3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 9

When the walls of the President's sub-level saferoom start to vibrate, Colonel Richter's first thought is that the enemy has started another wave of particle cannon strikes. But when it isn't accompanied by the sound of people screaming in panic, upstairs, and the vibration turns to shaking, he realizes that this is something entirely new.

"Sir, something's coming through the East access tunnel!" he hears a Secret Service agent shout. He immediately draws his weapon, orders that the door to the saferoom be sealed behind him, and charges out into the main area and towards the tunnel in question. Before long, he's got a large group of Agents behind him, toting submachine guns and everything they had left in the armory towards what is doubtlessly -- at least in his mind -- a beachhead of some kind.

"What do we know?" he asks the Agent who shouted.

"Just that it's big and metal and is going through the tunnel like it's construction paper, sir."

"That's never any !@#$ing good," he remarks: "Get ready to move the President and First Lady to the second fallback position. Have the football..."

He stops himself. No reason to bring the football, anymore, is there? It's a whole new game, now.

And, god!@#$ him, he's the one who gets to figure out the rules.

Once they get to the tunnel, he can see that the Agent wasn't kidding. The reinforced concrete structure has begun to collapse in on itself as something large and mechanical, which clearly finished rumbling out of one wall, goes right into the other. It gets as far as it needs to in order to have its rear sticking out into the tunnel, and then quakes to a halt, hydraulics hissing and gears winding down.

"No firing until I give the word!" he orders, hoping he knows what this is, but all too ready to commit to action if he's wrong.

A large, rear hatch opens up. All the Agents cock their weapons and take aim.

A long metal probe with a white sock attached to it comes out the hatch and waves a few times. 

"Sir?' an Agent says, and Richter scowls, putting his weapon down.

"Hold your fire," he says, stepping forward past the firing line and heading for the machine: "I think I know who the !@#$ this is."

A COMPANY Agent pokes his head out and waves the flag some more: "Please, please do not shoot me," he begs.

"Is Myron with you?" Richter asks.

"Yes, Myron is with them," Myron answers, walking past the agent with the white flag and easing himself off the back of the drill tank and onto the floor: "Sorry about the mess, Colonel. I couldn't risk coming up the front lawn. I might have been seen."

"What the !@#$ is going on out there?"

"Hang on a moment," Myron says, taking his They Live sunglasses out and putting them on.

"This is not the time to relive the 80's, Mr. Prison Warden," Richter says.

"Sorry, just have to be sure," Myron says, looking at Richter and then back down the hallway, at the Secret Service Agents. Once he's sure, he puts them back up onto his head.

"Sure of what?"

"Colonel, we have big problems. We've been infiltrated."

"By whom?" Richter asks, leaning in close so they won't be overheard.

"GORGON," Myron whispers.

"You have to be !@#$ing me-"

"I wish I were," Myron shushes him: "Those Specials that have popped up everywhere since New Man took control of the COMPANY? They're all False Faces, sir. And they're not the only ones. They got Dr. Yesterday, too, and who knows what all he's gotten his hands on."

"You're certain?"

"I wish I wasn't. I made him the other day when he was installing the anti-SPYGOD field in the Heptagon. Now I found a way to disable them and used it after they started zapping us from orbit. I think it's Deep Ten, and-"

"Every air base, every airport, every nuclear silo and submarine," Richter says, putting a hand on Myron's shoulder: "We think they got Kennedy Space Center, too. And I'm getting reports that any armed birds we had in the air got picked off."

Myron scowls, twists up his lips, then looks askance: "So we couldn't fight back. Nothing to launch."

"Yeah, but why the fighter planes? It's not like they can fly into !@#$ing outer space and shoot it out with them, and even if they could, they'd be toast before they got to the Moon."

"Where's the Flier?" Myron asks: "And who's in charge of it?"

"I haven't had any contact with them since this all went down. And I think it might be worldwide, too. There were reports of coups and revolutions around the planet, but there's an intelligence blackout, and we have no !@#$ing idea what's happened."

"'Beware the Ides of March,'" Myron quotes.

"What's that?"

"Nothing, sir. How's Congress?"

"No word of an attack."

"And the President's safe?"

"For now."

"Well, how's this for a plan?" Myron says: "We get you, me, and some Agents we can trust into the drill tank, put the President in there, and get him the !@#$ out of here before they show up."

"I think that's a good plan," he says: "What about Congress?"

"Oh, !@#$ them," Myron says with a dismissive wave of his hand: "Let them obstruct their way out of this one."

"Okay," Richter says, watching the last of the COMPANY Agents clown-car their way out of the drill tank: "Has this thing got a bathroom?"

"No, and the coffee maker isn't even working. But I can get us to Dallas in about ten hours."

"Why Dallas?"

"Last place they'd look for the President...?"

Richter nods, claps Myron on the shoulder, and quickly leads him back to where they left the President. It might not be the best plan in the world, but !@#$ it -- it's a plan, and it's better than the one he had just five minutes ago.

Hopefully they've got the time to make this work.

* * *

In the Flier's secondary control room, in front of the shifting, floating arrays of 3-D controls, The Dragon unfolds. 

His head splits in half from the neck up, and both halves of his skull move a full six inches away from each other.

Numeral small, long, metal tentacles telescope out of that space, extending in all directions like a strange, punk rock hairstyle made of steel snakes.

Some of the snakes extend towards the open ports on the control projectors, and link up with the Fliers' computer systems. Others form a strange antenna of sorts, sending and receiving information from an as-yet-unseen source.

His eyes sink into their sockets and are replaced by even more tentacles -- smaller, lit-up ones that squirm and writhe in the air like aquatic creatures in an unseen current. They project images in the air: the secret leaders of GORGON, now entered into mental communication as the final moments of their plan come together at last.

 Love is all you need, The Dragon intones, so joyful to be able to reveal his true self at last.

Love is all you need, says Dr. Yesterday from deep within the Ice Palace, as his part of the plan goes like clockwork

Love is all you need, says the Director of the CIA, observing the final movements in what he's been tasked to do, and hoping the barricade on his office door holds.

Love is all you need, says Director Straffer, holding steady with no further targets at this time.

Love is all you need, their hidden leader finishes, her voice strangely wet and hollow: You have all done very well. The cocoon is emptying, the butterfly emerges, and the new world we have worked towards for so long is almost upon us.

We live to serve, they all say in unison.

And you have served well. This would never have happened without all your efforts. I thank you all for your service, sacrifice, and hard work. 

We live to serve, they repeat, proud of what they have done.

Now comes the true transformation, she says: You know what you each must do. Are you all ready for what comes next? Are you prepared for further work towards the goal? Are you ready to sacrifice?

We live to serve, they repeat (some more readily than others).


Then we can begin, she says: I love you all so very much. I wish there was not the need for pain, now. But remember that what you do, you do for tomorrow. The caterpillar must bury itself alive and sleep before the butterfly can come out and soar.

We are ready to sleep, some of them say. 

We are prepared to soar, others respond. 

Then be on your way, my loves, their leader says: Dragon, the next step is yours.

I am prepared to soar, he says, crying in joy once again.

And then he executes the program he just finished uploading. 

* * * 

The first intimation that Second gets concerning the doomed nature of the plan is how the Specials they're advancing on, in the Engineering deck, suddenly stop firing and grab onto well-secured bulkheads. For a moment he wonders if maybe they're going to open the exterior hatches and try to flush them out in midair, but then he feels a strange, static charge building on the floor plates, and he realizes what's about to happen.

"Grab onto something!" he screams: "The Flier's about to shift!"

Every long-time Agent in the room knows exactly what that means, and immediately run to mirror their opponents' actions. The ones who were just shuffled in aren't quite so quick on the uptake, though, and that's why they die horribly after the next three and a half seconds.

The last time this happened, the Flier was fixed -- or so they thought -- in midair. The nanite swarms that rebuilt the Flier after its apocalyptic battle with the Legion's Skull were reactivated and put to work making the great machine work perfectly again, only to come back to life partway through the battle and jam up almost all systems. Since then they've been asleep, and all repairs have been handled manually, so as to not rouse the potentially dangerous mini-machines.

This time, the Flier is not so much fixed or rebuilt as recreated. The decks melt and coalesce into one another. Rooms are picked up and moved elsewhere. Weapon platforms are switched around, engines are repositioned, and the control deck is slid up to the very top of what is becoming a very insectile war machine.

Anyone who was hanging onto a bulkhead for dear life was lucky enough to spend up to ten nightmarish seconds of having their well-regulated world turned upside down, sideways, and inside out as everything around it shifted in position and molecular structure. Anyone who failed to heed the warning was most likely swallowed up by suddenly-porous metal and plastic, and ultimately !@#$ out the bottom or sides of the Flier like so much garbage.

And as for those who were lucky enough to grab onto something solid, there's still the issue of having all the air sucked out of the ship, and dealing with the sudden drop in temperature. Second tries to hold his breath for as long as he can, but when he starts blacking out and the ship hasn't stopped moving yet, it's all he can do to hook his feet into the bulkhead's emergency bars and hope he doesn't slip away.

He looks back down the hall and realizes he can't see New Man, anymore. Is he alive or dead? He can't be sure.

"Not like this..." he grunts, realizing that he's seeing more black than light, right now: "Not like this..."

But then he's closed his eyes for longer than he wanted, and the blackness welcomes him in.

(SPYGOD is listening to No Love Lost (Joy Division) and having The Love)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 8

At the White House, everything is bedlam.

The entire West Wing is a wall of noise. Every secretary and intern that wasn't blinded or severely burned by the lights from the sky is either tending to the stricken, or trying to find out what the !@#$ just happened. But the switchboards are jammed and the internet is down, rendering their cellphones and smartphones as useful as doorstops.

The Secret Service agents are alternating between getting the President and First Family to safety, in the basement, and taping cardboard to the windows to stop anyone from being flash-fried, again. They're also trying to plan the next few moves, but unable to get confirmation on what they need to know.

In the middle of it all, Colonel Richter strides down the hallways, talking on one of the few phones that actually works. What he's hearing doesn't make him very happy.

"Well, as soon as you get word from The Flier, get back to me, alright?" he says: "I want a sit-rep on the Heptagon. I want word from NORAD. I want Cheyenne Mountain telling me their condition... yes, son. Everyone. !@#$, if you can find !@#$ing Santa Claus, I want you to tell me if he's got his sleigh ready. Alright?"

He hangs up and runs down to the basement, where the Secret Service has just secured the President and his wife. For a moment it looks like the Agents aren't even going to let him through, but one look from him and they skitter to either side.

"How bad is it, Colonel?" the President asks, sitting in a chair, holding his wife's hand, and wishing he had a really large beer, right about now. 

"It's pretty bad, sir," Richter says, kneeling down so he can look the man in the eye: "As near as we can tell, every single air force base, airport, and nuclear missile silo in America has been destroyed."

The First Lady gasps, and the President blinks: "How?"

"That... we're not 100% sure, yet, but from the looks of things we were hit by particle cannons. So either we're being invaded, again, or Deep Ten's been compromised."

"Every air base?"

"Yes, sir. The two large flashes were Andrews and Langley. They were wholly obliterated. They attacked Ronald Reagan, too, but all they did there was destroy the control tower and zap enough of the runways to make landing or taking off an impossibility. We're thinking they've done that to every major civilian airport. They may also have gotten Kennedy Space Center, but we're still getting word."

"How do we retaliate?" the President asks: "Can we launch the missiles on the submarines? I mean, I guess you'd have to reprogram them, but-"

"We have negative contact on the subs, sir. There's reports that beams were seen entering the Pacific and Atlantic close to their last known location. We may have lost the entire fleet."

The President looks askance, and then puts his head in his hand.

"How's everyone else doing?" he asks: "Have we heard from the Russians? England?"

"No sir. But there's no reason to believe that this attack was confined to America. In fact, some of my contacts inform me that there was something of an intelligence blackout today, and there's spotty word coming in that some of our allies were attacked in their houses of government. Some of our frenemies, too."

"Why the !@#$ are we just hearing about this now?" the President thunders: "Where the !@#$ is the CIA, Colonel? I want the Director over here right the !@#$ now-"

"We can't get through, sir," one of the Agents says: "We're trying the FBI, NSA, FEMA. Everybody's offline. Even the backup communications are fried."

"You can use my phone if you'd like, sir," Richter says, handing it over: "But I did try him, earlier this morning. They said he was in a very important meeting and not to be disturbed."

"And what about our strategic talents?" the President asks, taking the phone and finding the CIA Director's office number: "Don't we have a few people who can throw stars at each other, or something? Can we rely on them to save us?"

"The Flier's not responding to calls, sir," Richter answers: "Word from Havana is that it rocketed West not long after the shooting started. Hopefully that means a response is being coordinated, but I haven't heard anything from them to confirm that."

"This is very troubling," the First Lady says: "I can't believe you're not more on top of this."

"Honey, it's alright," the President says, holding her hand tighter and giving her a kiss on the forehead as he waits to hear from someone at Langley: "Just let me take care of this. We'll get through it. You'll see."

Richter looks at her and tries to smile re-assuredly. It comes across as stiff and patronizing, and he quickly abandons it, knowing in his heart that the whole world probably just got !@#$ed.

That and wondering if there are any heroes, out there.

* * *

"Sir, where the !@#$ are we going?" one of the fifty Agents packed in the back of the drill tank asks Myron as he tries to drive them out of the Heptagon's parking garage's south wall.

"Agent, if I told you, you'd have to shoot me," Myron replies, adjusting the drill's angle: "Now, are we all comfortable back there?"

"Not really, no," a female Agent says: "How many people is this thing rated for?"

"Ten," Myron replies, firing up the drill and getting ready to downshift: "And the coffee machine's broken. But if you'd rather try to get the garage doors open, and risk the power coming back on-"

Just then, the lights flicker back on in the garage. Myron blinks, and sees that the fallen Specials they strode over on their way to the drill tank might be stirring, just a little.

Oh, yes. They are. And !@#$ing quickly, too...

"Uh, on second !@#$ing thought, hang on..."

The drill engages, the tank treads fire up, and in seconds the drill tank is rolling forward -- boring through steel plate, concrete, rock, and earth, and throwing a massive and wide spray of pulverized matter behind it. The Specials who were up first and about to fire on them are almost instantly buried under the storm of dirt as the drill tank thunders through the wall.

In seconds, they're out and through -- the tunnel the vehicle makes closing up almost instantly due to the shower of debris. But the Agents in the back don't stop screaming until Myron's about a hundred feet away from the Heptagon. And he doesn't dare throttle back until he's sure no one's coming after them, which takes another 300 feet beyond that. 

"Sir, is there a bathroom on this drill tank?" someone whimpers.

"Yeah, it's out back," Myron sighs: "I'll stop so you can get out and go pee."

"Really...?"

"No, of course not. Are you that !@#$ing stupid, Agent? Please tell me you're not going to !@#$ yourself in my !@#$ing drill tank."

No one answers that.

"Alright," he says, looking at the map and his instruments, and hoping this goes better than he thinks it should: "I promised you guys a memorable trip. Here we go."

* * *

The Dragon watches on a viewscreen in the Secondary Control Room as New Man, Second, and all the un-Embraced Agents they could find come rampaging down towards engineering, shooting Specials as they go. He recognizes the look on their faces as that of excitement mixed with trepidation: they are clearly elated to have gotten this far, but worried about what comes next.

Surely they know it's not going to be that easy.

Not that anything's taught them otherwise, so far. The heavily-armored soldiers they're mowing down are employing their best tactics, but are falling much too easily. It would seem that their heavy armor and bulky weapons are putting them at an extreme disadvantage when compared to well-armed and quickly-moving opponents. 

The Dragon stores this information for later reference, knowing that it will be useful later -- once he's won.

"Sir, I am unable to overcome the security protocols," the current "Second" tells him. The man has shrunk into a skeletal parody of what he was, just a half hour ago, and is barely able to stand and perform his duties -- the consequences of Embracing a corpse.

"Who can?" The Dragon asks.

"Only the current Director of the COMPANY."

"And I am about to kill him," The Dragon says: "This could be problematic..."

He's about to think of altering his plan, but one of the Specials shows him -- via his faceplate -- that the Specials he sent to find the medical equipment he suspected of existing are reporting success.

They have just found two large, man-sized, clear plastic tanks, connected to one another. Both tanks were empty, but one was recently full of life support fluid, and the other had once held the same substance, perhaps up to a week ago. And the one that had been empty the longest was hooked up to sophisticated broadcast equipment.

The kind you might use to transmit consciousness through.

Not far from those two tanks is yet another one. It is a much older, metal cylinder covered with smaller, fluid-filled tanks, and inscribed with German writing. They report that it stinks of blood and lightning, and seems to have been activated a week ago, too.

The Dragon smiles, all too aware of what this means. He knows that secondary tank will have the entire genetic sequence for Second in it. And all they will need to do is activate it, grow another Second, and Embrace it after it's brought to life in order to continue controlling The Flier.

Operation Whack-a-Mole, indeed. 

"I have good news" he tells the false face, getting up whispering in his decaying ear: "We no longer need you to perform this task. Set the final coordinates for the Island, and have us hover at cruising altitude. Then you may sleep."
"Thank you sir," the false face says, a look of pure joy on his withering face: "I hope to serve you when I become the butterfly."

"I hope to see you emerge from the cocoon," The Dragon says, gently patting his shoulder. When he takes his hand away, wet, collapsing tissue comes with it.

His final task done, the man gets a look of pure joy on his stolen face, and all but collapses to the floor. His knees splinter into patches of skin, fragments of bone, and slivers of dry, ropy muscle as he strikes the deck, and he flops forward a dead man. 

* * *

Engineering is locked down tight, which is exactly what Second expected, and New Man feared. So far this has been far too easy, but once they knew where they were heading, it stood to reason they'd turn the deck into a virtual fortress. 

Large, heavy metal crates have been pushed out into the hallway, and placed right ahead of the bulkhead doors. A large group of specials is behind the crates, their guns poked between them, and firing mercilessly on any targets that come into their narrow kill zones. Occasionally a few rise up above the crates and lay suppression fire, but they've stopped trying that after losing just about every group that does to the Agents' counter-fire. 

"We're just about out of our guns," Second shouts over the firing, watching sadly as a group of Agents are perforated and set afire by flechettes: "I've got some Agents heading for the armory, but we'll need heavy ordinance to take them out."

"And the last thing we want is a blowback into the engines," New Man says, tossing his last pistol down as he ducks for cover behind a bulkhead.

"Do you have a better idea where they're taking us?"

"Middle of the Pacific," New Man says: "If we slow down in the right spot, we won't be too far from that last battle we had with GORGON."

"You don't think...?"

New Man just looks at him, and then their cover is half-obliterated by a wave of gauss-gun fire: "Can't we use their weapons?"

"Not without some massive tinkering. They don't work in our hands, apparently."

"Well !@#$," he says: "That means we don't have a lot of options."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm partially recharged," he says, holding up his hands, which crackle with seething, purple energy: "I can take them out by the door, but once I do I'm going to be useless for about fifteen minutes."

"And if there's more..." Second says, nodding.

"Sir, we're having problems at the armory," one of his Agents comes up to tell him: "They've got it locked down, too. They must have known we'd go there."

"Alright then," Second says, looking at New Man: "Get us in."

The Director nods, and, bravely stepping out into the field of fire, holds up both hands towards the Specials. They respond by shooting at him, but the streams of white hot metal darts are melted into metal steam by a larger, more powerful wave of throbbing, purple energy that emanates from the man's outstretched fingers.

The wave gains power and focus as it travels, becoming faster and more solid. By the time it reaches the crates it's sizzling the deck plates and bulkheads. Everything in its path -- crate, special, or gun -- is evaporated within seconds once the wave passes over. And then the wave shifts its shape to match the doorway exactly, and eats through that as well.

The purple wave dissipates. New Man sighs and falls down, weak and unresponsive. The Agents cry in joy and creep forward, going bulkhead to bulkhead and laying a curtain of small arms fire at the Specials who were just beyond the wave of destruction. 

Second takes charge of his fallen Director and gets him back into cover. He orders an Agents to stay by him and let no one harm him, or interfere with his recuperation. And then he joins the others in the assault on the engineering deck, hoping that they've turned the corner on this.

But knowing that this has still been way too easy, up until now.

* * *

In the Secondary control room, the 3-D images indicate that The Flier is a few hours from its destination. But others show that the Engineering deck has been breached, which means it's only a matter of time before the Agents get too close for comfort. 

The Dragon stands and gestures to the Specials in the room, indicating that they should leave the room and guard it. They do.

"My lady," he says: "We are on the final approach. The moment is at hand. The future is prepared for. May I execute the fourth phase?"

You may, an eerie, wet, and feminine voice in his head tells him: Are you prepared to become our voice?

"I have been prepared for this honor for years," he says, breathless in rapture.

Be certain. There is no turning back from this point.

"'The Caterpillar must bury itself alive and sleep before the butterfly can come out and soar,'" he quotes: "I am ready to soar."

Then you may begin, she says: Do what you have been instructed. All you need is love.

"Love is all you need," he replies, tears of joy rolling down his face.

From inside his uniform he pulls out a flashdrive. He inserts it into a port near the chair, and begins uploading a new program into The Flier. A floating green bar shows its progress.

And as it grows longer, he stretches out his arms, as if to receive something. 

And begins to change...

(SPYGOD is listening to I Remember Nothing (Joy Division) and having a Mephistopheles)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 7

In the secondary control room, surrounded by Specials, The Dragon tries, once more, to activate the directional controls. And, once again, the holographic interface flashes red, makes a discouraging noise, and does nothing.

This is the tenth time it's refused to do anything for him, and he's beginning to understand that there must have been a further failsafe built into the room. He looks down at what's left of Second, and regrets killing him that soon.

But only for the moment.

"Embrace him," he tells one of the Specials, pointing to the cooling, chest-bursted corpse on the floor.

"Becoming the dead is risky," that one reminds him: "It is also a short term solution at best."

"I will change the security protocols once I am inside," The Dragon says, and gestures to Second's body again. The Special nods, and begins to strip off its armor, piece by piece.

Eventually its methodical actions reveals a naked, sexless man with no face. Its' grinning skull is exposed behind a clear, plastic plate, with baleful, silver eyes.

The being kneels down beside the corpse and takes its head in its hands, putting its index fingers up to the body's temples. There's a moment where the two are lit up by a strange light, and then the light begins to pulse, and fluctuate between the false face and what's left of Second. Each time the light shines from the false face just a little bit more, and from Second just a little less.

Soon, the process is complete, and Second's body withers and dries up -- all its energy leeched from it. And when the false face stands back up again, his body shifts and changes, becoming Second from head to toe, just as he was before he was killed. The faceplate flickers and lights up, and then Second's face is projected in front of the skull, completing the disguise.

"All you need is love," The Dragon says.

"Love is all you need," the false Second replies, his voice now that of the dead man: "I can maintain this body for only an hour at best. After that, you will have to find another solution."

"Take us to the Island," the Dragon commands, sitting down in the chair and preparing himself for what comes next: "Then, open up the security protocols. We must ensure that we have more than an hour's worth of control."

As they speak, the body that was Embraced cracks and crumbles under its own weight of bone, becoming nothing more than a pile of wispy, pale dust on the floor.

Moments later, The Flier turns sharply to starboard, and jets away from Cuba, heading West as fast as its engines will take it. The people of the island might have cheered, if they weren't hiding for their lives after their airports and air bases were destroyed from on high.

Instead, they cry for deliverance, perhaps realizing that they just lost it.

* * *

"We're moving," Second says as he and New Man shoot their way down the passage from the Director's office, taking out entrenched Special after Special with their weapons: "How the !@#$ are we moving?"

"They must have overridden your safety protocols," New Man replies, ducking to the right just as a large group of the armored creatures appears, further down the hall, and starts firing back. 

"That shouldn't be !@#$ing possible," Second shouts back, ducking and rolling to the left, taking out a couple of them as he goes.

"Says the man who just got killed."

"Yeah, well..."

"Time to call in the cavalry, then?"

"Yep," Second says, activating his communicator: "All Agents, this is Second. The Flier is under hostile control. All Agents, retake the Flier. Kill The Dragon and any Specials you see on sight-"

A flurry of white hot flechettes turns the bulkhead he's hiding behind into slag, and he crouches down and backs up a section.

"... I repeat, all Agents, retake The Flier," Second yells as he fires back: "The Specials are the enemy. Disregard all protocol concerning live capture. Just perforate the !@#$ers."

"I didn't get any of that over the communicator," New Man says, shooting at a close pair of the armored enemy before ducking back: "They've probably locked you out."

"!@#$ing great."

"Not from where I'm standing," New Man replies, tossing aside a spent pistol and grabbing a fresh one: "These things don't last long."

"They're still experimental. They don't have the proper batteries yet."

"Well, they leave a mark," New Man replies, shooting some more Specials.

"!@#$ straight. I wonder where we're going?"

"Northwest. Somewhere in the mid-Pacific, I think."

"How do you know that?"

"Earth's energy field," New Man says, winking: "I'm tied in, remember?"

"You know, I think we never did have that conversation," Second replies, tossing a spent pistol and grabbing two more: "How much damage can you do?"

"Get me a full charge and I'll take out half the Flier."

"How full are you?"

New Man sighs: "I'd be lucky to light a cigarette at this point. But I'll get it back soon enough."

"So what do we do in the meantime? Retake the secondary control room?"

"I'm game if you are."

Second grins, taking his almost-depleted pistol and giving the barrel a short, sharp turn to the left. It makes an obnoxious whining noise which gets higher and higher in pitch.

"Let me clear the way, first," he says, tossing the overheating weapon at the Specials they've been shooting at: "Might want to plug your ears. This is gonna be !@#$ing loud-"

* * *

It's a testament to Myron's anti-GORGON device that, when it goes off, there's no noise -- just the harsh click of the Heptagon's entire electrical system overloading when it does.

That and the Specials in his room falling down like toy soldiers a split second before they were going to "arrest" him.

He opens one eye, and then the other. Then he gives one of them a good, solid kick to the head, just to make sure it's not playing possum.

"Well, I see we've learned the importance of proper protocol," he says, grabbing a few key things from his desk -- most importantly an industrial-strength head lamp -- and heading out the blasted, still-smoking hole that used to be his office door.

"Okay, folks!" he shouts to any Agents nearby, most of whom are whalloping on the Specials now that they're down: "You heard me loud and clear a minute ago! Drop your !@#$s, grab your socks, and run like !@#$!'

"Who the !@#$ are you?" one Agent nearby says, bleeding badly from a shot to the arm and being supported by some other Agent Myron doesn't recognize.

"What, are you joking?" Myron asks, heading over to the two of them: "You don't know who I am?"

"Do I look like I'm !@#$ joking, !@#$hole?"

"Who are you?" Myron demands: "Did you just transfer in? Were you caught selling guns to cartels in Arizona? Is that why you're here?"

"Sir, I'm-"

"You're Agent About-To-Bleed-Out, that's who you are," Myron shouts in the man's face, and then looks around: "How about the rest of you? Are you going to stand around like a bunch of stupid idiots, or are you going to get going before the thing I just made fails and these !@#$holes get up again?"

He doesn't have to tell them twice. At some point, someone smart decides to take over and make sure people don't stampede their way to the vehicle pool.

"Who the !@#$ are you?" the one holding up Agent About-To-Bleed-Out asks.

"I'm the one who just turned those GORGON mother!@#$ers off, Agent Helping-Agent-About-To-Bleed-Out," Myron shouts, getting in the man's face: "I'm the prison warden. I'm the man who brought down HONEYCOMB. I'm the man with the plan that's gonna save your !@#$ing life. I'm !@#$ing Underman, okay?"

"Okay..." the guy says, and starts walking towards the exit, supporting the suddenly-dumbstruck Agent About-To-Bleed-Out as he goes.

"Kids these days," Myron sighs, heading for the vehicle pool. He's got another plan going, but this one's a doozy.

* * *

 "We are being fought, leader," one of the Specials tells The Dragon, just as they're finished crossing Mexico, and heading out into the Pacific Ocean.

"Who by?" The Dragon says, opening his eyes and clearly displeased to have had his meditations interrupted.

"Reports are uncertain, but it appears that New Man and Second are leading a group of Agents this direction."

That gets his attention: "That cannot be correct. New Man is disrupted and Second is... dead," he says, indicating the False Face who's become Second in order to fly The Flier (and isn't looking so good, right about now).

The Special unmasks and his face plate crackles into life, showing what another Special, several decks away, is seeing at this moment. It's the unmistakable sight of Second and New Man leading a suicide charge of Agents, all armed with small but powerful guns. As they fire, the Special who's broadcasting this scene is hit, and the signal abruptly ends.

"Well," The Dragon says: "This is clearly a mysterious turn of events. But..." 

He thinks for a moment, and then smiles.

"Have a group of Specials search the medical bays. Tell them they're looking for specialized equipment not in the manifest. Tell them to alert me as soon as they find it, and secure it against attack."

"At once, leader. And what of the fighting?"

"Let's see if they truly understand strategy," he says, and begins to explain what will happen next.

None of it good. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Candidate (Joy Division) and having a Dos Equis Ambar)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 6

Back in the early in 70's, in a time when actual Gods walked the Earth, masquerading as superheroes, these august beings realized that the planet's exterior defenses were seriously lacking.

With all-seeing eyes they looked out at a hungry and dangerous universe, filled with perils as yet unknown to humanity, and predators so advanced that the knowledge of their very existence might cause that noble race to collapse around itself in true cosmic fear.

They gazed upward, well aware that at any moment, some jaded, would-be conqueror could send his space fleet towards this Solar System, and reap what meager resources its planets could offer.

And there would be nothing Humanity could do but die.

So they joined hands, these returned beings, and built the greatest defensive barrier they could. They ringed the Earth and Moon with a massive array of defensive platforms, studded with dark lasers, pulse beams, particle cannons, and missiles capable of interstellar flight.

They populated this barrier with humanoid robots, and tasked them to tirelessly watch the stars for any hostile movements towards this planet, and to annihilate without question any offensively-postured craft that approached.

They called it Wonderwall, and left it there, both as testament and warning.

Time changed, attitudes shifted, and the Gods were informed -- by a power even higher than they -- that their presence was no longer welcome on the Earth. It took a long time, and many punishing changes, but eventually they got the message and left.

However, they did not take everything with them, as that would have been both punishing and detrimental. So it was that Wonderwall stayed behind, albeit with a terrible warning from the beings that had created it.

An omen that, should its weapons ever be turned inward, towards the planet, disaster would soon follow.

Since that time, Wonderwall has been renamed Deep Ten, and its massive and numerous defensive platforms overseen by an organization known as DAMOCLES. Crewed by a human and robot staff, the mighty armaments of the array have successfully seen off many attempts at invasion, and it is to the credit of DAMOCLES that hardly anyone on Earth has had any idea of how close Humanity came to enslavement or doom.

But they disregarded the warning, from time to time. And while they did so with the best of intentions, their actions meant that certain persons who really should not have known that such power floated above them, just past the Moon's orbit, became aware of the array.

And, in their awareness of that power, coveted it for themselves.

So it is that, today, the full power of Wonderwall is being visited upon the planet it was intended to protect.

Particle cannons meant to pulverize alien warships while still a full Astronomical Unit away are now carefully targeting various installations around the world in a long-predetermined firing plan. Massive columns of blinding white energy touch the Earth with almost surgical precision -- incinerating everything within their radius, and blinding and burning onlookers for miles around.

One strike after another, the world's ability to make war with the heavens is nullified. 

Air bases are incinerated, one after the other, and airports are burned to the ground. Space centers are turned into smoking holes, and secret launch facilities obliterated. Nuclear missiles are boiled in their silos, along with long range submarines on patrol.

And any aircraft currently in the air with so much as a whisper of offensive capability is likewise targeted and turned to smoking dust.

(Except, of course, for The Flier.) 

Up above it all, the ersatz Director Straffer observes, counting down the number of targets left to deal with. It's in the low hundreds, now, which means that it will soon be time for the third phase to begin, which fills him with more than a little trepidation.

Put bluntly, he's concerned that too many things have been left to chance with this plan. The first part seemed rushed and haphazard, and contingent on too many variables going the right way within a certain amount of time. It would have been so much simpler to just annihilate certain capitols, maybe entire countries...


But he's been told, hasn't he? He needs to mind his own business, this time. He's got his part of the plan, and the others have theirs, and he should just stick to his corner and not seek to interfere. 

All he needs is love. And faith. 

So he watches the world burn -- something he's enjoying perhaps a little too much, right now -- and has faith that his cohorts have the next few steps well in hand.

After all, it would be a bad thing if things began to go wrong.

* * *

In the Director's office in The Flier, New Man sits in a stupor in his chair, a special dagger run right through his heart, flickering and fading in time with the energy field it gives off.

The weapon is off-centered, badly-weighted, and rather dull, but stabbing him to death wasn't the point of the exercise. The dagger was specially made to counteract his energy-based powers -- essentially locking him into an endless feedback loop. Unaided, he could sit there forever, trapped between moments and unaware of his surroundings. 

Of course, it's only a matter of time before the Specials out in the hall come in and find a much more permanent way to dispose of him, but for now they're busy with a myriad number of other tasks. And he's clearly not going anywhere.

So they think, anyway. But there's a few things they don't know about.

For example, they don't know that there's a service duct, right under the Director's desk. It's the one way that SPYGOD could get in and out of his office without anyone knowing, and he used it quite often just to keep people on their toes.

So they wouldn't be thinking to have any guards actually on New Man, but rather outside the office door. And that's why no one notices the duct under the desk slowly opening, and a lone figure creeping up and carefully pulling the dagger out of New Man's chest.

The flickering ends the moment the weapon's out, the only damage being done to his suit. He's about to say "What the !@#$ are you doing?" to The Dragon, but a hand goes over his mouth and a finger goes to a pair of lips.

Second stands before him, wearing a strange uniform and carrying enough handguns to defend the Alamo.

New Man looks at him funny, and then nods, ceasing his attempts to say anything. Second takes the hand away and looks towards the door.

"We were right," he says: "Dragon's the plant."

"Well, I told you," New Man says: "Why couldn't you have just trusted me?"

"Because he told me the same thing about you, and I needed to know who was lying."

"How did you get away from him?"

"I didn't. He just killed me in the Secondary Control room."

"He did what...?"

Second smiles: "I told you I had a plan, right?"

"You didn't."

"I did."

"If SPYGOD finds out-"

"He'll threaten to fire me, and then tell me I did great. Same as always. Now can we worry about The Dragon?"

"I should say so," New Man says, almost on the verge of panic: "He's got access to The Flier's entire control system from there!"

"For the moment. But he's going to find out the hard way that the person who opens the door has to be there to help operate the controls. He's going nowhere."

"Oh," New Man says, clearly puzzled: "I had no idea."

"No, you didn't. I think there's only three people on board who do, and one of them just got shoved out of the engineering section head-first. The other's still in hiding."

"And you didn't tell me because...?"

Second just smiles: "How about we go round up some Agents, kick some GORGON !@#$, and talk about the bits of the owner's manual you didn't read later?"

"Best idea I heard all day," New Man says, taking two of the small pistols and getting up from the chair. As he does, he looks down at the sparkling dagger on the ground, and his eyes light up for a moment.

By the time they leave the room -- and kill both the Specials outside the door with their tiny little guns -- the dagger's become a pool of slag and scorched circuits.

So much for that part of the plan, then.

* * *

The blinding white columns of destruction do not escape the notice of the various armies across the world as they hold onto their hostages, and wait for their friends to come and help.

In some cases, they think this is somehow part of the plan -- their allies fixing it so that military forces cannot suppress their revolution. In others, they think they're being attacked by outside sources, who either waited for this moment to strike, or just picked a terribly convenient time to declare war on their country. 

(A few also guess that this is their friends' doing, and either beg for mercy, or cheer them on.)

But as the number of targets goes from a hundred to ten, and then zero, and the mighty weapons of Deep Ten fall silent at last, there descends a strange, pall-like hush over the world. The revolutionaries hold their breath, waiting for the next thing to happen.

And, in his office in Langley, the false face wearing the body of the Director of the CIA -- still waiting on Israel, but no longer willing to delay the plan -- executes the third phase.

Across the world, in the besieged and beleaguered capitol buildings, parliaments, and government complexes, bright and shiny figures appear from nowhere. They step out of teleporter beams, dressed in colorful, cheerful armor, and descend on the revolutionaries with swift and certain movements, working to save their captured leaders.

The armies try and fight back against these strange do-gooders, of course. But when they do, they discover that their new guns do not work. It's as though someone turned them off.

(In fact -- yes, they did.)

Within mere minutes, every location that had been subjected to a coup has been secured. The leaders of the world are free, once more. But when they try and thank their mysterious saviors, they find that they are captives, yet again.

"We have come to save you from yourselves," they are told, and made to wait for a message from their leader.

A message that, they are told, will be the most important thing they will ever hear.

* * *

"... I repeat, if you're hearing this, bug out," Myron says into the Heptagon overheads as he fiddles with what might be the most important thing he's ever made, in the safety of his locked office: "This base has been compromised, and I can't raise the Flier, the Director, the President, or anyone. We have to assume we're alone, and we don't stand a chance against Deep !@#$ing Ten.

"If you see any Specials, avoid them. I am authorizing the use of deadly force against them, but you really should just get the !@$# away from them. I'm also authorizing the total use of the vehicle pool. Don't feel like you have to return them with a full tank or anything.

"You know a back door, take it. You got friends, hide out with them. I'll find a way to send a signal once we know what's going on and can fight back. But for now? Run like !@#$.

"It's been an honor and a priviledge serving with you. Well, most of you. You know who you are.

"Good luck, and, like I said, bug out. Now."

With that, he flips off the communicator, and turns on the evacuation alarm. He hopes a lot of the Agents can get out. He knows they won't be able to if they're being fired upon by those Specials.

Which is why he's staying behind to work on this thing.

There's a knock at his door, all polite: "Warden Volaar?" a mechanical voice asks.

"A little busy here," Myron says, hoping the barricades hold: "Come back when I'm not being hunted down, okay?"

"Well, that's just it, sir," the voice says: "We have orders to place you under arrest for treason."

"Who sent them?"

"The Director of the COMPANY, sir."

"What's the passphrase?" Myron asks, grabbing a screwdriver and putting the last touches on the complicated, beetling thing he's slammed together over the last few minutes.

"Passphrase?"

"Well yeah, you can't just arrest people on someone's say so without them being here to enforce it. We'd all be arresting each other every other day if we could do that. What's the passphrase?"

"We don't have one."

"Then I don't have to comply," Myron says: "Call him back and tell him to give you a passphrase for my arrest, and if it'd in my codebook, I'll surrender."

There's no immediate answer, and Myron uses the quiet to check the power connection. This is probably going to blow every circuit on this side of the building, but...

"We're going to shoot the door down, sir," the voice says: "I'd stand clear if I were you."

"I bet you would," Myron says, turning the machine on. It's going to take a minute to warm up. Hopefully he'll have time.

A second later, the door and barricade blow inward -- smashed into smoking, singed chunks by the gauss guns the specials outside are carrying. Five of them walk through into the room, their weapons trained on him. Outside, he can hear screams and panic, as well as shooting noises and the sounds of men and women dying.

"That is not the passphrase," Myron insists, putting his hands up over his head: "This is a serious breach of protocol, gentlemen. I hope you're ready to be put to work scrubbing pumice in Costa Rica."

The specials aim their guns and prepare to fire. Myron closes his eyes and hopes the machine works.

There's the sound of firing, and then...

(SPYGOD is listening to Atmosphere (Joy Division) and having a Hell's Bottom)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 5

It starts in Pyongyang, of all places.

The Presidium is stormed from within at the top of the appointed hour -- its hallways turned into kill zones by a small but very determined group of pro-Democracy activists, armed with exciting new weapons. Generals, secretaries, and various functionaries die horribly as the True People's Army of the New Democratic Republic rampage through the capitol building, gleefully executing the old guard as they go.

Their main target is the boy king -- Kim Jong Un, not even a year into his lifelong reign. He is scheduled to be here, today, though exactly where is something they're not so sure of. But given how shoddy and piecemeal the Government's defenses are proving to be, it's only a matter of time before they find him.

And once he is seen to be in custody, their new friends have promised to appear and aid them in the process of freedom.

As the True People's Army kill and burn their way through the stately building, constructed on the backs of an entire nation, their unknown counterparts in other lands begin to do the same. An Aboriginal rights coalition surges into the Parliament House in Canberra as long-put-upon Communists march through the central government complex in Seoul. Pro-expansionist but anti-Imperial militarists in Tokyo leap from the closets and ceilings of the National Diet Building and begin to shoot the people's corrupt, America-led representatives, not long after those in favor of an even harsher police state in Singapore begin to put their plan into action.

In the capitol of almost every nation, going from East to West, the fire of revolution is brought to bear. Only America is spared the flames, for some strange reason.

And up above, far outside Lunar orbit, the man in charge of Deep Ten watches the rising smoke, and makes ready with his part of the plan. He can only hope -- in the absence of that his other allies are equally as ready, or this is going to be a very one-sided takeover.

And possibly quite short.

* * *

Considering how long it took Second and The Dragon to get to into engineering in the first place, the final steps to their ultimate goal go deceptively swift. 

They carefully sneak along the upper maintenance platform, trying to get there as fast as they can without being noticed by the Specials, down below. Then they cross a rude, unprotected gangplank to get to the thick, well-shielded platform over the reactor core. Once there, they wait until they're positive no one's looking their way, and then swiftly descend a ladder into another well-shielded area just behind the reactor, itself.

Between them and that location -- possibly the most secure location on the entire ship -- is a large, heavy door bristling with security measures, cameras, and weapons. The message is clear: only certain persons are even supposed to be here, even looking at it, and anyone not on the guest list should turn around and leave right the !@#$ now, or else go home in a small, zip-lock baggie. 

"Are you certain that you can open this door?" The Dragon asks. 

"Positive," Second lies: "But just in case I can't, you'll want to step back. There's a lot of unnecessary force behind the blasters."

"I think I can leap out of the way in time."

"Well, even then, you might get a bit singed."

The Dragon arches an eyebrow at him, and takes a lithe half-step to the side. Second smiles, nods, and steps forward onto the red line before the door. 

The machinery lights up, and dozens of small, lightning-swift probes and testers encircle him, all taking a miniscule amount of his skin to be sure he's who he says he is. Retinal scans flare and flash, his mind is read three times, and he gives a single word when prompted: "Antidisestablishmentarianism." 

There's a scary moment when it looks like it hasn't worked, but that's all part of the process, apparently. The devices stop in their spinning, and are retracted. A second later, the door pushes itself out, and then to the side.

"The secondary control room," Second says, gesturing to The Dragon, who, ever so carefully, walks in ahead of him.

The small, windowless room's not much to look at, at least at first. But as they enter, and approach the three chairs in its center, a wealth of holographic displays and interfaces light up, showing a miniaturized version of the controls from the flight deck. There's also a 3-D schematic of The Flier, itself, showing everything that's going on, and where everyone is.

(Except for them, here, and whatever's happening in the Director's office.)

"So, here we are," The Dragon says, giving everything a gimlet-eyed look. 

"Alright, the first thing we need to do is contact Washington," Second says, walking past Dragon and heading for one of the chairs: "Let the President and Richter know what's going on, and see if we can't mount a response. Then we find a way to get those Specials off board. Dump 'em in the !@#$ing water for all I care. And then-"

There's a strange wet, noise, and then Second's feeling like he's not quite there, anymore. He looks down at his chest, and sees there's a red, bloody fist where his sternum should be.

A fist holding his heart.

"I think we know what to do with your Flier," The Dragon says, standing right behind him: "You have been most helpful. Truly."

"Oh... !@#$ you..." Second mumbles, defiant to the last. 

And then there's nothing but silence.

* * *

"We repeat, we have the monster!" The North Koreans are shouting into the camera, holding a very scared, fat-faced young man up so their friends can get a good look at him: "We have him, as you told us! Now we are ready! You promised! Why won't you speak to us?"

The Director of the CIA watches this dispassionately, holed up in his Langley office and most pointedly not taking any calls from anyone. All morning long his people have been telling him of massive intelligence blackouts, and networks of spies and informants going quiet, or even completely offline. And all he's done is tell them to keep looking into it, but not do anything until he has a more complete picture of what's going on. 

Meanwhile, the picture in question's assembling itself in front of him, as planned.

He flips channels on his computer to other, similar scenes, elsewhere. Tokyo has completed its mission, as has Islamabad, Seoul, Singapore, and Canberra. New Delhi is still hammering at their leader's super-secure door, and their people in Kabul were completely wiped out by a very quick-thinking response team.

Moscow brings him a special smile, seeing as how the plan ended with the Prime Minister taking his own life, rather than submitting to the Communist fanatics taking over the Duma. No sign of Putin, yet, but after today he'll be so marginalized that he'll be hardly worth hunting down.

Not once the world reshapes itself around him. 

The world is burning East to West, in time with the Sun, and it's all his doing. He is the one who saw to the infiltration of the best, most organized -- or at least most dangerous -- anti-governmental groups around the world. He's the one who saw that they made new friends in seemingly high places, and gave them the weapons, training, and intelligence necessary to take over their own governments on cue. 

Now that they're winning, he's the one who's going to signal the activation of the second wave, once they've achieved certain benchmarks. And once that's in hand, he will personally activate the third phase and bring the plan to a close... 

Suddenly, his mind comes alive. He hears the opening strains of a certain song, and stands to attention.

Love is all you need, he thinks, joining minds with Dr. Yesterday, Director Straffer, and their Leader.

The Flier is secure in our hands, their leader announces: The second and third waves can begin... provided we are ready?

A challenge to the Director, and he's ready for it: We are almost ready. I am awaiting news from London, Paris, Brussels, and Jerusalem. These are the final four we must have the most concern over.

They would be easily dealt with from above, Straffer points out in his own, unhelpful way.

No, the leader says: That is not the plan. How long before London and Brussels are knocked out?

The Director breaks contact for a moment to look at his monitor. The Prime Minister of England has just been thrust into the view of the camera. And in Brussels...

We have England... now France. Still no word on Belgium. But-

The European Union can do nothing to us, Dr. Yesterday opines: They're as toothless as the UN, compared to what we have. Israel, on the other hand, is a real problem.

One easily handled, Straffer says.

We stick to the plan, the leader insists: Do you have faith that the second team in Brussels will complete their takedown of the European Union?

I do, the Director says: They are fractious and not suited to lengthy work together, but if they can hold to their plan long enough, they will succeed. 

And are Canada, Brazil, and Mexico spoken for?

Brasilia and Mexico City fell almost immediately. Canada is having some problems... I think the group underwent a schism just after the plan went live and they're now shooting at each other-

No matter, the leader says: We will advance. Straffer, begin the second wave. (REDACTED), stand by for the third wave. Doctor, maintain security at the Ice Palace.

I am so proud of all of you. You have done excellent work. We will prevail. Love is all you need.

"Love is all you need," the Director says, breaking contact and sitting down in his chair. Brussels is now a fait accompli, on both sides, but Israel...

"We had better be right," he says, allowing himself a little, all-too-human doubt in the face of what could be a plan-breaker. 

* * *

Myron very pointedly goes quiet, post-jailbreak. 

He does not send up an alert, or make any calls to security. The guards who were waylaid and knocked out and down by the Indians can sleep it off for a time. Likewise, the guards waiting for SPYGOD, at his intended cell, can wait there all !@#$ing day for all he cares.

Instead, he walks up the stairwell that SPYGOD vanished from. He knows the cameras there are all set to a loop, so as to not catch his former Director's exit from the building, or who spirited him away. He also knows that he can walk all the way up to the level his office is on, and not be seen or reported, provided everyone just takes the !@#$ing stairs.

Especially the Specials.

He doesn't know how high this conspiracy goes. Is Next Man who he says he is? Is Second, for that matter? Can The Dragon be trusted or not?

All he knows for sure is that it's only a matter of time before someone from the Heptagon calls over to The Flier and tells them they've got SPYGOD in a cell. And then it's only a matter of time before someone from The Flier calls back and wants confirmation, and the call goes through to Myron. He won't be able to stall them indefinitely -- not on something like that -- and then the President will want to know, and the Joint Chiefs, and !@#$ing Congress, and whatever chattering monkey the Republicans have as a front-runner this week...

"It's all over, isn't it?" Myron asks himself as he rounds the last set of stairs to his floor, knowing all too well that it is. 

Then his world goes sideways, quite literally. 

There's a bright light from the stairway door's small window, and people scream. Then the entire stairwell shakes and rattles, as though the ground was pounded hard right next door. The lights flicker on and off, and then go dead.

Myron runs through a million possible scenarios in his mind, standing there in near-panic. But by the time he's gotten through the door he's composed enough to realize that it wasn't a direct attack on the Heptagon. Maybe something near...?

"What the !@#$ is going on?" he yells into his communicator, but it's gone dead. Everyone's has from the looks of things. And no alarm sounds, no voices over the intercom.

He busts through the door, and finds that the scene outside it, in the southern hallway, is sheer bedlam. Agents are running every which way, panicked. Screams are coming from the areas near the windows, and the Agents nearest to them are on their knees, clutching at their faces.

Sunburned badly from the looks of it. And their eyes...

There's another, even brighter light from outside, and Myron turns to duck, throwing his hands up over his face. He's just in time, and his skin feels eerily warm for a whole second, and then deathly cold, as the Heptagon shakes again -- even worse than last time.

"Nukes?" he asks, thinking EMP. But his watch is still working, along with his They Live glasses. 

Then it hits him. That looked like a pulse beam weapon, which are immensely large, highly powerful, and way too dangerous to have anywhere on Earth, or even in near Earth orbit.

Which means that either they're being invaded, or...

"Deep Ten," he says, looking up at the ceiling: "Holy !@#$ing !@#$."

He fully expects to not live long enough to take another step, but then the suspected bolt of death from above does not come. When the Heptagon shakes, again, ten seconds later, it's less violent, and the light from outside comes from a different angle.

"Two beams, both from the south," he thinks out loud: "One closer than the other. Why? What are they doing?"

But then he sees some Specials stomping down the hallway. They walk up to the blinded Agents, over by the window, and, rather than stopping to give aid, shoot them with their gauss weapons.

"!@#$ me," Myron says, running for his office as panic turns to riot. A few Agents have the clear-headedness to assume proper firing stance and fire back, but they might as well be shooting spitballs at the heavily-armored beings.

It's to Myron's eternal credit that he doesn't immediately think of escape, but rather what he can do to fix this situation. By the time he reaches his office he's got the rudiments of a plan rattling around in his skull, but it's going to take more than an untested kill-switch and a killer pair of shades.

It's going to take a miracle.

(SPYGOD is listening to She's Lost Control Again (Joy Division) and having a New River)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 4

The route that Second and The Dragon take through the Flier -- post counter-coup -- leads them in increasingly-tighter circles, slowly taking them to the massive engineering deck, and their ultimate goal.

The path is designed to try and confuse people into thinking they're just taking a leisurely but unusual inspection tour -- not entirely unknown in these post-SPYGOD days. But it's also been designed to keep the Specials from seeing what they're up to, which would not only render their daring preemptive strike on New Man  useless, but also get them killed, most likely.

And no one wants that.

Second would rather go faster, of course, but he's following The Dragon's lead on this one. He may not trust him further than he could spit him, but if there's one thing the man knows how to be, it's sneaky. So he's deferring to his judgment on this one -- even if he's still highly uncertain of his true motives.

(The barrage of zen bull!@#$ he tried to ply him with, back in the Director's office, did nothing to convince him.)

"How much longer?" Second asks as they pass up yet another chance to walk into a side entrance of engineering, electing to go up another floor, instead.

"A young monk once asked his master how long enlightenment took," The Dragon answers, not bothering to look back and regard his questioner: "His master said 'as long as it takes.' The student pressed on, wanting to know 'how long does it take?" And the master smiled and said 'when you stop asking that question, you will know.'"

"In other words, shut up and keep walking?" Second cuts to the chase.

"In other words, once we're inside, you'll see why we've stayed outside for as long as we have."

Second scowls, but looks back the way they came. As he does, a pair of Specials walk from the entrance they might have just gone through, and take up position guarding it.

"I think I see," Second replies, looking forward again: "Do you think they know something's up?"

"I think they are on high alert, given that this is the day," Dragon replies, holding up a hand and pausing their journey: "I also think they are only a few movements away from taking over this entire installation, and the closer they get to the moment, the less secrecy becomes an issue. So if they see us, they may decide to bring certain eventualities forward, and then our stealthy attempt to stop their plan becomes a very loud and violent fight."

"True, but what if they throw the switch and we're still sneaking around out here?"

"Then we will know that we no longer need to sneak around, as you put it," the Dragon says with a condescending smile: "But look, my young monk. I think enlightenment may be close at hand..."

He gestures to a bulkhead that has been partially slid open, revealing access to the maintenance platform that runs the whole of engineering's roof, allowing engineers to get up and change lightbulbs.

"Ah, the top-down," Second says: "I guess this isn't a great time to mention I'm not !@#$ing crazy about heights."

"No," Dragon says: "But the good news is that we need only be so high for so long before going down."

"That's the other half of the problem."

Once on the platform, they can see that the situation is worse than they may have thought. The entire ground floor of engineering is literally crawling with Specials, with only a few Agents still at their posts. It almost looks like they're being replaced, one by one, by the new guards in the all-covering, high-tech suits and frightening-looking gauss guns.

The Dragon points to another platform, up against the far wall, just over the massive reactor core. Second knows what it is: an access point to one of the most secure places on the entire Flier, and one they'll need to get into in order to do what they need to do.

So they walk along the platform very, very slowly -- barely daring to look down as Agents are roughly wrested from their duties and made to leave the room. Any of them who ask the Specials for proper authorization are quickly marched from the room and tossed out; any who resist are overpowered and dragged away.

Second would dearly love to jump down there and kick some !@#$, but he knows that they have bigger fish to fry. Timing is critical, here, in the last moments before the enemy's plan kicks into full swing.

And, as Second knows too well, lost seconds don't grow on trees.

 * * *

It takes what seems like forever for the assistance to come to Myron's aid, in the interrogation cell. Then another forever beyond that for that assistance to get over the fact that they're going to be handling the SPYGOD, of all prisoners. But eventually, they get him up and ready to go -- thankfully not noticing that he's manacled in trick cuffs -- and then frog-march him down the hall and to an elevator.

Myron follows, holding the buzzer, and hoping that the Agents thronging the halls to watch their former Director be taken to a more secure holding facility don't give in to the urge to get physical. As it is, they seem content to jeer, boo, and hawk spit at him.

"Murderer!" they scream: "!@#$ing murderer!" "Traitor!"

Myron thinks of that terrible Christian snuff movie his Bible-thumping aunt made him watch, once, and can't help but find some strange parallels. But that would make SPYGOD Jesus, and if there's one thing he isn't, it's a martyr.

(Even now, somewhat in charge of the proceedings, Myron's just following his orders -- however temporally-scrambled they are, and however surreally they were given.)

The two guards take way too much time getting down the hall, mugging for the crowd and posing for photographs along the way. Thankfully they don't actually stop, but every so ofter the clicker goes off in Myron's pocket, and he's positive that his allies are wondering what the !@#$ is going on.

But at last they're in the elevator. And then they're going down to a level that, if all's gone well, should be absolutely deserted.

When the door opens, and Myron hears nothing, he's pretty sure that part of the plan, at least, as worked out. And SPYGOD picks that moment -- being dragged out of the elevator -- to finally wake up and start to talk.

"Look, I'm telling you, Myron, I don't know what the !@#$ happened," SPYGOD says: "You can hit me with that !@#$ing joybuzzer all day long if you want, but it ain't gonna change a thing."

"Yeah, tell it to the judge, !@#$er," one of the Agents says, shaking him a little.

"Don't talk to the prisoner, Agent," Myron says, wondering when Dosha and Anil are going to show up: "Just carry him to the cell."

"Oh, I get another cell, huh?"  SPYGOD replies, looking around him: "This one come with HBO?"

"It comes with enough slush-gas to turn you into compost," the other Agent lets him know: "Please, give us an excuse."

"I will hit the button again, (REDACTED)" Myron says, hoping that he hasn't missed his opportunity.

But then the clicker goes off twice in quick succession, and he hears the strange, marker-on-the-whiteboard noise that heralds a teleporter using his power. And even though he knows what's coming next, he can't help but be startled by how swiftly it goes down.

First Anil's in front of him, taking the buzzer. Then he's behind him, taking his pants and guns. Then those pants are tied around his ankles, and he's falling to the ground, barely able to get his hands up in time.

As he hits the ground, he's dimly aware that both of the other two Agents are being cold-!@#$ed in the noggin by a swift, fat fist. As they fall down their pants do the same disappear-reappear act as his own did -- just tied a little tighter.

And then SPYGOD's just standing there, still manacled and looking somewhat stupid, and not quite sure what's just happened.

"Do not turn around," Myron says to him, just a little above a whisper: "Listen to me, sir. When you get back to when you came from, you find me and tell me three things. One is to remember that there will be a day when you'll claim not to have done something, and I should believe you. Two is to make friends with the Indians. And three is to always carry a pair of trick shackles with me."

SPYGOD nods, and rattles his shackles. They fall off and clatter to the floor, useless and cheap.

He doesn't waste time looking back and saying goodbye. For a moment Myron's kind of hurt, but he realizes that it's a complement in a way -- SPYGOD's way of saying that he can take care of himself.

Sure enough, by the time SPYGOD's made the stairwell -- and that strange noise comes and goes and takes him with it -- Myron's already up, re-pantsed, and heading away from the cluster!@#$ he helped engineer.

And on to the next one.

* * *

From his spacious and starry lookout on the world, far up and away on Deep Ten, Director Straffer watches as 24 different clocks tick and tock their way towards the next hour in their respective timezones. Canberra, Tokyo, Seoul, Beijing, Singapore, Bangkok... from right to left, following the Sun.

It won't be too long, now. 

Of all the persons involved in the plan, today, he has the most important job of all. Dr. Yesterday might be seeing to the Chamber, and its security, and the Director of the CIA might be responsible for what happens next. And what their leader's going to be doing on board The Flier, once things really get going down there, is going to be another very important piece of the plan.

But it's what he and Deep Ten are locked into doing next that will either guarantee that the plan is going to go off, or not at all. 

Of course, without his support in things, the plan will still happen -- they've come too far, worked too long, and put too many resources and chess pieces into play for it to not work. But certain things would be no longer as controllable, and certain aspects of the "shock and awe" strategy they've decided to employ would no longer be as shocking, or nearly as awesome. 

It's not enough to take control of the world, today; they have to make certain it stays under control. And to do that, they need Deep Ten floating above it all, watching and merciless. 

"The nail needs a hammer," as their leader would say.

In some ways, the takeover of Deep Ten has been the toughest part of the plan to engineer. While GORGON had been running its communications network from the massive space platform for years, that was thanks to a few suborned, questionably-sane individuals that the real Director Straffer had been all too happy to fling from an airlock when their perfidy was finally discovered. And then he and SPYGOD had to go from rivals to friends to lovers in the space of only a few months, making further activities up here all the more difficult to engineer. 

Fortunately, Straffer was out quite often, giving GORGON enough time to sneak more personnel on board, including his trusted Second in command. Once that was done, they were able to alter the programming on some of Deep Ten's robotic servitors, and build remote deactivation routines into the rest. 

So when the time came for them to replace him, all the pieces were in place. Unfortunately, something went badly wrong, and the plan has suffered for it ever since.

Namely, Straffer chose suicide over surrender, or a fight to the death. And he chose to die by crashing out one of the windows in the area they ambushed him in, consigning his frail, human body to the cold and vacuum of space. 

As a result, they were not able to get a decent N-scan of his brain. This lack of his firsthand knowledge has made performing the rest of the operation very difficult and time-consuming, as -- much like his lover, SPYGOD -- there are numerous things that the Director alone knew, and did not care to share with anyone. 

But, at long last, the final pieces of the puzzle came together. They were able to bypass certain safety measures that had been placed within the weapons platform, and get it to do things that normally took a massive amount of override codes, palmprints, retinal scans, and DNA swabs to perform. 

And now, they are able to call Deep Ten theirs. 

Smiling with well-deserved satisfaction, the False Face wearing Director Straffer's face -- but, sadly, not possessing his mind -- watches the clock tick down on Sydney, and the last few minutes of the flawed freedom that Earth has "enjoyed" up to this point.

Soon a new hour will dawn, and with it a new order. 

And all he has to do is speak to bring it down.

(SPYGOD is listening to Interzone (Joy Division) and having a Desert Lime)