The general looks thirty years older than when I last saw him, not the eleven it's been. His stomach seems to swallow half of the desk that its pressed up against, as if its trying to cut his mouth out of the equation. He always had been an efficient man. His hair's stark white now -- skipped that whole greying stage by the look of it. Efficient.

"Samuel." He doesn't bother to stand, but raises his glasses instead, placing them neatly on his head.

"Christ, Rupert," I reply. "The years ain't been so kind, I see."

He snarls. His way of showing amusement. "Could say the same to you. I always said the drink would kill you and well, it looks like its getting close. Skinny as a sheet of paper. And I'll be damned if I don't see a whole regiment of grey hairs cropping up there."

My hand runs through my shaggy black hair. My still very black hair. I'm not skinny, either -- he's was just so fat he's lost all perspective. The desk he's enveloping is a black plastic, as are the seats either side of it. Too small, for his frame, that brave little chair. There're a couple of cabinets, also plastic, and not a lot else filling the space. "Nice office, Rupert. I've not seen so much plastic in a long time." I pause. "Say, that reminds me, how is Martha these days?"

His face storms, then the winds escape as a laugh. "You cheeky prick. Not changed a bit, have you?"

"No. Unlike Martha, I'm guessing."

He holds up a hand. "As it happens, she downsized her tits, so less plastic than ever. If you discount the new nose. Take a seat."

I slide down into it, hands in my jean pockets. "I'm going to need something soon, Rupert. Not had a thing since last night and my head is starting to thump."

He considers then slides a hand into his jacket pocket. "Here. Cuba's finest." He takes out a penknife, cuts the end off the cigar, then slides it across the table. "Strong enough to clear your head, I should think. Then I'll get a quack to look at you. Want you fit as a fiddle before we send you on your way."

On my way. Into the forest that's seeped in poison fog, he means. Or maybe not -- maybe he means: onto your way into the next life. Enjoy your last Cuban Samuel.

We're silent while I light up. Deep inhale. Spiral of smoke. I close my eyes and I'm in a bar playing snooker, and I got two beautiful women in short skirts cheering my every shot.

"How is it?"

I open my eyes and the women are gone and in their place is a fat man that wants to send me 'on my way'. Fuck him. "It's pretty good, actually."

"They're the best money can buy."

I bite the end as I consider saying what I'm thinking. What I've been thinking since seeing him. "I hear that you're a grandfather now."

He beams. A wide proud smile that I never saw even once when I was dating his daughter. "Well I sure am! Cutest little critter you've ever seen."

"Congratulations."

"Well thank you, Samuel. Nice to see you handling all this like a man." He pauses "For once."

"You had no right to hunt me down and drag me here."

He slams his fat fist onto the table; the plastic legs warp inwards as if they belong to ballet dancers. "I have every right! People are dying, Samuel. Not just civilians, not just soldiers -- you're kind, too. Even a shit like you must care about that."

I take a long drag of the cigar and puff out a hollow circle. "You seem stressed. Are you watching your blood pressure?"

"I had every right to find you," he repeats, a little calmer. "You might have got your ass fired from the Storm Guard, but you're a United States citizen still, and as such I still command you. And if you refuse orders, you're going to spend the next however many years you're alive, in the darkest tightest fucking dungeon I can find. Somewhere that'll make the black hole of Calcutta look like Kubla Khan's pleasure dome. Am I understood?"

"Yeah. I get it. You need me. I don't need you -- you need me."

"I feel like I'm repeating myself. Four of your kind are dead. Hundreds of civilians are dead. This... virus, it's spreading into Oregon and Nevada. It'll be our people dead next. It's not about needing you, it's about you doing what's right, you understand?"

"No. To be on the level, I don't even get what you need me for. Send in some radiation-proof vehicles, or whatever, instead. Drop some men in by plane to where it all started and figure this thing out for yourself. You're smart and rich and were once thin -- you'll figure it out."

He pauses. "We've not leaked certain information to the press."

That gives me a nervous pang. "What information?"

"It's not just a virus... It's an EMP, too, of some kind."

An eyebrow raises. Impossible. "Electromagnetic pulse? That's... They don't exist."

The old man sighs. "There's some kind of device that is pumping a type of current through the fog. Electronics, engines, respiratory devices -- nothing lasts more than a few minutes, once inside the fog. Sure as hell can't get any comms through it, either. So you see, the best we can do right now, is contain the fog. Breeze -- Portia, you might remember her as -- is on the border of Oregon keeping the wind blowing down."

Breeze? What was with the pretentious aliases that had popped up since I'd left the team. Not that Portia was a much better name. "Oh, I see. It's spreading into California because you're blowing it away from America?"

"It would spread deeper into California no matter what we did! We're not blowing it all the way down here, you dumb shit -- we're just trying to keep it away from our borders. Hell, why do you think we've set up base here?"

"Nice views?"

"We're in this fucking location to try stopping it spreading further into Cali."

We let silence take over. Rupert lights his own cigar and we both puff away.

"I'm not stupid, and neither are you," he says. "No matter how much you pretend to be."

I think back to Carl in the bar and I'm not so sure.

"This," he continues, "is man-made. It's got to be. Someone is generating this poison, and they've made damn sure no one can find them in it." Pause. "No one, but you."

A shiver sails down my spine leaving prickles in its wake. "What are you saying?"

"Someone wants you to go inside, Samuel. They wanted you to see all this, and they wanted you to react to it. Or else they knew we'd find you and deliver you to them."

This... It hadn't even crossed my mind, up to now. And it still didn't seem likely. Why would anyone go to all this trouble, even if they could create an EMP, and even if they could create a fog that was poisoning a thousand square miles?

"Why?" I say. "Why would someone want me this bad?"

"Guess they couldn't find you. But unlike them, we never lost you."

"Never lost me? Oh, you fucks."

"We always had to keep an eye on you, Samuel. Never know when a Storm Born might be needed. And aren't we glad we were so well prepared, now."

"What do you want me to do?"

He leans in, cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. "To find out who the fuck is in the forest that's causing this. Then, stop them."

What choice do I have? If it really is an elaborate smoke signal designed to get my attention, it's worked. And if it is, and if I don't go in, then more people are going to die. "The Pitt twins. Martha Mustelle. Farell Jameson. I want to know how those Storms died. Why they died."

He nods. "We'll get their folders and have you fully briefed before you go in."

"I want to be left alone, after. No more of this shit. Missions."

"I can't make that promise. But... Money I can do. A lot of money, if you're successful."

Of course 'if I'm successful'. If I'm not, I'll be dead. I nod, already seeing myself drinking rum in Cuba, and say, "Better be enough money that I can drown in it. And I want to see your daughter, too, before I leave."

He pulls the cigar out of his mouth. "I'm not so sure she'll want to see you."

"Tough shit."