The Age of Imago - March

At first, there was confusion, which was only to be expected. The trauma of seeing the beams coming down from the sky -- the last thing many people ever saw -- and hearing that their airports and planes had been vaporized by them was bad enough.

But then there was the additional shock of the aborted takeover to consider. Most people, when told that their governments were nearly overthrown, tend to react badly at best. So one could only imagine how they felt when they heard that every government around the world was almost overthrown, and then by whom.

The United States of America? Really?

Though many around the world always suspected that something like this might one day happen, given that country's tendencies towards enforcing global security with aircraft carriers, nuclear missiles, and The Flier, only a few of them ever believed that it really would. Such persons were often called cranks or paranoids, and not always without good reason.

But here were the new saviors of humanity, telling them that this was what had happened. Such was the power of their presence that even the most skeptical and suspicious of people, once they saw these "Imago," couldn't help but remember those days, so long ago, when the world was on fire with brightly-colored superheroes, and they all felt a lot safer for knowing they were there.

Looking at those costumes, and seeing those smiles, they felt that wave of nostalgia, and let themselves be drawn into trust.

And then, not long after the Imago spoke to the people, their own leaders came to speak to them. They confirmed what the newcomers had said: that daring and bloody attacks had taken place in their houses of government, and that, just before these deadly armies could carry out their final orders -- to kill their captives, one and all -- the Imago had come and saved them from death.

Their leaders went on to praise their new friends, and assure their people that things would be alright, now. As the Imago had said, a terrible danger was on its way, and the people of the world needed their help to stave it off. But they would receive that help, and soon.

They told their people to be calm, and be patient. They told them to return to their homes, and not give in to panic, or sow anarchy and chaos. They told them to go be with their friends and loved ones, and be assured that, in the days to come, while things might occasionally seem a little strange or fantastic, that was just the Imago's way of doing things.

They had accepted the help of the Imago, they said, and their people should be prepared to do the same.

Those were great and stirring speeches, to be sure. Many listeners would say that they'd never heard their leaders speak so eloquently, or assuredly. Some listeners were still a little uncertain, of course, but they were mostly ignored by the multitudes, who, feeling reprieved from the destruction of everything they ever knew, were willing to trust in their leaders, and their mysterious new friends.

What they couldn't know was that, except for a few minor variations from country to country, in order to give them local flavor, the speeches their leaders gave were exactly the same.

And they also couldn't know that, except for the most naive or trusting amongst them, their leaders all went home, held their families tight, and wept, knowing that they had been conquered.

And knowing that if they valued the lives of the people they had returned to, they would let no one know the truth.

* * *

That was the reality that most of the world went to bed with, that day. But, in the United States of America, things were quite different.

The people of that country heard the same worldwide speech from the Imago. But then, instead of hearing a speech from their President, they heard another speech from the Imago -- one aimed directly at them.

In that speech, they were told that, in spite of what had happened, and what their leaders had conspired to do, they would not be held accountable. How could they have really known what was going on in the White House basement, or the CIA's headquarters? To punish them would be unnecessarily cruel, and would not serve the cause of justice.

However, justice would need to be done, and America would need to regain its place in a world no longer run by money, or defined by who had the largest weapons. 

To that end, special tribunals would be convened by the Imago. The architects of the plot, and those who had been complicit in its carrying out, would be brought before the world and made to confess their crimes before it. Many of those who were found guilty would be set to work undoing their damage, but a harsh example would have to be made of the most guilty ones of all. 

Also, America would need to prove its willingness to reenter the world, and learn the value of nonviolence and trust. All private citizens who possessed firearms for purely self defense purposes, as oppose to those rural citizens who used them for hunting, would be required to hand them over to the local authorities within a few days time. The age of the privately held handgun was over.

Further, all so-called Strategic Talents were to turn themselves into the Imago for vetting and possible inclusion within the tribunals. No doubt, many of America's "super heroes" were innocent of any wrong-doing, but given the level of collusion between the country's intelligence community, the current Administration, and The COMPANY -- who no doubt knew what was going on -- these persons would need to step forward and prove their heroism at least one final time by telling the truth about what they knew.

There might be other, smaller issues that would crop up, of course. The Imago asked for patience and trust in these matters. While they appreciated that Americans were, perhaps quite rightfully, highly skeptical of their leaders and institutions, now was not a good time to be overly doubtful and suspicious. Now was a time for trust, reconciliation, and the pride of knowing that, in a few short years, Earth would be a better, finer place for their having weathered a few small inconveniences.

The world was ready to soar, and America would soon be flying right alongside them into the glorious new world to come.

* * *

The screams from down the windowless, cold prison block stopped as abruptly as they had begun. 

Myron had been awoken from his fitful sleep, a few minutes ago, to the sound of the cell block opening and closing, and two sets of heavy armor boots stomping down the concrete. Within seconds he was sitting straight up on his bunk, no longer even remotely asleep, and wondering if today was the day. 

His day.

He was in the exact middle of the block, and the Imago always came from the left, and then went back there. They came anywhere from twice to six times a day, and there were always two of them, and they almost always had a third person with them: one of those naked, sexless, skullfaced things that they used to replace people. 

And when they were done with what they'd come to do (which always involved a lot of panicky, painful screaming) and gone back to the left, the thing was wearing one of his fellow prisoners. 

And smiling wide at nothing, like an idiot. 

He'd been here a week. In that time, this scene had played out about two dozen times. After the first few times, he'd realized what was going on, and why he was here. A few more times after that, he'd looked for some way to escape, but realized that the lack of exterior windows, the high possibility that they were underground, and the electronic sophistication of the rolling, barred doors of the cell made busting out without tools or weapons something of an mugs game.  And once he'd understood that, he'd made as much peace with his God as he could, and was ready for the moment when it came.

But that still didn't stop the fear. He knew what these people were using, and if it was anything like the N-Machines SPYGOD warned him about, he knew that it was one of the most painful ways to die, ever. Worse than having your skin scraped off by cheese graters and drowned in lemon juice, he'd said.

(Of course, SPYGOD said lots. That's why Myron was here, now.)

So he'd sat still, back to the wall, and waited for the telltale sound of the boots slowing down as they approached his cell. CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP, closer and closer...

And then they'd passed on by. 

The person across from him picked that moment to start crying, again. He was someone from the other Company, so far as Myron could get out of him. He was still playing it close to the chest, even here, even after being told what happened to the person who was in his cell before him. 

There were a lot of intelligence people, here, Myron noted. NSA, CIA, DIA. Even a couple of COMPANY Agents who were transferred in after the assassination. Of course, they were all happy to insist that they didn't belong here, and had done nothing. 

(Everyone else told them to shut the !@#$ up.)

There was also Colonel Richter, though he was a couple cells down to the right and across the way, which made talking to him kind of difficult. Every so often they'd peer out of the bars as much as they could and hand-signal to one another, COMPANY-style. But Richter hadn't kept up with the classes, and it showed, which turned such attempts at communication into sorry rounds of charades after a while.

For a moment, Myron had felt panic, and wondered if today was his day, instead. But the CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP had gone on, past Richter's cell, and then stopped at its final destination.

"Oh God, no," the condemned had said as they rolled the cell doors open: "Please, not me. I didn't do anything. I wasn't involved in anything more than signals intelligence. Please!"

Then the screaming had started, and the weird thrumming noise, and the bright, pulsing light from down the cell block. And once it was done, and their weird, post-Embracing catechism said, the door had opened back up again, and now they were marching back. 

The formerly naked thing was now a man in his mid-forties, dressed in the orange jumpsuit they were all wearing, and smiling like he'd just heard the best joke in the world. 

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," Myron whispered: "Here comes a chopper to chop off your head."

* * *

"Well, it's really simple, Mr. President," the skeedy little fellow says to him, handing over a large stack of papers and putting it on the Resolute Desk: "The fact is that you may not have been entirely privy to what was going on, given the high level of secrecy that it involved. But you had to have known that something was up. These papers are that something."

The President sighs, looks at them, and pointedly refuses to even touch them: "What sort of something?"

"Dates, meetings, little hints. We tried to be thorough. You don't have remember all these things, of course. In fact it'd be better if you didn't. If it sounds like you're reading off of a laundry list then it'll look like a Soviet show trial, and that'll just throw the whole show-"

"I thought I was going to be put on trial."

"You are," the fellow says, leaning back in his chair and looking around the Oval Office. Anything of worth or value had been taken from it, as well as the entire White House. All that was left was secondhand furniture and the President's desk, as well as one of the couches, which they let the President sleep on. 

"Then why the !@#$ are you !@#$ing telling me to lie on the !@#$ing stand?" the President asks, wishing for the hundredth time in what seemed twice as many days (but had really only been about ten or so) that he could have a beer: "I never heard of any !@#$ plot. If there had been a plot, the President would have told me. And I'd have told him to stick it and I'd have !@#$ing quit right then and there."

"You know, I think you're not getting it," the fellow sighs: "I'm trying to help you out, here."

"By making me complicit in a crime that I didn't do?"

"By saving your legacy, Mr. President," he explains, leaning forward: "This is the way it goes down. We need a villain. We need someone we can pin this whole thing on. That person, for better or worse, was your predecessor. But he's dead."

"How about the !@#$hole at the CIA?" the President shouts, getting to his feet: "That's what you're saying, isn't it? The whole global takeover thing was his doing! He arranged it, he armed them, and we had no !@#$ing idea. Put him on trial!"

"Sit down, sir," the skeedy fellow says. Something about how he says it (or maybe the fact that there are Imago just outside the door) makes the President's knees buckle, and then he complies

"Now, let me back the train up for you a bit, Mr. President," the man says, leaning back and talking with his hands: "Yes, the Director of the CIA is entirely complicit in what happened. But he was just the action man, making it happen. He didn't engage in this all by his lonesome. There was a far-reaching plot to seize the world's mineral wealth, and it's been in the White House armory for some time, just waiting for someone to use it."

"That's bull!@#$-"

"No, sir, it is not. I am sorry to say that this plan existed. It was authored by one of the previous Administrations' people, as a thought exercise as to what to do if peak oil was about to come, and a viable alternative to fossil fuels had not yet been found. Depending on the global political and economic situation, this could have tipped the balance of power away from America, and possibly towards the Soviets, or whatever might have replaced them."

"So you're saying that my President..." the President says, eyes tearing up: "One of the finest men I've ever known? You're saying that he found this plan, and handed it over to that !@#$hole from Langley, and they put it into motion without telling me?"

"That's what you're going to be saying, Mr. President," the man says, patting the pile of paper: "And the good news is that, once we've dealt with and sentenced the f-hole from Langley, as you put it, your partial guilt in things, and willingness to explain everything, will probably mollify the world enough that we won't have to make a terrible example out of you. And you can go to your fate knowing that history will be relatively kind. You'll sort of be like Ford to his Nixon, only on a larger, more devious scale."

"And what if I refuse?" the President asks: "What if I say !@#$ you, here and now, and say nothing more?"

"Then you really don't understand what else I mean by legacy, Mr. President," the man says, getting up from the chair and leaning over the desk: "You have children, and they have children. Would you like those grandchildren to live long enough to have children of their own?"

The President just stares.

"We've taken your wife from you. Please let this be all we take. Let us show you this much mercy, Mr. President. Let us help you sleep."

"You're monsters," the President says, looking down at the desk he never ever wanted to sit behind.

"We are necessary," the man says, turning to leave: "Help us to help you, and in return we will see that your legacy soars, even if you will not be there to see it."

And the skeedy man leaves the President to his sobbing and regrets, knowing that he will do anything to save his loved ones when the trials begin, next month. 

(SPYGOD is listening to (S)Crapage (Front 242) and having an Applehead)

The Age of Imago - First Words

O peoples of the Earth, hear us.

We send this to all the people of the world,

in all ways you speak to each other,

so there will be no confusion, no misunderstanding.

No mistake.

We are the Imago.

You do not remember us, but we remember you.

For once we lived amongst you, as good friends in need

We helped you in times of peril, and guided in times of trial,

In times past.

But then, after an era, we had to leave you

We wished we could stay, but had to leave.  

And since then we have walked beside you in time and space,

like brothers and sisters, unseen by all.

Until now.

We have been happy to merely watch

as you rise to the light we gained so long ago.

And we would have been happy to stay unseen,

but for a great evil that was worked upon you.

From within.

For some time, a rogue nation has planned an evil thing.

It has planned to conquer you and control you.

It conspired to take your freedom and wealth

so that they could prosper from your hard work.

And your oil.

For oil, your lives were all made forfeit.

For oil, your fates were thrown like dice.

For oil, your leaders were to be slain, and your governments toppled

For oil, your armies would be stamped flat onto the ground.

All for oil.

For oil, which will soon run dry, these plans were laid.

An army for each nation, there to kill your leaders.

They struck on this day, well armed and with orders

To kill and control, and sow panic and fear

For America. 

We learned of this plot too late to stop it.

This is our shame, to bear for all time.

And we acted too late to stop the chaos and death.

This is also our shame, to bear for all time.

Forgive us.

But we are here now, O peoples of Earth.

We are here now, in our legions, to help you rebuild.

We are here to staunch your blood and salve your wounds.

We are here to protect you, to save you, to guide you.

We are here.

For a new threat is coming, O peoples of Earth

A great and horrid thing from beyond space and time

As you hear us now, it comes for this world,

And will not stop until it has come and gone.

And destroyed.

Once, at your best, you may have fought it and lived.

With your space rays and your bombs, you could have yet won.

With your heroes and your powers, you may have seen it off

With courage and force, you could have been victors.

Just perhaps.

But now, O peoples of Earth, you have nothing left.

Your space weapons are dust, and with them your safety.

Your missiles and aircraft are melted, your heroes dead or missing.

Your once great defenses can no longer save you.

Only us.

We, the Imago, have returned to save you.

We will save you from the threat that comes from outer space

And we will save you from the danger you pose you yourselves.

No more rogue states, no more tyrants, no more oil wars.

No more threats.

The days to come will be hard at times.

There will be a new way of living and doing.

We will ask things of you that you might not understand.

But we ask for your faith, and to know that we care.

Please trust us.

There will also be justice, at long last.

Those who sought to destroy will be made to confess.

You will all know the truth, though it may be hard to hear.

Ambition's debt will be repaid, and justice be done.

This we swear. 

After those hard days will be good days indeed.

We will work with your leaders on a great new world.

A world with no war, no poverty, no want.

A world where work will be given, and well rewarded. 

Your new world.

As one people, we will rebuild the Earth.

We will raise great new cities, and make great new lives.

We will show you things you did not think were real. 

We will bring you to the light we have known for so long.

Together.

We are the Imago, and we have returned!

Rejoice, O Peoples of Earth, for you are now free.

We shall raise you above the heavens you seek,

And deliver you from the evils you fear.

Let us soar. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Crushed (Front 242) and having more of the radioactive mare's milk. So should you.)

The Day of The Gorgon - Epilogue pt. 3

The joke was that Altan Aduu should have been !@#$ing dead.

Of course, a lot of people have wanted his equine !@#$ shot full of holes, minced fine, and thrown in a riding bag over the years. Back when we were !@#$ing with the Commies, in the 80's, there wasn't a province in Mongolia that didn't have his smiling face up on the wall at every police shack worth a !@#$, and more than a few that weren't. The Chinese, the Russians, the Mongolians, even the CIA from time to time when he burned them on a deal.

(A trick he learned to relish after dealing with me, let me tell you.)

But this time, he really dodged the !@#$ing bullet.

On March 15th, close to midnight, Altan was supposed to be at Choibalsan's airport, waiting for a plane to land with certain things an employer wanted a !@#$ of a lot more than the legitimate buyer. The plan was to wait for the cargo to be loaded up by his men on a certain truck, and then pull a switch with that truck on the way out of the airport, taking advantage of the dark. By the time the new hired drivers got the cargo to Baruun Urt, many !@#$ing miles away, the real cargo would be halfway to a rendezvous point on the other side of the country, there to lay low for a couple days until they could take it out of Ulaangom.

It was a risky move, to be sure, but that's what Golden Horse does best. He always figured that the crazier the plan, the less !@#$ing likely anyone would suspect it was going to go down that way, which meant he could get away with it. I always liked that about him.

But he also had some inside intel, which made it sound like that day was going to be really !@#$ good to slip under the radar. Apparently some group of crazy Commie !@#$heads were going to try and pull a coup in Ulaan Baatar that evening, which would keep the authorities tied up like !@#$ing pigs for quite a while. In the confusion, there'd be no one to call for help, and he and his men could go party like dogs in Ulaangom while the dust settled.

What could go wrong? Well, son, by now you should know how this !@#$ goes.

The plan went sideways at !@#$O'clock in the evening, which is what it usually !@#$ing does. The decoy truck blew a tire on the way in to town, and the spare tire was as flat as a worn-out nag. After shouting at the idiot responsible, and threatening to !@#$ him to death with his hooves, Golden Horse changed and galloped off to find a new one.

So that meant that, when the giant beam of light came down from the sky, far away to the southeast, he wasn't close enough to be hurt, and was able to gallop for cover. And when a second giant beam of light came down and turned Choibalsan's airport into a smoking hole in the ground, not only was he not !@#$ing there to be atomized, but he was hiding in a gulley, and avoiding being blinded.

Eventually, he figures the big !@#$ deathray part of the show's over, and he gets his horsey !@#$ back up and heads back into town. Come to find out that his men back at the decoy truck weren't all so lucky, and were looking in the wrong !@#$ing direction when the beam hit Choibalsan. There were quite a few folks in town who weren't too lucky, either, but he didn't find out about them just yet.

Of course, it goes without saying the deal's !@#$ing off. They fix the truck with a tire they steal off a car whose driver's had his eyeballs melted, and head back to their hideout, only to find that the plane they were going to heist's waiting for them halfway there, in a wide field of debris. Not !@#$ing much of it left, though, but there's enough for them to salvage a little of what they'd intended to get.

And while they're doing it, Altan realizes that it's a military plane. Not that it would have mattered during the theft, itself, but it's one of those facts that lodge in your brain like a sticky bomb, waiting for the right moment to go the !@#$ off.

* * *

Once they get back to the tunnel, the people they left behind have the radio on, and they're about halfway through this weird!@#$ broadcast. Some group calling itself "Imago" are telling them how they're going to save the entire world from itself, as we can't be !@#$ing trusted to do it ourselves, anymore.

Needless to say, that doesn't make my friend all that happy, as he's heard that !@#$ before. But the radio goes dead before he can get any more out of them, and then it's just static on every channel.

That's about when his men decide to tell him what's been going on, at least according to the voice on the radio. And that's what he was operating on when he decided to try and kill the !@#$ing President, right in front of me.

In the world according to Imago, whoever the !@#$ they are, the American government was involved in a massive plan to destabilize all the governments of the world, in order to gain access to their mineral resources. Peak oil was on its way, and we apparently decided we'd rather launch a !@#$ing preemptive strike rather than suffer through the inevitable gas wars to come.

So proxy fighters were armed, trained, and sent in to murder and kill all foreign heads of state, and disrupt their houses of government. And while that was going on, we'd use orbital weapons to destroy all airpower, everywhere, so that no one could threaten us as we stomped our way across the !@#$ing globe like Alexander the !@#$ing Great.

Fortunately, Imago saved the world from American imperialism, but not before the entire world was left defenseless in the wake of an oncoming cosmic threat. Seeing as how we were now !@#$ing helpless, they took pity and decided to aid us, so that we may survive the coming storm.

And the best thing we can do is help them help us. 

Needless to say, this is complete !@#$ing bull!@#$, but it made a certain kind of sense to my friend, seeing how many times he'd had his tail burned by the !@#$ing CIA. Thankfully,  I talked him down from doing the obvious thing with the apparent architect of the world's current misery, but he isn't completely sure his men won't try their hand at trying to collect a reward from the Imago, next time they show up in Choibalsan and see how their !@#$ factory is going.



More details came as the night went on, and the kumis started getting passed around. Every major city in Mongolia's a !@#$ing factory of some kind, now. People were rounded up, told to leave their homes and belongings behind, and housed in high-tech tent cities not far from their workplace. They get worked ten hours a day, and then let loose to do whatever the !@#$ they want, within reason.

He says they look well fed and rested, and he can hear what might be radio or TV coming from the camp so he figures they've got entertainment. No one tries to sneak out, but he doesn't know if that's contentment or fear.

Why fear? Well, according to Altan, all the kids in all the cities were taken somewhere else, nearby. Altan's never gotten close enough to those tent cities to see what's going on there, because those, unlike the factories, are actually guarded by Imago, themselves.

He described what they look like, and told me that he felt a small piece of himself wanting to trust them, for some reason. That says a lot coming from a smuggler like him. He's old enough to remember what things were like in the 70's, and something about them reminds him of those amazing heroes.

Until they smile, anyway. Then he wants to cram his hooves into their mouth and kick up till their heads come off at the !@#$ neck.

At some point in the evening, the President asks what's happened to America. After all, if the government's being blamed for all this, then they must have exacted some kind of retribution.

Altan says that they've gotten radio broadcasts of war crimes tribunals. People have been tried for their crimes and, when found guilty, executed. Taken up into space and left to suffocate or explode, apparently.

The President, looking more than a little panicky by now, asks who was found guilty.

And Altan looks at the man, and, as matter of factly as he can, tells him the truth.

* * *

While the President's been off, dealing with that, I've come to grips with something I didn't really want to hear. The !@#$ing date.

It's July, apparently. Early July, 2012. Simon !@#$ing flung me a few months into the future, well past the date I was trying to come back by.

Four months, son. Four !@#$ing months I've been !@#$ing sidelined while these Imago !@#$ers have been in control of my !@#$ing planet. Turning it into a !@#$ing work camp, snatching up kids for !@#$ knows what reason, and selling people on some !@#$ing cosmic doomsday scenario.

Of course, as we both know that scenario might actually be !@#$ing real. Do they really know about it? Or are they just piggybacking? !@#$, are they in league with the !@#$ing thing, somehow?

What's happened to GORGON? Are all the Legion criminals still locked up? Is HONEYCOMB still squashed? ABWEHR? 

I don't know, son. I just don't.

But I'm safe, here, at least for now. I have the President of the United States of America, and he's safe. I'm with an ally that, while he's shifty as !@#$, knows better than to betray me. 

Best of all, I'm the one thing the enemy doesn't want me to be.

Alive.

Imago's gonna go down like a Thai hooker on a Marine, son. You can bet your sweet !@#$ on that. 

But for now, I have a President to comfort, and a plan to make, and three bottles of fermented radioactive mares milk to drink before I can even consider shedding a tear for the people I just know I've lost.

So if you'll excuse me, son?

Thanks.

(SPYGOD is listening to Dream Attack (New Order) and having dangerously radioactive Kumis)

The Day of The Gorgon - Epilogue pt. 2

Let me start this !@#$ by saying that Altan Aduu is my oldest friend in Choibalsan.

When I say "oldest," what I mean is that, back in the 80's, when I was running stuff from China to the USSR and back again, he was one of my go-to people, as he was one of the best !@#$ing smugglers in the business in that region, special talent or not.

And when I say "friend," what I mean to say is that, so long as the price was right, and I didn't get too many of his people !@#$ing killed on the job, he was very happy to let me use his services to get one over on the big two.

But still, when you run with someone so many times, and have so many crazy !@#$ing adventures that !@#$ near get both of you killed, and both hate Commies with a burning !@#$ing passion that defies any attempts at reason, you do develop a certain amount of camaraderie. There were crazy !@#$ing days and nights spent pounding homebrewed kumis that could take the !@#$ing enamel off your teeth, and leave you !@#$ing a stream of urine that could burn the !@#$ing paint from whatever wall you chose to relieve yourself on.

(He said the milk came from radioactive mares. I don't know whether to !@#$ing believe him or not.)

So I guess that's the only !@#$ reason both I and the President survived our first few minutes of meeting with my old friend, late tonight. If it'd been up to him, he'd have put two iron hooves right in the President's skull the moment he realized who he !@#$ing was. And if he'd done that, then I'd have had to put my !@#$ing hand through his !@#$ horsey noggin, and then his men would have filled me with enough !@#$ing arrows to turn me into a big gay pincushion.

Thankfully,  reason prevailed, which is a nice !@#$ way of saying he saw the look in my eye when I threatened vengeance on his entire !@#$ family, down to his great-great grandson, and knew I wasn't !@#$ing around. After that, he let me say as much of my say as I felt comfortable saying in front of him and his men. And after that, he turned back into a man, and got his men to !@#$ off for a few so we could talk about things like civilized people.

Not that I at all blame him for his initial !@#$ing freakout, now that I know what I know.

And now...

...

* * *

Rewind a little, and it's me and the President in a stolen truck that had been on its way to somewhere else, driven by a sorry little !@#$ robot thing that was !@#$ing easy to fling out the side. We'd headed back the way it'd came, to Choibalsan, with the goal of getting the President off his feet and into some !@#$ing AC, as well as getting to a town to find out what the !@#$ happened to our planet's normally overly-chatty system of satellites. 

On the way there, at a spooky layover that hadn't been used in some time, and offered free water, we found a propaganda poster that had the Vice President's !@#$ mugshot on it, along with a lot of Mongolian that, while I can speak it fine, I couldn't read too !@#$ing well. But the word "executed" I could make out just fine, given all the time that my colleagues over here wound up on similar broadsheets, courtesy of the former, Soviet !@#$ kissing government of Mongolia.

(And, no, I did not share that with the President. Not until I was !@#$ sure, anyway. I'd just gotten him to talk to me with some measure of respect and brotherhood. I didn't need him turning into a !@#$ing sobbing wreck on me, now.)

Perplexed but re-hydrated, we got back on the truck, and persuaded the !@#$ thing to go just a little faster into town. He didn't ask me any questions, so I didn't have to !@#$ing lie. But I didn't need that photo back there to tell things were not right.

Once we got over the bridge and came within view of the city, I just knew. No ground traffic, no one on the roads trying to sell me !@#$, no noise. Not even a stray animal.

Nothing.

I pulled us over, killed the engine, and motioned for him to be quiet and follow me. If I'd had a !@#$ing gun I'd have handed it over, gladly. But as it was he was just going to have to learn to duck and !@#$ing cover.

Hopefully I wouldn't have to be the one doing the !@#$ing covering.

* * *

The best way to imagine Choibalsan is to think of a bunch of houses whose fences are taller than the !@#$ing houses. There's row after row of them, several deep, going along the main drags, and after you've gone east a bit you actually come across what could be called buildings. Of course, these buildings are courtesy of !@#$ing Communists, so they look like commie concrete apartment blocks, and have the same dreary sameness that you get from Eastern postwar Europe, minus the hookers, junkies, and neon signs.

The city's had one of the worst unemployment rates since the commies left, so sneaking from one side of town to another should be a !@#$ing difficult thing to do. The streets should be chock-full of people with well-kept horses and broken down cars. There should be vendors and workers and people just standing around and talking, all smoking !@#$ing outrageous-smelling cigarettes. There should be conversations, arguments, laughter, drinking.

But there's nothing. It's a !@#$ing ghost town. 

And usually, if someplace is a ghost town, it's because there's a lot of !@#$ing dead people.

* * *

So the President and I sneak along the rows of houses, and eventually duck into one. I let him investigate the food situation while I look for newspapers or magazines, or anything that could explain something. We both come up !@#$ed: rotten food we can't !@#$ing eat and stale media I can't really !@#$ing read.

But I do understand the date on the last paper I've got here. March 15th, 2012. The !@#$ing Ides of March they were warning me about.

(I keep that under my hat, too, just to make sure the President stays useful and with-it.)

Luckily, the owner of this fine home had a few cans of Pepsi in the long-warmed fridge, so we finally get some !@#$ing caffeine and sugar to work with. And while I'm coasting on a long-overdue sugar buzz, I check the rest of the place out, and find more than a few disturbing things.

Case in point, it's not just deserted, it's been !@#$ing ransacked, and in a hurry. The bedroom's been emptied of almost all clothing and necessaries. They left the TV and radio, took the toiletries, and, as I soon discover, left behind a rather !@#$ing impressive stash of cash. Also their knives, which is saying something for this area of the world.

Who evacs with clothes and soap and doesn't take their weapons or !@#$ing money? Someone who's being rounded up to go to prison.

(Trust me on this, son. I know.)

Fortunately, they left some clothes behind, and they're in our size. The President and I change into local garb, making sure to cover our faces. I grab every last !@#$ing knife I can from the place before I do, just in case we run into what I'm pretty !@#$ sure we're going to run into.

And then we head back out, continuing to sneak from row to row, all the way downtown.

* * *

It isn't until we get downtown that I start hearing things, finally. What I hear doesn't make me feel any better. Manual labor noises, a lot of unhappy people, unhappier horses.

When we get close enough to get a good look, I see that several buildings have been turned into makeshift factories, with long, rudely-constructed pavilions being used as assembly floors. Men and women sit at long tables and do piecework on machine components or electrical boards, doing a little and then passing it down the line, where they're collected and then taken to other tables for more work.

Horses trot around hot walkers that have been altered with electrical components. I figure they were stripped from the better quality power lines that they had downtown. Judging from the sparks and ozone smell they're being used to generate electricity, which is powering the lights and tools in the pavilions.

Past the pavilions, there are a few more trucks like the one we just liberated. They're either off or idling, and people are loading them full of boxes. I figure the boxes are full of whatever these folks are making. 

I try to zoom in and see exactly what they're putting together, but from the distance it's not conclusive. Could be for missiles, planes, home computers, or big !@#$ sex toys for all I know. I can't !@#$ing tell from here, so we'll just have to get closer and blend in. 

Of course, that's when the President coughs and taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to shush him, and see there's an arrow pointed at my !@#$ing eye. 

About ten of them, actually, all being brandished by ten, flint-eyed fellows who don't seem too !@#$ happy to have found us here. They're wearing dark clothing with no shine or color, and are as dusty as !@#$, like they just got off a long horse ride.

Now, you know SPYGOD, son. If it'd been just me I'd have !@#$ing killed them all with both hands tied behind my back by grabbing knives from my belt with my !@#$ and throwing them. But they had the President dead bang, and, since I didn't !@#$ing hear them sneak up on us, that says there's something else going on. 

Plus, I think I kind of recognized one or two of them from my old days, here in town. 

So I raised my hands, gave my best greeting, and asked to be taken to Altan Aduu, as he knew me and we were allies. Most of them blinked at that, but the !@#$hole in charge and the one I thought I remembered just sneered, and the boss said "Okay, teneg khuur, your funeral."

Which it !@#$ well could have been, considering how the initial meet went.

* * *

They sneak us out of town, which is very !@#$ing telling. They didn't want us poking around, but they're clearly poking around, themselves. So we're obviously some big !@#$ x-factor in their own side gig, not that they wanted to chat about that. 

(Normally I'd push some buttons, and see what they let loose. But I didn't want to risk them getting violent, since the President might have gotten clocked upside the head with a Mongolian bow. And those !@#$ things !@#$ing hurt.)

We went North for a while, and when we were well out of town they took us to where they'd hid their horses. We were allowed to get on one, and ridden in the middle of their line, just to make sure we didn't try and !@#$ off. We went fairly slowly, probably to keep down on noise, at least at first. But eventually they picked up the pace a bit, just not enough to kick up a huge dust cloud.

We went further North, then East, and then stopped at a tunnel hidden inside some mountains. The leader of the group rode ahead a bit and talked with someone who stepped out of !@#$ing nowhere, carrying a big !@#$ing gun. The kind they used to use to shoot holes big enough to crawl through into Soviet tanks, back in the day.

The kind you can only shoot without a tripod if you're !@#$ing Superman. 

We're outside for ten !@#$ minutes, not saying anything, and then the boss comes back and says we can go in. We're taken off the horse, marched into the tunnel, and down into the ground for a few minutes. I can see just fine, down in the dark, but the President starts getting a little nervous.

But then we're out of the dark and into a larger cavern, one that's got lights and crates of weapons, food, and other contraband. Some of the boxes I remember from days past, others are brand !@#$ing new, but they all have the look of things that were stolen off the back of army trucks, the fronts of industrial warehouses, and numerous other, lucrative places.

And once I'm positive that this cavern has the look of a certain smuggler's presence, and frankly tacky decor, who should stride into the cavern but Altan Aduu, himself?

The Golden Horse smiles at me, eyes lined with crows feet and teeth big and horsey in his face. He calls me things that you don't want your !@#$ing kids to hear, and I tell him where he can shove his opinion. And then we're laughing, and he's about to hug me, but then he sees the President. 

And then he shouts, rears back, and reveals why they call him Golden Horse, iron hooves and all. When he rears up his head almost reaches the tall cavern ceiling, and the fumes from his nostrils could have killed everyone in here if he hadn't dialed it the !@#$ back.

Which is about where we came in, isn't it? Except now he's no longer a demon horse, his men aren't treating us like prisoners, and I know more than I did when we landed, earlier today.

That and the President's gone and lost his butch, big time.

Not that I !@#$ing blame him. This is worse than anything we planned for. Worse than anything I could have ever imagined. 

And I have a very !@#$ good !@#$ing imagination, son. 

So I'm going to give him about another hour of crying like a !@#$ing kid with a skinned knee in a lemon juice factory, and then I'm going to hand over some of that glow-in-the-dark kumis that Altan Aduu makes and see if I can't drink him back into sensibility. Then we're going to have to talk immediate plans.

Past that... !@#$ed if I know. 

...

More later, son. Let me have a few hits of this radioactive !@#$ myself. Maybe it'll help.

God !@#$ing knows, I could sure use some. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Blue Monday (New Order, remixed by Hardfloor) and having radioactive mares milk)

The Day of The Gorgon - Epilogue pt. 1

- feel like someone's thrown us through a wall, only to pull us back from the pile of broken bricks on the other side and drop our !@#$es right back where we started.

Except that it's not where we started from. It's green, alright, but it's not Alter Earth's !@#$ed-up version of Neo York City. It looks like a woodland setting, somewhere. Trees, hills, a brook that doesn't have the good sense to shut the !@#$ up and let me think.

First things first, I check to see that the President's okay (he is, thank !@#$).

Then I check to see if Simon's anywhere near (he's not, thank !@#$).

And then I see if I got my guns back (I didn't, god!@#$ it).

"Where are we?" The President asks, looking around. I can't say for sure for a second, which really !@#$ing worries me, but after a few moments I'm able to lock on to a GPS satellite, somewhere.

"Mongolia," I find out: "Holy !@#$. He sent us to !@#$ing Mongolia."

"Are you serious?"

"!@#$ straight, Mr. President," I say, pointing off to the horizon: "About 60 miles from Choibalsan, I think."

"You think?"


"Ah, something's !@#$ing wrong with the GPS satellite I was using. It's like it was offline or something. I had to kick it in the !@#$ to get it to work again."

"You can do that?"

I just smile at him: "Can't everyone?"

He sighs, starting to head in the direction I pointed: "Well, as long as we're back on the right Earth, right now I don't care if it's Myanmar."

I smile and follow after, glad to finally have the whiny liberal !@#$er back.

* * *

In case you've never served in the !@#$ing armed forces, or gone on some kind of crazy-!@#$ endurance thing, 60 miles is a long !@#$ing slog, Son.

The good news is that, after a few hours, we finally come across a road that might actually accommodate regular car travel between cities. The bad news is that no one's driving on it, today.

(Or a couple days, come to think of it. The tracks are about as fresh as a Spandau Ballet reunion.)

It goes without saying that the President's not a happy !@#$ing camper. We found water and some decent berries on the way to the road, so at least I'm not adding 'failed to feed the commander in chief' to my long list of official failures. But after everything he's been through over the last month, and everything we put him through over the last few hours, what he really needs right now is to be driven somewhere decent in something relaxing, the better to put himself back together again.

For a moment I wonder what the !@#$ happened to Mr. USA. I decide not to worry about it too much, right now. He may be alive or dead, but either way he's not here, and there's nothing I can do about that.

Me, I'd much rather wonder about what the !@#$'s happened while I've been away.

See, I shouldn't have had to go kick the !@#$ out of a lonely, barely-tended GPS satellite that was on the outs with its !@#$ing company about a year ago, and left to drift back to Earth. I should be getting a million billion different choices for information from the global information network, up above our !@#$ heads. I should be picking up TV shows, satellite radio, chatter from telecommunications satellites, comms from a thousand different sources...

Instead, I got nothing. I can't even !@#$ing pick up !@#$ing defense chatter, which really worries the !@#$ out of me.

Another worry: it's been a few hours, by now, and I have yet to see, much less even hear, a single !@#$ing aircraft. Choibalsan's got a decent airport, so we should have gotten at least one or two takeoffs or landings by now, but the skies are !@#$ing empty.

Did my !@#$ing eye get !@#$ing scrambled while I was over in Alter Earth? Did Simon do something to me when he flung us back to Earth? Did something finally just !@#$ing break?

I don't know for sure, yet. But something tells me I am not going to like the answer when I get it.

* * *

About an hour down the road, I finally hear a !@#$ing motor vehicle coming our way. It's more than a few miles away, and going the wrong direction, but I'm sure I can persuade the driver to turn the !@#$ around. So I have the President get over to the side, out of sight, and do my best "leather damsel in distress."

The truck comes into sight, and right away I can tell that something's wrong. It's fully loaded down with something, but the engine isn't one of those nasty, gas-munching and toxic-waste !@#$ing monstrosities you normally expect to find in this end of Mongolia. It's a machine so clean it's a wonder it runs on anything at all, much less that I even heard it before it was on top of us.

The other thing that's wrong is that no one's driving it. I can see cameras on the front, and a whole bunch of mechanical do-hickeys sitting behind the wheel, where the driver ought to be. So, of course, the !@#$ing thing isn't even slowing down, and it's going about 80 on a road that you really shouldn't be doing more than 40 on because someone might walk out in front of you, or forget how to !@#$ing drive.

And me without a gun! 

!@#$ it. I get alongside it, leap up as soon as the driver's side door comes hurtling by, and open the !@#$ing door. Lucky me, the !@#$ thing's unlocked.

Just as I thought, the machine behind the wheel, while highly advanced, is also extremely removable. So I toss it the !@#$ out, take control of the truck, and carefully turn it the !@#$ around to go pick up the President.

"Well, it ain't Air Force 1, but it's got seats," I say when he hauls himself in. He just sighs and, in a moment of perfect humanity, rifles through the glove compartment for gum or water or something. 

Nothing, of course. But at least we've got wheels and AC, which is a lot more than we had just a few minutes ago. So I gun the motor and head for Choibalsan, hoping we hit someplace along the way that's got bottled water that didn't come out of the !@#$ end of a donkey.

* * *

In addition to seats, AC, and safety belts, we have a god!@#$ radio, too. About ten minutes into the trip I turn it on to try and break the nasty silence the President's insisting in wallowing in. But I don't get !@#$, just static. I flip through every !@#$ing channel about three times just to be sure there's nothing in that static at all, and then turn it the !@#$ off, quite displeased.

"Not quite the rescue you were picturing," the President says, breaking the silence.

"No," I say, sitting up and looking down the road at what I hope is a layover.

"Well, thank you."

"Hey,  I tried, sir-"

"No, really," he says, smiling: "Thank you, (REDACTED). You saved my life back there."

"All in a day's work," I say, not really sure how to handle this kind of gratitude. I've felt it before -- especially the time I saved JFK -- but this time, somehow, it feels different. Maybe because he and I fought so much?

"I can't tell you how... how bad things were," he goes on: "I don't know that they'd make any !@#$ sense at all to you. But I know they were going to keep me there, in that chair, and make me watch everything that happened until I just got too old to keep breathing. And then they'd probably find some way to keep me alive even past that."

"They seem to be pretty !@#$ing adept at that," I say, slowing down a little: "Did the other me say anything to you?"

"I never even saw him. That guy in the weird uniform walked into the Oval Office and grabbed me, and the next thing I know I'm in their version of Washington DC."

"Any worse than ours?"

He shudders, and I decide not to push that one: "Did the weird guy in the uniform say anything to you?" I ask.

"He told me to shut up or he'd... do things with my wife and children," the President says: "After what I saw when we got there, I figured he wasn't kidding. So we didn't really talk, but when we got to that place... whatever it was...."

"The Prosperpinium?"

"Yeah. He handed me over to the guards there and said 'take good care of him, just like we agreed, and your world will be spared.'"

"That sounds pretty !@#$ing dramatic," I say, about to pull into the layover, which, thankfully, has something that looks like a convenience store.

"That's what I thought, too. But something about how he said it, and how they reacted? It seemed pretty legitimate. I think they thought he was actually saving them from something."

"You know, that's interesting," I say: "Juan told me they'd caught apocalypse fever, lately."

"Juan?"

"Yeah, HONEYCOMB's Alternaut. We found a !@#$-ton of evidence about their Alter-Earth technology at their Central HIVE. I snowjobbed him into thinking I was them, and he kept me informed about what was going on. That's how I found you, actually."

"Oh? Where is he, now?"

"Let's not talk about that, sir," I say, thinking of what must be left of the poor !@#$er by now, and putting on the brakes as we pull in: "I recommend we find some water. Dehydration's gonna !@#$ us if we're not careful."

* * *

The layover's small little shack has water, alright. But it's free, which creeps me the !@#$ out. 

A new-looking machine dispenses cold bottled water at the touch of a button, and tells us to have a nice day in three different languages. I don't recognize the !@#$ing company name -- Imagoworks? -- and have never seen this brand of water, but I'm so done in I don't give a !@#$.

We chug about three apiece, making sure we're good and hydrated, and look around. There's no sign anyone works at this place. No recent footprints or sign of habitation. Even the bathrooms are !@#$ing immaculate. 

"This is !@#$ing spooky," I remark, walking outside the building and taking a slight reconnoiter around the back. When I get to one of the sides of the building I find that the President has beaten me there, and is staring at the wall in something I'd have to call "total !@#$ing shock."

There's a poster, there, tacked up on the wall. It's been there some time, judging from the wind and rain damage, but it's quite clearly understandable. 

It's a picture of the Vice President that looks a whole !@#$ of a lot like a mugshot. And he looks like he's just had the !@#$ beaten out of him before he posed for the camera.

There's writing on it, and while my Mongolian's a little rusty, I think I understand "enemy" and "the world."

Also "executed," but I don't tell the President that, just yet. 

"What the !@#$ has happened, (REDACTED)?" he asks me: "How long was I away?"

"!@#$ good question," I answer. 

And I know for a !@#$ fact that I am not going to like the !@#$ing answer.

(SPYGOD is listening to Blue Monday (New Order) and having a Chinggis)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 10

 "(REDACTED), I know you can hear me," the President says into the CIA Director's voicemail: "Pick up the !@#$ing phone, okay? We're under attack, the whole world's gone to !@#$, and someone's coming into the White House basement. No flier, no COMPANY, no nothing. If you've got answers-"

The line goes dead, just then. He signs and puts Col. Richter's phone down on a nearby table: "Well, so much for that."

"Can we do anything else?" the First Lady asks.

"Wanna order pizza?" He'd asked, pointing back to the phone: "I bet it'll take more than thirty minutes. Might get it for free this time."

"Oh, that's what I love about you," the First Lady says, standing up and putting her hand on his shoulder: "All the world's falling apart, and you can still make jokes."

"Sorry, hon," he says, putting up his hands: "It's what I do."

"I know. I wasn't complaining. I was just telling you that it's a good thing."

"Well, I'd hope you'd think it was a good thing by now..." he smiles, putting a hand around her leg: "Still glad you married me?"

"Always," she says: "You are a good man, Mr. President. You will have a lot to offer the world in the days to come."

Something about how she says that bothers him, just a little. He's about to say something when the doors to the saferoom open, revealing Colonel Richter, a man in dark sunglasses who must be that Myron fellow, and a number of COMPANY Agents. There's a strong sense of urgency about them, but they seem to be somewhat relieved.

"Sir, we've got an escape plan for you and the First Lady-" Richter begins to say, but suddenly Myron shouts and draws a gun on the President.

A Secret Service Agent immediately hurls himself at the man, who starts shouting something that's hard to understand past the fists and feet launched at his face, knocking his dark sunglasses off.

More Secret Service Agents rush to either protect the President or pile on Myron.

The COMPANY Agents run into the melee to pull the other Agents off the man who saved them from the Specials back at the Heptagon.

And before Colonel Richter can tell his people to back the !@#$ off and let these men and women protect the President, he looks over at the First Couple and realizes that something is wrong.

The President looks bewildered, as usual, but the First Lady is smiling -- a smile he really does not like.

And then the air is filled with flashes of light and sudden motion, and the saferoom proves to no longer be safe at all.

Something terrible has been waiting for them, here, all along.

* * *

The insectile carrier that was once The Flier -- still changing its shape and configuration in mid-air -- hovers over a patch of the Pacific Ocean, not too far from the last battle that the COMPANY engaged in with GORGON.

There's nothing here to mark that momentous occasion, of course. The principal players both left the field not long thereafter, and their dead were swallowed up by the deep. Any lost weapons or wounded machines fell down to the punishing depths of the ocean floor, there to be crushed by the depths and picked over by what few scavengers can thrive in such extreme environments.

Hundreds of such rude cenotaphs litter the dark, hidden depths of the ocean -- cold and mute testament to the ferocious battles that happen on, above, or just under its surface. Down in the eternal, crushing black, they form the only memorials those lost to such conflagrations can ever have. 

But as the giant, metal butterfly that was the Flier hovers high above the water, a strange, circular perturbation on its surface would seem to indicate that something is being returned to the light.

The ocean surface roils and bubbles, and the circumference of the disturbance increases almost exponentially. Within minutes it is a full five miles across, and still growing. And from the vantage point of the Flier, it is possible to see the faintest hints of whatever is causing the phenomenon as it approaches the boiling surface.

Something vast and dark, and swiftly ascending. 

With the crashing of mighty waves, that something breaks through into the air. Something that has been under the surface of the Pacific for untold aeons. Something that has not been seen by unaided eyes before today.

Something alien, yet oddly familiar. 

A massive agglomeration of dark, stone towers -- built with giant, perfectly-cut bricks in the manner of the Mayan temples of old -- reaches for the heavens. It appears to be a city: one made for what may have been giants, or beings for whom cyclopean architecture was the norm. And as it rises and rises in what seems an unending train of black stone spires and platforms, the circumference widens out to ten miles, then twenty, then fifty...

At some point, its rate of ascent slows, and then stops -- just a scant ten feet from the keel of the Flier. Sea spray steams in the heat of the Sun, and strange, deep-sea creatures that had no business existing more than a single fathom beyond their normal habitat explode in the sudden change of pressure. 

For a moment or two, the city and the Flier are content to behold one another. And then something swift-moving and dangerous-looking all but erupts from the newly-risen metropolis, and hurtles towards the Flier with strange intent.

It is a Deros, clearly. And as it streaks towards the Flier, the bottom of the aircraft shudders twice, and then opens wide in order to accommodate it. Large, strange mechanisms unfold from the hole in its belly, clearly intending to provide a welcome mat for the creature.

At the sight of its landing pad, the metal beast curlicues and goes into a spiral, slowing its trajectory just enough to avoid crashing into the Flier. And then, just as it seems to have burned up all its forward momentum, it slides into the underside of the aircraft -- effectively docking with the devices that came out of it.

The Deros tightens its curves, becoming a ball, and begins a spinning motion that creates light, heat, and energy seemingly powerful enough to rival the Sun. The surrounding area is bathed with a bright, radiant light -- one that burns off whatever moisture and damp remained outside the formerly-sunken city, and then vanishes as the Flier pulls the containing machines back into itself.

Then the Flier lights up -- a brilliant, shining butterfly just above the new, dark island.

 * * *

When Second comes to, moments after the conversion is over, he is aware of three things.

The first is that he's no longer in engineering, nor anywhere near it so far as he can tell. The bulkhead he grabbed onto clearly moved several areas away. That one, he was kind of expecting.

The second is that those few Agents who survived along with him have been surrounded by even more Specials, some of which are teleporting in. They seem content to simply guard their captives for the moment, but it's anyone's guess as to when they'll start shooting, instead.

In fact, one stands right by Second's head, pointing the business end of a gauss gun between his eyes. There's no look on his face, but if there were it'd be him all but daring Second to not to drop the pistol in his hand.

(Second does, ever so slowly, but not in such a way so as to not have it back in hand within a moment.)

The third is that something new has entered the equation.

Teleporting in along with the new Specials are beings in colorful, gleaming armor and long, flowing capes. They move gracefully, compared to their heavier brethren, and where the Specials are anonymous behind their armored, blank visages, these ones bare bright and smiling faces to the world around them.

In a way, these newcomers remind Second of the over-the-top sueprheroes of the 70's. The ones who rewrote the book on how strategic talents operated. The ones who built Deep Ten -- Wonderwall, back then -- along with numerous other astounding creations.

The ones who gradually disappeared in the decades afterwards, leaving only fading echoes of themselves and the occasional, re-purposed artifact in their wake. 

Something in their mix of bright color, and the exaggerated lines of their armor, tickles the more nostalgic parts of Second's mind. And for a moment -- however brief -- he could almost believe that those lost heroes have returned, somehow. He could find himself entertaining the fleeing notion that this has all been some massive mistake, and now they're going to help clear it all up.

For a moment, anyway.

But these newcomers are not them. They can't be.

The supergods of the 70's were otherworldly but comforting, somehow filling our need to believe in benevolent higher powers. They were the kind of august entities that might save the entire world with powers beyond imagining, and then take the time to gently rescue a small kitten from a tree. 

These new beings may be similarly dressed, but there's something sinister about them. Their gleaming, colored metal costumes seem so exaggerated as to be caricatures. And their smiles are so desperate for love that they seem broken -- predatory, even.

Indeed, those smiles remind him of a photo he saw of a career pedophile: a human monster who'd abused hundreds of children. His smile was wide and disarming, but somewhere between the lips and the eyes the illusion broke down, and it became not a sign of trust, but a hunter's leer.

And when one of the newcomers' leers is focused on him, he throws caution to the wind and picks his pistol back up, aiming it at the green and yellow, female thing that's languidly walking towards him.

(He doesn't seem to care that the Special beside him's cocked the gun that's aimed at his forehead.)

"Oh, you must be confused and scared," the thing says, walking closer in spite of the pistol aimed at her: "Your world has changed around you. Things are no longer what they were. You think you need to reassert control over it, but there's really no need. From this moment forward, we will take care of you."

"Who... what are you?" he asks, realizing that the pistol has only got a couple shots in it. Maybe just one.

"We are the Imago," she says as the Specials behind her start pulling Agents to their feet and roughly immobilizing them: "And we have come to save you."

"I can see that," he says: "Tell your friend to back off or I'll shoot."

She looks to the Special, who slowly takes the gun from Second's head and moves a few respectful steps back. Not fast enough for his liking, but it's a start.

"Are you in league with GORGON?" he says, figuring he knows the answer, anyway, but might as well get what intelligence he can.

"GORGON no longer exists," she says: "The caterpillar has emerged from the cocoon. A new day has dawned, (REDACTED). And you will be a part of it."

"I don't !@#$ing think so," he says, cocking his pistol at her: "Let my people go or I'll shoot."

"You misunderstand my role in things," she explains, holding her ground: "I am not in control, here. I am merely a part of the greater whole. If you shoot me, others will come in my place. And you only have so many shots in that gun."

He's about to ask her another question when he hears a cry for help from down the hall. An Agent who was badly wounded in the fight is crawling along the floor, trying to get away from the Special who's walking behind her.

(New Agent, just shuffled in from the FBI. He's admired her bright blue eyes, but hadn't caught her name, yet.)

Before he can say or do anything, a number of teleports occur in the hallway -- all of them False Faces. One appears just behind her, not far from the Special, and kneels down to take her around the head with its long, anonymous fingers.

As soon as it's touching both temples with either index finger, the Agent screams, and the two light up in a rush of strange, pulsing energy. The pulsing is equal between the two at first, but soon favors the False Face. And as Second watches the Agent's body withers, turns grey, and collapses into flakes, powder, and fragments of bone.

The False Face stands up again, its body changing to match that of the Agent it just absorbed. The horrible, exposed skull is the last to change: flickering like a television set, and then resolving with her face.

It -- now she -- looks over at Second and smiles, and the baleful, metal eyes behind the projected skin change to a beautiful blue.

"My name is Leila Winters," she says: "COMPANY Agent, tactical section. I am ready to soar."

"Are you ready to soar, (REDACTED)?" The Imago asks Second -- her smile is the genius of languid evil.

"!@#$ you," he mutters, twisting around to shoot the Special guarding him in the crotch -- blowing him into three pieces --  and then pivoting to shoot her dead-bang in the face.

The blast hits her right in the nose, but to no avail. The energy simply slides around her like water, and doesn't so much as alter her complexion, much less her expression.

"Oh, that's excellent," she says as the last wisps of what should have just taken her head off dissipate around her: "We are looking forward to adding your passion and dedication to our new world."

"Like !@#$," he shouts, scrambling to his feet and dodging around the twitching remnants of the Special. He can hear Agents screaming behind him -- absorbed into waiting False Faces -- but there's nothing he can do for them, now. His options are as slim as his gun is empty, and as he flings it behind him he hopes the !@#$ chokes on it.

However, he doesn't get five strides into his headlong flight before the Imago teleports right in front of him. He only has a moment to realize what's happened -- and be amazed by this -- before she slaps him across the face.

It would seem to any onlooker that she gave him a gentle, effortless blow. But it hits like a sledgehammer to the skull -- all but caving in the left side of his face and knocking him up against the wall.

His head lolling on a broken neck, face shattered, eyes half-popped out of their sockets, Second collapses to the floor, gasping for breath in a mouth full of blood and broken teeth.

"I am so sorry to hear how reluctant you are to join in this effort, (REDACTED)," she says, slowly advancing on him: "But you will join us. Sooner or later, one way or the other."

It's to Second's eternal credit that, even blind and broken, he still tries to get up and run. That he fails -- unable to move anything below his navel -- is no blemish upon his effort. And when a False Face teleports in beside him, and starts to kneel down to do what it came here for, he could be excused for simply giving in.

But he still has control of his arms and hands. And he still has one last weapon to use.

"No surrender," he gurgles through blood as the sexless, skull-faced creature takes his crushed, bloody head in its hands: "Not to you."

He pulls at his belt buckle and pushes it up and to the side. A light comes on in the exposed circuitry behind it. A high, shrill beeping begins.

The Imago realizes what this means, and teleports right on top of him, knocking the False Face roughly across the room to try and stop what's about to happen.

Too late.

The white phosphorous explosion rocks that section of what used to be the Flier. The quadrant is all but obliterated, killing both False Faces and Agents in mid-Embrace with a rushing wave of white heat. Stress fractures begin to appear all over the stricken aircraft as bulkheads go molten and collapse in on themselves.

Within seconds of the explosion, it seems almost assured that the insectile aircraft will burst open and fall into the city that just erupted from the Ocean. But just then, the nanostreams that reworked the ship from top to bottom kick into action, and before too long the ship is being repaired on the molecular level. Burn damage is reversed, systems are put back together again, and whatever was put out of shape is quickly molded back into place.

Before long, all that's left to mark the passing of Second is the Imago who oversaw his last moments -- clearly undamaged by the blast -- standing right by where he detonated himself. There isn't even burned smell in the air, much less a single scorch mark on the wall.

"We have failed, leader," she says: "(REDACTED) is lost to us."

No matter, says a wet, feminine voice in her head: We have the entirety of their knowledge within us, now. What we have lost with him, we will regain with others. You have done well. Carry on.

"Thank you," she says, and teleports somewhere else, hoping to make up for what she still sees as a failure somewhere along the line.

And knowing she'll have many chances to to do so in the brilliant days to come.

* * *

"I applaud your passion, Daniel Richter," the red and blue armored man is saying as the Colonel tries to get to his feet and protect the President: "You are a good man. You have done good things for your country."

"I'll show you good..." he hisses, but can't get up. The armored hands holding him down are too strong, and come just within an ounce of breaking his shoulderblades like pretzel sticks.

"You struggle for no purpose," one of the ones holding him down says: "I assure you we have no plans to harm this man."

"Tell that to his wife, you !@#$er," Myron, also held down, retorts through a smashed-up face: "How long? Huh? How long has she been dead?"

The skull-faced abomination wearing the body of the First Lady looks at him with what might be pity or regret: "I am not dead, Myron. I have been Embraced."

"You'll pardon me if I can't see the !@#$ing difference," Myron spits, his mouth and nose dribbling blood.

"I am one with Imago in flesh, spirit, and purpose. This is not death. This is something entirely different."

The President, meanwhile, doesn't know what to say. Surrounded by smiling men and women in brightly-colored armor, all of whom have made it clear that he's free to do everything but leave this saferoom, he's realized -- all too late -- that this is the end of everything he's ever known.

"You too?" he finally says to what he thought was his wife. The way she looks back at him makes him look away. 

The Red and Blue Imago kneels down and picks up the broken sunglasses that Myron had been wearing when he came into the room: "A very ingenious design," he says.

"The specs are already going out all over the internet," Myron lies: "I hope you know that. You aren't going to take us over without a fight."

"There will be no fight," the First Lady says: "You were given no opportunity. Nothing was left to chance."

"We have taken the world in our hands," another Imago says: "From this moment onward, you will be ruled."

"Like !@#$," the President says: "You're underestimating America. You're underestimating the whole !@#$ing world. We will fight you. You will you lose."

"And how will you do that?" the Red and Blue Imago asks, crushing the glasses in his gauntlet: "We control Deep Ten. Your ability to make war on us is nonexistent. Your Strategic Talents have been neutralized. Your leaders will soon sing our praises and convince their citizens that ours is the greater good."

"They will be well fed and cared for," the First Lady insists: "Occupied and content. Safe from petty tyrannies and their accompanying tortures, protected from the worst things life could offer."

"They will have the illusion of liberty," Red and Blue says: "And with just enough freedom and enfranchisement to feel as though nothing is missing, and everything is in order."

"And within one generation, they will know nothing else but what we tell them," the First Lady says: "We have won."

"Humanity is never as magnificent as when they've got an enemy to fight," the President declares, rising to his feet and looking the Red and Blue man square in the face: "And you just elected to put yourselves in the crosshairs, you stupid son of a !@#$. Good luck holding onto it-"

"Oh, we agree," the Imago says, putting his hands on the President's shoulders: "And we have given them that enemy. You."

"What?" the President stammers.

"You, Mr. President, will be the enemy of the world," he says: "Ambition's debt shall be repaid."

"I don't.... I..." the President stammers, and then winces as Red and Blue 'gently' puts him back down in his chair -- all but breaking his clavicle as he does.

"You will soon learn what we mean," Red and Blue says, looking around the room at any non-GORGON personnel that remain. 

Myron and Richter look at one another. Now would be a great moment for one or the other to pull out some kind of last-minute save, or at least find a way to take a number of them out with them. But a look in each others' eyes reveals the sad truth.

They have !@#$ing nothing. 

"I really hated working with you," Richter says to Myron: "You talk too much."

"Likewise," Myron says to Richter: "You are suck a !@#$ing dick."

And they both half-smile, expecting to be executed at any moment. But that moment never quite comes.

They just wish, later, that it had. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Eternal (Joy Division) and having a Shakespeare Stout)