Rededication

by Jim Smith

One step at a time. One hand up. Grab onto something solid-looking. Pull yourself up.

Now do it a hillion jillion times.

I used to live in this mountain, but this is the first time I've tried to climb the damn thing. Mount Charteris was pounded like a rag doll from the minute the Thunderbolts moved in to the minute we were run out by our enemies; from the minute Graviton literally turned the place upside down looking for us to the minute we came back and made our last stand. The mountain is about three steps away from an avalanche. And I've got a lot more than three steps before I reach the base.

I haven't done anything like this since I was a teenager, drifting across the country, searching for my mother. I ran away from home, hitchhiking and...other stuff. When all else failed, I'd fend for myself in the wilderness, just like this. The entire time I was looking for her, my mom--along with the guy she left my dad for--was in prison. I never really accepted that until I was about seventeen or so. I guess I didn't need her anymore; by then I was getting into real trouble, and hooking up with criminals. For the most part, I haven't been alone ever since.

I'm alone now, though. The Thunderbolts all died today--sucked into a gravity well after we defeated Graviton, when no one else could. At least, I think they're dead. It seems like everyone I've ever cared about has died at one time or another, and lately it seems like half of them have come back. Hell, my ex-boyfriend--Angar the Screamer--came back from the dead a few hours ago, and now he's dead all over again. I don't know if I should be writing his eulogy or buying him Christmas presents.

Maybe that's why I'm climbing Mount Charteris. S.H.I.E.L.D. took over the base some time back, but they had to abandon it after Graviton attacked the moutain. After I helped them deal with Angar, they were all too happy to let me try to break my neck reclaiming the Thunderbolts former headquarters. What I'll do when I get there is anyone's guess, but it was our home; the others deserve better than to have all their worldly possessions in some storage locker.

My arms are screaming when I reach the hangar bay. As Songbird, I had a gizmo that turned my voice into wings of solid sound, so I could just fly up to this freaking hatch. After today, though, my sonic carapace is a pile of junk, so as plain ol' Melissa Gold I haul my ass inside and catch my breath. The hangar faces to the east; the color of the sky is fading away as the sun sets behind the mountain. I spend about ten minutes staring into space, forgetting what I came for.

There's S.H.I.E.L.D. crap everywhere. I shouldn't get so worked up about it, but after everything that's been taken from me today, I can't stand to see the place like this. There's not even a hint that the Thunderbolts were ever here--none of our decorations, our equipment, our mementos...I'll be really pissed if they confiscated the sauna. For all the sacrifices we've made, no one will even notice. Graviton's gone, the world's safe, and who the hell cares if the Thunderbolts saved the day? Who cares if they even existed?

I lash out and punch the nearest computer console. It'd be bad enough to watch the others die, but being left behind to carry on is even worse. I wish I'd been with them. That way, if I was dead, I'd be dead; if I was on my way back, I'd already know it. But I'm the one who has to wait and see. I'm the one who can't get on with my life and move on...

For the next half hour or so I rummage through the base, remembering my friends and coping with their disappearance. Part of me wants to turn the place into a memorial, but I can't shake the feeling they might reappear out of nowhere any minute. I could start cleaning up around here--maybe get it ready in case they return--but without my powers it would take weeks. All I know is I have to do something to show the world what happened here...

That's when I trip over a pile of equipment in the dark. There's a sudden flash of light and heat as I stumble; I roll into the fall and somersault into a defensive stance. There's no sign of an enemy in the shadows, but I follow the scent of ozone to the floor. It's some sort of fancy S.H.I.E.L.D. emergency flare--I must have set it off when I tripped. Just to be safe, I play with the controls, and fire off another burst of flame to make sure I've found my "attacker." There must be a dozen of these things lying around.

For the first time all day I smile a little, because I know what to do. One by one, I carry the flare guns to the edge of the hangar bay. The small town of Burton Canyon, Colorado, was too far away to see this gaping hole in Mount Charteris, but that's because we weren't trying to draw any undue attention to it. Now, I have to make sure everyone can see our home--to make sure no one forgets the Thunderbolts and everyone else who died here today. The flares are meant to fire off pulses of light, but they can be reset for a continuous flame, like a giant Roman candle with enough fuel to last for days.

My family was never very religious, but my mother made sure we had a menorah instead of a Christmas tree. Most of the time, Chanukah was so close to Christmas that I barely noticed. Once in a while, though, I'd realize all the other kids' families did things differently, and I'd ask about it. She'd just say that we should celebrate our own customs, because it reminded us of who we were. Not that I ever really learned what it meant to be Jewish, and not that she stuck around until I was old enough to understand.

No, I couldn't tell you the true meaning of Chanukah if I tried. But it's what I grew up with, and when the weather gets colder and people get into the holiday spirit, it's those candles glowing in the windowsill that I always think back to. They were supposed to represent our cultural pride--"this is our house and this is our way." And even if I'm not much of a Jew, I can still take some pride in who and what I am.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I wander back into the darkness of the base, looking for a warm bed for the night. Eight flares stand in the gaping hangar, magnesium burning bright enough to see from miles away. Hopefully people who see them will know that there was a battle for their freedom here. Heroes died to win the day, and this was their home--as long as these flames are burning, it still is.

God willing, a miracle will happen before they burn out...

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