Kingdom Come

Meanwhile… in an office in the Pentagon…

General Alexander looked up from his paperwork to see his secretary standing there, in front of his desk. She was clutching the strap of a duffel bag in one hand, and what appeared to be an official-looking envelope in the other.

“Miss Brant,” the General said, in that low voice of his that would be what a dog would sound like if it started to talk, like a cross between a bark and a growl, “can I help you with anything?”

She had barely registered the sound of her own name, staring at her feet the whole time as though deep in thought. But at the General’s question, she seemed to regain her senses, and stepped forward.

“Yes,” she replied, placing the envelope on the desk. “You can approve my resignation.”

General Alexander was surprised, but he didn’t show it, save for his left eyebrow ascending several millimetres. “Sit down, Miss Brant,” he said. An order, not a request. He picked up the envelope, slit it open, and began to read.

Hesitantly, Miss Brant sat down in the char facing his desk, letting her duffel drop to the floor with a thump. She didn’t cross her legs as she normally did, but kept them both on the ground, hands clasped in her lap. She started staring at her feet again, trying to look anywhere but the man in front of her and the office he sat in.

The General’s eyes reached the end of the page. “It doesn’t explain why you want to leave, Miss Brant.”

“Isn’t that better for you military types?” she replied scornfully, barely raising her head. “Commands and directives and orders and no explanations? Isn’t that how you were trained, General?”

He smiled slightly, a smile devoid of any mirth, and leaned back in his leather office chair. “Let’s just say, this time, I’m curious.”

There was an uneasy silence in the office, with the only sound coming from the low hum of the ventilation units. “I’m leaving, Alexander,” Miss Brant said, “because I’m sick of being a murderer.”

A frown appeared on General Alexander’s face. “I’m afraid I don’t get you, Miss Brant.”

“You seem to think I’m not speaking English, General,” she said, looking up at the man’s weathered face and his thin white moustache. Her hands had unconsciously moved to the armrests of her chair and were now gripping them tightly. “I’m sick of being a murderer.”

Suddenly, her face is in her hands. “Oh, God, I’m… I’m a killer. I… I actually let so many people… I let so many people die.” Her shoulders shake uncontrollably.

“What are you babbling about, Miss Brant?” The General leaned forward in his chair again, but it was a gesture of curiosity, not compassion. “You’ve never killed anyone, not that I know of, and you’ve never picked up even a pistol your entire career here.”

“I may not have killed anyone directly,” she said, voice still quavering, “but I as good as did.” Her fingers ran through her hair, nails scratching her scalp. “I typed out those extermination orders… all those war clearance papers… and yesterday I handed you the slip of paper which gave you the ‘authority’,” here her fingers sketched quotation marks around the word, “to launch three massive ordinance, multi-megaton nuclear missiles right into the heart of the United States of America.” She laughed derisively. “It may not sound like murder to you, General, but it is.”

“I thought you had been properly briefed on this,” said the General, picking up his mug of coffee and taking a sip. It was cold and bitter. Just like him. “These metahumans - these so-called ‘superheroes’,” it was his turn to sketch the quotation marks, “masked vigilantes and whatnot, are the biggest threat to national security today, not just in America, but in the world.” His mug came back down. “You shudder at the thought of nuking Kansas? As I recall, that’s already been done. And they didn’t do it with three massive-ordinance missiles. Kansas was nuked by one single man. Captain Atom’s explosion killed over a million people and disintegrated thousands of acres of farmland.”

“And now you’re going to wipe it out again, incinerating thousands of superheroes,” her voice had risen, and she had stopped shaking. “Thousands of men and women whose sole purpose of existence is to protect humanity.”

“I told you already!” shouted the General, slamming his fist down onto his mahogany desktop, “Metahumans are dangerous! Look at their power! How do we fight that kind of power if it goes rogue? We have to eliminate the threat before it turns around and bites us in the rear!”

“General, your military has been keeping three massive nuclear bombs in a secret bunker well underground.” Miss Brant pointed an accusing finger at him. “‘Look at that power!’” she said. “‘How do we fight that kind of power if it goes rogue? We have to eliminate the threat before-’”

“The United States will never do that,” the General interrupted her quickly.

“From where I’m sitting, General,” said Miss Brant, “it looks like you’re the one who is the biggest threat to the world today.”

They were both staring into each other’s eyes for a moment.

“The way I see it,” said Miss Brant, breaking the silence, “is that you’re acting on a potential threat. Killing the cub before it grows into the tiger, just because it has the potential to come back and eat you.”

There was a pause, then: “And so what if we are? Prevention is better than cure, Miss Brant, and if these metahumans cause another global catastrophe, we might not be able to cure it anymore!”

“Which is another thing I cannot understand about this country. We have the right to bear arms, for God’s sake. We have legislation in place to put ballistic weaponry into the hands of hundreds and thousands of killers, rapists, drunks, and muggers. People are dying every day from gunshot wounds and-”

“It was never on the scale of a metahuman crisis! Millions of people dead-”

“And yet thousands more die each year, not by intercontinental missiles, but small firearms in our own backyard! If you think a million human lives have more worth than a thousand, you’re wrong, General.”

She leaned forward until she was inches away from his face. “Life is priceless, and one death is just as bad as a million deaths.”

There was another lengthy silence. The General had got up to stare out his window at the orange sunset, arms behind his back.

“You’re not a killer, Natasha,” he said, back still facing her. “You never pushed the button that dropped the bomb; you never pulled the trigger which killed all those people. You never killed anyone before.”

“I may not have killed anyone in cold blood, General,” Natasha Brant said, standing up and slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder once more. “And neither have you. But guns don’t kill people, General.”

She had reached the door. Her hand resting on the handle, she turned to look back. General Alexander was still by the window, half his face blossoming with orange sunset, the other half thrown into deep shadows. His face was a blank slate; no emotion could be gleaned from it, since it had reverted to his characteristic frown. Natasha Brant pushed down; the door swung open, and she stepped through it, and said:

“People kill people.”

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This was kinda inspired by Kingdom Come, the limited comic series by Mark Waid and Alex Ross. It refers to events from that story, but this should be taken as Fan Fiction and not a breach of copyright agreements. Oh yes, no offence to the US of A too. But I really don't understand the legalized arms. Really.

Does the world need a Superman?
The Edna Man