his way out of a coughing fit, he looked around, hoping no one had seen it.  He caught a glimpse of a woman across the parking lot ducking into her place, and hoped that she somehow hadn't noticed.  Working very hard to not think about why he cared whether or not she had seen his little episode, he unlocked the door and ran inside, quickly shutting it behind him.  He briefly leaned against the door, closing his eyes tightly, and letting out a sigh.

He walked in, hanging his coat on the coatrack and tossing his bag haphazardly on the couch before plopping himself down beside it and slumping over.  He shoved his face into a pillow and let out a stifled scream.

Bad choice.

After he got over the new coughing fit his scream had brought on, he caught his breath and rolled over so that he was laying on his back.

He wasn't sick.  He refused to be sick.

He quickly noted an odd stain on the ceiling he hadn't noticed before, then rolled over, pulling a blanket on top of himself.  He reached for the remote control, but quickly decided it was too far away and gave up.

And he closed his eyes.

He rematerialized atop the building just beneath Captain Superior and smiled up at him weakly, offering a mock salute.  The hero looked down on him with a puzzled expression that hinted at just a spark of understanding and began to descend.

The Captain extended a hand to his fellow nexter which was accepted after a moment's hesitation.

Superior's cape billowed as he spoke in a deep voice that felt louder than it sounded.  "What are you doing here, Haze?"  It wasn't an insult or a threat.  He genuinely wanted to know.  They hadn't seen each other in months . . . since Lexington.

"Waiting," Haze responded flatly.  He was never one to offer more information than necessary.

Captain Superior had been dealing with him long enough to know that it was pointless to press for more answers right away, so he took a moment to inspect the nexter, focusing particularly on the dark shirt hidden under Haze's trench coat.  A single thin yellow stripe from his shoulder to his hip said all that he needed to know anyway.  "You're back with the League."

Haze walked over to the edge of the building and crouched, looking down at the street below.  "Yep."

An alarm suddenly sounded from a building down the street and both nexters snapped to attention.  Captain Superior drew a large golden sword from somewhere in the billows of his cape while Haze willed a thin, curved sabre into existence.  Superior swooped down, grabbed a couple of men in masks and carried them to a police car waiting around the corner.  Haze smirked again.  The Captain always made it look so easy.

But, then again, heroes had the easy job.

Captain Superior landed next to Haze and smiled at him.  "I guess you waited for nothing."

"Not exactly."

The two flinched briefly at the sound of a gunshot and wheeled around to see a third masked man collapsing just outside the alarm-wielding building.  Captain Superior briefly looked shocked, then spotted her on a building down the street.  Sharpshot offered a brief salute before leaping off the building and gracefully turning in midair.

Superior turned to Haze who was already beginning to fade into vapor.  "We can't all be heroes.  Someone has to do those jobs beneath you," Haze said with just a hint of remorse.  He let the wind blow his vapor toward Sharpshot, increasing his density just enough to catch her, and the two flew off.

He managed to barely hear the good Captain mutter, "What did she do to you?" before a sudden coughing fit caused him to almost drop his partner.

So he opened his eyes.

He caught his breath and looked around the room.  It was a lot darker.  He hadn't meant to sleep that long, so he did the only logical thing to do.  He laid his head back down and snuggled into the covers again.

He definitely wasn't sick.

Waiting for Nothing

He pulled out his phone, not really sure what he was expecting to find.  He knew full well that it hadn't rung and that no one would be texting him any time soon. Maybe it was just habit.

He swiped across the screen and opened up the Facebook app on his home screen . . . again.  He scrolled through all both of the new entries in his news feed, checked for messages he knew wouldn't be there, and scanned the list of online friends.

Nope.  Still nothing.

He set his phone down, watched a couple minutes of TV, then picked up his phone and repeated the process.

Nope.  Still nothing.

He set his phone down, stood up, and took in a deep breath.

Then he closed his eyes.

Letting out the breath he was holding in, he whirled around and slammed his fist through the wall leaving a burning hole that let in a breeze from the outside world.  He turned around slowly, opening his glowing eyes and clenching both his fists even tighter.  Flames began to spread up his arms and across his chest as he stood there panting.

The other Archers had never seen Nash this angry before.  He had always had a bit of a temper, but his training-enforced self-control had always tempered it rather effectively.  The fact that the wall (not to mention the rest of the building or them) was still standing meant that he had made a ton of progress.  It was a definite improvement over the weapon of mass destructive they had been sent just a year earlier, but he was still terrifying.

"Why are we even considering this?"  His voice was booming and echoed with a distinctly unearthly quality.

"Look, Nash," Irene said calmly, stepping forward into the line of fire, "we all know what she . . . "

"No!  You have no idea," he roared.  "How could you possibly know?  You JUST met her!"

Irene raised her hands and walked slowly toward Nash.  "You're right.  We don't know her like you do."  A faint glow began to emanate from Irene's back, visible to all the other Archers except Nash.  "But we do know you, and we know how far you've come.  You don't want to do this."

Nash's head suddenly jerked forward and his palms opened.  Flames completely enveloped his body and began to burn brighter.  At the same moment, Irene leapt forward, pale blue fizzle-wings bursting from her glowing shoulder blades and pulling the two together in a tight embrace.  Nash felt his own flames burning him for the first time in his life.

The pain intensified, leaving him lighted-headed and dizzy.  He could vaguely hear Irene screaming, but the pain screaming in his brain was starting to drown everything else out.

Then he opened his eyes.

He stretched out his arms, trying to steady himself, but to no avail.  He succumbed to his only option and sat back down.

Headrush.  That's what he got for standing up too quickly . . . or at all.

He reached for his phone and flipped through Facebook again.

Nope.  Still nothing.

Utter and Complete Boredom

He set the guitar down after his fifth play-through in a row.  He figured that if he didn't have the song down by that point, it wasn't going to get any better.  Besides, his fingers hurt and his arm was cramping up.  He really needed to start to practicing more regularly . . . or to start doing more upper body workouts.

After settling back in his chair and turning his attention back to the movie he had started before he had even thought about playing his guitar, he quickly realized why he hadn't really watched movies in a while . . . he simply didn't have the attention span.  It had nothing to do with the movies being boring and only a little to do with the fact that he had seen them all multiple times.  It was actually because after about five minutes, he had already watched the entire movie in his head.  What was the point of spending two more hours watching it again?

He waited a few minutes watching another extra getting killed by the terrifying almost-human monsters . . . aaand . . . cue explosion.

He reached down and picked his guitar back up.  Maybe he'd practice just a little more.

That's when he realized that the only reason he had actually been practicing so much that day was because he was SO bored.  He had tried several movies and watched a few episodes of some TV shows online.  He even watched a few of them legally.  But they didn't change the fact that he was tired of just sitting there.  He wanted to do something.  Anything!

But here he was, stuck sitting in this chair doing nothing.  Doctor's orders.  Lame.

He flexed the muscles in his arm, thumbed the callouses of his left hand, and set the guitar back down.  There was no way he could play through the entire song again without more of a break.

So he closed his eyes.

The distinct smell of pine filled his nostrils and brought him back to reality.  He looked around to make sure his team was still with him.

Three out of five . . . not bad.  It was better than anyone else had done in the Forest of Diri.

"Alright, boys," he said in a commanding tone.  "Let's get what we came for and get out."

His troops nodded.  "Yes, Captain Paschar."

The young captain still wasn't entirely comfortable with his new title.  After only a week in command, he still flinched every time it came before his name.

"Alright.  You two," said Paschar, pointing to two of his men who looked at each other reluctantly, "head that way.  Shout if you hear anything.  Carmine, you're with me."  Carmine gave his two companions a knowing look as they walked in opposite directions.  They all knew what had happened to the last pair to leave the group, but what choice did they have?  They couldn't leave now without completing their mission, and there was no way they could find the lance before nightfall if they stayed together.

It didn't take long before the captain couldn't hear his men's footsteps anymore.  He and Carmine walked in silence, hoping to high heaven they wouldn't hear anything other than each other.  Paschar closed his eyes to listen closely.  Two sets of footsteps.  Good.

As they walked deeper into the forest, it started to get darker.  It didn't take long before he couldn't see his companion anymore.  He started to rely on his hearing even more than before.

Two sets of footsteps.  Good.

They walked for another ten minutes with no events.  Paschar bumped into a couple of trees, but either Carmine didn't notice, or decided it wasn't his place to say anything about it.  There was a brief moment where he felt sure his were the only steps he could hear, but a minute later, he heard a second set again and relaxed.  Two sets.  Good.

"Up ahead," Captain Paschar said suddenly.  "There's a light!  We must be getting close!  Let's pick up the pace."

The captain began to walk faster.  Based on the sound of his companion's steps, Carmine had sped up to stay with him.  They reached the very edge of the light, and Paschar turned to offer Carmine a reassuring smile, but still couldn't quite make out his face.  Hopefully he still got the message.

The captain walked fully into the light and stretched his arms out, hoping to soak up as much of it as possible.  He turned to see how Carmine was doing and looked into the incredibly calm face . . . of a man who was definitely not Carmine.  The man had white hair, small beady eyes, and wore flowing brown robes.  He smiled eerily at the captain.  "Hello," he said pleasantly.

Paschar drew his gun with a swiftness hard-wired into him by hundreds of hours of training.  The man didn't react to the weapon.  In fact, he didn't seem to notice it at all.  "Where's Carmine?"  Paschar asked furiously.

The man looked puzzled.  "Where's what?"

The captain shouted spitefully.  "Carmine!  Where is he?"

"Do you mean that oddly red man?"

It was Paschar's turn to look puzzled.  "What?"

"The one who was following you," the man said innocently, "had a very red aura.  Somewhat T-shaped now that I think about . . . "

"I don't care about auras," the captain shouted.  "Just tell me where he is, who you are, and what you want with us."

The man crossed his arms, stroked his chin, and smiled again.  "He is safe . . . or at least, safer than you.  As for who I am . . . that's complicated.  I believe your people call me Diri.  And what do I want with you?  Well, to be frank, I want you out of me."

The captain lowered his gun slightly.  "What . . . what are you?"

The man smiled.  "I told you.  I'm Diri.  And I'll tell you once more:  I want you out of me.  Now!"  The man's face was suddenly furious and the forest seemed to darken again.

The captain heard a voice shouting in the distance, "I'm home!"

He opened his eyes.

Instinctively, he paused the movie, though he wasn't entirely sure why.  It seemed like the right thing to do to reassure his roommate that it was ok to talk to him.  Anything was better than just sitting there.

He was SO bored, after all.

Rush Hour Traffic

He was driving home from work, thumbing the calloused fingers of his left hand.  He always found the lack of feeling oddly comforting.

The drive home wasn't particularly long.  It generally took less than a half hour, but that was more than enough time after spending the entire day sitting in front of a computer trying to stay focused on whatever it was he was supposed to have been working on.  It bothered him that it didn't bother him that he didn't know what that was.

As he reached his third red light, he started to realize just how frustrated sitting in traffic was making him.  He came to a stop, stretched out his arms, and turned up the radio.

Then he closed his eyes.

Who was he kidding?  He didn't have to wait in traffic!  He was better than this.

Imperceptible to everyone around him, his arcfield slowly spread until it enveloped his car.  When he was sure he could feel every molecule of the car inside his sphere of influence, he lifted out of his seat and felt his entire body dissipate along with his car.  To all the suckers who had to actually wait in traffic, a pillar of smoke enveloped a car that was gone after the wind blew the vapor away.  To the young nexter, his car and body became a pillar of smoke that lifted into the air and took off in the direction of his apartment.

He circled the parking lot outside his apartment a couple of times choosing a spot which he then descended upon, rematerializing as he did so.  He then casually and calmly stepped out of his car, climbed the stairs to his home, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

"Took you long enough."

He jumped at the voice, assuming a defensive stance and looking for its source.

"Relax," said the deep, smooth voice emanating from the chair across the room.  "It's just me."  A lamp clicked on, revealing the sharply dressed, middle-aged director of the NSA's nexter division.

The nexter calmly took off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door.  "What do you want, Qualm?"

"Straight to business, then?  Fine.  We need you, Haze."

"I assumed as much," he replied calmly, walking into the kitchen and taking a bottle out of his bar.  "That doesn't really tell me anything, though.  Does it?"

Qualm smiled.  "He's back."

Haze sat a glass of Scotch on the table next to the director as he passed him to sit in the opposing chair.  "Who's back?"

Qualm sipped the Scotch and simply raised an eyebrow.

"Oh," Haze said knowingly.  "Well he's not my problem anymore."

The director leaned forward in his chair.  "He's all of our problem and you know it," he said with a new level of gravitas added to his voice.  "You're the only one with enough experience and know-how to deal with him.  He is your . . . "

"If you don't mind, director," interrupted Haze, "I'd like you to finish your drink and leave."  And with that, he stood, dissolved into smoke, and faded from the room.

Qualm slumped back into his chair.  "He's in Lexington."

Haze felt his stomach drop . . . or what used to be his stomach.

The director smiled as the nexter slowly rematerialized.  "I thought that would get your attention."

"When do I leave?"  Hazed asked flatly.

Before the director could answer, the loud blare of a horn melted the world of the nexter away.

And he opened his eyes.

He looked up to see a green light staring down at him, the traffic around him moving smoothly, and the driver in his rearview mirror showing off his IQ.  Accepting the sudden return of reality, he pulled into the intersection and continued on his way home, knowing that another day at work was waiting for him tomorrow.

He hated traffic.