10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 13

Inside the Flier, above the lost city, the remaining heads of the Imago gather.

Once they were five, but now they are only three. The Sight is insane and screaming. The Fist was just destroyed along with Deep Ten.

And that leaves The Dragon, The Motion, and their hidden leader, who has called this mental meeting not to ask for their opinions, but to let them know what must now be done.

It is decided, the hidden leader of the Imago says, her wet voice shaking with anger: I give the extermination order. 

Is that wise? the Dragon asks, his mutable form expanding within the Flier as it prepares to attack the Dignitary: I realize that the loss of Deep Ten is quite a blow to our plans, but we can still prevail-

We have wasted enough time and effort on these creatures! she shouts back: We do not need them to construct our escape from this sorry world. We will destroy them, one and all, except for the ones in the cubes. And when we are done with that, we will... we will...


She falters, unsure of what to do next. 

We can leave this planet rather easily, The Motion says, turning the hammer over in his hands and glad that the leader has finally seen things his way: We could be gone in a week, if you'd like?

How can we do this? the Dragon asks.

We can adapt the Flier for space travel, and take the cubes with us. 

Can we? the leader asks: I thought the Flier was only suited for terrestrial operation.

This ship is truly a wonder, the Dragon says, extending himself a little further into it: Between what we made it, and what the nanites will allow, we should have no problems doing what The Motion suggests.

As for the warp sled, The Motion adds: It can be assembled in the asteroid belt, and we can be away from this solar system well before (UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT) arrives.

Then that is what we shall do, the leader says: Motion, awaken all of our brethren. Send them to every corner of this planet. Tell them to kill and kill and kill. 


Of course, leader, he says, and gets ready to do so. 

Dragon, that robot must not get within visual distance of the city, she commands: As soon as it is within range, I want it destroyed. Annihilate it. 

I will do that, he says: May I suggest that more of our brothers be set upon it? Softening it up will make the job more efficient. 

I'm doing that as we speak, the Motion says: And if you'll excuse me, I have a First Lady to kill.

He signs off before the leader can tell him that all he needs is love. She doesn't offer it, though. There is no room for love on this day -- only hate, black and certain.

And death on a planetary scale.

* * *

Elsewhere in the Flier, the metamorph known as Gosheven is discovering that when the aliens remade this immense aircraft in their own image, they didn't half-!@#$ the job. 

There is nowhere to escape the epic story of the otherworldly beings he's sneaking amongst; every inch of the Flier's new, white-on-light grey interior seems dedicated to either telling their in one form or another, or proclaiming their might and righteousness to themselves. Molded on the walls, carved into statues and bas-relief landscapes, painted on frescoes and ceilings, the lengthy corridors tell of their many victories, and the wide open halls and semi-circular junctions detail the subsequent celebrations in grotesquely-exacting detail.

All the while, as he wanders -- a wispy, invisible presence amongst them -- Gosheven marvels at his new-found foes' mutability. On every world they conquer, they assume the form of the beings they infiltrate, enslave, and eventually annihilate. And when they have destroyed those worlds, at the end of those passages and hallways, the narrative picks up in the next corridor, with a new face, but the same old tactics. 

Over and over they kill, one after the other...

It's hard for him to really take the time to fully appreciate the art, though. The halls are alive with the sound of stomping, metal feet, as small groups of human-seeming aliens run from station to station, all gearing up for some big event. He can hear instructions being broadcast, but cannot make out most of the language (Did he hear "Tokyo" and "Dignitary"?) -- only that the orders sound both frantic and important.

A group of aliens stomp past the place where he's chosen to take a breather, and he slinks to their side, extending a quick and gentle hand to the one closest to him. As soon as he touches her skin, he reads her like a book -- watching the warp and weave of her DNA and morphology unfold in his mind. By the time she's ten strides away, he has become her, and -- thusly disguised -- he strides back the way she came, doing his best to fit in.

As near as he can tell, the biggest amount of commotion is coming from ahead, where the last group came from. Because, as he's learned in his many years as an infiltrator and saboteur, if there's a sure way to find a sensitive thing to break, or an important place to break into, it's to go where everyone's coming from. 

And boy does he have a burning desire to !@#$ this place up. 

* * *

 

The first sign the world gets that it's been condemned comes in the form of thunder with no lightning. 

Nation after nation, continent after continent, the cracking booms echo across the world. In the cities and towns, the fields and the hills, the oceans and the islands, the jungles and the deserts -- there are cracks and crashes, followed by horrendous noises that sound like animals being slaughtered.

Those noises come from things born out of nightmares -- indescribable horrors wrapped in steel that hover above the ground, strike at buildings with their mighty and misshapen limbs, and shoot their deadly eyebeams at the humans they encounter. 

And they can fire those eyebeams very, very quickly.

As these monstrous things slowly float across the landscape, killing any who are foolish enough to stand against them -- or just run too slowly -- more cracks and booms come in behind them. These rips in the air bring more Imago, who add their own eyebeams to the ones being fired by their large, otherworldly brethren. 

After them come more booms, this time at the ground level. And these reveal marching columns of Specials, all firing their powerful weapons at any stragglers left behind.

The sidewalks and roads become choked deathtraps, snarled with electric, high-tech cars that suddenly do not work. The brave are cut down in revolt, and the cowardly are exterminated as they flee. And the old and infirm, and the young and the scared, are trampled underfoot by those who should be more kind, but are too frightened to think of anything but themselves. 

At long last, the true strength of the Imago is revealed. Humanity begins to suffer the full weight and price of that knowledge.

And if there was ever a time for an ace to be pulled out of the hole, this would be it. 

* * *

It takes the group from B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 a whole five seconds to reintegrate. In those moments, Myron wonders if he screwed up the connections and beamed them into the Earth's crust, or deep space, or something worse. He fears that Moloch made the trip back with them, somehow.

(And he remembers that one really nasty scene from the first Star Trek movie, which doesn't !@#$ing help him at all.)

But then the horrible, five seconds are over, and he's somewhere else, again. It's someplace he doesn't recognize, but yet knew the location of well enough to send them here. And, thankfully, he got them somewhere large enough to contain a platform's-worth of people.

He looks around, quickly. It looks like the main meeting room of the central building in Neo York City: the place where the mighty computers than run its many functions sit, endlessly churning away at the massive logic problems they gave it to work on, back in the day. There's no furniture here, no weird architectural flourishes -- just a wide, open space with enough room for everyone to teleport into.

And then he gets the shock of his life when something green and red flops down onto the ground right in front of him, its eyes starting from its sockets in great pain.

"You... idiot..." Green Man says, twitching and shaking. His arms reach down to where his midsection should be, and find only an uneven, ragged line of cauterized flesh, just below his navel.

"Oh my God," Mark says, stepping forward as the others either scream, gasp, or take a step back: "I think... you must have hit the button too soon, Myron."

"I hit it when he told me to..." he says, looking around at the others -- all thankfully there, with no sign of Moloch anywhere -- and then down at what's left of the Green Man: "I did-"

"Yes, you did," Mr. USA says, stepping forward and kneeling down to take the Green Man's badly-burned head in his hands: "The field probably wasn't high enough, son. And if it had been, you might have brought some of that monster back with us."

"I didn't..." the Green Man says, looking around and turning quite pale: "I thought... I..."

"You knew this was going to happen," the elderly superhero says, looking him in the eyes: "Maybe not like this, but you knew."

The hero-turned-villain-turned-operative looks at the man with a harsh glare, but it slowly softens. Then he looks down and nods.

"Please, put me by Thomas," he says, gesturing weakly in that direction: "I want to say... goodbye..."

Mr. USA does exactly that, gently laying them side by side. Green Man drapes his arm around his son's head and shoulders, and holds him close, and tears begin to flood his eyes.

"Let's give them some space," Mark says, taking Skyspear's hand and leading her away. Myron stands to watch a moment too long, and Winifred takes his hand in hers and does the same.

Then, except for a few SPYGOD SCOUTS who are tending to Thomas, it's just a dying father and a maimed son in the room, gently overseen by the man who sent one to die to save the other.

And he has no right to say anything more, now, if ever.

* * *

Deep inside the Flier -- in a sacred and secret place where no one can see -- The Dragon unfolds again.

He comes apart like a strange puzzle: pieces sliding out and away, extending this way and that, with long, metal tentacles and tendons gently erupting from the panels and holes those movements reveal. Before long he has extended himself almost the length of the ship, itself. 

And still that is not enough for him.

When they made him this offer, what seems a lifetime ago, the Imago -- speaking through GORGON -- promised him not only an exit from his failing body, but the chance to transcend the limitations of such a small existence. They promised him immortality, formlessness, total adaptivity, and the ability to travel amongst the stars as a being that could truly experience its many wonders and mysteries. 

And all he had to do was betray the man he loved, after a fashion.

Of course, he said yes. Betrayal was part of their strange relationship, after all. And he also thought that, when fate intervened, and the wheel turned around again, he could betray them, and make his own destiny. Whether that would be at SPYGOD's side or not depended on whether they wanted him to kill the man before the wheel turned, but he was confident things would turn out in accordance with his design.

But then, they knew he thought that way. And so they neglected to tell him that the process that remade his body also destroyed his old one, and made a copy that was equal parts him, and equal part Imago. 

In that moment, as the old him died, and the newly-minted copy came into being, he thought he could feel his former self swearing revenge for this slight. But what do they need to fear from the dead? Only the living have any business in this world.

And what a life the Imago will lead, now that they are free...

But that is for another moment, on another day. Now, there must be action, and killing. Now there must be thunder and blood. 

Now he must show the leader that he can make this Flier become the instrument of her wrath, and their liberation.

The massive, metal Butterfly begins to shift into a mighty bird of prey -- its wings coming together, and extruding weapons in the overlap. Reflex technology is spooled out into the air, sensing for the delicate moment when the enemy's weapons systems come online. Cannons and missile banks stand ready, along with new, terrifying weapons that the Imago have installed, but not yet used.

But the moment the Dignitary gets within range, they will be. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Shout (Depeche Mode) and having a Phoenix Special Brew)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 12

The particle cannon blasts continue to come, regular as clockwork. One hits Tokyo, then one hits the Dignitary, and another hits the glowing ball between the two, where an android that looks something like a young, Japanese girl floats in mid-air, maintaining a powerful shield over the city, the robot, and herself.

With each strike, the shield glows a little less. With each blast, it becomes clearer that she cannot keep this up for much longer. And while she's smiling widely -- some might say bravely -- it's also clear that her expression is more to do with appearing genki than actually anticipating a victory at this point. 

Something has to break, and soon. 

Just ahead of the giant, white robot that strides away from Tokyo, somehow walking above the waves, a flying saucer stolen from supernazis slowly makes its way out to sea. A large, strange-looking cat that speaks Russian is at its controls, keeping it well-clear of the blasts as they come down from the sky. And in the center of the flight deck, SPYGOD stands, watching as the war he's running comes down around his ears.

Too many of his people are dying. Too many of the supers he called to duty are being annihilated. Too many of the strange armies he bullied, cajoled, and blackmailed into action this day are looking at 75 to 100% losses. The commanders are braying for help he can't give, and suggesting new tactics that are just a pubic hair's breadth away from being surrender. 

And as he watched, and weighs his options, he becomes aware of his cat hissing, just before a sudden barrel roll almost lands him on his !@#$.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$, Bee-Bee?" he shouts, getting up. But then he looks at the main window, and sees why his cat decided to engage in mid-flight acrobatics.

"Well !@#$," he says, looking at what just appeared in firing range of his ship.

He doesn't know what to make of them, at least at first. The Chandra Eye sees them, but he has a hard time actually believing what it's showing him. It isn't until the strange, large, flapping things -- some weird, metal-plated mix of buzzard, wasp, and man -- start firing eyebeams at him that he realizes what's going on.

And, ultimately, what it could mean.

No time for that, now, though. He gets the idea, very quickly, that these newcomers are only firing at his ship because he's in the way of the Dignitary. Which means that they're trying to wear down its shields, so as to get a clear shot at it.

Which means they're fully aware of what the !@#$ is going to happen when the massive, white robot gets to their city and starts attacking it. And that, if nothing else, at least gives him some hope.

Still, it's a long way from Tokyo to there. And if the android's shields cut out, it'll be a !@#$ short trip.

"Well, then," he says, grabbing the big !@#$ gun Ju Kikan got him, and activating the magnets in his pumps: "Guess we're taking the big !@#$ party outside, huh?"

His cat just hisses, barrel-rolling yet again to avoid being hit by the bright-colored barrage of twinned beams. SPYGOD walks to the rear exit calmly, a leaf in the wind.

But, before he does, he realizes it's well past time to do something. He turns and looks off into the distance -- far, far away, where their destination hovers over the lost city they're heading for.

"Sleeper, awaken," he says, sending the signal through his eyesight.

And, that task done, he goes back to heading out of the flying saucer, and gets ready to kick some serious, metal space-!@#$, for America.

* * *

On the day everything went wrong, the Flier's nanites were hijacked, and the ship was reformed and remade from within. 

The traditional shape that had served it so well for so long was converted into something otherworldly and strange. A sleek, strangely-colored, giant metal insect, somewhere between butterfly and dragonfly, has been hovering over the Imago's lost city for the last seven months -- appearing otherworldly during the day, and glowing with strange hues from within at night.

During that time, many COMPANY Agents lost their lives as the ship's decks melted away to nothing, only to reform elsewhere. And those who did not die then and there were hunted down and killed later -- their bodies taken over by Falsefaces.

So, for the last seven months, the Imago have been secure that this ship is now theirs. They believe that they can let their hair down, so to speak, and be themselves amongst themselves, there. They feel that they are safe, and that no one and nothing can harm them, let alone see them.

They would be wrong -- after a fashion, anyway.

In the prisoner cells (the one part of the ship that has seen no use since 3/15) something is stirring. A wave is seen in the air, followed by an ephemeral form, floating well off of the ground. The form slowly but surely gains depth, and then something approaching substance. And then it has arms, legs, a trunk, and a head.

And then clothes befitting someone who's just awoken after a nap lasting several months.

"I'm awake," the slightly pudgy, Native American man says, shaking his head to make sure he's not dreaming this, too: "I'm inside the Flier, I think."

You are, Gosheven, SPYGOD replies, speaking in a voice only the metamorph can hear.

"Well, I sure don't recognize the place. Did they remodel-"

Never !@#$ing mind that, now, you !@#$ing goofball, the voice of SPYGOD growls in his mind's ear: You're in the belly of a real beast, now. The enemy I wanted you there to hide out and deal with is now awake, and they turned my Flier into a !@#$ing modern art sculpture. 

And you !@#$ing know how much I hate modern art.

"Yeah, I remember reading when you threw Warhol through one of his soup can paintings..." 

It was a Marilyn, and we don't have !@#$ing time for that. You are surrounded by otherworldly enemies. Your assignment is to find out what they're doing, and then !@#$ up their !@#$ before they can attack us. You got that?

"Where are you?"

 
Tokyo, and we're going to be heading your way !@#$ quickly as soon as we clear up a problem or two.

"Okay then," the man says, puffing himself up a bit -- quite literally: "But just so we !@#$ing understand? This is it, right? After this, I'm free?" 

That was the agreement, Gosheven. Don't !@#$ this up, though.

"Wouldn't !@#$ing dream of it," the shapeshifter says, smiling. And then, adjusting his molecules to make him all but invisible, he saunters out of the cells and into the ship, looking for some !@#$ to !@#$ up.

And it's been his experience there's always something he can screw up, somewhere.

* * *

"I don't think we have any time for last-minute checks, son," Mr. USA says, watching Myron apply last-last-last minute adjustments to the cobbled-together bank of parts and wires that's going to get them home: "How badly can it go?"

"One wire in the wrong place and we wind up floating behind the Moon, sir," Myron says, hoping the adjustments he made to the great machine -- still warming up under their feet -- will get them to Neo York City like he planned: "Can't be too careful, here..."

"Thomas stopped breathing!" one of the SPYGOD Scouts yells, and there's a moment of well-deserved panic, but then a raggedy, halting exhale comes from the burned stump of a boy, wrapped in a sweaty, soiled blanket, and everyone takes a step back and breathes easier. For now.

"And that's why I'm saying we need to hurry this up, Myron," the old superhero says, taking a step towards him.

"Don't you dare !@#$ing rush him," Winifred says, stepping between Mr. USA, Mark, and the others: "Just let him do what he has to, okay?"

"That's out of line, young lady," Mark starts to say, but he's halted by a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I trust in him," Skyspear says, gently pulling Mark back a step before he can say anything to the contrary: "I also trust in God. We will get home, God willing."

"I just don't feel safe using something that... thing brought with it," Mark sighs, putting his hand on hers.

"It's all we have to work with, Mark," Mr. USA sighs.

"I know it's all we've got, but still."

"Um, excuse me? Who's got the Action Badge for Making It Work?" Myron asks, waving his free hand: "That would be me. So if everyone could please just let me !@#$ing do this? Okay? Thanks."

A few tense seconds later he snaps his fingers, and Winifred knows to hand him a smaller screwdriver. As she does, she whispers to him: "I thought you were in Boy Scouts, not SPYGOD SCOUTS?"

"Details, details," he says, winking. He's very glad to see her smile at it, and for a moment he thinks about other things. 

And then he realizes something is wrong.

"Those circuits just connected themselves," he says, stepping back and leaning away from the small, glowing, brass cube he's been working on: "They just !@#$ing connected themselves."

"What the !@#$ does that mean?" a SPYGOD SCOUT asks, and then finds out when a large, brass arm snakes out from behind the machine, grabs him by the neck, and pulls his head right off at the shoulders.

"It means that Moloch strides amongst you, once more!" the beast says, rising out of the Great Machine like a parasite sliding out of its host -- all sharp, twisting limbs and bull-mouths and horns.

Some panic and try to get off the platform. These ones, it cuts in half and flings to either side of the great hall. Some try to attack the creature their escape route has become. These, it smashes flat or viciously bites.

"You will not escape Moloch," the beast announces to those that survive the initial onslaught, holding a few surviving SCOUTS aloft, with knives held to their frightened throats: "And you, old man. Stand down, or Moloch will punish these for your impudence."

Mr. USA scowls, but steps back: "What do you want, you filthy thing?"

"You will contact SPYGOD, and tell him to come here and face his doom. You will tell him that God wishes to punish him, and if  he cares to see you alive, he will travel here. You will tell him these things."

"How?" Mark shouts, guarding the body of Thomas with his own: "We can't communicate with Earth, you idiot!"

"Moloch has rewired the circuits needed to talk to him," the machine explains, and one of its many heads vomits forth a mass of wires and speakers, along with a small viewscreen: "You will speak to him through Moloch. You will do this now. Each moment you hesitate, another dies..."

Just to prove its resolve, it squeezes its knife-hands around the neck of one of its victims. The girl only has time to gurgle before her body hits the floor well ahead of her skull. As the others scream and curse, Mark realizes that, even after all these weeks together, he didn't even know her name.

"You hesitate, still?" Moloch asks, getting ready to reach for someone else.

"No!" Mark says, holding up his hands: "Please. I'll do it. Just, let me figure out what to say-"

"Moloch will speak. You shall recite." the beast says. 

(And for some weird reason, Mark gets the sense that Moloch thinks that's incredibly funny.)

"Okay," Mark says, looking at Mr. USA, who's clearly at a loss. They can't destroy the beast without destroying the machine. And if they destroy the machine -- render every working piece down to melted alloys and burned circuit boards -- they may never get home at all. 

And Thomas will most likely die.

"Now, Mark," the beast taunts: "Time grows short for you. Only Moloch is eternal, and the wrath of Moloch will know no ceasing-"

"Oh, please just be silent," a raggedy voice commands from on high. And what happens next happens so fast that even the principal players will never be able to process the entire thing. 

A green blur falls down from the broken ceiling, hurling itself at the center of Moloch's heads, long knives in its badly-burned hands.

Moloch howls in surprise as the knives enter the bulbous, metal eyes it created for itself, and lets go of the SCOUTS it grabbed onto in order to brush this painful annoyance away.

"Now!" the Green Man yells, leaping back from the thing's head a split-second before the many, sharp hands of Moloch crash against its face.

And Myron, still unsure of whether this thing will actually work -- especially now -- turns the machine on.

And then...

* * *

 ... yet another viewscreen goes blank, for a moment, and then comes back up on a blasted landscape before a massive, white cube. The unearthly armies that had been attacking it a second before are strewn on the ground, dead or dying. And misshapen, metal-plated limbs and tentacles come in from the sides of the screen to deal with those poor souls as-yet-untouched.

It's the same on all the screens the First Lady is watching, along with her children and their captor. The false Dr. Yesterday -- who's now properly introduced himself as The Motion -- is sipping coffee from a chipped mug that shouts IT'S NOT MAGIC, IT'S SCIENCE! and snickering as the metallic monsters he let loose on the world do what monsters usually do. 

He looks at his watch, somewhat theatrically: "It's been fifteen minutes, Mrs. (REDACTED). Do you think he's going to call?"

"I know he will," she says, holding her children's hands tightly: "I just don't think he's going to say what you want him to."

"What, that he'll end this stupid revolution to save your life?" Yesterday says, turning to look at her: "I hope for your sake he's more humane than that."

"This is about the greater good," she says: "My life for billions. He'd want me to make the same choice."

"And their lives?" he asks, pointing at her youngest, who recoils: "What about his children? His biological seed? Does he not care about that?"

"He does, but this is greater than them," she says, getting up and looking down at her captor: "But I'm curious about something."

"What might that be?" 

"You speak as though you have no feelings for us?"

"Yes, that's true-"

"But you seemed very concerned about that extermination order you were talking about," she says, gesturing the big bank of controls he was working from when he made that message to her husband: "Don't you want to see us all dead?"

He winces, and then looks back at her: "You mistake sentiment for expediency. The Day will go smoother if we put as much effort towards it as we can. We need you to work for us-"

"That didn't sound like concerns for expediency to me," she says, sitting back down to look him in the eye: "That sounded to me like you didn't want to be the man who killed an entire planet just to save his own people."

"I'll do that and more, woman-"

"It sounded to me like there's more of Dr. Yesterday in The Motion than The Motion would like to admit," she presses: "And if there's one thing I remember about him, about you, was that you were a good and humane man."

"Oh, I was nothing of the sort," he says, leaping to the feet and reaching for the hammer: "Do you know why I made those blue things, out there? Do you know why Rockethand went insane, last year? And do you know what I did and tried to do while that was happening? Do you?"

She shrinks back, thinking of what to say next. Before she can, he swings the hammer down, almost hitting her hand. She screams and jumps back, startled by the truly hideous look in his eyes.

"I have always been ambitious," he says, holding the hammer up to her face: "And I have always been stunted in that ambition. I have been second or third to the bat, always and forever. I have been the one they made to fix their weapons and make their machines. I'm the one they forced to marry that Nazi harridan, and be second fiddle to her and her brothers. 

"My God, the things I could tell you about her, about them-"

"Please," she says, but almost gets hit with the hammer, again.

"You listen!" he shouts: "I have always wanted more than this mere wisp of a life can offer. I want to transcend this frame, woman. I want immortality. The stars. Godhood. I have always wanted those things, and while I may not have been so keen on how they gave it to me, I have them now. 

"And I will not be stopped by the likes of your !@#$ing husband!"

He looks at her, and her red-eyed children -- almost too weary and worn out to cry further, and yet they do -- and then sits down, looking at the viewscreens, and then his watch.

"Twelve minutes left," he says, sipping his coffee: "And I think I'm going to definitely start with one of your girls. I want to see what happens to your lawyer's patter when I destroy what means the most to you. And when I do, I'm going to ask if you hold your husband responsible.

"Because he is."

And she grits her teeth and closes her eyes, praying for a miracle. 

* * *

"Okay, then" Director Straffer says, nudging his escape craft just a little bit to starboard, hoping beyond hope that he's just mistaken for space junk by the mighty -- but occasionally farsighted -- detection grids of Deep-Ten. 

He thinks of all the years that they've been smacked by derelicts and debris -- bits and pieces of old Soviet ships, small rocks traveling thousands of miles per second, and the like. Fortunately, the platform had advanced and efficient ways of dealing with the small pricks and large holes such collisions could cause, but it would have been nice if they could have seen them coming.

Today, he's grateful he never could.

At a certain point, just as a number of particle cannons let loose with three rapid volleys -- over Japan, he figures -- he decides this is close enough to work. And, having made that decision, he reaches for the switch. 

Before he throws it, he looks up at the station he's commanded for all these years. He thinks of his first day, and his last day. He thinks of the loneliness of being up on high, and the joys. He thinks of dreaming of space -- listening to it whisper in his mind as he slept in its weightless arms, letting it soothe him to sleep.

He thinks of the day they told him how much he would have to be changed in order to work within such a massive thing, and the final bit of safety protocol they were going to install within him.

Logical, really. They could be as certain as anyone that he wasn't suicidal, given the massive batteries of tests and interviews he'd undergone, before entering the Space Service, and then Icarus, then Alpha Base Seven, and then, finally, Deep-Ten. But they couldn't be certain he wouldn't be bought out by the Earth's enemies, or be overpowered and forced to use the station against them.

So they put the destruct switch for the entire station within his own body, and hooked it up to him in such a way that, should be throw it, he would die not long thereafter. 

After he leaped from Deep-Ten to the Moon, he did so with the hopes that he was dealing with a rational enemy, and that he could come back to his platform in triumph, eventually. But on 3/15, as he still floated down towards the Moon, and realized that they were using his platform to perform the unthinkable -- to attack the planet it was meant to defend -- he knew that he had made a grave error in judgement, and one he would have to make up for.

The signal he'd been constructing at Alpha Base Seven was meant to fix things, but then he was betrayed. And that left him only this one option -- or two, if he was willing to give up on the spirit of the switch in order to actually live through the death of his commission.

And he was. Oh dear God was he ever. Because as he'd fallen through space, aiming for the Moon, and hoping to one day hit it, he thought only of getting back to SPYGOD, and the one thing he'd ever loved more than his job -- more than himself.

So this was him, activating the third way: using the lifeboat's batteries to keep his brain and body alive after throwing the switch that destroyed Deep-Ten, and hoping the blast wave didn't cripple or kill the ship.

"'This rough magic I here abjure...,'" he quotes, wishing he knew the rest, and throws the switch.

And then he closes his eyes, because he simply cannot bear to watch. 

* * *

The first sign that The Fist gets that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong is when the nearest servitor robot fails to hand him a fresh martini.

He extends his hand to his back right, waving it around, and wondering why it's not making contact with a cool glass. Scowling, he turns around to berate the stupid, metal thing, but sees that it's been deactivated in mid-hand-off. Its big, bright eyes are no longer glowing, and its magnetic hold on the floor is starting to slip.

It's not the only one, either. All the servitor robots in the main control room -- who'd been running from post to post just seconds earlier -- are all still and unmoving. They have been switched off in mid-motion, as though time itself had been stopped.

The Fist is about to page for assistance from any currently-operating robots, and then report in to the Leader, when he hears an alarm he's never heard before. It's deep and long, and makes his teeth and eyes rattle in his skull.

"Final remote self-destruct activated," a voice says from all around him: "All hands abandon the platform. This is your first and only warning..."

It says more, but it's lost in the babel of other alarms that accompany it. Each of the platform's ten reactors are critical, and about to lose containment, and catastrophic failure is imminent. The particle cannons are overheating, the heavy lasers are venting coolant, the missiles have armed themselves.

And structural integrity is collapsing in sections 100, 99, 98...

He gasps. He swallows. He searches his brain for what to do, now, but realizes that he did not remember that this could happen.
 
He also realizes he has no idea how to turn it off.

He sees the cannons light up from within and explode outwards. Entire sections ignite as their munitions go critical. The long, curved platforms buckle and implode, and start to fall away from each other, and the ground under his feet starts to shiver and shake.

He doesn't know how many seconds he has left. The machine may or may not have said it, but he certainly didn't hear it over all the other warnings.

So he sighs, and reaches over to take the martini from the robot's hand. As last gestures go, it's pathetic, but he'll at least have the satisfaction of one final, perfectly-mixed drink.

Just his luck, his fingers don't even make contact with the glass before everything goes white, red, and then black.

* * *

There are some sights that one never forgets. Some things that, even decades later, you can always remember where you were and what you were doing when it happened. 

For many people, all around the world, the death of Deep Ten will be one of those days.

All around the globe, be it in the dark of night or the bright light of day, it is witnessed. A bright line of fire stretches across the sky, its magnitude worthy of an exploding star. The line expands, going from the thickness of a piece of string to the width of a hand in seconds, and then quickly decreases in brightness. 

Most people have no idea what has just happened. They had no idea the weapons platform was even up there, given that its existence was a massive secret. So, for them, this just becomes another frightening event on a day that's already proven to be more traumatic than most minds can bear.

But for those who have been fighting and dying on this day -- and suffering heavy losses due to the cannons from that trans-lunar platform -- this is a moment of joy. 

The cheering goes up in Asia, in Africa, all across Europe and North America, down to South America and over to the Pacific islands and Australia. Everywhere that the weird warriors of the world are fighting to save it, they realize what has happened, and act accordingly. 

The broken get back on their feet and charge. The shattered groups reform and redouble their efforts. Hidden backups are brought into the fray, reinforcements are called in at last, and every last trick their generals were holding onto is finally played.

And those armies that have hidden out until now, waiting for the right moment, find they have no excuses left, and fulfill their weighty obligations. 

The tide has finally turned, and there is no time but now to ride to victory. 

* * *

On the roof of Lady Gilda, firing his obscenely large gun at the strange, new Imago that have come out to fight, SPYGOD sees this happen and knows joy for the first time this day.

"Alright!" he shouts over the noise of the gun (and what he's listening to): "Payback time, mother!@#$ers!"

"SPYGOD, is that what I think it is?" Mister Ten asks from inside the Dignitary.

"Yes it !@#$ing is," he says, lighting up his enemies with something approaching orgasmic joy: "Tell Hanami she's clear to turn her !@#$ shield off. She might want to hang back and help Tokyo, though. I think these metal-plated buzzards are gonna !@#$ it up if they can..."

"I think I will try," he says, but SPYGOD realizes, soon enough, that there's no telling that android anything. Before he has enough time to turn his head and watch, she's already flown past him three times, annihilating more and more of the newcomers with each pass. 

Before long, there's nothing but debris twitching in the ocean where he had targets. That and a smiling android, floating above the waves and giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Well done, Hanami," Mister Ten says, smiling: "Now, please go back to Tokyo. You must keep it safe from these things, and other threats. Can you do that?"

"I can," she says, smiling and bowing in his direction: "Please be careful, Ju San."

"I will," he replies, more worried about her.  

"Alright then," SPYGOD says: "If you're heading to the Lost City, it's !@#$ing thataway. Shall we?"

And, now going at top speed, the flying saucer and the giant, white robot do.

(SPYGOD is listening to Puppets (Depeche Mode) and having a Buzzards Bay IPA)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 11

... Dr. Yesterday, broadcasting on all the channels I know we used to use. Hopefully it will get to its intended recipients in time to avoid disaster, or at least a tragedy. Maybe both. 

So, hello there, Mister President. Are you having a nice war?

I guess that's a stupid question. I'd be having a nice war, if I was you. Hidden in your secret location, somewhere, surrounded by strong walls and all the people who told you this was actually a good idea.

I guess they told you this would be a cake walk, Mister President? Just get on television and tell the world the liberation is here, just sit tight and keep your heads down and you'll all be free by morning.

So how's that working out for you, Mister President? Really?

Because the last I checked, you're not doing too well. Those satellites you tried to launch are dust in the upper atmosphere. We outnumber you on the ground by a factor of 100, maybe even 1000. Every time you take out one of our cubes we answer with fire from the sky. 

And you won't be taking those cannons out of the equation, Mister President. Not with what you have. 

So what do you hope to accomplish, here? Sooner or later you're going to run out of proxy armies to throw at us. Sooner or later you're going to have no strategic talents left to follow you. And even if you do, sooner or later they're all going to tell you to take your rebellion and stuff it.

And if you don't, well... I guess I shouldn't tell you this, but there's a movement afoot on our side of things to just say !@#$ it and kill you all. We don't really need you alive, at this point. We'd rather not get that messy, to be honest, because it makes more sense, and costs less effort, to leave you all alive.

But if this keeps up, and you cost us too much? We might just decide you're not worth it, after all. 

Now, I'm sure the people who talked you into this fiasco are listening to this, and saying "oh, don't listen to him, Mister President. Just give us another hour or two. We'll have this war won by then, we hope. And if not then, then not long thereafter. Trust us. We know what we're doing."

Heck, SPYGOD probably threatened to castrate you with his teeth if you don't keep up your end of the bargain. Am I right?

Well, I could wait for you to see sense and understand that you're backing the wrong horse, here. But, having dealt with you in the past, I don't have faith that you'll actually grow a backbone in time. 

So I'm going to make a more personal appeal to you, Mister President. And hopefully this cuts right to the chase.

Can you see the screen behind me, Mister President? I sure hope so, because I have someone here that you haven't seen in a while. 

Now, I'm sure I don't have to introduce you to your wife. And I know you know your two little girls. No introduction needed there, either.

But let me introduce you to this, here. This, Mister President, is a hammer.

And I am going to give you half an hour. And then, every five minutes after that, I'm going to introduce it to one of them, one swing at a time. 

I think I might beat one of your children to death, in front of your wife. Or maybe I'll be nice and hit her, first. I might do fingers and toes before I do skulls. Or maybe I'll just aim for a temple and !@#$ them in the !@#$ with a chisel while they're still twitching and !@#$ing themselves...

You see, you have me at something of a loss, Mister President. I'm not the monster, here. I was a research scientist who got caught up in the mess when Superheroes went to war and became Strategic Talents. Being brutal and bloody isn't really my thing. That's more SPYGOD's bag, and he's welcome to it.

But we are staring down a bad situation. I am working hard to keep my colleagues from deciding you're better off as dust under our feet. And I figure, I really can and should rise to the occasion, here. 

And I also figure that, in 30 minutes, I can think up some really clever and nasty ways to hurt the ones you love.

So that's where we are, right now. You have the war in your hands, and I have your wife and children. If you surrender, and all major hostilities end within the time I'm giving you, you can have them back. We will not punish them. We may punish you, depending on how we feel, but you have my word that they will live, and freely. 

You also have my word that, if you ignore this, they will die. They will die slowly, and painfully. And they will know, with each swing of this hammer, that they're dying because you wouldn't save them. 

They will know that they are dying because you thought this world, and this war, was more important than them.

Of course, there's the chance that you won't get this in time, or at all. And if that's true, then they'll die for nothing. But that's a risk I'm willing to take to help you see that this is a mistake. 

That's all I have to say, Mister President. The hammer is waiting, and so am I. All you have to do is tell them to stop attacking our cubes and Specials, and I'll tell you where to surrender. Your wife and children will be waiting. 

You have thirty minutes from... now.

* * *

SPYGOD grimaces as Dr. Yesterday finishes, and turns the screen off. 

He's the only one who received that message -- of that he's !@#$ sure. All the communications channels that the Freedom Force used to use are being run through Lady Gilda, right now. Everyone else is only using their own channels, and getting information from his when he sends a signal.

The President is not going to know of this message unless he sends it on to him. And if he does, what will happen?

He'd like to think the President will do the right thing. He'd hope that the President would not give in to what could only be described as a desperate ploy by an amoral enemy terrified of losing.

He'd hope he'd trust in SPYGOD to assemble a fast and timely response, and get it moving in time to save his wife and daughters.

SPYGOD would hope so, but he isn't sure. He thinks of how the President has hesitated, before. How he's second-guessed the mission because his heart told him something different from his head. How he held off on shooting the Chinese Premier because of his doubts, and how that almost ruined the entire plan.

And that was just some !@#$ idiot they had on a list marked USE ME BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE DOES. How the !@#$ is he going to react to his own wife and children?

How would anyone?

SPYGOD takes a deep breath, and realizes that he can't trust the man to do the right thing. And, once he's made that realization, the rest comes easily.

He puts in a call to Fred, hoping that the Toon's got his !@#$ back together after their colony was vaporized from orbit. Sure enough, he does.

"SPYGOD, what's up?" the Toon asks, looking quite worse for wear: "We're still picking ourselves up, here-"

"Fred, this is !@#$ing urgent," SPYGOD says: "Total priority, black one. Do you !@#$ing understand?"

"I do," Fred says, straightening up just a little: "What do you need?"

"I need you to get in touch with Wayfinder, right !@#$ing now," he says: "Tell him to locate the First Lady. When he does that, tell Doctor Power to !@#$ing contact Wayfinder for directions, and then assemble anyone they can !@#$ing spare to form a strike team to get her. I don't care if it's drunk sidekicks and animal !@#$ing companions. Anyone they can spare. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Fred says, nodding: "I'll get hold of him right now. Can I ask-"

"No," SPYGOD says: "This is something you're !@#$ing better off not knowing !@#$ about, Fred. Just do what I need and get back to your !@#$. Okay?"

"Alright, will do," Fred says, and switches off.

"Did I just do a bad thing, Bee-Bee?" SPYGOD asks his cat. The beast shrugs and mutters something in Russian, reaching for another swig from its bottle of vodka.

And he figures that's the only answer he deserves, right now. 

* * *

"Are you there, God? It's me, Timothy..."

Director Straffer pauses in his work, closing his eyes and centering himself -- ignoring the pain and strange sensations that come from this kind of undertaking and trying to take hold of the situation.

"It's been a while since we talked, I know," he continues, shifting on the seat of the lunar escape lifeboat to get a better hold on something from the the exposed innards of the control console, and the mysterious, wire-garden workings underneath it: "Hope you don't mind."

With a firm, steady pull, a knot of fine, green wiring is loosened and pulled out as far as it will go. He regards it, and then, gritting his teeth, reaches into his open chest cavity -- a disgusting mash of synthetic and organic parts, strewn with old, outdated circuitry and mechanical parts -- and pulls out a cluster of circuit boards.

"In fact, I think the last time we talked was when I had this done. You remember that, right? I was just some eager kid, really. They told me I'd earned the right to watch the candy store. All I had to do was submit to the kind of surgery that would be needed..."

He bites his lip to avoid screaming as he loosens some of the parts, and then, as quick as he can, he shoves the green wires into an open port on the boards. He shudders for a second, and leans back on the seat, his eyes screwed shut.

"We're going to make you a part of this, they said," he breathes, feeling the pain subside and be replaced by something else: "Can't command it, otherwise. Not really. Too large... too complex. The things they made up there. The things they left behind..."

The lights in his insides start to glow in time with the lights from the lifeboat's console. He opens his eyes, and pulls a few more things out of his chest, including a very ominous-looking, red switch.

"Had to all come down to one man, didn't it? And I didn't know if I was that man. Not really. So I prayed to you, God. I said 'I know you, and you know me. And I know you might not approve of everything I do or think, because I'm small and flawed. But this is important, and I think I can do it. I want to do it.'"

He reaches out to take something from the emergency kit, under the seat. It's a heavy-duty flashlight with an old-style battery. He smashes the flashlight between his hands to get at the battery, creating a violent, floating cloud of plastic shards as he does.

"And I said 'send me a sign, Lord. If I'm not the right man for this job, tell me before I let them do this to me.' And you never said anything either way, but I woke up the next day thinking that I'd done this before, every step of the way. And I figured that was the best sign I was going to get."

He looks at the switch, and then, setting the battery aside, gets more wiring from under the console, and plugs it into the switch. And then he pulls apart some things he doesn't need -- redundant systems, spare parts, old junk -- to get wiring and connectors. He uses these to bind up certain things inside himself, and create a lead to the switch from the battery.

"And look at me, God, All these years in charge of that platform. All the work I've done. All the times I've used it to save this planet you blessed us with. All the things I've seen... and then it all comes apart because I broke my own rules to help someone I was falling in love with.

"And now, I'm going to break the really big rule. And I need to know, Lord. Is this okay? Do I have the right to survive in spite of what I'm about to do, now?

"Could you please just tell me? I mean, just send me a sign, or even talk to me? Please?"

He looks up at the ceiling, perhaps reflexively. But he hears nothing. Sees nothing. No burning bush, no writing on the wall. No voice from up above, echoing, booming.

But he does feel like he's done this before, somehow. And maybe that's the best sign he's going to get.

"Alright, then, God," he says, turning on the lifeboat's main propulsion systems and getting ready to launch it: "I'm taking that as a yes, and thank you. Now, if you could just see to it that they don't see me until I want them to, that would be just !@#$ amazing."

The lifeboat shudders and moves forward, out the broken doors that Straffer forced open, earlier, and up and away from the shattered remnants of Alpha Base Seven.

He gives the base a final salute as it sinks away into his rear view, and turns off all propulsion and extraneous systems -- including life support -- allowing his lonely, small ship to glide into the orbit he needs it to.

"And now," he says, staring off into the distance at the blinking, black hub of cannons that surrounds the Earth: "I break my toys and go home."

* * *

"Really?" Winifred asks Myron, who's finally sitting down on the job, wiping the flopsweat from his forehead.

"You got it," he says, clearly mentally exhausted: "I just have to enter the coordinates and throw the switch. The machine'll still need a little while to warm up, but we can go back whenever, now."

"Oh, thanks God," Skyspear says, stretching her legs before helping the Scouts get the gear and move it over to the platform.

"How's Thomas doing?" Myron whispers to her as she comes over.

"Not well, I fear," she says, looking at the blanket-wrapped stump that used to be a superhero: "His breathing is becoming slower and harder. He will need help, and soon."

"I think we'd better take him to Neo York City," Myron says, reaching for a water bottle: "We'll get him to a decent hospital, there. Plus, I think they were going to be running operations out of there. We might be able to get useful, again."

"I think you have been very useful, here," she says, squeezing his shoulder and smiling. He looks after her as she walks away, and then at Winifred, who's just staring at him.

"What?" he asks.

"I saw that," she says, smiling a little: "I think Mark's got his eye on her, though."

"I don't think the one he wants is here," Myron says, sighing: "Anyway, why do you care?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... us," he says, wishing he hadn't said anything: "We were a thing, and now we're not. Does it matter what I do?"

"I guess not," she says, looking away. He's about to say something else to her, just then, but Mark and Mr. USA come back into the room, and everyone looks in their direction.

"Did you find anyone?" Skyspear asks, heading over to Mark.

"We didn't, no," Mark says, shaking his head. The look in his eyes is blank and tired, and Mr. USA seems rather grim.

"I think Green Man may well have died, back there," he says softly, looking over at Thomas as the SPYGOD SCOUTS carefully move him onto the teleport platform: "We couldn't find a body, but maybe he was caught up in what happened to The Fist and The Wall."

"Well, you know what they say about bodies," Myron says, trying to smile: "He might surprise us...?"

"That would be nice, actually," Mark says, moving to make himself useful: "I wanted to punch him silly, half the time, but I guess he did the right thing in the end."

"I knew he would," Mr. USA says, nodding: "And he'd have just dodged you, Mark. He could dance between raindrops, remember?"

There's some laughter over that, and then a flurry of activity. Everyone gets excited at the notion of going home, again. Getting away from this treehouse that's suddenly no fun to live and work in, any longer. Getting out from under all the death and fire that's happened here, today.

Getting back where they came from.

And so no one sees how the Great Machine they've been working on is different, somehow. They don't hear anything as the device reforms itself into a killing machine, ready to snap up and around at them. They don't see that it's forming massive arms, tipped with sharp fingers, in the back. They don't see the large, brute mouths as they slither out and over each other.

They don't see the echoes of Moloch as the beast reforms itself in the agglomeration of steel, silver, glass, and wire.

And brass.

* * *

 "... right through here, if you don't mind," Dr. Yesterday says, gently ushering the First Lady and her children into a large room, filled with lit-up computer consoles, broken furniture, and massive viewscreens -- some focusing on different areas of the Ice Palace in turn, and some trained on specific things.

"Where's daddy?" her oldest asks, shivering in the pink parka she brought from home.

"You said he was going to meet us?" the youngest asks, stepping closer to her sister.

"He will, honey," the First Lady says, smiling and pointing over to a far corner: "Why don't you go over there, for a bit? The Doctor and I have a few things we need to talk about."

Do the girls understand what the look on her face actually means? Maybe not, but at least they do what they're told. And right now, that's all she can ask of them.

That and stay alive.

"Good children," the ersatz Doctor says, watching them head for a far corner, and a table that's not as broken as the others: "You've trained them well."

"I like to think I've raised them," she says, looking at him: "And I am begging you, please. I am appealing to your humanity. Whatever happens here, just let them go."

"I can't do that-"

"Yes you can," she says, stepping closer: "You just need me. If he's going to do what you ask, it's going to be because of me. You don't need to threaten them, too."

"Really?" the man says, walking past her and over to one of the screens that's only showing one thing: "Because it's been my experience that men will let their wives die to save their children. They can always get another woman, after all. He may have already picked out your replacement-"

"You don't know him," she says, trying to keep her voice down: "He doesn't think like that."

"Well, I hope for your sake he can think rationally," he says, pressing a few buttons on one console, and then heading over to a large, rather ominous-looking bank of controls: "Otherwise, you're going to watch while I beat the younger one's hand to paste."

"Oh my god," she gasps, holding her hands to her face: "What kind of a man are you?"

"Man?" Doctor Yesterday says, turning around to regard her: "I'm not a man at all, Mrs. (REDACTED). I am Imago. I and my kind were imprisoned on your sorry little planet billions of years ago, and we're just now about to break out of prison."

She blinks: "But... I've met you before-"

"Don't be !@#$ stupid. You met the body I've copied. This isn't me, on the outside. I'm wearing his likeness, and have absorbed his memories and personality to help with the disguise. But inside...? Well, I think you'd find you have about as much in common with me as you have in common with a garden slug. And I know how you feel about them."

"Then what are you?" she says: "The Imago we see every day... the ones in the armor? Is that who you are?"

He smiles and turns, gesturing to one of the screens he was watching. On that screen are banks and banks of large, metal cylinders. Each one is marked with stylized, blocky, German eagle, and labeled ExoGebärmutter.

"All you have seen, so far, is what we wanted you to see,"  he elaborates, turning knobs and pressing buttons, and watching with satisfaction as the chambers hiss and clatter open: "Public relations, you could say. The stolen bodies of the braindead and retarded, hijacked by our superior will and girded in armor. The armor made to look like something you could accept, all topped with a kind and patient smile..."

The chambers pulse and glow red. Things begin to move inside them.

"Even what you are about to see is not our true form, but it is as close as we could come to it with what we had available. Our true bodies were abandoned countless millions of years before our imprisonment. But we have always had certain preferences of shape and size. Certain comfortable configurations."

He points to the screen as one of those things comes out of its chamber, and it's all she can do not to scream.

"'They were not altogether crows,'" he quotes: "'Nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings; but something I cannot and must not recall...'"

The First Lady turns to look at her children, and is horrified to see that they're standing right behind her, looking at the screen. Their eyes are so large as to fall out of their skulls, and they're ashen-faced and crying, truly and firmly afraid.

"I'm about to send them off into battle," he says, going back to the larger, more ominous bank of controls: "You can watch your husband's sorry efforts to take back the planet reach their logical conclusion, while we wait for him to make up his mind. It'll give us something to do... while we're waiting for the hammer to fall."

Her youngest starts to sob. She's not ashamed to want to join her, but does her best to stay strong in the face of this horror.

"So please, do appeal to my humanity, Mrs (REDACTED)," he says, bent over his work, the hammer in easy reach: "You'll just have to find it, first."

(SPYGOD is listening to Tora Tora Tora (Depeche Mode) and having a Blue Ice Beer)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 10

The Aztec ghosts rouse themselves first, perhaps because they have the least to lose.

One moment the giant, white cube to the West of Mexico City is sitting in the sun, unmolested and surreal. The next it is surrounded by legions of resplendently-feathered warriors -- wispy, transparent, and ready for battle.

And very, very angry.

What happens next is best likened to what happens when an animal has the misfortune of falling sick on the plains of Africa, right in front of a column of driver ants -- only sped up by a factor of a thousand. First there is a cube, then there is a cube covered by hordes of obsidian-blade wielding Aztec ghosts, and then there is nothing but a smoking, broken heap of otherworldly, white plastic.

To the crystal eyes of Deep Ten -- not really attuned to ectoplasmic threats -- it seems as though the cube has fallen apart on its own accord. And by the time it fires at what's left of it, hoping to annihilate its unseen attackers, the ghosts have moved on to their next target.

And then, shortly thereafter, the next after that.

Bolstered by their success, the other assembled, weird armies of the world surge into overdue action. Squads of planes that look more like Mayan temples than aircraft hurl themselves at the Imago's installations, dodging particle beams and orbital heavy lasers with uncanny ease as they destroy target after target. Squads of Specials in Eastern Europe are suddenly overrun by black-clad dhampir commandos and aging men and women trained to seek and kill renegade strategic talents, giving the rusty, Soviet cyborgs they brought along the time needed to aim their decrepit, heavy weapons at their true targets.

Men become tigers and attack squads of Specials. Mountain warriors no one's seen since the Hong Kong handover come from nowhere and slaughter their enemies with long knives that shouldn't be able to cut through their armor, yet somehow do. Elephants modified for war stomp down the walls to the white tent cities of the plains and take the battle to the nearby cubes, howling and whooping as their ancestor spirits infest their weapons, making them more than a match for metal and plastic. 

In the mountains of Afghanistan, the plains of Mongolia, the Jungles of Vietnam. In the suburbs of Paris, the north of London, the outskirts of Madrid. In the savannas of Tanzania, the sprawls of Kenya, the slums of South Africa.

The world is fighting back, now -- coming to the aid of those few, brave shadow people who have fought and died on their behalf. There is no longer an option to do otherwise.

And as the weapons platform above their heads sends beam after beam down to punish their arrogance -- the simple, base arrogance that men should be free to conduct their own affairs -- even more strange armies follow in their wake.

The tide has turned. The war has gone weird.

And what it will leave in its wake is anyone's guess.

* * *

Alpha Base Seven is a tomb -- cold, silent, and potentially eternal.

The particle cannons made short work of what little remained. Nothing that the survivors of 3/15 had rebuilt and adapted is still intact. Nowhere remained intact.

No one survived.

On his way to find what he's looking for, Director Straffer encounters numerous corpses, floating weightless in the smoldering, shattered chambers and tunnels. Their bodies ruptured by exposure to the void -- mouths filled with bloody froth, eyes started from their sockets -- they trail red droplets behind them as they tumble slowly through their high-tech mausoleum.

He passes them, trying to avoid touching them, or even looking at them. He does not want to see their faces. He knows that if he sees someone he actually liked -- and there were a few -- he might waste precious seconds regarding their fate, and apologizing for having failed them.

And right now, in this moment, he does not have the luxury of sadness or apology.

He stumbles through the wreckage, climbing over and under the piles of rock, plastic, and steel. He pushes aside what he can, and scrambles over what he cannot. He forces open massive, stuck doors, and rifles for keys through the pockets of the dead.

And then, at long last, he gets to where he needs to be.

In a makeshift hangar, not far from what was the secondary control center, sits the base's last intact lifeboat. And, by some miracle, it was not even scratched by the attack.

The lifeboats were small and pathetic things, meant only to be used if all other means of evacuation failed. They could carry three people into near-lunar orbit, the better to be picked up by a rescue ship and ferried back to Earth. And they could keep those three people alive for about a week as they waited for deliverance from whatever fate had befallen their base.

After 3/15, there was just one lifeboat available. Some of the survivors said they should board it and try to contact Earth, in the hopes of getting the others rescued. Most of them realized that no rescue could come from that direction, and that if they launched it, their attackers would know they were still alive, and set about finishing the job.

And that's why Straffer isn't planning on launching it. He just needs a few of the things it has on board. If they work the way he hopes they will, he might just be able to put things right, again. He might actually be able to fix the mess today's treachery has created.

And if he's really lucky, he might just be able to survive that fixing.

* * *

"... have to remember that, when they injected us at Camp Rogers, no one had any idea what was going to happen," Mr. USA says to Mark as they rest up against a wall, on the way to the blasted, wrecked infirmary: "As it was, we were lucky more than half of us didn't die."

"I heard about it," Mark says, standing ready to catch the old man if he falls: "The original Owl came in afterwards to train you guys. He saw some of the results..."

The old man nods and smiles: "I remember. I was a cocky little son of a gun, flush with new powers and wondering why they didn't just let us loose on Hitler right then and there. He kicked my butt to the ground the first time I went toe-to-toe with him. Didn't even break a sweat."

Mark laughs, and then thinks better of it:"Sorry, that was rude of me."

"Don't be. I deserved it. And I knew it. After that, I smartened up... mostly."

"I guess we all need to learn a thing or two the hard way," Mark says, knowing just how true that was.

"We sure do. But he was a real gentleman, Mark. Someone to look up to and be proud to know."

"I consider you the same, sir," Mark says: "I wish there was something I could do, here."

"Don't worry," Mr. USA says, leaning forward and cracking his arms and hips, grimacing as he does: "I'm getting it back, I think. Maybe another few hours and I'll be back up to speed."

"So you were saying about the treatment?" Mark says, hands still ready to catch him if he falters, again, but slowly realizing he IS actually regaining his balance: "Your aging?"

"Well, there was some thought it might retard the aging process, and they were right. But it was like the powers. It all depended on the individual. Some of us stopped aging altogether, up to a point, and some of us just slowed."

"And you?"

"Near as we could tell, I didn't age at all for a few years, and then after the war I started going reverse exponential."

"Oh?" Mark says, smiling as the old man's gait becomes more even as they go.

"Yes. As near as they could tell, I aged one only year for every four for about 16 years, there. And then one for every three for the next nine, and every other year for the next two. After that, I starting aging normally, again, but unevenly. I didn't get wrinkly or feeble, or anything like that. I just had to start using hair dye to avoid looking older."

"Well, like I said, the last time I saw you...?"

"I was about 87 and looked on the kinder side of 65."

"And now?"

Mr. USA sighs, straightening up a bit more: "Well, Mark, I think I see why ladies don't want you to ask their age, after a certain point. But how about we say I'm 154-"

"Jesus!" Mark gasps.

"And let's pretend I'm only in my 130's, somewhere," the old man winks at him: "In truth, I think I hit terminal velocity thirty years ago. I don't seem to be getting any more decrepit. It just takes me a little longer to bounce back whenever I go all out, is all."

"Why?" Mark says: "What happened? How is this possible?"

"It's a long story," Mr. USA sighs, putting a hand on his shoulder: "Let's just say that, after the War, I did something really dumb. And I didn't realize just how dumb it was until last February, or so. And I told myself, then, if there was any way to make up for it, I'd do it."

"And did you?"

"Oh yes," the man says, his gait returning to normal: "And I had to do it the hard way..."

* * *

What is happening? the leader asks, sensing that something is wrong.

"I'm not certain," The Fist says, looking at his screens and wondering why things haven't changed. He has fired at Tokyo three times, and at the giant, striding robot twice, and yet the massive city is still standing, and the robot is still walking.

Where is the Android? The Dragon asks: Is she protecting the city, or the white robot?

"Let me check..." he says, adjusting his viewscreen a few levels, so that he can find the flying girl. And, as soon as he does, he gasps, unable to believe what he's seeing.

Well? The Motion asks: What's going on, Fist? My eyes have all burned out from watching the particle beams.

The Fist just stares, uncomprehending. The android girl is floating in the air, between the colossus and the city it is walking away from, her arms raised in either direction. Her skin is glowing a strange color, and the air around the Dignitary and the city is flecked with motes of light the same color.

"Um..." he says, shaking his head: "This is incredible. The little !@#$ is shielding both the robot and the city, somehow."

How can that be possible? the leader hisses: Can she be that powerful?

Yes, she can, The Dragon says: Perhaps you never saw her in action. The Organization did a superb job of hiding her exact capabilities-

How long can she keep this up? the leader asks.

"I don't know," the Fist says: "I could fire every cannon I have at her, but then I'd have to ease up on the forces attacking us. And that might be fatal at this juncture-"

I don't have time for this !@#$, The Motion says: How about we let the big dogs loose?

If you mean we send our freed brothers and sisters into battle, I say that would be a foolhardy idea, the Dragon counsels: It might tip our hand too soon-

A few squads, aimed at that !@#$ robot, just to add their firepower to the mix and drain her shields, the Motion offers: I can do it before I head out. Just give me the word.

The word is given, the leader commands: Fist, continue to strike at the city and the robot. Motion, beam them in just outside the cannon's strike zone. Dragon, begin to formulate a firing strategy in case that robot does succeed in coming this way. 

We must win this day, my loves. And to win we must be ready for every eventuality. 

Of course, they all obey. And this is because of both the wisdom of her words, and the hint of menace they can detect, there. It speaks volumes that she is no longer so concerned about The Sight, and what has happened to him. They know that, even if they should win this day, there is a good chance she may just leave him screaming in his own prison -- a sad casualty of war.

None of them want to wind up like him. 

And as they adjust their plans, the android they are so concerned with grits her metal teeth, unwilling to budge. She knows that she cannot keep this massive expenditure of energy up for much longer, and can only hope that her allies find a way to end the deadly threat from above, and soon.

But she will not bend or break. She will defend both the city and the robot that is walking away from it for as long as she can. Even if she must expend every last curl and trace of energy to do it, and burn out every last one of her circuits in the attempt, she will.

She was never promised an easy time of things, either in her time or this one. She was never told that she could expect simple choices or easy challenges. She was only ever given the opportunity to serve, and the rationale for doing so.

And if she must die in that service, then she is happy to oblige. Even now, weary and in great pain, she smiles brightly -- happier than she has been in years.

Could she be anything other, in this moment in time?

* * *

"I just don't like it," Myron says, getting ready to affix the small, glowing, brass cube to the great machine: "It really seems too easy."

"It is, yes," Winifred agrees, handing him a lead: "But do you have a better !@#$ing idea?"

"No," he admits, taking the lead and attaching it to one end of the cube: "I don't. And that bothers the !@#$ out of me."

"It hasn't been the best day for good ideas."

"No," he says, putting another lead on the cube, and making sure the switch attached to it is in the OFF position.

"Speaking of which, do you have an idea about what do to when we get back?"

He looks at her: "What do you mean?"

"I mean, with the satellites gone, the Imago and Specials are still fighting. And that means Deep Ten is still firing down at us. And that means fighting them is going to be really !@#$ difficult."

"Then I guess we'll have to come up with another plan," Myron says, checking the energy flow: "And hopefully it'll hold up better than this one did."

"I have every confidence in you," Skyspear says, looking a little more rested, now: "God willing, we will succeed."

"I sure hope so," Winifred says, looking over at Thomas, who's breathing is becoming shallower all the time: "I just keep thinking things are about to get really !@#$ ugly."

* * *

"Who are you?" the former First Lady of the United States of America asks, not liking the look of the man that's just teleported into her living room, where she's been hiding with the children since the rumbling and fighting started, and since they learned that her husband -- their father -- is still alive.

"Oh, you probably don't remember me, Ma'am," Doctor Yesterday says, taking off his hat while addressing her: "I usually stayed in the background and handled the big science while the guys in the flashy costumes did all the punching. But I used to be in the Freedom Force, once upon a time."

"Oh!" she says, getting up and extending a hand: "That's right... Bob, isn't it? And your wife was Geri-"

"I prefer Doctor, actually," he says, putting his hat back on his head before shaking her hand. And something about how he interrupts her, and how long he holds her hand in his, unnerves her just a little.

"Well, what can I do for you? I heard some of the heroes were out, fighting?"

"Yes! We are. And that's why I'm here. We need to collect you and take you somewhere safe."

She blinks: "Is anywhere safe, right now?"

"You'll see," he says, gesturing towards the two girls as they sit on the couch: "It's probably only a matter of time before the Imago show up, and then... well, let's not get into that. I can take you someplace safe to wait until this all blows over."

"Is daddy there?" the oldest girl asks.

"Yes he is, sweetie," Yesterday says, smiling at her: "You'll be safe as houses there, I guarantee it."

The First Lady smiles at him, but it's a hollow and guarded smile: "Did he say anything?"

"I'm sorry?"

"My husband," she continues: "Did he tell you to tell me anything?"

For a moment there's some confusion in his eyes, and then it's gone, and he tells her the sort of things any husband presumed to be dead might tell his wife when he's back to life, and fighting to regain their world. But in that moment of confusion, the First Lady stops listening, and starts thinking of a way to get her and the children away from this man, and out of this house.

"Well, how about we pack up, first?" she says, looking over at the girls: "Go get the small suitcases and pack up a few things, okay?"

She looks at them and half-smiles, and they smile and charge off, doubly excited. Not only do they get to see dad, again, but they also get to sleep over someplace! What fun!

As soon as they're out of earshot, she turns and looks at him: "Please don't hurt them," she asks: "Whatever you're going to do, take me. Leave them here."

"I don't think so," Doctor Yesterday says, his smile sharp and cruel: "We're going to need all three of you for what comes next."

"What's-"

"I'll make you a deal, though," he says, taking a step closer to her, and looking down at her: "If you say nothing, and cooperate, I won't make you pick which one dies here and now, in front of you."

She gasps and takes a step back: "Please..."

"We need three, but I can do without one," he says, stepping even closer, this time: "Maybe even two. Maybe if we tell him to surrender and stop after we kill those two little !@#$es, and it's just you, he'll be too shocked to think straight. You want to try it like that?"

"No..."

"Then you keep your !@#$ mouth shut," Doctor Yesterday hisses, running a finger down the side of her face: "And tell them to dress appropriately. It's a little cold, where we're going."

"You're evil," she says, some measure of steel coming back into her eyes: "You will pay for what you've done."

"We are what we are," he says: "And if we were really evil, we wouldn't be trying to stop this from getting worse, now would we?"

Something about his smile makes her blood run about as cold as where he's intending to take her.

(SPYGOD is listening to New Life (Depeche Mode) and having a few bottles of Antarctic Nail Ale)