The Theater
1623 EST


One by one, Team Peacemaker stepped into the UV tent, stripped off their gear, and stepped forward on to a rubber mat. Two of the local residents stood on either side in Tyvek painter suits, each holding a wand with a high intensity UV light. The Division agents stretched their arms out, lifting their feet one at a time to make sure the soles of their boots were properly decontaminated, and waited as the decon team swept their bodies. Once they had finished, they walked out the far end of the tent and into the settlement.

Odessa Sawyer stood near the storage area assigned for any art treasures her teams came across, watching as Lowell Ryckmen came out. She came over to him, giving him a bearhug, receiving one in turn. A low sob escaped the marksman with a shudder, causing Sawyer's eyes to widen in shock. "I heard it was bad, Lowell," she said softly.

"I could have gone my whole life without seeing something like that," Ryckmen replied shakily. "Worse than anything I saw in the sandbox."

Sawyer nodded, squeezing his shoulders. "Let's go get a drink, cowboy. Think you need a couple a lot worse than I ever did." She guided Ryckmen up the scaffolding ramp to the top, her hand surreptitiously turning off his ISAC node. The rest of the team watched him shamble up the ramp, head down to his chest.

"All right, guys," said Gregory feelingly. "Think we've earned a few days off the line. We can spend it here or back at the White House. I'll let you guys pick."

"White House," Tarvey said instantly. "Charles Douglas just decamped for there not too long ago. I wanted to pick his brain on a few things. And," he added, a blush starting to come over his face, "I'm kinda looking forward to seeing Inaya. It's fun just tinkering with stuff with her, you know? Gal would have made a hell of a SEAL."

Bundmeister smiled and shook her head. "Think I'll stick around here, let Lobo know we're on stand down for now. The White House is just...not somewhere I want to be at this particular moment. At the very least, Ortega's going to get pushy about debriefs, particularly with Lowell's little 'welcome to Hell' speech going out over the airwaves."

"OK, Bunny. Kick back and relax, and I'll ping you in a few days to make sure you and Lowell are ready to get back to work."

"You and Ricky behave yourselves," said Bundmeister, gently punching Gregory's shoulder before heading up the ramps.

* * *

The White House
1835 EST


"What do you mean you're on stand down?" asked Ortega incredulously.

Gregory gave him an almost pitying look. "It's a very simple phrase, Manny, and one even a Guard guy like you should be familiar with. Hell, I wasn't ever in the military and I know what it means."

"We need you out there!"

"Yeah, and we need to not be out there for a little bit." Gregory frowned as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not here to debate the matter with you. I'm not even here to ask permission, which you and I both know I don't need in the first place. Team Peacemaker is taking a break for a few days to get themselves right. If something big enough catches fire, I'll call in Lobo and Bunny, who will probably snap shoot either me or you when they get here. But until that happens, we're off duty. I know it will probably play merry hell with your deployments, your patrol schedules, and possibly your operational tempo. I do not give a damn." He shook his head slowly. "We need this, Manny. We have run ourselves ragged through conditions which are exceedingly adverse even for here. Our day started before dawn. Between then and now, we've trashed a missile production line, captured a bunch of machine tools, witnessed the aftermath of a chemical weapons attack, destroyed a chemical weapons plant built into a luxury hotel complex, and swore a blood oath to exterminate Ridgeway and his goon squads. We've done a full week's worth of work inside of a day. So, when I tell you we're standing down for a few days, you're just going to have to make do without us."

Ortega scowled at Gregory. "Is this about the Castle?" he grated.

"It's about the Castle and what happened after it. Manny, at last count, how many people lived there permanently?"

"Maybe seventy people, all told."

"And seven of them are still alive, against odds that a more forgiving God would never have allowed. I saw the old footage from the 80s after the Kurds got gassed in Iraq, and as horrible as that was, this was so much worse. Scary as it may sound, I think all four of us went a little crazy there. And for three of us, that's a Bad Thing." Gregory gave Ortega a crooked smile. "Or perhaps you would prefer a merry band of highly trained and battle tested sociopaths roaming the streets of D.C., fighting fire with fire."

"Of course not!" objected Ortega.

"That's why we're standing down, Manny. There are some things you can't see and come away from untouched. Tactically speaking, rolling up on the Plaza and wiping those bastards out was absolutely the right thing to do. Hit them so quickly and so hard they never realize it's a reprisal. Don't give them the opportunity to strike again. But from what you might call the moral perspective, it wasn't a good thing to do."

"You're saying taking out that site was immoral?" asked Ortega incredulously. "After what the True Sons did?"

"It was immoral to ourselves. We...harmed ourselves a little bit, I think, to be able to do what we did. We broke a part of ourselves in order to accomplish the mission. We made ourselves worse than our enemies for a moment, and that's a dangerous thing." Gregory sighed as he leaned forward, hands flat on the map table. "You heard Lowell's broadcast, right?" Ortega nodded. "That's a side of Lowell I don't think even he knew about. And it's screwing him up in ways I wouldn't have believed possible when I first met him. I know he has the capacity to feel emotional pain, and grieve when it's appropriate, but I didn't think I'd ever hear the man cry in front of other people. Even for a moment. Once we start doing that, once it gets easier to be worse than the people we're fighting, we create a threat we can't stop. We become something like Aaron Keener, maybe even worse than him in some ways." Rubbing his temple, Gregory straightened up slowly. "Out of all of us, I think Lowell probably realized that the fastest, and he's going to need time to process it. To ensure to himself that he's not going to go down that road."

"And what about you?"

"I catch on fast, Manny. I won't forswear Lowell's promise to the True Sons, because he's right. But I will not let them get away with bringing me down to their level. They want to be indiscriminate? We will be surgical. They want to bully civilians? We'll be the best friends a civilian could ever hope for." Gregory's hands closed into fists as a light came into his eyes. "Manny, the Division's mission to ensure the continuity of government. But our 'government' doesn't work without the people, the civilians as well as the military, so if we're going to ensure the continuity of government, our mission is going to be ensuring the protection of the people. We have to make sure those people at the Castle, and all who died before that, did not die in vain. That from that loss, there will be a new birth of freedom, and it's going to be like any other birth. Bloody as hell, and with lots of kicking and screaming. The Division will keep faith with the people and we will fulfill our mission to ensure the continuity of government. So that government, of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the Earth."

Ortega blinked, seeing the determination in Gregory's eyes, hearing the conviction in his voice. He felt himself tugged back in time for a moment, to another place over a hundred and fifty summers distant, where thousands of Americans had died violent deaths and a humble lawyer from Illinois had sworn on their graves that their sacrifice would not be in vain. It felt almost like Gregory was channeling that man's spirit, or perhaps the spirit of the moment, and Ortega found himself amazed. Whatever Gregory had felt about his country before Black Friday, it was clear to Ortega that he'd found a new sense of patriotism. It called to Ortega, beckoning like a flame to a moth. Whatever America had been in the days before the Dollar Flu, for all its failings and its shortcomings, it had still been their country. And Paxton Gregory had realized that the new form of America, the one which came about from the ashes of Gordon Amherst's atrocity, had yet to be forged. It could be a mockery of its former self if people like Antwon Ridgeway or Emeline Shaw got their way. But it could be something incredible, if Gregory and others like him had the will and the resolve to make it so.

And God help me, thought Manny Ortega, I want to make sure he succeeds.

"All right, Peace. I'll find a way to make it work. A few days won't kill us."

* * *

Near The White House
1102 EST


The JTF squad kept the perimeter small but secure. Nobody would have even bothered examining this particular spot if one of the militia patrols hadn't noticed a candy wrapper on the ground. A fresh candy wrapper, one very recently discarded, the foil lining gleaming in the sun like a heliograph. And while it was potentially nothing, it was interesting enough to get Paxton Gregory to gear up with a pair of AR-enhanced ballistic sunglasses perched on his nose. By this point, Gregory had earned something of a reputation among the JTF, and if "Peace" wanted to look at a candy wrapper, nobody was inclined to give him any sort of grief over it.

"ISAC," Gregory murmured, "can you build me an ECHO of this site over the last seventy-two hours?"

"Processing." There was a long pause. "Unable to generate ECHO. Insufficient data available."

"Just passing through, weren't you? ISAC, can you build an ECHO of this site with data stretching over the last six months?"

"Processing." Gregory waited as ISAC chewed on the request, looking at the ground closely. While he would never claim to be a tracker of any skill, there were enough obvious signs to at least suggest a few things to him. At some point, four people had stood here in a small knot. And from the direction of the boot prints, they'd been looking towards the White House. One of the people had been wearing what looked like U.S. Army issue combat boots. The other three had somewhat different tread patterns, and one of them must have been very heavily loaded down with gear, since those boot prints were noticeably deeper in the ground.

Gregory frowned in thought. "Couldn't have been True Sons," he murmured to himself, thinking out loud. "The boots would have all matched. Couldn't be Hyenas. No sneakers to be seen here. Wouldn't think any of the Outcasts would be sending just a simple probe out this far. And since ISAC didn't detect any contamination on the wrapper, doesn't strike me as some sort of booby trap. Who were these guys?"

"ECHO generated and available for playback."

"Play it."

The augmented reality visualization overlaid the glasses on Gregory's face. Four people, three of them very obviously armed, the fourth carrying a mostly unobtrusive pistol in a shoulder holster. The one who'd left the deep boot prints appeared to be a monster in some sort of plate armor, a heavy box on his back with a feeder leading to a cut down minigun in one hand, a round helmet completely obscuring his face. The other two armed individuals appeared to be wearing either bandanas or masks of some sort, both equipped with some sort of light body armor underneath a collection of gear which appeared to be comparable to his own. Only the fourth, the one wearing the U.S. Army boots, had his face mostly uncovered save for a pair of aviator sunglasses.

"What's the newest time stamp on the data sources?"

"Most recent time stamp was seven weeks, four days, fifteen hours, and forty-two minutes ago."

Moving around to the fourth figure, Gregory tapped it lightly to highlight it. "Can you identify this individual through facial recognition databases?"

"Identification confidence can be no greater than eighty-five percent," warned ISAC.

"Attempt identification."

After a few moments, a chime floated through the air. "Subject tentatively identified as Bardon Schaeffer, with 84.2 percent accuracy confidence."

"Who are you? And what were you doing here?" muttered Gregory. "ISAC, tag this ECHO as Wrapper One and archive it, my eyes only."

"Sending ECHO Wrapper One to archive."

"ISAC, based on the identification of subject Bardon Schaeffer, can any further ECHOs be compiled where he is at least present in the field of view?"

"Affirmative. Four ECHOs using criteria of Wrapper One can be compiled."

"Compile those ECHOs, designate as Wrapper Two through Five, and archive them, same security as Wrapper One. If I happen to approach one of those sites, send a silent alert to my node. Playback on my command only."

"Compiling ECHOs. ECHOs will be archived upon completion. Geolocation alerts embedded in ECHO files. Playback tied to voice command of Agent Paxton Gregory."

Gregory took off the shades, thanked the JTF squad leader for his assistance, then made his way back into the White House. As he grabbed a cup of coffee, he spied Alani Kelso coming out of Ortega's office. "Hey, Kelso," he called out. "Hold up."

Kelso stopped, looking at Gregory, trying and not entirely succeeding at keeping a flash of irritation from crossing her expression. "Whatever you want, Gregory, can it wait? I've got to head over to the Theater."

"It's just something quick. Trying to get my timelines refined for the Hyena supply problem. Was there anything particularly significant that happened about seven weeks ago?"

"Seven weeks ago, probably the biggest thing happening was Air Force One getting shot down."

Gregory nodded slowly, a thoughtful look on his face. "Still don't know how the True Sons got a SAM?"

"There were some Stingers kept in an armory during the outbreak, in case somebody tried to break quarantine on Roosevelt Island with a helicopter. In theory, they could bring down Air Force One, particularly if they had the upgrades put in to deal with Soviet-era Hind gunships. Always figured that was where Ridgeway got them, not that they've had much use since Black Friday."

"No chance the Hyenas might have broken into that armory?"

Kelso shook her head. "None. It was deep in True Sons turf, and Ridgeway wasn't going to let a bunch of meth heads and gang members get anywhere close to it."

"All right. That was all I needed." Gregory cocked his head slightly. "You doing OK?"

Opening her mouth to reply, Kelso paused, then shook her head more heavily. "I'm really not. I'm like you and your team, standing down for a few days, trying to get myself put back together. I've seen some vicious things over the years, Paxton, but catching sight of what happened at the Castle, seeing that shell bursting and coating all those people in DC-62, it's probably the worst memory I'll ever have."

"And you were able to survive when so many others didn't."

"Dumb luck I didn't get splattered with that crap. Don't know how, but absolutely dumb luck, no question." She sighed and straightened her shoulders. "I'm heading over to the Theater, see how the survivors are settling in."

"Sounds good. But if I may, do me and the rest of us a favor. Don't beat yourself up over this. You didn't know what they were going to do, you couldn't have stopped them, and you're still alive. The ones who pushed the button are all dead. The ones who ordered the button pushed will be soon enough." Gregory smiled and squeezed Kelso's shoulder gently. "Still a lot of work to do, and I expect you'll be getting your hands just as dirty as the rest of us."

Kelso smiled, squeezing Gregory's wrist in return. "Thanks, Peace. I'll try not to wallow too much. And if I do, I'll have somebody smack me around a little to get me out of the funk."

"Good," said Gregory without a hint of triumph in his voice.

* * *

The Theater
1936 EST


Ryckmen leaned against the back of the chair, the sun sinking in the west, a tumbler of blended scotch slowly growing warm in his hand. Sawyer came over and sat down next to him, a can of beer held casually. "Going to be a nice sunset," she said quietly. Looking over at Ryckmen, she wasn't surprised he hadn't responded. "Paxton sent a runner over a little while ago. He'd like you to meet up with him outside the White House tomorrow." Still no response from Ryckmen. "The Martians just touched down in London and are turning all the Brits into kidney pie."

A faint snort came from Ryckmen. "Is that your subtle way of telling me to quit being a whiner and get ready for work tomorrow?"

"Not exactly. But you've been in a funk long enough, cowboy. There's still a heap of work to be done around here."

"I'm not sure I should be doing that work, Oddball."

"I can't think of anybody who does it better."

Ryckmen scowled at her and took a sip from the tumbler. "Odessa, I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth doing in the first place. You've been out there. There's no nation anymore. There's nothing but monuments and mass graves. Vultures and maggots fighting over the scraps, and killing each other when the scraps aren't big enough for both of them." He took another sip. "Hell, I'm starting to think we don't deserve to survive this."

One of Sawyer's eyebrows arched up. "Awful nihilistic of you, Lowell."

"I saw the aftermath of a chemical weapons attack on civilians who didn't do anything wrong. Sixty odd people murdered in the most horrible way possible, and this is after they'd already survived a worldwide pandemic. There's seven deeply traumatized people two floors below us, one of them an eight year old little girl, and each and every one of them has the same expression. They look at me like a puppy who just got kicked hard and is wondering why. Who wouldn't feel nihilistic in the face of that?" he spat.

"Your buddy Paxton, for one," Sawyer said quietly. "Manny and I had an interesting conversation yesterday. Apparently, Peace took something away from what happened at the Castle and after at Jefferson Plaza. It's got the man fired up. It's got Manny fired up, and believe me, he was about to eat his gun a week after the blackout. Given another full week, he might well have done it. But now? Nothing will bring him down." Sawyer took a pull from the beer can. "I tell you, Lowell, I haven't been to church in a long time, and I'm not afraid to say I've lost a lot of faith since Black Friday. I don't believe in miracles as such anymore. But I do believe in Paxton Gregory." Sawyer reached out, laying a hand lightly on Ryckmen's cheek. "And I believe in you, Lowell Ryckmen. You four have managed to restore a little faith among us out here, and that's a powerful thing." She slapped him gently, a fond gleam in her eyes. "Now quit being such a damned whiner."

Ryckmen chuckled softly, finishing off his scotch. "You really think it's that easy?" he asked, a note of doubt in his voice.

"It's easy enough to remember, Lowell. Keep faith with those seven people who survived the Castle. Keep faith with me and mine here in the Theater. Keep faith with those people in D.C. who want a tomorrow worth looking forward to. Do that, and you'll be fine."