"We Stand as One"
BARRACK OBAMA TWIRLS PENSIVELY an ice cube in his firm hand, looking downwards steadily as if deep in a thought. Arrayed out on a pristine white tabletop with silver rims are the newspapers of several semi-major cities and a full map of the country, the areas immediately adjacent to New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Houston outlined with a red dotted line; the one on which he's been focusing, Manhattan, extends the line all the way north to New Rochelle, but doesn't cross the East River, to him an important detail. He groans while bringing his hands up behind his head, resting, crossing his legs, and thinking.
At the far end of the table sits an odd grab-bag of people. Flanked by an assortment of government agents in dirty suits, the Garde has assembled; or, what's left of it. Number Five, hands tied, sits to my left, his eyes never leaving a single blank space of table a few feet in front of him. He could easily escape given the opportunity, I have no doubt, but he's too broken a person for that. He'd never try anything knowing what he knows now… He'd never try to escape. Number Nine lounges to my right, toying with his fingernails, occasionally biting off a hangnail or something and overall intentionally showing his extraordinary disinterest in all matters political, a disdain that I know is feigned at heart (or hope).
Past Nine is Daniela Morales, a surprisingly angsty girl from Uptown Manhattan who inexplicably developed our legacies, our power, from the being that Ella calls Legacy, rather aptly. Her dark skin, usually sweaty, is for once dry and her hair is tied back in tight braids, her fingers rapping on a upturned lip of silver, showing both her determination and her boredom. Sam Goode sits past her, probably my very closest ally in all of this. Non-corruptible and the good guy in any story, Sam is… morally righteous. As well as being a good friend. I have more faith in his integrity than I do in Nine's.
As for myself, I'm clean for once. My shaggy blonde hair, having grown noticeably in the week and a half of time since the battle in Chicago, was for that time horribly ratted, which is surprising considering it's only a few inches long, and it was streaked with dirt and grime from our crawl through a war-torn city. The Government agents who lord over the scene now saw to it that I would be clean and tidy to present to the Commander-in-Chief of the all the army, a title that has waxed in importance over the past few days.
"Entrenched in New Rochelle, fighting over the skies of Los Angeles county, sightings of their scouting ships as far south as Galveston. This situation is only going to get worse, Smith," I wink back into existence upon hearing the President's address. "If this Ra Character wants a sustained land war, he's going to get it. I'm a politician and even I can see where this is going. I don't need my generals' help…," he trails off.
"But you need ours," I finish, making a slight hand motion to the hodge-podge of Garde that surrounds me. Five doesn't move; Nine shakes a fist but otherwise remains uninterested.
He nods, a solemn nod that one only sees once, maybe twice a year, if you live around honest people, which I tend to not. "I..," he searches for words, something I had always understood he did not do. "I don't know you, Smith, I don't know your people or your culture. But we share a common enemy. I understand that now, my Girl's made me see that much."
"Yes, Malia, correct?"
"Uh, yes. Yeah. She's the one," his pensive stare never falters. It's the kind of a look that makes you feel like he honest to God cares about what you have to say, wants to hear your opinion, although in my case, he- he probably does. "Saw you in some premonition, I call it. You and hundreds of others with these gifts, that's my understanding."
"Yes sir, that's how we understand it," I force myself to talk formally to this man, I can't be taken seriously otherwise. "This entity in Mexico gifted hundreds, maybe thousands of children around the world with our powers. Your daughter is one of them. In time, she'll learn to harness them."
"I see." We sit in silence. He tugs the map towards him and gazes at Washington. "They've pulled out of Washington, you know. It's a small city, of course, and we wasted no time in evacuating the populace. They've mobilized their forces elsewhere, I've been told."
"You'd be the best to know," I lean forward and fold my hands, one over the other, on the top of the table. The President looks a booklet of something over before sliding it down the table at us.
"What do you make of that, Smith?"
I take it and open it. Inside are artist's renditions of the spacecraft that was for a time suspended over Washington, or that's what the title would lead me to believe. The booklet –flier, more like it- unfolds into a much larger paper, covering most of our side of the table. It's a pencil sketch, light in places, run over in a thicker hand in others; it gives an overall unfinished air.
"That seems to be about right, I think," I mutter half-assedly to myself.
"Sorry?" He holds a hand up to his ear. "Old hearing."
"I said it looks correct, from what I know of their technology," firmly I say it this time. "Of course, I don't have that detailed a memory of it, much more of the Anubis than anything."
"Their mothership."
"Yes sir."
"And, do we know where this one is?"
"Last we heard, my friends in Mexico had fought it off."
"Mm-hmm. And no further reports? You said this thing was a beast. It has to be somewhere."
"Of course, sir, yes it does," I scratch my head. "My friends were too damaged even to fly back here, what did you expect?"
He taps a single finger on the desk a few times, his displeasure at my tone causing, if I had to bet. "Sorry, sir. I mean no disrespect. I do, however, have to petition you once more that we send an armed escort for them immediately."
"This is your fourth time petitioning me to send fighters down for them, Smith. Fighters currently in use in New Rochelle. They can't be spared, for now at least. Give them a few days to either win or lose, and we'll see where we are, then."
"But these are Garde, sir, three of them. Trained and experienced!"
"You said one of them has been comatose for the last few days, yes?"
"She'll snap out of it."
He nods, a faint smile painting itself. "I'm sure. In the meantime, we have no craft to spare on any fronts. Besides, this Loric Pilot I've heard of can surely make the trip herself, no?"
"She, uh, doesn't want to bring Seven into the path of any fighting. She's worried that they'll be ambushed on their flight north, which is why they need escorts, sir."
He finally nods, a thing full to its brim of finality. "I'll see what I can do."
He goes back to the map.
"Have you ever been to Los Angeles, son?"
"When I was very young, yes. I suppose. Why?"
"The Mogadorians are massing there, my reports tell me. Not just the ship sent to siege but another held over Santa Catalina, waiting in reserve. My generals tell me they mean to storm the city within the day," he looks me in the eye. "What would you have us do?"
I hesitate for only a second. "How many Human Garde have presented themselves there?"
He flips open a notepad and reads from it. "Thirteen are being held at El Segundo."
"Get them out. Immediately. I don't care where you take them but get them out of the fighting. With training they'll be more valuable than a hundred soldiers, each."
"And what, leave my men to die in their place? My citizens for yours?"
"No, of course! Of course not," I fight to hold back a sweat bead on my brow. "Evacuate them somewhere safe. Make it a priority. But it doesn't matter if they're evacuated separately from the rest of the populace or not, just get them safe."
"Of course. Uh, yes." He sputters to himself. "Yes. And, just in case it comes up, there have been another fifteen reveal themselves in New York, as well as similar numbers in Boston and Philadelphia. We don't have the most up-to-date information anywhere else, I'm afraid."
"All being held at nearby bases, I take it?"
"Yes," he thumbs the notepad over a page. "The fifteen New Yorkers are in Garden City, that's near here," he looks at me again. "They want to see you, Smith."
"Yeah. I know."
He says nothing.
"How quickly can you get me to Garden City?"
He looks back at his agents and makes a funny face and shakes his head. "An hour, maybe. The roads are pretty beat, I'm sure you've noticed," he gives me a sly grin. "I could organize it, but I need you and yours back here, Smith. I don't want to see your host going rouge, you hear me?"
"Why would we do that?" I gasp in astonishment.
"Just… remember what I say. You know the risks more than anyone, but, well, how do I put this," he shakes his head again. "There's a fair bit of Xenophobia running rampant. I don't want it to be true. Don't make it true."
"Of course, sir."
"Fine, then. I'll organize the transportation immediately."