Memories, See Who I Am, Pts of Authority, None Can Die, The Lightning Strike, See What I've Become, Heart of Fire, Invincible, Rest Calm, Paper Stars, World So Cold.

I'm sorry I don't like this chapter either, so lets get rid of it on a Tuesday night and pretend today never happened. Rewrote it twice because it was horrible, and it's still terrible, but I just can't justify not having this content in here somewhere because it's the whole reason I wrote chapter 12.

I do have good news though. Since I'm simultaneously working on chapters 31/2/3, this story ought to be complete by 35. It's 20 chapters longer than my very first draft, 10 chapters longer than the estimates on the fifth draft, and going-to-be-done before I go insane. Who knew setting up an AU would be so frickin' complicated?

Recovery

Military Standard

The first thing Captain Lorenzo Rossi wondered when he met General Feliciano Vargas was how such a young man had risen so high up the ranks. He wasn't just captivated by how he'd reached the General Star, but that he wore it so proudly. It wasn't impossible to climb to the very top without first serving a lifetime or more in the military; it was just surprising to meet someone who'd done it.

It wasn't strange that he didn't know of him either, although the name Vargas was well known in the Military. Regardless of his own honours as a soldier, there were more generals between the four branches of the Armed Forces than the Captain could pretend to have met.

He was just surprised that the door opened to such a young face, especially one hidden under both a General's brim and so many ghostly scars. He'd fooled himself, after hearing the voice over the phone, that the General would be a grey, wizened old man, not someone his own age or maybe younger.

But General Vargas still carried himself like a General. He was a high commander in the Italian Air Force, it had been all over the records the Captain had pulled up trying to fulfill those midnight orders. The General was not a tall man, but he didn't have to be. The Captain couldn't say for sure why, with less than ten words, he'd been able to give two of the finest men he'd ever served with complete and unquestionable orders, but the Captain had been almost jealous of the attention before the commands for himself and Chief Airman Bernardi were practically grunted.

What had followed for the three of them had been an incredibly long night fueled by some kind of burning need to just see it through to the end, regardless of whatever "it" was supposed to be.

From General Vargas's home they'd driven to the Military HQ in Rome. At nearly three in the morning that Sunday, the officer and enlisted had been left to their own devices in a lobby for an exhausting three hours, waiting for the General to come back. It was the only opportunity they had to catch up on missing sleep, and the Captain had taken full advantage until the doors opened again and General Vargas made his return.

Whatever they were doing couldn't wait for a decent hour any more than it would let the General, who showed obvious pain when walking, any rest. He accepted the arm the Captain offered when it was obvious he was beginning to tip over, but wouldn't surrender either the thick leather dossier under his arm or the cell phone clutched in his gloved hand. There was no talking after the initial offer of help, the General didn't frown on it, he just wouldn't reply.

The Captain couldn't say what possessed him after that to put the jeep they'd arrived in on the highway going north out of Rome. The General didn't tell him to do it from the passenger seat, and Bernardi didn't say anything in the back, but it wasn't until they were screaming towards the city limits in the six-am dark that the officer noticed the absolute death-grip his superior had on those carefully bound files in his lap. At that point it simply became necessary to ask:

"Am I going the wrong way, sir?" The General only shook his head, all but lost in the depths of his black wool coat, but the hat moved and he'd lifted one gloved hand with a wave, gesturing for them to keep going. An overpass sign identifying their route as the way to Florence passed by, and between keeping his eyes on the non-existent traffic and the senior officer to his right, the anxiety was almost palpable.

"Bernardi, try and get some sleep back there." Glancing up into the rear-view mirror as he gave the order, the Captain waited until the younger man had laid down and stayed like that for a few minutes. He doubted the soldier could fall asleep that fast, but it was better to address the problem sooner rather than later. If Bernardi heard anything, he'd know not to bring it up.

"If I may, sir." The General was not a talkative individual. He looked almost scared on top of sickly as he stared at the road, but the captain hoped his voice would help. "It's an honour to serve under a Vargas again."

He got what he wanted. General Vargas glanced from the amber lights of the highway winding ahead of them to look at him, and the Captain just kept driving. He understood that he'd taken a risk wording it like that, but the raspy voice of the man next to him wasn't the same as the commander the Captain had obeyed during his last live mission.

"…Veteran?" General didn't put much behind the word, but it was still a question.

"Two campaigns, sir."

"Where?"

"I've flown over Libya and Switzerland." There was silence after that and the Captain didn't know if there was an emotion behind it, but the tense atmosphere for looser for his efforts. The General stopped watching him and glanced back out into the darkness, and it seemed like he was lost in thought for several minutes before he spoke again.

"Honours?" A few marks of achievement, but somehow he understood that the General wasn't asking about years of service or training missions he'd participated in.

"A gold cross, sir." For valor. He wasn't wearing it, of course. The medal he'd been given by the other General Vargas, the one who'd commanded that Swiss mission, was safe back in Rome, tucked in a safe place near his dress uniform.

The General fell deep into his own mind after that, and there was no more conversation for the rest of the morning. Although he hadn't slept much all night, the Captain brought them to the city of Florence three hours after they'd departed from Rome, the pale winter sunlight finally gracing them with its presence in the east.

Florence had not been destroyed by the Earthquake, but signs of the destruction littered the countryside on the way there and haunted the city core. Damaged, condemned buildings stood on street corners as hallowed reminders of what had happened, cracked streets and abandoned piles of rubble echoing the disaster. The General seemed overwhelmed by every broken sidewalk and sign announcing no trespassing or plans to rezone and rebuild swaths of the city centre.

The turned and detoured through the metropolis, getting stuck once or twice in morning traffic. At one point they managed to park and sent Bernardi to find them something to eat. General Vargas declined getting out of the vehicle without actually barring either of them from taking a walk if they wanted to, but the Chief Airman was fast and the Captain only gave his legs a brief stretch before they climbed back into the jeep.

He had no idea where he was supposed to be driving anymore, and General Vargas wasn't giving any hints either, at one point all but hiding under his hat and coat when they drove past the half-ruined shell of the city's major cathedral. A sharp hand-gesture told him to take them as far from the historic quarter as possible, and the Captain was half-convinced the General rode with both eyes closed until his wish was fulfilled. He seemed almost at the verge of tears at one point, but suddenly that all changed.

An ambulance sped by them with lights and sirens blaring in the mid-morning light, and without explaining why the General pointed after it. There was no reason to ignore the silent order, and with rush-hour traffic and pedestrians retired to work and school, the illegal turn he pulled went almost unnoticed.

They followed, moving in the ambulance's wake with almost no traffic to get in their way. When the screaming truck wheeled through a restricted entrance the General gestured again for them to follow, and with a lurch the jeep revved up the steep concrete incline to reach around behind the towering hospital and through to the ambulance bay. As soon as they stopped, the Captain was shocked by General Vargas swinging his door open and sliding heavily down onto the pavement.

Some twenty yards ahead of them the paramedic crew was scrambling out of the ambulance. Four surgeons in hospital scrubs and sterile gowns were already rushing out to meet them, and from this far it was almost impossible to hear what they were saying. Information was running back and forth between the two parties, words jumping over the prone and blood-stained body resting on the gurney.

But someone else was there too, a man in a tall black suit?

"Bernardi, hurry up!" The Captain called, quickly jumping from the driver's seat and following the General who'd brought them here. His shoes struck the asphalt and he could hear a sudden conflict brewing between the people in front of him, catching up with the General's jagged gait in time to hear it:

"This hospital is not a charity, if he does not have coverage-"

"This is a hospital, and this is an emergency!" One of the paramedics, a furious dark-skinned woman with blood on her gloved hands, was shouting back at the man in the suit. She broke off from him and looked sharply at the men behind her, yelling at the hospital staff instead: "Take him inside before the patch breaks, it won't hold much longer and this man needs surgery!"

"And this hospital needs insurance," the black suit was dull next to the brilliant red emergency uniform the paramedic was wearing, but his voice was sharper without being as loud: "or will you pay the surgeons and staff to take care of him?"

"It is the law!"

"To put him in debt? Take him somewhere else-"

"Murderer!" The paramedic screamed again, and then looked straight at one of the female surgeons crowding the gurney. They weren't moving, they looked torn between duty and orders. "Maria! We took oaths, remember?"

In that moment, the Captain wasn't sure what came over him. He thought he felt General Vargas touch his arm and the next moment there was just this burning heat in his blood, this endless noise in his skull as things he hadn't even known he'd been aware of flooded his mind and came out his mouth:

"You there!" A hospital could not refuse emergency medical aid, what kind of establishment didn't have precautious or reserved funds for life-saving treatment in these situations? He wasn't aware that he was speaking until he was already standing tall and booming the law at the man in the suit. He just barely noticed the General touching one of the surgeons and spurring the entire team into action, and that was only because the man in the suit broke eye-contact with him to yell at them again:

"Bring him back!" When the suit turned away to go after them, the Captain grabbed him quickly by the arm and was almost knocked down with the force he used to wheel around on him. "You! This isn't a police state, the army has no right to-!" Air Force.

"He has every right to enforce the law!" The female paramedic was at his side in an instant, black eyes flaring and angry words flying from her lips. "Blood and death are just money to you!"

"This is a business-"

"This is a sanctuary!" The woman interrupted, and she didn't stop: "At least it was before you dirty terroni came up from the south and stole this hospital from the good people who built it!"

"I would hardly call it stealing when a new oncology department is being contracted," the suit hissed back, enough venom dripping off his words to imply that this was not the first time he'd had to deal with the issue. "Or would you rather see all of that money go towards new ambulance bays for you to clog with your complaints?"

If the hospital had an emergency bay, then they had to accept emergency patients. What kind of criminal would expect payment at such a critical moment? It stank of something more likely to occur in the south, not here in Tuscany. The officer released the other man when he jerked his arm free, watching him straighten his black jacket with a tug before regarding them with a scowl. He seemed so self-assured and powerful, it was difficult to feel anything but contempt. With a flash of insult as he was eyed dismissively and then ignored the Captain straightened up slightly, not ashamed of a few missing inches of height. Whatever he lacked in stature he knew he made up for in simple presence.

Not unlike General Vargas.

"This is private property, leave." The man dismissed them, and he turned on his heel only to find himself facing down the General himself. It shocked the officer as much as the suit: neither of them had seen him move in like that, and even Airman Bernardi must not have noticed it because he was standing several feet off. The woman next to the Captain gave a small gasp, but before she could say anything the suit gave General Vargas a disgusted once-over and made a broad gesture with one hand.

"And what do you want, eh, Corporal?"

The General slapped him.

"Try again…"

"I should have you arrested!"

"It's him…" It wasn't a nose-breaking slap, the General barely put his arm behind it. The goal wasn't pain, it was insult and a little bit of humiliation. "I wasn't sure but- it's really him!"

"What?" Looking across at the paramedic standing beside him, the others from her team were uneasily watching from the back of the ambulance. Chief Airman Bernardi came storming up to the General's right, keeping silent and half a step back, but every inch a military man despite his sleepless grey eyes.

"It's him, the man from that night-"

"Younger son..?" What? General Vargas' voice was very quiet, like it hurt to use. Listening to both of them at the same time was impossible as the woman whispered and the General just couldn't speak up. The Captain focused on his superior, forced to ignore the awed words from next to him. General Vargas' scarred face was tilted to the side, his red hair still tied up behind his head and held in place by the stiff brim of his hat. "Educated… no rank?" What was he talking about? He had such a critical, evaluating look in his eyes that- "Fuck-up."

Oh.

"Bite your tongue!"

"Failed something…" Wherever he was getting these words, they were rubbing the other man's nerves raw. He was doing something to read him like an open book, he somehow knew exactly who this person was and how to slide neatly under his skin. "Hot blooded." With such a frightening look teasing the corner of the General's mouth, it was painfully clear that he knew exactly what he was doing. There was nothing reckless or insane, it was just powerful. "Disappointment?"

"Who the hell do you think you-!"

The man moved forward and General Vargas' right hand powered up before Bernardi or the Captain could respond. He attacked with the heel of his palm and all they heard was the loud smack of hand on chin. The suit collapsed with a startled groan, landing hard on the pavement with one hand protecting his bruised jaw.

"Name them." The General hissed, and his smile was still sitting perfectly in place. "In Florence. Tell me." His lips didn't look like they could stretch much further without splitting open along the white scars framing his mouth. The power was still there, saturating the space around him while meticulously bound by his lack of gestures or body language, just that smile and unblinking brown eyes staring down at the man on the pavement.

"You're crazy!" No, the Captain knew just by watching what was in front of him. This was not insanity, it was all planned, all carefully orchestrated in a way he couldn't fit together or understand. If chance had played a part in this then it was only in the path the ambulance had taken and the way it had crossed with theirs.

And who was the General asking for? It terrified him, but somehow he already knew. There was no evidence, at least nothing that could be used in court, but it came to him, slowly, in pieces: a gold ring on the man's right hand, his strong Campanian accent, the way he had held himself with arrogance despite three soldiers and a doctor staring him down. He'd thought himself untouchable, but with a kick to the shoulder to roll him over, the man found himself with a heavy foot on his chest and a General breathing down on him from a low crouch.

He took the man's tie in one gloved hand and used it to crane his head up painfully, and where there had been only intimidation before, now there was an acute sense of danger.

"Then give them mine…"

The Captain had to step forward, not to stop what he was seeing, but so he could hear those rasping words as they were breathed past scarred lips.

"Tell them I will burn them-"

"They'll kill you!" That was as good as a confession.

"They've tried…" And those were a promise. The officer stopped before he could intrude too far on the exchange, he wasn't frightened, but he would not get between them. "It's my turn, and like they did, I will start with the children."

"W-What? Why would you-?" They all watched the General use his free hand, which seemed slow and clumsy for some reason, reach into the man's jacket and pull out his wallet from the breast pocket. He left the ID cards and money alone, withdrawing only what the Captain assumed was a photo before flashing the image for the prone man to see.

His next words were cold poison:

"I will nail them, one by one, to the walls. And I will use their blood to write every name of every victim the godfathers have touched." He hadn't spoken this much at once all night, but as much as the words sounded like they were bleeding in his throat, they came and they didn't stop: "I will forgive no one, I will spare no one. Tell them: if they harm my children, North Italy will burn them. Tell every man, from scum like you, to the boss at every table, that if they hurt my family again: General Feliciano Vargas of Venice will cut off the hands of their daughters, and feed fathers the ashes of their sons."

The Captain didn't know what to do with those words. Part of him couldn't shake the fact that one crippled man couldn't do what he was swearing, but the rest of him was convinced, in every possible way, that he spoke the truth. The way General Vargas crumpled that picture in his hand and tossed it down on the prone man was like a promise, and no matter how much pain he was in when he made himself stand up on his own, he managed to turn away and carry himself back towards the jeep.

"Protect him." The Captain and the paramedic shared a quick glance with each other, and then the officer looked back at where the man in the suit was barely sitting up on the ground, still reeling from his assault and those words.

"I don't think I have to." Touching the brim of his hat in her direction, the Captain quickly started walking to catch up with his superior. Chief Airman Bernardi was already there, popping open the passenger side door for the General so he could climb in first.

Running away and making an exit were two different things, and with the suit carefully picking himself up by the time the jeep began turning and carried them out of the emergency lane, this was not a retreat. The Captain wasn't exactly sure what it had been, but there was a small adrenaline high humming in the back of his head as he drove.

Concern quickly started nagging at him though, because when he glanced over at the other man General Vargas had his eyes closed and head pressed back against the support on his seat. He had one hand pressed tight against his side like it hurt, teeth locked and breaths shallow trying to keep them quiet.

"Water, sir?" A plastic bottle was offered from the back-seat, and the General took it with one shaking hand, cracking the seal under his palm. He swallowed so fast he choked a little and had to bow his head, wrist over his mouth as he gave several deep, wracking coughs.

"Should I pull over-?" A waving hand told him to keep going, the coughs subsiding for a moment. But when he tried to speak again:

"Bol-" he was immediately cut off by more coughing, covering them faster this time as the Captain glanced up and met the Chief Airman's gaze in the rear-view mirror. Should they stop? They couldn't very well go back to that hospital, but…

"At this time of day, traffic should be light on the road to Bologna." General Vargas didn't respond, and that seemed like permission to put them on the highway again.

Whatever had happened back there couldn't have waited for them to pull over and get some rest. The Officer and Enlisted changed places before reaching the highway, and General Vargas fell asleep in his seat before they were even past the city limits.

Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones had, off the record, served in every major war involving American men, women and interests since the nation's fight for independence in 1775. The United States of America had been founded on the principles of a Republic, a true democracy in which no one citizen possessed any more right or sway in the election of the government or in the behaviour of that government.

Over three hundred years ago, Alfred F. Jones had sworn off the inspirational power of nationhood. There were passive effects of being a nation: his excitement was infectious, his presence was inspiring, just having him sit in the back of a room where policy was being discussed could shift a discussion towards big pictures and grandiose ideas. America was a nation of progress, innovation, dedication, and exploration, but he refused to meddle.

He hated meddling. He hated it. He had, all of once, made that critical error and breached his own code of ethics. Only once in his half a millennium of life had Alfred F. Jones stood up and told good men: "yes, go forward and do this for me, fight for me, America". He had done it once, and he had almost destroyed himself with the trauma and guilt of watching his children rip themselves apart and murder their own brothers, slaughter their sisters, and hang their own parents.

Alfred F. Jones had fought in every war his armies had ever engaged in save that one bloody massacre of broken spirits and shattered souls, and he had taken complete responsibility for it. Alfred F. Jones could tap the power of nationhood and live again after gun shots and cannon fire, he could muck through trenches and over live artillery buried in the mud, he could escape sinking ships and planes plummeting out of the sky. Alfred F. Jones would fight with his men, but he would never sway his leaders again. Not after that war. Not after that gunshot in a D.C. theatre killed the human whose mind had already been festering with the effects of a nation's poisonous touch. Not after he'd poisoned that man just to stop that agonizing, bone-splintering civil-war.

The greatest men were almost always nation-touched. He'd probably touched Washington by accident the same way he'd boomed to Lincoln on purpose. He knew Canada had whispered regularly to the Prime Minister who'd brought his constitution home from England, and that England in turn had helped the Iron Lady draft and deliver her speeches. He knew for a fact that the leader who had started Russia's bloody revolution had been chosen by him, but his successor who had led the Soviet Union through the Second World War had not.

America had decided long ago that he would not, unless his very existence was in danger, effect the men and women in his government the way his peers felt entitled to. What was the point of a democracy if one citizen could stand up and force hearts to obey him? That wasn't human strength or power, that was corruption at its worst. If America spoke to a crowd and changed their minds to match his, irrespective of age, gender, race, religion or any other defining aspect of their unique identities, then he would only violate his own constitution and everything he stood for. Free will, free choice, free action.

So he'd been fired from his work at the White House, that was fine. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last.

"Alfred…" This, "I don't know what to say…" This was a first.

Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones had been fired from his position as a bureaucrat before, it happened every other administration really. But he had never, not once-

"It's out of my hands. You've no idea how hard I tried to fight this, and I mean that, but I'll lose my own job if I go any further and you know I can't afford to do that right now.

"I understand."

"I'm sorry, sir."

He had never once been discharged from his own military.

"Explain it to me again though, I… I don't think…" He was wearing his uniform, pressed and clean and proper, suiting his rank despite the fact that there were over thirty years of shared military experience between himself and the human behind the desk. The Major grasping for words and shaking his balding head had commanded troops in Iraq, had gone into battle during Desert Storm, had taken command and diplomatic positions around the world, and this was the first time the Nation had seen him shaken.

"It… It's that damned jet." Oh god he didn't want to hear this. "Lieutenant Matheson's already facing a Court Marshall, they're just cracking down on the chain of command as hard as they can." They: men from Washington, officials Alfred had worked beside and whose jobs he'd outlined himself at some point or another.

"I was within my rights to request our involvement in that." It had been a UN co-ordinated attack, there was nothing for Washington to stick their nose in. "No Americans were injured, I mean- I was, but-" The only injured human had been the first Italian pilot, and just thinking about that made him realize-

"The President's office has already put a stop to the honours ceremony you wanted." No. The Major's pained expression didn't ease the blow, in that moment America didn't care how genuine the man felt, this was wrong. "Word from the top is that right now this country can't afford to honour foreign men, especially not from a mission where a sixteen million dollar jet crashed into the Swiss Alps." America's economic troubles could not be swayed by sixteen million measly dollars.

"So they're taking it out on a good man?" America wasn't referring to himself, he meant the pilot who was having the recognition he deserved hidden away and buried somewhere in a filing cabinet. "My security budget can easily afford…" wait… "Why that look, Major?" America struggled to smile, it was a fight he was determined to win, even when his teeth started to hurt and the aching in his heart wouldn't go away.

"They saw your name on the file, sir…" Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones, he'd signed several of the authorizing documents. "Washington has questions, sir, and so do I- but different ones." Really? What could he possibly want to ask him? "Like why doesn't the President know who you are, sir?" Why? Why didn't the President understand why a decorated Major was calling a 22 year old boy "sir"?

America took a breath, aware that it was getting harder to see through the film of tears he wouldn't shed. He tried staring behind the Major at the wall with all his files and books, family portraits and children's art all cluttered in the back. He took comfort in the familiar icons, and spoke.

"The President believes in an America that is static and omnipresent." Not necessarily a bad thing, just a little off the mark. "He believes in this… incredibly passive force, like the ocean: undeniable but without sense or intention. And I can be that, it's just hard sometimes." It was hard to be the blurred face in the crowd, there and gone with the swell of traffic lights and timed schedules. "He wants the figurehead of America to be the Presidential office, so he's drowning this personae in red tape and legislation. But this is what I wanted too." Or at least he had. "I wanted this back all those years ago when I didn't… When I didn't know what I wanted, really."

He'd wanted it back when it had occurred to him that it was wrong for England to sail across the sea and tell him what to do, and for America in turn would tell his people. When he'd realized that even if he made the decisions himself, it was still wrong to just say "we will go west!" and not ask or consider what that meant to the fragile human beings who lived out his orders and dreams. He hadn't wanted that way, that strength: he hadn't believed in it. He still didn't. He couldn't risk that bloodshed again.

He couldn't wash himself in blood again… Human blood, nation blood, brothers and sisters and children all rotting under the sun and trapped between cold, icy white walls…

"It's been a true honour, Mr. America." The Major stood and America followed suit, they clasped hands and shook, hard and friendly, nation to soldier, and America felt the tears touch his lips when he smiled. "I pray my son serves beside you the way I've had the honour, sir. Please take care, and, do you have any idea where you're going next?"

"I, uh…." Tennessee, California, Wisconsin, Alaska, Oregon, Missouri, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Florida, Kentucky… "I think… Italy." Naples, maybe. He'd go to Naples… just for a little while. "I have… family…" Family he shouldn't be bothering, mentors he had to just leave alone, but… "Or Canada, but- yeah, Italy."

"Godspeed, sir."

"You've made me proud, son."

He… would go see Italy.

Not my fault I read Titus Andronicus in school, they made us do it, it was on the reading list.

The guy in the earlier chapters was Calabrian, this one was Campanian, they're two different regions and not a typo (just in case anyone thought it was).

I couldn't find any Air Force-specific medals in the Italian references I used, so the Gold Cross for Valor seemed most appropriate for Mr. Captain person. As always, thanks to Pochigi for helping me with names and weird stuff!

See everyone on Sunday!