Pax Americana
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Through the looking glass, the one-eyed man was carefully painting an orange and black butterfly onto the wall. “We too cheap to give him painting paper or what?” Jack asked, hands pressed to his hips.
Beside him, Ginger shrugged. She was monitoring the stranger’s vitals through a tablet, occasionally pausing to adjust her glasses. “We tried. He prefers the walls.”
“So it’s quite possible this nanowhatsit treatment seriously fucked him up the way it kinda fucked me up,” Jack said, grimacing, “except that when my brain took a holiday I hit on everyone in the room, including Champ, while John Doe here seems to have fixed on butterflies.”
“When your brain ‘took a holiday’ you did indeed regress into some sort of sex-addicted Neanderthal state,” Ginger said blandly, flicking through John Doe’s medical statistics, “which, I might add, says a lot about your character, even if Agent Tequila thought it was hilarious at the time.”
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- Part 1 of Pax Americana
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Harry wasn’t at home when the rocket blew up his house because he was in Santiago, watching Chile draw with Bolivia. Afterwards Jack dragged him to a murky bar full of disappointed Chileans still in their red football jerseys, drowning their sorrows with beer and pisco.
Although Harry was fluent in standard Spanish, Chilean Spanish was completely beyond him, so he drank quietly and tried to keep an eye out for trouble. Since Jack was also in a jersey, only Harry was glaringly out of place, though he had grudgingly forgone a suit jacket in the heat. Still, he couldn’t quite avoid trouble forever, and the crowd was restive.
When the first soused man staggered over and growled, “American?” Harry put on a careful smile.
Series
- Part 2 of Pax Americana