The Back Side of Paradise

April 6, 2000
Ft. Leonidas, Paradise Island in the west Caribbean, off the coast of Nicaragua

The home of the Paradise Island Defense Force was aptly named after the famous Spartan king because 'spartan' was the best way to describe it. The one square mile of the post consisted of a quad of three barracks buildings, a headquarters building that contained the armory as well and pair of Quonset huts that served as the post's motor pool. In addition there was a mess hall, static weapons ranges for rifles, pistols and the interesting 'others' armed forces tended to acquire. Next to it was a running track, that circled a physical fitness area complete with obstacle course and sand pit. The rest of the base was a wilderness area probably intended for training and maneuvers. Whether fortunate or not, the base far exceeded the needs of the optimistically named little army.

The entire Defense Force numbered two hundred and eighty, of which less than fifty had any kind of military experience. Species wise the vast preponderance was canines, wolves and foxes mostly, but there was a healthy showing of hunting cats and then a mixed bag of bears, otters and horses that were not members of members of Nick's Ranger Team. About a third of the volunteers were female, weighted heavily in the hunting cats, and Nick was far too short handed to turn anyone away.

Nick stood by the flag pole and watched Dade work. The young buck sergeant had qualified and done a tour as a Drill Instructor before he'd got a yin to earn a Ranger Tab and so Brennan had scrounged up a campaign hat which was the international badge of the Drill Sergeant and turned training over to him. Over head, the flag of Paradise Island flew, a rampant chimera in gold over a bisected field of white and green. The defense force flag was still in committee. Nick sighed and shook his head as he watched Dade putting the volunteers through basic military theory and practice. “You know what I don't see, Pierre?” he asked the now Major Hicks his second in command who was with him.

“What's that, sir?” he asked from leaning up against the flag pole.

“I don't see any rabbits, or rodents, no mice, chip monks or squirrels. I can see the military uses of horses, cats, canines and bears, I can even buy into the otters for amphibious operations, but nothing fluffy or cute, have you noticed?”

He nodded, “I have. Seems to be a pretty straight up combat eugenics program, if that's the right word.”

“I read you,” the Colonel replied. He looked around and shook his head. “Just shy of a month and I still can't wrap my brain around this place.” He made an expansive gesture that took in the entire post, the pool of slightly better than 200 Animen Dade was teaching how to salute and doubtlessly their situation in general. The prior service volunteers had been had been pressed into service almost immediately to get the base up and going. “Never mind creating us,” he continued. “And even say you got the gizmo that made this island for free, what do you suppose this cost? This post, that town outside the main gate, hell our subdivision, never mind that airport! Billions of dollars? A Trillion?”

The big Cajun who was now a coal black half horse, half man fished a cigar from the pocket of the uniform he wore and went through the motions of getting it lit. “More money than will ever come through my dick skinners,” he muttered around his first exhale. “Hell, sir, just the buildings and the roads and the infrastructure have to be hundreds of millions. More than 'himself got auctioning off the stuff of these volunteers.”

“And this little rag tag band of rebels is going to throw them off?” Nick snorted. “People don't just walk away from this kind of money, Pierre.”

“Nothing says the people we'll be shooting at are going to be paid by whoever spent that money,” the other replied with a long sideways glance.

Nick snorted in disgust. “Glad I'm not the only one sniffing an ambush here.” He sighed as he watched the young sergeant working his way through his volunteers, obviously trying to quickly get through the basics before he could move on to the big stuff. “Of the prior service, how many were combat arms? Any of them in the Gulf War?”

“Not counting our chalk? Eight sir, five infantry, a tanker, an artillery man and a green beret; though he saw the elephant in Vietnam.”

Nick shook his head. “Splendid! We've got a tanker with no tanks, an artillery man with no artillery and, wait, Vietnam?” demanded the Colonel. “How old is he?”

The black stallion grinned around his cigar. “That's a matter of some debate, sir. See we were told they took our bodies and did something that turned us into this, which would make me thirty two. However, every one of them,” he said with a gesture at the group of volunteers that were now doing push ups to pay for some infraction. “Or at least the ones I've spoken to said they grew a body and then their soul or whatever got moved into it. Which would make us, what? A month old?”

Nick rubbed his eyes in frustration. “God Almighty, how deep is this hole we've fallen into?”

Major Hicks shrugged. “Dunno, skipper. Still, to answer your question about the Green Beret, if you ask me if he's fit for combat, that is a resounding yes. The old fart probably has forgotten more about killing people than I know now.” He tried and failed to blow a smoke ring and cursed his still unfamiliar mouth. “Interesting point of information,” he continued. “Did you notice the US Army and Marine recruiting station in town?”

“I noticed it's under construction and I noticed nobody in uniform in it,” the Colonel replied. “Do we know if Maxwell left the island?”

“Here come the people to ask,” Pierre replied. Hicks looked past the Colonel and stood up straighter. “Heads up, sir. Brass incoming.”

Nick turned to see the Mayor and Governor headed their way, worried expressions on their faces. “Governor, Mister Mayor,” he greeted. “What can we do for you?”

“We have a development,” Henry said by way of greeting, brandishing a paper in his hand. “An invitation to the Wallachia consulate. From Lord Paramount.”

“You think...?” started Pierre but Nick just shrugged.

“I'd be amazed if he didn't,” Nick replied. “The question is does he want to talk or fight?”

“I think if he were fighting he wouldn't be inviting,” the big cajun replied. “Two hours, sir?”

“About,” Nick replied. To the confused looks on the politicians faces he elaborated, “If I don't contact Major Hicks in two hours, he'll come for us. With everything at his disposal.” The lion looked at the bear, clearing uncomfortable with being at ground zero for such an event. Nick sighed. “Alright, let's see what the Prince has to say.”

July 27^th, 1998<
Office of Lord Paramount, Live Broadcast Production Facility, Paradise Island

Lord Paramount swept into the room, peeling off a silk Caraceni of Milan suit jacket that had obviously been made to his measure for the cost of a modest four door sedan and casually tossed it over the back of a chair. Despite the air conditioning, the island was tropical and being only fourteen degrees above the equator required a change of wardrobe. “I came as soon as I could,” he announced to the scientist waiting on him as he loosened a $1,200 hand painted tie from his neck. “What's the problem, Martin?”

“Maxwell betrayed us!” Dr. DNA informed him, pointing a control at a section of the paneled wall that dutifully opened to reveal a flat panel monitor.

“So soon?” Fredrick asked from unbuttoning his shirt. “Perhaps the general does have measurable testosterone in his blood stream. What's happened?”

The monitor came up to display an ICU ward that held better than a dozen men, most of which were obviously gravely injured. “The 'volunteers' the general was supposed to send us was a Ranger strike team! They veered off the approach corridor to the air port towards the jungle of the far side of the island.”

“How were they injured?” asked the mutant sovereign as he stepped behind a silk screen.

“Titan,” Martin replied with palpable disgust. “While Hammer Hand was organizing the party to round them up, Titan was on that side of the island and attacked, destroying the helicopter and dumping them all into the ocean.”

“Well, Robert always was a self starter,” Paramount remarked with a trace of dry humor. “Casualties?”

“The pilot and crew almost drowned, and most of the rangers themselves have extensive injuries. I have them all under sedation, but...?”

“Calm yourself, Martin,” Fredrick soothed as he emerged from behind the screen in a pair of chino shorts that had been pressed so crisply they could cut hair while pulling on a salmon colored Polo shirt. His valet was already gathering up the suit. “This is an opportunity and we must take full advantage of it.”

“Opportunity?” sniffed Martin. “We knew General Maxwell would pull something, but those plans depended on the TV show to keep him in check!”

“And they will,” Coveanu assured him. “And, yes, I know we're not quite ready yet, that's why I sent Titan with Hammer Hand and his Wrecking Crew, to discourage this kind of adventurism, and to deal with it when it cropped up. No, this is a golden opportunity.”

Martin arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Fredrick, as a student of Hard Science I'm a bit rusty on how being invaded is going to help us.”

Lord Paramount indulged in a rare grin at political science being considered 'soft'. It was an old joke between them. “I had thought that Maxwell's volunteers would be non-combat types, supply specialists, mechanics, truck drivers, theta and omega males desperate to prove their manhood by some magic concoction of yours. And while they would have a place, they aren't what we need. What we need are killers, alpha and beta types tip of the spear warriors, and Maxwell has offered them up on a plate. A full Ranger chalk who represent some of the best of US Armed Forces doctrine and current methodology. I couldn't be more thrilled.”

Martin rubbed his soft chin. “Well, when you put it that way, but won't there be more coming?”

“I'm sure there would be if I were not on the island now,” Paramount told him. “To dislodge me and the Wrecking Crew he'd need something on the order of a task force. At the risk of sounding self indulgent, possibly a Carrier Battle Group and that is beyond his ability to maneuver and disavow. I'll deal with him, have no fear.”

“What about them?” Martin asked.

Fredrick gazed at the men on the screen. “How severe are their injuries?”

“Five won't walk again,” Martin replied. “Broken backs from either Titan hitting the helicopter or the fall into the ocean. In addition there are lots of broken ribs and limbs, but the Rangers were mostly thrown clear. The helicopter crew got the worst of it. The pilot broke both his legs and the co-pilot had his pelvis crushed and I've had to amputate his left leg below the knee; the crew chief is only still alive because Brio says she's holding his 'soul' in his body. He's on full life support.”

Paramount's face clouded over, then once more set into a neutral expression. “I lament the loss of honor in the service of arms,” he said softly. “These men deserve better masters. Let us see if we can provide them.” He turned and fixed a stern gaze on the smaller Devisor. “Martin, I want you to pick your best, most promising lines. Two of each breed and go ahead and proceed as if they were your volunteers. Implement the transfer as soon as the bodies are ready.”

“Well, we've had great success with the equines,” he paused from his mind solving a technical problem and turned back to his patron. “Without their input?”

Fredrick shrugged. “Some things can't be helped. These men were doing their duty and should not have to pay with their lives because they suffer under a faithless general. Proceed in good faith on their behalf. Have the construction director come see me at his earliest convenience so we can discuss some housing incentives for our new warriors. Now, if you'll excuse me, Martin, I need to call President Clinton and spark an international incident.”

April 6^th, 2000
Wallachian Consulate, New Eden, Paradise Island

It was a short, quiet ride to the Wallachian Embassy. During which time Nick wondered if General Maxwell was still holed up in there, too terrified to make a break for the airport. It would be interesting if he had an opportunity to make good on his threat. They made their way through security of the consulate faster than they were expecting and were soon ushered into a lavish office, dominated by a woven tapestry of Vlad Tepes behind the desk.

Lord Paramount stood and came from behind the desk, hand extended to be shook. “Gentlemen, come in, please. Colonel Brennan, an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“Your highness,” the Soldier replied. For some reason, Nick thought a super villain would be taller. Paramount was an imposing figure of a man, but as big as Nick had become, he didn't seem as intimidating. Still, the handshake was past firm and well into 'manly' which reminded the Colonel of the reputation and abilities of this man so Nick mentally kicked himself to not underestimate him.

“Can I offer you anything? Cigars? Scotch?” The Prince accepted their polite refusals gracefully, leading the way to a small conversational group of sofa and chairs. “You may all speak plainly gentlemen, we're not recorded here.”

“What are we here to discuss, Lord Paramount?” Henry asked.

The Prince held up a finger in remembrance, stood and strode quickly over to his desk, then returned with a set of documents in rigid, leather binders, the kinds of things you see containing treaties and other documents of State. “I have an offer for you to consider,” he replied. “One I trust will smooth things over with your...growing pains.”

The Animen looked at each other as Lord Paramount opened each binder and laid them out for inspection. “A treaty of release of claim between Nicaragua and the Nation of Paradise Island governing the Cayos Miskitos land mass, brokered by the Wallachian government. Official recognition of the legitimate government of Paradise Island from the Principality of Wallachia,” he held up another folder, “same from His Holiness, Pope John Paul II, but the Vatican recognizes everyone. Also, a statement of recognition along with a rough draft of a non-aggression, mutual assistance agreement with Karedonia and, last but not least a formal invitation to the next meeting of the Association of Caribbean States to plead your case for recognition from them.”

The lion and the bear exchanged a glance before Henry cleared his throat. “That's...uncommonly generous of you, Lord Paramount. We certainly appreciate your diplomatic efforts on our behalf. To what do we owe...?”

The Prince's gaze was intense. “Come, Henry, let us not 'beat around the bush' is I believe the expression? I would hate for our two hours to elapse and have Major Hicks come looking for you.”

“Why are we here, your Highness?” Nick asked when the two politicians remained silent. “You have a reputation as being a fairly straight forward fellow, I for one would like the straight dope. If your intention is our enslavement, let's shake hands, part enemies and commence to putting rounds down range.”

The Mayor and the Governor winced, but Paramount smiled. “Are you a believer in first impressions, Colonel?” The big equine made a 'so-so' gesture. “I am,” Fredrick replied. “Know a man in his first few minutes and you'll seldom be surprised. It's a skill I've cultivated and it tells me that you and I going to get along well.”

“I hope so,” Brennan replied. “Perhaps you can fill in some blanks for me as why my men and I were taken prisoner, transformed into these...beings...and why now, evidently, you want to be friends?”

Paramount nodded as he stood and walked back to his desk to press a button. “Certainly you're entitled to those answers, Colonel. No, I do not intend your enslavement, nor any other man, woman or child on this island. Please, gentlemen, indulge me, I have here a bottle of a wonderful tawny port from 1853, a dry throat and it is terribly gauche to drink alone.”

Henry looked at his fellows and drew a consensus. “We'd be honored.”

“Excellent.” Paramount returned carrying a silver tray with a crystal decanter and a collection of demijohns. He poured deftly and offered the glasses himself. “Freedom,” he offered as a toast which surprised Nick, but he raised his glass and took a hesitant sip. It was far sweeter than he was expecting with an intense, panoply of flavors that he quickly schooled himself from liking too much as it was doubtlessly something he would never afford. “Colonel, you are perhaps the only man here who regrets more than I your situation.”

“It is nice to be recognized by my betters,” the Colonel replied with a generous dollop of sarcasm, but Paramount only nodded sagely. “Though I must admit to more than a little confusion about all of this,” and he made a vague gesture with the demijohn in his hand. “There might be some who have forgotten your involvement with liberating the Iranian Embassy Hostages, but I studied that action in OCS. My compliments, sir, it was a brilliant engagement.”

Lord Paramount took a sip of port. “Seven of my men would argue with you, Colonel, were they alive to do so.”

Nick's ears twitched. “Every commander takes casualties. It is a part of war. Now, help me understand. George and Henry tell me everyone here volunteered. My...forgive me, girlfriend sounds so tacky, but we haven't exchanged vows, fiancee perhaps? Yes, my fiancee tells me your man Dr. DNA kidnapped her. Somewhere is the truth, and I'd like to hear it.”

“Perhaps you'd like it from the horse's mouth?” asked a voice from the door. Nick turned and his eyes narrowed and his ears rotated backward as Dr. DNA let himself into the room and walked to the table. Lord Paramount merely poured another glass and presented it. “Did I kidnap Heather and the other girls? Depends on if you believe Death has a custody of us all.”

“Don't mince words with me, 'Doctor',” Nick told him quietly. “And I have no doubt our host will take a dim and physical disapproval of my leaping over this table and killing you with my bare hands...”

“You would be correct in that supposition,” Fredrick replied drolly.

“But you're gambling whether he can get to me before I get to you.”

Martin took a sip of his drink and if he was nervous, he didn't show it. “To answer your question, Colonel, I have, with Lord Paramount's assistance, a network of individuals through out the world who look for likely candidates for me. Your mate was brought into Las Vegas University Medical Center half dead by heroin over dose. My man saved her life and stabilized her. Heather had flushed her life and her body was circling the drain. I gave her a new life and a new body to go with it.”

“Martin is one of the world's leading bio-devisors and gadgeteers,” Paramount commented, obviously proud of his friend. “Ask your medic, Staff Sergeant Manetti I believe? Ask him how many of his battle field drugs either come directly from Martin or are derivatives of his work.”

The Colonel put his drink on the table and fished his new phone out of a breast pocket of his BDUs. It was a Gizmatic Communicator II more computer than phone, with a touch screen. It was a large, somewhat ungainly device, but that was a plus for many of the Animen with their much larger hands. Though that was not the only reason why it was the single most popular device on the island. “Phone, ask Manetti how big of a role does Doctor DNA's inventions have in medicine.”

“I'll send a text to SSG Ronald Manetti,” the device replied. “Ready to send?”

“Send.”

Nick glanced back and forth between the two humans before he took another sip of the port and let the excellent wine fill his mouth with it's flavor. “So, you are lying, or she is, is that what you're telling me?”

“At the risk of quoting Obi-wan Kenobi, we could also both be telling the truth,” Martin replied. “Yes, I caused Heather to be here, yes I cheated Death and yes, General Maxwell was correct in that my man listed her as deceased. You wear the form you do because it was necessary to save your life.”

The phone beeped. “You have a new text message from SSG Ronald Manetti that reads, 'Are you kidding, Skipper? Half my bag came out of his mind. The big ones are Instant Clot and Stabil to get vitals under control so a casualty can be moved. But you've had Oxynate and AdrenaliMAX.'”

“Oh, yes, Oxynate,” Martin recalled with a smile. “What distance runner doesn't appreciate increasing the oxygen levels in his blood? Or having all the advantages of what amounts to an four hour adrenaline surge with none of the down side or 'crash' after?”

“Gregor?” prompted Paramount. Another human that Nick was startled to have realized he missed by practically blending into the paneled book case produced a remote control and pointed it at the wall Nick faced. It opened and revealed a gigantic screen that showed a battered man, bruised and with a breathing tube down his throat. His name was Captain Nick Brennan, US Army.

July 22^nd, 1998
Caribbean Sea 14.38N 82.47W off Paradise Island

“You idiot!” shouted Hammer Hand. “You brain dead, moronic human oxygen thief!”

Titan only grinned at the smaller man. And, of course, for Titan, everyone was smaller. “Knock it off, Hammer,” he laughed. “I was paid to protect the island and I'm protecting it. See?” he made a gesture of the collection of bodies on the beach the Brio was frantically casting magic to save.

“Did I tell you to splash the bird?” Hammer Hand demanded. “Did I tell you to do anything?” The sea erupted in a geiser of spray and foam as Jet Stream brought the wreck of the Black Hawk helicopter out of where it had sunk and carried it over to the beach, calling for Brio as he went. “Where in that pointed head of yours did you get the idea what we really fucking needed was a god damned international incident?!”

“You said...”

“I said watch for where they landed! Remember that word, Robert? Watch?”

“Well, sure, but now you can watch them all at once and they ain't going anywhere, are they?”

Hammer Hand's index finger waved at the bigger man's navel. “You'll answer to Paramount over this.”

“Hammer,” called Cardtrick as the slender brunette ran up. “These guys are in bad shape. Brio says we've got to get them to a hospital. Like yesterday!”

“Are they safe to move?”

“She said we don't have a choice.”

Hammer Hand glared at Titan again then followed his team mate back to the soldiers on the beach. “So picky,” muttered Titan as he followed.

April 6^th, 2000
Wallachian Consulate, New Eden, Paradise Island

“So you see, Colonel, you are alive and whole because of my actions.”

Brennan stared at the little scientist for a long moment, as though trying to decide if Lord Paramount could react in time to keep his hands from the little man's throat. “Are you seriously trying to persuade me that a man who could grow an entirely new body that is part animal and transfer a man's soul into it is not capable of healing a broken back?”

“You represent the culmination of close to twenty years of work, Colonel! Work I haven't done in the repair of spinal injury. Would you rather have waited until your fifties to walk again?”

Nick drained the remainder of his drink and was in the process of setting the empty demijohn on the table when Lord Paramount intercepted him with the decanter and refilled the glass. “Please, if any man ever needed another drink, Colonel,” the super villain told him with a smile.

The big equine mastered his temper and raised his glass in thanks. After a sip, he sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. “I suppose it does not truly matter at this point whose intentions were what. I'm here, I'm stuck and it's done.” He opened his eyes and locked his gaze with Paramount. “And I don't believe for a New York minute that you opened up your wallet for all of this, just to give George and Henry here their heart's desire. So, forgive me, your Highness, if I insist on a better explanation...?”

“No apology necessary,” Paramount replied smoothly. “You were supposed to be a volunteer as well, Colonel. You were supposed to be appraised of what you and your men would under go, the risks and rewards, even have input by way of species choice, coloration, other features. Instead, General Maxwell thought he would score a coup, forgive me a political pun, present company considered, kidnap my employees, steal my secrets and give the United States another Florida.”

Nick blinked slowly and finally his ears rotated forward again so that George and Henry could let out the breath they were holding. “I...I can't argue that,” he admitted. “What I want to know is why wasn't my team followed by the air mobile division?”

Lord Paramount chuckled darkly. “Because you're right, I didn't open my wallet just for George and Henry, I was working with the Pentagon and General Maxwell was acting on his own when he sent you. The United States has not just the best, they have the research into paranormals and metahumans, Colonel. Research going back to the sixties. They provided access to the entire file for Martin to solve certain problems he was having, I finance this, they get to open a recruiting station for the worlds foremost 'super soldiers'. That was the deal.”

“This must have cost billions,” Henry protested.

“I had it,” Paramount replied blandly.

“But, what do you get out of it?” demanded a puzzled George.

Paramount's grin was wide and fierce. “Peter Drucker famously said, 'Business has only two functions, marketing and innovation.'” Nick snorted into his glass as he took a sip, drawing the attention of the other two Animen.

“We're both,” he informed them. “You haven't wondered why there aren't 'cute' animals?”

“Now that you mention it,” drawled Henry, “I would have thought there would have been rabbits at least, I mean, based on the...um...art I used to enjoy...” Dr. DNA cleared his throat causing Paramount to 'glare' at him but the look truly spoke of quite a bit of affability between them. The Prince took his wallet from a breast pocket of his blazer and an uncertain number of bills whose denomination or issuer was unclear changed hands.

“We're the next step to your Catamounts, aren't we?” Brennan demanded of the little scientist who made an expansive gesture as he pocketed the money. “Sure, you don't have to recruit from us, you own the joy juice. You can make your own. And with this whole god damned island wired for sound every trumped up thug and wannabe super punk will be beating down your door.”

“It does help having an attractive retirement incentive,” Paramount said simply. “So, the United States has broken faith with me; and you Colonel. As far as I'm concerned, you being the legitimate government of this island, feel free to throw them off. I, on the other hand, as a friendly power, wish to maintain relations, after all, I have kept my word.”

April 6th, 2000
The Brennan Residence, Paradise Island

One of the chief problems with electric cars, Nick Brennan thought to himself, is that they're silent. Short of the noise of the tires on the asphalt, or a slight electric whine at low speeds and of course the radio, they don't make any noise to speak of. So when Nick took the little Tesla Islander he shared with Heather the long way back around the island to the Stables as the subdivision had become known, there was no satisfying throaty roar of an engine on the moderately twisty roads, nothing to distract him from the black thoughts that chased each other around in his mind.

It was unusual having to be in the debt of a...what did you call Lord Paramount? A super mercenary? He'd done soldier for hire work for years, selling his strength and invulnerability to a remarkably unsavory collection of well heeled dictators, generalissimos, and 'presidents-for-life'. To Nick's knowledge he'd never robbed a bank, kidnapped a crown prince for ransom, or any other kind of 'villain' work, but that didn't keep him off the Super Villain 'A' List of Threats to Humanity the MCO put out.

Of course, being honest, there was only public opinion keeping Champion and Lady Astarte off that list too.

Whether you wanted to make him a conqueror or a liberator, he did have his own country and that was pretty high up on the trump the Jones list. And he had gone in pulled the hostages out of Tehran, for pay or not, and seven of his own had died doing it. Paramount had a reputation at the edge of the circle that Nick frequented, a disciplined, seasoned commander, a restrained professional, in the course of action and a merciless monster to war criminals.

It was the Kome Island Massacre that had landed Paramount on the Villain list. Contracted to provide parameter and reserve support by a still anonymous party to Israel's infamous 'Raid on Entebbe' Paramount had not actively taken part in the rescue of the Air France Airbus by Israeli special forces. However, an incensed Idi Amin had ordered hundreds of Kenyans living in Uganda rounded up in preparation for them to be exicuted to 'punish' Kenya for their assistance in the raid. Paramount had offered his services to Kenya to free them, but on arriving at the compound on Kome Island in Lake Victoria where they were being held, the future ruler of Wallachia had found he'd arrived too late and found hundreds of dead Kenyans.

Paramount had reportedly flown into a rage of his own. A cold, murderous rage if the biographies and tell all books of former Paramount Guards who had been with him were to be believed. What was known was that after seeing the pile of bodies of murdered men, women and children, Fredrick Paramount had ordered his men back on their helicopters and then had single handedly killed every Ugandan soldier on the island, leaving a warning painted in the blood of the soldiers on the tarmac of the base, 'Do This Again And I Will Come For YOU'. Amin's rule had been remarkably meek after and he was deposed only a few years later.

But the hundred thousand dollars he'd been supposedly paid by the US Government to liberate the Tehran Embasy staff likely hadn't paid for the fuel he'd burned to go and come, never mind the operational losses. He was a contradiction, an enigma and that was exactly how he liked it evidently.

What everyone agreed on was that Lord Paramount was scrupuliously a man of his word. And not, as some in his situation might be, a loose, squirrely interpratation of what he'd said. For a world leader, he was remarkably plain spoken and direct. If he said what had happened to Nick had been accidental, that in good faith actions were done to save Nick's life and the lives of his men, that was what Lord Paramount believed. It didn't nessessarily make it true, but it would be what Paramount himself believed.

Prince Vlad Fredrick Brâncoveanu said he wanted to be friends with 'Paradise Island', that as far as he was concerned, his investment was money well spent for which he expected nothing else but fame and word of mouth. That's what he believed.

As the Tesla rolled to a stop in front of the house Nick Brennan's life had changed in, the Colonel realized he had to decide what he believed. Nick wasn't a mercenary, he hadn't grown up under privilidged, nor was he using the Army to escape a ghetto. His childhood had been lived in a modestly well off middle class suburb, he had paid his own way through college and had joined the Army as a conscious career choice. He believed in the concept of the United States, of individual rights and self determination and he believed in those ideals firmly enough to have sworn to defend them with his own body.

There in was core conundrum that gnawed at Nick's mind; this wasn't his body, not any more. It contained his mind and his memories and it thought of itself as Nick Brennan, but it didn't take a genius to realize his mother would not have recognized him. So Nick sat, gripping the steering wheel as he tried to decide what he would do.

“Nick?”

The Colonel looked up into the concerned eyes of Heather who had left the house and walked up unnoticed as he wrestled with himself. “I know,” he told her simply. She bit her lower lip and nodded.

“He...he called and told me...” she admitted. “How...how are you? Are you hungry...?”

“Is there anything else you've lied to me about?” he demanded flatly. She looked away and as her nervousness betrayed her, he felt his ears rotate backward again and he shot up to his hooves out of the car. “Was anything you told me the truth?” he shouted.

She sighed and looked him in the eye. “Yes,” she declared firmly. “I was telling the truth when I told you I wanted to build a life with you. That I wanted...” she sighed, looked away and spun in place, her hands pushing her blonde mane from her eyes as she tried to master herself. “I was a junkie, alright? I was a whore and a slut and god above in those pictures you were so fucking wholesome I just desperately wanted you to love me, to have your goodness wash me clean!”

Despite his anger, Nick blinked in shocked surprise at her answer. “Your own, personal Jesus, huh?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Yes, god damn it! Sure! If I'm a whore, at least I could be your whore and that would make it alright! Yes, I lied, and I'm sorry, I...I just wanted...” She closed her mouth and stood up a bit straighter as the tears escaped her eye and rolled down her face. “I guess I'm still thinking like whore. I lied because I thought that I could buy your love and be your rent a June Cleaver. That I'd be a good little brood mare keep your house, have your children and keep your balls empty and your stomach full. I didn't stop to think about what you might want, just what I wanted. I...I guess I won't ever not be a junkie. I'm sorry.”

He reached up and dried the tear on her cheek. “I...I'm sorry too,” he said softly. “I've been betrayed so much lately, I guess my response is becoming reflex. God, what kind of world have I fallen into where men I respected are little monsters and a pair of honest to God super villains have more integrity!” He turned and leaned against the car, looking back into the heart of the island. “And now I have to come to grips with the fact that we're having this conversation on god fucking damn television!”

Her arms snaked around his waist and up his chest as she laid her face across his shoulders and pressed herself against him. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

He brought a hand up and rubbed the much wider bridge of his nose between his eyes. His skull wasn't as narrow or as sided as a horses would have been, he had far more binocular vision than any horse, but it was still disorientingly wider than a humans would have been. “You know, I realized I was going to come here and throw a fit and yell and scream and you had even less to do with what happened to us than I did.” He sighed and hung his head. “I'm sorry...”

“You have a right to be angry,” she interrupted gently. “At least I had a man giving me a choice between life and death. You didn't even get that.”

“I...I'm not your savior, Heather.”

“I know.”

“Hell, I'm not even the...the...what did you call me? Wholesome? God! I never would have expected anyone to use that word to describe me!”

“You're a good man,” she insisted softly. “I know. I've known my share of ass holes and scum bags, and you, Nick Brennan are a good man.”

“While you're busy putting me up on a pedestal, you really ought to know that at the end of my little fit I was going to ask you to give me one good reason I shouldn't be on the next plane to Ft. Benning. Still think I'm...”

"I wouldn't have told you if you'd have demanded a reason,” she told him with such strength of conviction he blinked in surprise.

"Why not?"

"Because I know you would have stayed, just out of honor, and then I'd never know if it was because you cared for me or because of your sense of duty to your...to our child." Nick was still getting used to being able to look over his own shoulder to find she was looking up at him, her eyes moist. She nodded. "Yes, I'm pregnant."

He turned in her hug to face her and pulled her tight in his own arms. “Well, now, I'm really glad I wasn't an asshole. So, how do you feel about being Mrs. Brennan?”

“Pretty good,” she said, rubbing her face into his chest. “Pretty damn good, in fact.”