Friday, February 17, 2012

2/7/12 Our Destination, Still A Ways Away (VIII)

Personal Log: Myron G. Volar (aka. Underman)

I really should be doing something else, right now. As of five in the morning, I've been running around like a flock of recently decapitated chickens, scrambling to make what was, up until 24 hours ago, the basest sketches of a big plan a real, breathing entity. 

As of right now, that entity is up and alive, though rammed together with enough staples, nails, and glue to keep your average mom and pop corner hardware store in champagne and pate for a few months. It might walk, but I'm worried how long it'll last if SPYGOD wants it to run, much less fly.

But I'm not so worried about that, right now. If we go into a fight half-cocked, it'll be a vast improvement on how we normally go in, which is quarter-cocked at best, and sometimes completely absent the poor bird. That we can handle. That we can do.

So what am I worried about, right now? That would be SPYGOD.

There, I said it. I'm really worried about the boss. And I'm saying it in my private journal, well and far away from any official, COMPANY letterhead, too.

(I have it on good authority that, if it's got the word COMPANY on it, somewhere, he can hear it being written. And while that might just be a story they tell rehabilitated supercriminals to make us !@#$ in our pants like little kids being bullied on the schoolyard, I know enough about how things work around here to know it's not a good idea to underestimate the boss on anything.)

But I'm looking around, here on a Flier that's slowly becoming wracked with chain malfunctions on the eve of what might be the biggest, riskiest op since D-Day, to hear some of the Agents tell it, and I'm not really sure what's going on. We should have had meetings out the !@#$ by now, a definite chain of events and alternatives, and some idea of how this is going to go down.

Instead, I got !@#$. And that's got me very puzzled. And worried.

I've heard stories about The Dragon. I heard he's SPYGOD's Chinese rival, from decades ago. I heard they had an "understanding," which is as close as people on this business get to being willing to avoid immediately shooting each other on sight.

I also heard that understanding might be something resembling a love affair, but if I knew what was good for me I'd keep that little piece of speculation under my hat and not take it off anywhere near SPYGOD if I wanted to keep my head where it belonged, under that hat.

Which is totally okay by me. I figure we're all adults, here. If SPYGOD doesn't mind who we take to bed, shouldn't we extend him the same courtesy?

But ever since this Dragon showed up, SPYGOD's been more interested in hanging out with him in his cabin and office. Which is, I suppose, understandable if they haven't seen each other in however many years and want to catch up on lost time. I had a girlfriend, once. I know how this works.

What I don't get is how he expects us to throw the op together while this is going on. I know NAZISMASH was more or less cobbled together, or so the survivors tell me. I know the whole thing with The LEGION -- which never even got a real name -- was one big rolling cluster!@#$ that thankfully came out okay.

(And I am not talking about BUGSMASH. Not without a drink. Several drinks, I think. And a very large box of tissues. And a proper, competent grief counselor.)

But every time we've got up against GORGON -- or SPYGOD's gone up against GORGON, anyway -- we've had our !@#$ handed to us. They have consistently been at least one or two steps ahead of us. And since it's taken us this long to go get them, how much have they prepared?

How many traps are we walking into, right now?

"Confidence is high." That's what I'm told. Every Agent I've run into has a smile plastered on their face and more pep than a school bus full of cheerleaders. But the smiles seem forced and the cheers seem very rote, like they know this could be the last, big ride.

That perception isn't helped by the big guns they brought in, either. Every single Strategic Talent SPYGOD's got a knee over is here, today. Along with the sons and daughters and cousins of the ones from World War II and Korea, I see Swiftfoot, New Man, The Fletcher, and that one girl who can turn into a beaver and doesn't know why people think it's funny.

I keep waiting for Gold Standard to show up, but they tell me he's not coming because he's really ill, right now. That's too bad. I was hoping to say hi and tell him he was my favorite, once. No Mr. USA, either, though I guess that's to be expected.

(No Ms. Liberty, either, but I'm not sure what's going on, there.)

Is that all? Of course not. The N-drones are here, robot missile clusters staring at every available target. Pod after Pod of uplifted, Japanese Dolphins are swimming around in the tanks, below, chittering to each other about how much they'd like to !@#$ one of us. Laser disks are armed. Subs are go. Everyone's getting a bubblesuit and a D-patch, just in case.

All this firepower, in one place? It sounds like we're about to shore up the leakiest plan in history, or else we're expecting the fight of our lives. And so far, all I know about that fight is that the outcome has to be victory.

I'm sure I'm worried over nothing. I'm sure that, any moment now, SPYGOD's going to march down here, to the flight deck, wearing that Asian silk gown he reserves for times like this, and give us all our marching orders. I'm sure it's going to sound like gangbusters and make every bit of sense in the world.

But I look up the office, and think I see what's either fighting or !@#$ing, or both, and I don't know when that speech is coming.

This has to work. There's too much riding on it, and I don't know if I can handle another !@#$ up.

So, I get back to work, making sure the Tunnelator's waterproofed and good to go. REM on the iPod, coffee in hand, and a prayer on the lips that we come out of this as something more than SPYGOD's weapon in a PR war against his own President

Come on, sir. We believe in you. Please come down here and believe in US.

(UNDERMAN is listening to Driver 8 (REM) and hitting the black heroin)

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