"Okay, then," Myron says into his secured headset, looking at satellite info on his computer -- sharp enough to see the mercenaries moving across the Chungking Mansions' rooftops -- and determining the best course of action: "Can you fight your way to the roof?"
"The roof?" Dosha Josh asks on the other end.
"Team one's on the move, Dosha. That means you've got twenty seconds before they're up on your landing. If you can get to the roof, there will be someone there, waiting for you."
"I hope he brought some transportation, Myron. This is going to be a short trip, otherwise."
"He is transportation, Dosha," Myron says, preparing to call in the person in question: "Now hang the !@#$ up and run."
He doesn't -- hang up, that is -- but Myron does, and immediately puts through a call to the transportation.
"Yeah, Anil? You get the photo?"
"Yes, I did," the young man on the other end says, somewhat petulantly: "The resolution is total !@#$. I'll be lucky if I don't teleport into the !@#$ing dock ferry."
"That would be kind of bad, yes."
"Okay, so I get this guy, and keep him safe, and then do that thing for you...?"
"And then we're clear, yes," Myron says, rolling his eyes: "He's on the move. Give him about ten seconds... um, wait, they're firing at him. Make that twenty. When you get to the roof, hit the people rappelling down."
"I'm not going to sing them a song. Anything else?"
Myron's about to ask something, but there's a loud and insistent knock on the door. This time he doesn't think it's going away, either.
"No, I think that'll be all, sir," he says for the benefit of anyone listening in: "I'll get that report to you as soon as possible."
"Um, okay," Anil says, and disconnects. Myron quickly disconnects the flash drive from the computer he was using, and prays it all works out the way it's supposed to.
It has to, for all their sakes.
Myron sighs, smiles, and puts the drive someplace very secret and secure on his person. Then he puts on his sunglasses, and takes a brief second to get into character: Myron Volar - Prison Director at the Heptagon - day 6 on the job.
When he opens the door, he's still smiling, but not as much. "Yes?" he asks the Agent who's been knocking away for the last five minutes.
"Sir, were you okay in there?" The breathless lout asks, looking rather nervous: "I didn't hear anything-"
"Private conversation, Agent," he says, closing the door behind them: "Very private. What did you need?"
"It's Dr. Yesterday, sir. He's almost finished with the device."
"Oh, good," Myron says, pulling his belt back a cinch and letting the Agent lead him: "That'll be a good thing to have, now won't it?"
* * *
It's been an interesting six days since Myron clawed, kicked, and bit -- literally - his way into this job.
Six days of applying his technical know-how to make the cells and prison procedures as secure as they were when he was a prisoner here, himself, barely six months ago. Six days to impress New Man to the point where he doesn't feel the need to check up on him every few hours, just to be sure he's not going to freak out and stand up for SPYGOD, again. Six days to make him seem above reproach, and his Road to Damascus moment completely genuine.
Also six days to make sure he built enough backdoors and tricks into the system that he can do whatever the !@#$ he wants, and no one but him will know. Six days to figure out who's still loyal to SPYGOD, underneath it all, who's a now-satisfied malcontent, and who's been brought in to replace the more overt loyalists and thinks this is just a good job with the unique perks of being able to smack around supervillains.
(And six days to work on his special sunglasses, which are just about ready for a field test.)
On the way down to where Dr. Yesterday is working, Myron notes at least five separate, two-man teams of Specials: guards in weird, insectile armor with opaque, blue facemasks and sizable, underslung gauss rifles.
The Specials operate at the behest of the Director of The COMPANY, supposedly, but every time Myron tries to talk around the subject with New Man, the fellow doesn't seem to be able to articulate just how much control he actually has over them. It's like they just appeared, not long after the !@#$ went down with SPYGOD, and no one really knows what's up with them.
(Myron's theory is that they answer to Colonel Richter; he seems the type to command a faceless legion of well-armed thugs, anyway.)
They go down the main elevator to the central computer hub, far under the Heptagon, which is where Dr. Yesterday has been working all this time. When they get there, Myron's pleased to see that the scene of the last few days -- entire banks of computers pried apart, and their wiry, live guts strewn all over the floor -- has been mostly reversed, and everything's mostly back together, again.
"Ah, Underman," the Doctor says, smiling and extending a hand to shake. He's quite tall, rail-thin, and dressed in corduroy pants and a questionable sweater, and sporting a jet black, pencil-thin mustache that does not go with his balding, grey pate and wrinkled face.
"Myron, please," Myron gently corrects him, taking his hand in both of his and smiling: "I like to think I've moved up a bit in the world."
"Ah, yes. Of course," Yesterday laughs, with a *wink*. Then he smiles, rather self-consciously, and waves a hand over the banks of computers: "It is accomplished, my friend!"
"The Anti-SPYGOD device?"
"Yes!" Yesterday confirms, and hands Myron a small, white box with a clicker button: "This will activate it from anywhere in the Heptagon. There are also going to be alarm buttons all over the place, at critical junctures, in the security rooms, and so on. You can have your people install them, actually. They're just battery-operated boxes, independent of the power grid."
"I'm surprised you didn't have your helpers along to do that for you?" Myron asks, smiling. For a moment it looks like the smile on Yesterday's face is about to drop off, but he quickly recovers.
"They're all engaged in research at the South Pole. You know how that is." *wink wink*
"So how does this work, exactly?"
"Well, it's a bit complicated," Yesterday replies with jazz-hands and another *wink*:
"Basically, it creates a counter-signal, jamming the flow of information that he gets from that Chandra Eye of his. Should cause nausea, disorientation, confusion, sense deprivation... a really nasty package, all in all. Kind of like being tasered in the corpus callosum."
Myron nods, knowing how wonderful that would probably feel: "And how long can we safely leave it on?"
"I recommend short, one second bursts. Unless your really don't want him to be able to answer any questions, and in that case just leave it on for a full minute or two. It should turn him into a big, gay rutabega."
The doctor laughs, and Myron smiles, hoping he doesn't see how fake it is. He adjusts his glasses while pretending to examine the clicker, pressing a hidden button as he does. And then looks back at the doctor.
What he sees almost makes him drop the box, grab his gun, and do the obvious thing. That he does not is testament to the sense of self control that going through COMPANY training gave him.
But that he's seeing what he's seeing confirms something he's been wondering for some time. It means quite a few things -- terrible things. And it means that, tonight, when no one's looking, he's probably going to cry himself to sleep.
He really liked Dr. Yesterday.
"Well, I think that's all I need to know, then?" he says, hoping to cut this short.
"Yes indeed," the doctor says, putting a hand on Myron's shoulder and *winking* again: "You just leave everything to me, young Myron. We've got this whole town wired up, with multiple transmitters. He so much as shows his eyepatched face here, we'll get him."
"Good to know," Myron says, wishing he could unsee what he just saw, and being extremely grateful when the Doctor takes his hand off his shoulder and he can leave.
Going back up the elevator, with the Agent, he tries to be calm and center himself. He knew this was a possibility. He knew. It's why he made the glasses in the first place.
But now that he knows... well, he knows he has one less avenue to turn to when the !@#$ hits the fan. And he knows it's going to.
He grabs his communicator and calls the Doctor, who picks up right away: "Yes, Myron?"
"I'm sorry. Where are my manners? I totally forgot to ask about your wife. How is she doing?"
Another weird pause: "Well, she's busy down at the South Pole, too. You understand."
"Yes, I do. Be sure to give her my best. It's been forever since I've seen her."
"Yes, I will," he says, and disconnects.
So what does that mean, then? Is she dead, too? Replaced? Or is she alive, still, and just unaware of what's happened?
"You okay, sir?" the Agent asks.
"Yes, Agent," Myron lies: "Never better."
And then the elevator doors open, they step out, and he realizes just how !@#$y a lie that is.
* * *
His glasses don't just negate GORGON's stealth technology, allowing him to see their False Face agents for what they actually are. They also allow him to see the tech in operation.
And that's how he knows that every single !@#$ing Special Guard in the Heptagon is a !@#$ing GORGON agent.
There's maybe 70, 80, 90... a !@#$ing hundred of those well-armed and armored creeps out there, either on duty or just an alarm away from being on duty. And they're all GORGON.
Every. Single. !@#$ing. One.
And if they're all GORGON, chances are !@#$ good that the Specials on board The Flier, guarding New Man and various, sensitive areas are also False Faces. Which means that it's going to be even harder to get word to the right people about what he's doing, and why.
"Buck up, Underman," he mutters under his breath, trying to regain his composure. He's got everything in place, doesn't he?
He's made friends with the Indians, and they know what to do. While he was out, hunting for enemy agents, Anil left a message that they were safe and sound and hiding out in Lahore, so there's that.
He's got trick cuffs on him at all times. Several pairs, in fact.
And he knows what to look for when SPYGOD shows back up again, as he said he would, back then.
So all he has to do is wait. For how long, he can't be certain, but the pieces are in place. He just has to hold it together until then, and hope no one sees what he's doing...
He thinks for a moment. Considers something.
He chuckles. Snorts.
Actually !@#$ing laughs.
He looks at his special, "They Live" sunglasses. Could it really be that simple?
"Oh yes," he says, downing most of his drink and getting up: "It could really be that !@#$ing simple."
He goes over to his tinkering corner of the office, gets some electronics from his bash box, and sends word that he's super mega-!@#$ing busy and can't be disturbed until, oh, next month.
"'Be seeing you,'" he quotes to himself, ready to engineer some massive payback.
(SPYGOD is listening to Time on My Hands (Pet Shop Boys) and having a Hairy Eyeball)