[b]SKY LOUNGE, NAGOYA MARRIOTT 
NAKAMURA WARD, NAGOYA, JAPAN
7 DAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT
1603 LOCAL TIME[/b]

Ulysse Descombes was not much of a drinker. His objection to alcohol was not so much ethical as practical- in his line of work he may have to spring into action at any moment, with no warning. If that happened to come at a time when he had a few drinks in him, even the slightest loss in focus or reaction time could very well be fatal to him. But after the events of the last week, the man they called Silver Glove wanted nothing more than a cold beer and some peace and quiet. And so he quietly nursed a glass of Asahi Gold, lost in his thoughts.

The view from the lounge was spectacular, a panoramic view of the city from the 53rd floor of a towering skyscraper. But unfortunately for Ulysse, it also afforded a view of a noticeable hole in the skyline, where workers continued to sift through rubble. The hotel that had buried him.

He shuddered at the memory, took a too-large gulp of beer. The perfect dark, the oppressive silence, the weight of tons of steel and concrete over him. He was only buried for a few hours, but he still had nightmares about it a week later.

At least, some of the nightmares were about being buried alive. It seemed a few lately had been different. About the team not being there for him. About being left alone. About some tall, thin figure of purest black that radiated a sense of evil while glaring at him with unblinking emerald-green eyes. . .

He shook off the thoughts, the unpleasant memories of dreams. They were probably brought on by stress. Maybe he should see a therapist. 

That is, if he could afford it. The team's cash flow was becoming so constricted. It was at the point that Ulysse knew he would have to buy even this beer with his own money rather than charge it to the Champions.

And of course they had lost so many members. He winced again as he thought of the funerals he had to watch on television rather than attend in person. The Hare was buried in Birmingham. They had to send what was left of Okyeame back to Accra in a box. Funerals for Buscapé in São Paulo and Mat Rempit in Kuala Lumpur. Too many good heroes dead. 

Not to mention all the ones that had walked out of the group. The worst kind of betrayal, one that stung fresh in his heart as he thought about it. The Tortoise, The Celtic Sniper, Red Jack, The Chameleon, and of course his countryman Archos. The others as well. A bunch of quislings, they had walked out on the team when it needed them the most. Some of them were even staying in this same hotel, which made getting ice a little awkward.

“Mr. Descombes?” a voice asked quietly in accented English. Ulysse turned to look at the speaker. A harried-looking, balding man in a cheap suit, obviously some kind of bureaucrat. And three uniformed policemen behind him. The police were unarmed, but well-built and alert of eye. Fighters. Judo, probably. Given their build and posture they were at least black belts, probably third or fourth dan. Ulysse felt almost insulted that they had sent only three men, but oh well. C'est la vie. 

“What can I do for you?” Ulysse asked, taking a cautious sip of beer.

The bureaucrat gave a slight bow. “I am Ogata. I represent the interests of the Minister of Justice. We would be most grateful if you were to accompany us to Tokyo to testify before the Cabinet and Prime Minister about the late unpleasantness.” The words were excessively formal, chosen with great care. As if that would mask their real purpose.

The man presented some papers to Descombes, who looked over them without reading. It was already clear what the Cabinet wanted. Someone to blame. Maybe not him personally, but they were hoping he would grass out some of his colleagues. Give them ammunition for the witch trials, a new Dreyfuss affair. That just wasn't fair to them. The Champions had gone in with the best of intentions, ajd they were being punished for it.

Ulysse was unprepared to rat out any of his comrades. Even if it would save his own skin, even if they asked about some of the quislings who had formed their own group. He handed back the papers he had not read, was about to tell Ogata exactly where the Cabinet could stuff them, when something caught his eye.

“Excuse me,” Descombes said to the bartender as he pointed to one of the many flat-screen televisions around the bar. “Could you turn that up, please? Thank you.”

The yellow bar at the bottom of the screen crept forwards as the voice of the CNN reporter became more audible. “. . .escaped earlier this afternoon while being transferred to a more secure facility, killing two police officers in the process. Ned Dryden had been imprisoned last year on seventy-three counts of murder committed in an effort to take over the Melbourne underworld. Better known as 'Tinhead Ned', Dryden used several sets of experimental powered armor in order to intimidate gangs and organized crime syndicates into appointing him as their leader. However, the superhero group known as the Champions dismantled his organization in one of their earliest missions.”

“Mr. Descombes-” Ogata tried to cut in, but Ulysse waved him silent, engrossed in the news report.

“Three sets of Tinhead Ned's powered armor have not yet been recovered, and are believed to have been hidden away in case of emergency. Police officials speculate that he will attempt to recover one of these hidden caches at the first opportunity. Any citizens coming into contact with Dryden are urged not  to confront him but instead immediately contact the Australian Federal Police. . .”

Descombes downed the rest of his beer in one long gulp before setting down the empty glass and standing up. “Mr. Ogata, I regret that I must leave right now. I would be happy to answer questions at a later date, but I am still a Champion. And the good people of Australia need us.” He turned to leave, found no resistance from the policemen. Good. He'd hate to embarrass them.

“This isn't over, Mr. Descombes. This will not be forgotten,” Ogata called after him. Ulysse Descombes did not look back, getting on the elevator and heading for his room, where he had stashed his gear.

He touched his ever-present earpiece that kept him in contact with the other team members as he changed into his uniform in his hotel room. “[i]Mesdames et Messieurs[/i], this is Gant d'Argent speaking. It seems an old friend of ours has broken custody and is planning to go on another rampage. Tinhead Ned again, loose in Australia. Now, I can only speak for myself, but I have better things to do than answer questions. We are superheroes, no?” He laced his boots, and then reverently pulled on his silver gloves. “Let's go be super. Our jet is waiting at the airport.”