9/22/12 - (Green Man) The Gospel of Thomas - Pt. 3

"And so the evil man took the boy to another land, far away," the Green Man continues, judging that Thomas still believes that this tale is coming from the Apocrypha, rather than his own mind: "And there they hid, so that the good man, the boy's master, and all of their friends and allies could not find him.

"There, the boy was apprenticed to the evil man, and made to work by fear, at least at first. For the evil man had spoken truly; he was the boy's true father, and knew him well enough to know the thoughts that went through the young man's mind, and the passions and desires that burned in his breast. He knew how to speak to him, and how to goad him, and how to make him do what he wanted, how he wanted.

"In time they ventured out into this new land as father and son, and worked together. They took what they needed, and stole what they wanted, and were employed by other evil men to do evil things for money and jewels. They lived riotously and well, and the evil man reveled in the fact that the good man could not find them, there.

"But one day, they were employed by another evil man to go back to the land they had escaped from, and enter the home of the boy's former master to take something. The evil man could not resist such a prize, and so went back there to perform the theft, taking the boy with him, as that boy knew how to get into his master's house..."

* * *

"Are you sure the boy knows what he's doing?" the Weasel King asks as the small but deadly group sneaks through the Samuels' estate, his mask slipping as he talks.

"If he says this is how we get in, it's how we get in," the Green Man replies, watching as his son -- now called the Archer, and dressed accordingly -- indicates they should spiral in a little closer.

"These men are being paid by the minute, and all we've done so far is go around the house, three times-"

"Do you trust me?" the Green Man asks, putting a finger on the man's weasel mask, right at the lips outstretched lips. 

"Yes," Weasel King says, quite uncomfortable to be touched.

"Then you trust us. He is our ticket to your revenge, and my pay. I would not waste your time or mine if I was not entirely certain that he would satisfy both our needs." 

"Well, if you're vouching for him, then fine. But-"

"We're in," the Archer announces, rising up and looking at his watch: "We have thirty seconds from when I say go to get to the house. Be ready."

The two mercenaries in question -- Maul and Brawl, both up-and-coming costumed muscle on loan from the Legion -- take up position right behind him, and wait for a further signal. Weasel King stands right behind them, alongside Green Man and frets, so close to his ultimate goal that he can barely stand it.

Green Man got his son to divulge the Samuels' secret quite some time ago, and has been sitting on that priceless nugget of information ever since, waiting for the right moment to exploit it. That right moment came a few months ago, when Weasel King -- the self-styled robber baron of Chicago, and natural enemy of The Owl -- finally escaped from his life-plus-plus sentence, and desired the ultimate revenge on the heroes who'd put him there.

A call had been made. A meeting had been arranged. Fees and terms had been discussed and agreed to, along with certain understandings and guarantees. And now, at last, everyone was going to get what they wanted.

Some, indeed, more than others.

"Go," the Archer says, and sprints fast and low, running for the one edge of the house he knows has an escape hatch from the Owl's Nest. The two thugs hustle up behind him, with his father and their employer not too far behind. Before long they've flattened up against the side of the house, and remaining both still and quiet until the Archer gives the word.

The boy can barely believe this is happening; twelve years old and he's breaking into one of the most secure places in the city, possibly even the world. But he's been ready for this moment for years, and is not going to fail.

This is how you truly say goodbye to your past, my son, his father had told him on the plane ride over from Paris: You look these people who tried to make you something you were not right in the eye, and spit in it as you take what's most precious to them. And then you vanish into the night a new man, free and unafraid.

He knows that the Weasel King wants to kill The Owl, but he does not care. In his mind, he has separated the demanding but kind man who trained him, years ago, from the costumed meddler who keeps interfering in his father's plans the way the Bright Bowman used to, before...

(Don't think of it.)

... before The Owl decided to become so much trouble. 

And after tonight, he won't be any trouble, anymore. 

At the right moment, the Archer quickly rewires the access panel on the outside of the disguised escape chute leading up to the Owl's Nest, hidden in the air above the mansion. The hatch pops open, and Archer quickly reaches up behind it, attaching certain electronic boxes to the exterior sensors, there.

"We go up, gentlemen," Green Man announces, beaming with pride at his son's works: "Archer, you first, as you know the way. Maul, you go last and watch our backs."

* * *

There's a cough as Green Man inhales to continue, and when he looks over at Thomas, he sees the young man's blind eyes are looking right at him, which is rather spooky.

"This is a long parable," Thomas rasps: "I thought... Jesus liked them short and sweet?"

"Well, that's probably why this didn't make the final cut," Green Man explains: "It does rather read like its own chapter, rather than a smaller piece within it. But maybe that's why it's one of my favorites."

"Okay."

"Do you want me to keep reading? We could read something else, if this is boring-"

"Oh, it's not boring at all," Thomas says: "I was just wondering. And besides... I did say I wanted to hear your favorite. So if I don't like it... well, too bad."

Green Man smiles: "You have a delightful sense of fair play, young man."

"Got it from my grandpa," Thomas says, closing his eyes: "I miss him."

"He was a wonderful man," Green Man says, practically suffocating through the irony of it all. 

They're both silent for a moment, and then the Green Man inhales deeply, taps the Bible he isn't reading out of, and begins again: "And so they entered into the house of the boy's former master..."

* * *

 "Amazing," the Weasel King sighs, standing at the edge of the Owl's Nest and looking around at the cavernous interiors: "All this, hidden in plain sight. All along..."

"Admire it later," the Green Man says, patting the Archer on the shoulder: "We'll drink toasts to its magnificence once this and the downstairs are secured. But we need to move, now. This place will be crawling with heroes the moment they know we're here. And-"

"And that moment's already !@#$ing come and gone," Maul says, pointing a gun at Weasel King.

"What is this?" the Weasel King says, putting his hands up: "What are you doing? I paid good money for this-"

"You should have paid better attention," Brawl says, pulling his mask off to reveal yet another mask underneath -- that of The Owl, himself.

The Green Man just sighs, realizing exactly what's happened: "Well, this is a fine turn of events, now isn't it?"

"Pretty !@#$ing smooth, huh?" Maul replies, pulling off his own mask to reveal none other than SPYGOD, himself.

"I must congratulate you," the Green Man says, taking a theatrical step back and to the side: "How far back was this planned?"

"Planned?" the Weasel King snarls: "I will not stand here and be impugned-"

"We let the Weasel escape, Green Man," The Owl explains: "We knew he'd want revenge, and you'd probably bait the hook with what you forced out of that young man while you were brainwashing him."

"And then it was just a matter of gently steering this piece of !@#$ towards you, and letting nature take its course," SPYGOD explains: "With a little help from the Legion, of course."

"Of course," The Owl says, smiling just a little: "And now you can both go back to prison, where you belong. After we take a few memories from your minds, of course."

"Maybe a few other things, too," SPYGOD taunts: "Like how to use the bathroom, maybe-"

"That's providing you can take us there," the Green Man says, getting ready to move: "There's three of us and only two of you-"

SPYGOD clubs the Weasel King over the head with the butt of his gun. The animal mask shatters into flinders and the man falls down in a deep slump, blood trickling from his nose and ears.

"You were saying?" SPYGOD asks, pointing his gun at the man in green: "They say you can't be hit by anything? This gun fires heatseekers. And you are really !@#$ hot, Green Man."

The Archer's looking to his father for guidance, but not getting any. And then The Owl is talking to him, and it's in that voice...

"Son, it's okay," he says, holding out a hand: "You don't have to do what this man's told you, anymore. You don't have to be what he's told you, anymore. I forgive you for everything you've done, and I love you. Please come back to us."

"You don't have the right to call him your son," the Green Man hisses: "He's my child, Samuels. No one else's!"

"Yeah, you !@#$ing saw to that, didn't you, you piece of !@#$," SPYGOD mutters, cocking the gun back: "Hal was a good man. I should blow your hands off just for that-"

(Don't think of it. Don't think of it.)

 

"Son, please," The Owl says, extending both hands, now.

"Son, be ready," the Green Man orders, almost on the cusp of action.

"Son, don't be !@#$ing stupid," SPYGOD says, ready to fire on them both if necessary.

"Dad, what's going on-" a young voice calls out, behind them all.

Things happen all at once. The Owl's looking up and about to call out in warning. The Green Man's taking advantage of the distraction and slapping the gun out of SPYGOD's hand. There's a miniature crossbow shooting out into the Archer's hand and he's turning, diving, and firing at the sound.  

And then there's just a scream as a teenager, dressed for a school dance, is holding onto a crossbow bolt that's pierced him right through the breastbone, and wondering what to do now.

What happens next isn't fully remembered or understood. There's shooting and fighting and screaming and shouting. There's a madcap chase all over the Owl's Nest as a villain scrambles for cover and vengeful heroes chase after him. There's blood on the floor and a moral line almost crossed, and a life given for a life taken away.

But by the time the drama's played itself out, as it only could have from that point on, the Archer isn't there to see it, anymore. He's fled the building, out the way he came, and hustled into the second getaway vehicle that only he and his father knew about. And then he's driving out of state for the first of several possible rendezvous points, hoping that his father will rejoin him there, somehow successful in his mission.

He waits a long time, there, in that cabin. All the while he thinks of the eyes of the man who called him son, then and now. He thinks of how that man looked when he saw his real son falling down dead at the boy's hands. He thinks of what that man said, and what that man cried, and what that SPYGOD person said to that man as he knelt by the body, cradling it and paralyzed with grief.

He remembers what happened to the Bright Bowman. (Don't think of it.)  

What happened to his mother. (Don't think of it.) 

What he did, and what he didn't do. (Don't think of it.)

What he allowed to happen...

He sits there for a day and a night, waiting and remembering, thinking and wondering, planning and waiting. 

And then, when that day and night have gone, he leaves that cabin, leaving behind everything that he was, that he could have been, and maybe should have been behind there. 

Even his name is lost to him, now, as he walks down the long, winding road back to the highway, ready to find his way anew...

* * *

The Green Man looks up from the book, and sees that Thomas has fallen asleep. 

He smiles, gets up, and puts the Bible down on the dresser. Then he quietly exits the room for the airlock, and signals that the doctor should come and let him out.

"You got his BP back up again," the Doctor says, not really smiling at the news: "Must have been some exciting story. Song of Solomon?"

"Oh please," the Green Man says, sighing: "That's pedestrian stuff, surely, even by your standards."

"Then how-"

"Don't you know?" the Green Man says, taking his robe off and flinging it right across the room, aiming it in such a way that it slides right into the open hamper: "I never miss."

That shuts the grumpy fellow up, which is more or less what he wanted. He mimes shooting a gun at the man with his thumb and index finger, and leaves the sick bay with a confident stride.

The rest of his day is free. He can do what he wants, here. No one ever asks anything of him, and no one expects anything of him, either. He was brought here purely to comfort his dying son, and anything else would be unwanted, and unwarranted. 

Especially given what he's done, both as a child and a man.

But he knows something they do not. He's known it since Florida, when a strange man put his hand right through his chest, like a ghost, and showed him the one thing that no one should ever confront before his time -- his fate.

In that vision -- the vision that turned him into a shambling shell of his former self -- he saw himself fighting to save a helpless boy's life. He saw himself in battle with a horned demon straight from Hell, the blood of his so-called allies still wetting his hands and fangs. He saw himself doing it, even though he knew that the fight would kill him, and that for all his powers, he was just a piece of fragile flesh in the face of a storm of knives and swords.

And he saw himself fending off that hideous storm just long enough for someone to come and save that boy, because on his broken shoulders will one day rest the future.

It was real, and he knew it. It was a nightmare he could not avoid. And as he had no idea what could lead to it, or what he should do, he let it overwhelm him, and just wandered away from his duties and his post at the COMPANY, thus missing the horrible end of that institution on 3/15. 

A human ghost haunting himself, wearing a shroud of crippling self-doubt wrapped around a primal, terrible certainty, he staggered through Imago's America. He came to a stop eventually, at the last place that anyone ever told him that they loved him. And there he sat, drinking rainwater and eating stolen park food until someone came to collect him for their own purposes.

But it wouldn't be until the moment that Mark Clutch -- a man who hated him for many reasons -- showed him Thomas, and explained that he was the Green Man's son by Martha Samuels, that he realized that he knew the boy, just as he had seen that very room. 

They were from the vision that Chinmoku had "gifted" him with, back in the Keys, that one day last March.

It was here that he would fight and die, protecting the son that bore his name.

"Thomas," he says, looking down at the grassy ground, far below, as a herd of dangerous carnivores pounce on a hapless plant-eater, too slow to outrun their teeth and claws.

Of course, questions remain. Where will this devil come from? Is it here, already, hiding amongst them? Is it yet to come? Will the others know it for what it is when it appears, or will they wander into its path like hapless teen heroes, come home early on a night they were supposed to be out?

The Green Man doesn't know the how or the why of it, much less the when. But after months of being paralyzed by who and what, he's now trapped in the where, and all too aware that, even if he could leave -- if he could somehow escape this fate -- he wouldn't do it. 

He watches the gruesome spectacle for a long time, pondering that strange quirk of his character, and then goes off to make a harmless nuisance of himself, elsewhere. Maybe he'll pay those Muslims back for being so friendly this morning, or go tweak Mark Clutch's nose, just for laughs. 

Anything to kill some time before an unknown demon comes to return the favor.

(SPYGOD is listening to Green Man (Mark Owen) and having a Fitzgers Greenman )

9/22/12 - (Green Man) The Gospel of Thomas - Pt. 2

"And Jesus told this story to them," the Green Man begins, pretending to read from the Apocrypha in a Bible that doesn't include it: "He said, once there was a man who was truly evil. He coveted everything he saw and heard of, and would not rest until those things were his. He wanted gold, and women, and fine food, and untold pleasures. He would do anything he had to in order to get them, even if it meant murder."

Thomas hitches a breath at that, his eyes closed and a smile on his face. He appears to be enjoying the story, and not questioning its odd-sounding cadence. For this, the Green Man allows himself a wry smile. 

"And there was a man who was truly good," he continues: "He saw the evil this other man did, and raised his fists to stop him. He chased him from city to city, and town to town, sometimes with allies, and sometimes by himself. Every place he saw this man he warned others, and raised the alarm against him. He would do anything he had to in order to stop this man, and bring him to account.

"After a time, the evil man was vanquished, and sent away to pay for his crimes. Not long thereafter, the good man was married to a good woman, and they settled down and had a child. And as the child grew, the good man taught him to be good as well, and became amazed at some of the things this child could do..."

* * *

It's Spring, early in the 1970's, and the Samuels' Glenview estate is playing host to a small group of families, almost all of whom have young children. 

The kids are out playing in the wide field behind the mansion, trying to best one another at tag, or hide and seek. Some of them are very good at running, tagging, and evading, and some of those who hide are almost impossible to be found.

Meanwhile, back up at the house, young and fit men and women talk over beers and lemonade, waiting for the family's butler to bring out the long-promised burgers and hot dogs. Their host keeps having to make jokes about 'bugs,' but everyone's being pretty well-humored about that. 

Besides, there's plenty to talk about. 

"I'm telling you, Joe, he frightens me, sometimes," one of the men is saying to their host as they watch a young boy hide from the others. They stopped playing hide and seek some time ago, but he appears to be enjoying the fact that they haven't found him, yet.

(Indeed, the only reason they can see him is because the host is using a pair of high-tech, owl-like goggles to do so.)

"Why would you say that, Hal?" Joseph Samuels asks, sipping at his beer and adjusting his goggles: "You've always had a few tricks up your sleeve. Why should he be any different?"

"He's ten times better than I ever was then. Heck, he's better than I am now. Every once in a while I throw him something, while we're out on patrol, just to see how he does? He nails it every time."

"Maybe he's just had a really good teacher?" Joseph smiles, taking the goggles off and putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "You should do yourself some credit, Hal."

"I don't think that can account for this," his friend says, leaning down to take a lawn dart from the ground: "Trust me?"

"Of course."

Hal tests the dart's weight, gives it a few swings, and judges the wind and distance. And then he throws it right at his son's head, with such speed and force that it would doubtlessly kill the boy before he even hears it coming.

The young man catches it from the air almost absentmindedly, without even having to turn around. A second later he looks at what he's caught, and turns to see where it came from, waving at his father as he does.

"Sorry, son!" Hal laughs: "Good catch, though!"

"Thanks, dad!" the boy laughs back, green eyes shining in the sun.

"I see what you mean," Joseph says, putting his beer down: "That's..."

"Frightening," Hal says: "And all too familiar."

"Yes. You don't think...?"

"I don't know what to think right now," Hal says, looking over at his wife as she talks with the other parents, laughing at tales of their kids' antics, both in and out of costume: "But I know he's past the point where I can teach him anything. I was hoping maybe I could talk you into giving him some additional training?"

"Sure," Joseph says: "He and Matthew and Martha get along great, I know. You don't mind if I train him like I do them, though, do you?"

"How's that?"

"Biblically."

Hal smiles: "Well, we're not the most devout people on the face of the Earth, Joe. But I figure, you got one amazing young man following you out into the city, late at night. You gotta be doing something right."

"I can't take all the credit," Joseph winks, gesturing up to the sky: "But while I'm doing that, could I talk you into having a look at my talon shooters? They keep sticking on me, and I can't get them to stop."

"I'd be glad to," Hal says, extending a hand: "You got yourself a deal, sir."

"Then it's settled," Joseph says, shaking the man's hand: "Bring him around once a week, maybe on Wednesdays after school? I'll see what we can do about figuring out what he's working with."

Halfway across the field, ensconced in his hiding place, the young man has no idea what he's been volunteered for. He's paying more attention to his friend Mathew's sister, Martha, who's giving the boys quite a run for their money when it comes to tag.

He's only eight years old (same age she is) and certain chemical processes haven't quite made themselves evident, yet. But watching her move, and hearing her talk and laugh, and seeing her smile, some small spark lights in his chest, right under his heart. 

And he thinks "someday," not knowing what that really means, yet. 

* * *

"With the bargain struck, the good man's son was apprenticed. For a time, the son was happy, for he was trained well by this man, and the man's children and he became fast friends. 

"But then the evil man escaped from his punishment, and came back to the city where the good man lived. And seeing what the good man enjoyed, and the life he led, he endeavored to take it from him, one piece at a time. For he still coveted all that he saw, and would not stop until all things he desired were his..."

* * *

When he comes to, he's in darkness, and his head feels horrible. There's a bag on his head, and he's been tied to what feels like a chair.  

"You are awake," a voice announces through the darkness, crisp and stern. There's a rough rustle around his head, and then the bag that was covering it is up and away, leaving him under bright lights in a seemingly empty room.

There's a man standing in front of him: tall, lithe, and captivating. He wears a long, green greatcoat over tight, black clothing, and every inch of what's under it seems to be banded with sheathes, scabbards, and pouches. His hair is long and black, his beard short and pointed, and his smile is as evil as a poisoned apple. 

But it's the eyes that captivate him. They are the same bright green as his own.

"Do you know who I am?" the man asks.

"You're the Green Man," his captive replies, testing his bonds and finding them too tight to break in one movement: "The Bright Bowman fought you, before. He put you in jail."

The Green Man snorts: "The Bright Bowman. Now there's an ironic moniker for you. Not so bright now, is he?"

The young man uses the taunt to cover his movements as he tenses against his bonds, seeking a weak point. Unfortunately, he finds none. 

"And you may kindly dispense with the pretense, young man," the villain sneers: "I know who you are, and what you do, and who you do it with. I even know of the connection between the two of you. That's why I took you from the streets on your way to your rich friend's house."

He scowls, trying to remember how that could have happened. There's a dull pain in the small of his neck, probably where a knockout dart hit him. The headache is consistent with high-quality tranquilizers. 

But how could the dart have hit him...?

"You normally catch those right out of the air, don't you?" the Green Man says, holding up the dart in question: "Anything anyone throws at you, from any angle, you sense coming towards you. I've seen you dance between raindrops, boy. You have a true gift, there. 

"But while you never get hit by anything, I never miss. And it seems that my power trumps yours in that respect. For now, at least. You're only ten, after all. Who knows how you'll be when you're older-"

"What do you want?" the young man says, thinking of how to get out of this one: "If this is about getting revenge on my father-"

"This is about the truth," the Green Man says, leaning in closer: "You're not his son. You're mine."

The boy blinks: "You... that's a lie. That's a lie!"

"Is it?" the Green Man asks, leaning back up again: "Were you there when the deed happened? Do you know for certain that your father is your father?"

"That can't be!"

"Where did you get those eyes from?" the man pushes, turning to talk away: "Where did that talent come from? Why do you find yourself wanting all that you see, and calculating how to take it?"

The last bit rattles the boy's defenses. How could this man know that secret? That dark shame that he's carried with him for so long, and not been able to tell anyone about -- not even Mr. Samuels, who said he'd be willing to listen to anything he wanted to tell him if he needed him to...

"No, it's simple, boy," the man says, stopping in his tracks: "I wanted your mother, so I took her. I wanted a son, so I saw to it that you were created. And now that you're old enough, I'm taking you back."


"My mother wouldn't..." the boy stammers, trying to get the idea of it out of his head.

"Your mother had no idea," the villain smiles, turning around to regard his captive: "At least, that's what she probably tells herself about that night. I was disguised, and she wasn't quite herself. 

 "And as for my procreative prowess, well... like I said, I never miss."

Green Man pulls one of his knives from his chest and flings it across the room, right over the boy's head. It slices through a stray clump of hair and cuts it right off. The boy watches helplessly as the hair falls to the ground, taking his ability to resist what the man's saying with it. 

"You are my son," the villain says, putting his hands on the boy's shoulders and looking him in the eyes: "I am your father. From this day forward, we will work together. I will give you the training and the skills that they cannot. I will teach you to harness your talents. I will teach you to respect your desires, and not deny them. I will make you free in ways you cannot even imagine, now. And when I am gone, you will take up my name and continue on. Do you understand me?"

"I can't do it," the boy says, his eyes full of tears: "I can't... I won't do it. I WON'T!"

"You will," the Green Man says, smiling: "And in return, I won't kill your mother and the man you thought was your father."

The boy gasps, and the villain holds up a small device: "High explosive pellets in their head and neck while they slept. Microscopic, non metallic. No one will ever know they're there, but if I should happen to press the button, they'll go up like fireworks. And I know you know that I've used that before..."

The boy closes his eyes and weeps. Maybe this is the reaction the Green Man wanted, and maybe it isn't. Either way he claps a hand on the boy's shoulder, and puts the device away.

"You think about what I've said, and what I'm offering. I know you in ways your so-called father can never hope to, and I can show you a path that's clear, and free from compromise. 

"You were made to be like me, my son. Please accept this gift for what it is."

The boy opens his eyes, sits up straight, and spits at the man's face. He does not miss. 

"You'll sleep sitting up, tonight," the Green Man says, heading for the door while wiping the spittle from his face: "Tomorrow, you may earn a bed. Maybe even a room. I hope you will, anyway."

And then the room's lights are off, and the door is slammed shut and locked, and the only noises that come are a young boy's sobs. 

(SPYGOD is listening to the Green Man (Roy Harper) and having a Green Man IPA )

9/22/12 - (Green Man) The Gospel of Thomas - Pt. 1

It's early breakfast time in the treehouse, which has become something of a necessity now that there's quite a few people there who wake up before dawn to pray.

The Muslims that the Lion brought over from Africa, a few weeks ago, all get up, shower, and go to their makeshift mosque on the third floor. They pray there, and, when they're done, they get dressed and come down to the dining hall for a meal. It's usually strange, prehistoric fruit -- the small, venous oranges that taste like raspberries are everyone's favorite -- and cold cereal, though every so often one of them gets a notion to try making eggs or pancakes for everyone.

Today is such a day. Perhaps emboldened by Crocodile's Friday sermon, yesterday, the Fist has attempted to make berry waffles using the small, red, and extremely tart fruits that grow from parasitic plants high up in the tree. The results aren't too bad, provided one is liberal with the syrup, but the general consensus is that next time, a few berries may go a long way.

Halfway through the eating, a lone, wan figure walks into the dining room. He looks at the others, nods at them without smiling, and then gets himself some juice from the refrigerator and a breakfast bar from the pantry.

"Would you care to join us, Green Man?" The Lion asks: "We're needing some more input on these waffles we've made..."

"I think they are delicious," Crocodile bellows, tossing another piece up into the air and chomping on it before it hits the table: "Clearly the Fist has gone into the wrong line of work."

"I think they need more butter," Skyspear chides, reaching to take some more.

"I think you should save some for the people who eat later," the Fist chides back, snatching the tub away from her before she can take as much as she'd planned. Everyone laughs at that (except Skyspear, of course.)

"No thank you," the Green Man says, trying to leave as gracefully as possible: "I didn't mean to intrude. Please forgive me."

"It's hardly an intrusion, my friend," Man of Steel says, gesturing to the rapidly-diminishing pile of waffles: "You may have my share, if you would like. I am unable to eat, after all."

"I am not your friend," Green Man mutters, and then is gone from the room.

Someone coughs, someone laughs nervously, and then they go back to eating as though he hadn't been there at all.

"So what's his story?" Man of Steel asks the Wall, who very graciously helps himself to his metal-skinned ally's share.

"Oh, him?" the Wall says, sighing: "I have heard many stories, and I do not believe they are all true. But if even a tenth are correct, then he is indeed a sad fellow."

"I hear he was supervillain, once," Skyspear weighs in, dejectedly eating her non-buttered waffles: "Quite the assassin, they say."

"Really?" the Fist says: "I heard he was in the employ of the American Government, not that long ago? He tried to catch SPYGOD after he shot the President-"

"After he was accused of shooting the President," the Lion gently corrects: "It was a deception, my dear. A very large and cunning one at that."

"I hear he was a superhero before he was a supervillain," Running Spear says, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin: "He might have even been someone's sidekick, once, but I do not remember whose."

"Well, one thing is true, at least," the Wall says: "That poor boy in the medical wing? The one they have on life support, who is so badly burned that no one will look at him for long?"

"Yes?" Man of Steel asks, sensing he's gotten to a juicy nugget of gossip at long last.

"That is his son," the Wall says: "A son he did not know he had until he came here, and saw him for the first time-"

"Oh my friend," the Lion sighs: "That is not something I think anyone here needed to know."

"Well, it is the truth."

"Some truth is best spoken in silence," Crocodile says, and something about the way he says it dulls the edge of the conversation, so that no one seems eager to take it any further down that road.

"Butter," Skyspear demands, snaking the tub back from the Fist to break the quiet: "These are delightful, but they need more butter."

"Your waist would disagree-"

And there is laughter, and playful bickering, and yet more laughter echoing out of the dining hall, down the corridors, and around a bend, where Green Man sits by the frame of a window, eating and watching the Sun creep above the dense foliage.

He could kill all of them. He knows this. He could walk back into that room with a decent knife and have them all bled within a few minutes.

(All except that Man of Steel, of course, but he's sure he could find even his weakness, given enough time.)

He could do it. Maybe someday he will.

But not today.

Today he has promised Thomas he'll read something to him, and that seems a lot more important than getting back at a roomful of gossiping Muslim heroes.

Especially since, if he's right, they'll all be dead soon, anyway.

* * *

"You don't mind if I join you, do you?"

The voice shakes the scraggly-bearded man's world, and rouses him from his stupor. He looks up from the sidewalk he's been staring at for the last hour or so, here on a bench in Chicago's Portage Park, and focuses his green eyes on the robed, hooded figure that's more or less just appeared in front of him.

"Is that yes?" the fellow asks, stooping down a bit: "Is that no?"

"No."

"No you don't mind, or no you do?"

"I don't... don't care..." Green Man says, looking back down at the ground. 

He looks like !@#$, quite frankly. He hasn't bathed in ages, his clothes are dirty and torn, and his beard is so overgrown that he looks like just another bum. Thanks to the Imago, all the homeless are being cared for, so no one really gives him any notice, but it's clear to anyone who looks at him for long that something is seriously wrong with him.

"I was hoping I could talk with you, for a while," the man says, sitting down next to him: "I can't stay long, though. Sooner or later someone will notice me, and then, well... you know how that goes."

Silence.

"I know who you really are," the man says, leaning over: "I know what you can really do. I know what you did, and sometimes I even know why."

More silence. Maybe an extra blink or two.

"I also know what was done to you, in Florida," the man says, straightening up a bit: "Chinmoku. He showed you something, didn't he? Something terrible."

More blinks. A slow movement of the eyes from the sidewalk to the man.

"Since then, you've been wandering. You left the COMPANY before 3/15, and you've been wandering ever since, right under everyone's radar. And I have to hand it to you, Green Man. You've done an excellent job of hiding in plain sight. Something your mentor taught you, all those years ago?"

"Yes," the Green Man says, really not wanting to think about that right now.

"Well, like I said, you've done a great job. The whole world's just passed you by, and here you are, broken and waiting for what you saw to come and collect you."

"How do you know?" Green Man asks: "Who are you?"

"I'm the leader of the resistance," the man says, standing up: "And I'm here to collect you."

"I'm not... no..." Green Man says, trying to get up and get away from this crazy man: "Not going to..."

"You are," the man says, and makes a gesture. Suddenly there's a hand on Green Man's shoulder -- a hand that wasn't there a second ago -- and then they're all somewhere else. 

* * *

The medical wing reminds Green Man of the summer camps he used to attend as a child. Wooden cabins full of sick kids, coughing and needing help going to the bathroom. Sunburns and cuts, rashes and bug bites, with the smell of band-aids fighting for dominance with the occasional whiff of diarrhea or vomit coming from the well-utilized bathroom. 

Of course, in this place the mediocre facilities are provided by people who can perform the miraculous, and so there are high-tech treasures laying down amongst the meager. Small, portable medical scanners lay on rolling tables, along with machines for instantly setting broken bones, vials of liquid cure-all, and the like. A machine not unlike a torture device sits in a corner, ready to do extremely delicate surgery by remote, and other great and amazing things are on display alongside it.

None of them being worth a !@#$ to poor, young Thomas, who sits in a 'room' off in the corner, made from sealed, soundproofed sheets of thick, clear plastic, and arranged something like a gerbil cage for humans.

"Back again?" the middle-aged doctor asks, getting up from his scintillating reading as Green Man walks in: "This is becoming something of a habit. You aren't actually growing attached, are you?"

Green Man just smiles and extends his arms for the white, sterile robe he'll have to wear in the next room over, where his son languishes. The doctor gets it for him, and has him cover his shoes with sterile pads, and put a mask over his mouth and nose.

"How is he doing today?" Green Man asks.

"Worse," the doctor sighs: "His blood Pressure's dipped down a bit. I've worked to counteract it, but it's not good. He's also not getting as much benefit from the IV as he should..."

"He's dying, isn't he?" 

The doctor looks at him, and shakes his head: "He's been dying since he got here. I don't know what's keeping that young man going, really. Maybe his mom, maybe the grace of God, maybe you."

"Maybe," Green Man says: "But thank you for your honesty. It's very refreshing. Have you always had such a sterling bedside manner?"

"You should have seen me in Iraq," the doctor says, and gets ready to open the airlock door that leads to Thomas' room: "Desert Storm was no !@#$ing picnic, pal. You get used to telling young people that it's time to make peace with their Gods way too quickly, and after a while you just sort of forget they might want you to be gentle about it."

"Oh, I remember, " Green Man says, smiling: "I was there, too."

"Oh? What regiment?"

"I'd have to kill you if I told you," he says, walking through the door: "And I don't think that's going to help things here at all, now is it?"

The doctor just scowls and slams the door behind him. And then there's a hiss in the small, sealed room, and the door to the larger, plastic box opens up.

And in walks the Green Man, smiling to see his son. 

* * *

"You have to be joking me," Green Man tells Mark Clutch, a little over two weeks ago when he first came to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P 4: "A son? I have a son?"

"You do, yes," Mark says, having a sip of the coffee he poured for himself, and not for his guest. They're sitting in his office, though it's anyone guess as to how long Green Man will actually be inside it.

"How is that possible?" Green Man asks, smirking: "I don't think I've been... well... alright, maybe I wasn't too careful a few times, but mostly-"

"It was seventeen years ago, give or take," Mark says: "You were what and who you were, back then. And you were working closely with Martha Samuels. A little too closely, as it turned out."

The man's smirk is erased, and replaced with what might be curiosity: "Martha?"

"Yes. My wife's cousin Martha, back when she was the Talon, and her father was the Owl."

"She had a child?"

"Yes."

"My child?"

"Well, both your child, technically. I'd just as soon wish it was parthenogenesis, but we did a DNA test. It's yours."

"Oh, please," the man smirks, waving his hand: "Is that what I was kidnapped for? I was snatched from my delightfully dour reverie, given an emotional facelift, and brought here to planet dinosaur so I could be told I have a bastard?" 

Mark's up and moving before he can even think, eager to slam his fist into the man's jaw. The man's also moving, but doing so faster than can be seen, so that, before Mark realizes what's happened, he's sprawled in a corner, holding his sprained wrist.

"Let's try that again, shall we?" Green Man says, getting up and confiscating Mark's coffee: "You brought me here so I could be informed that I have a son? That is.... wonderful. Truly the defining moment in my adult life."

"I can tell you're thrilled," Mark says, getting to his feet and cradling his hand: "I knew this was a mistake."

"Why? Because I'm not crying and falling all over myself at the news?" Green Man says: "I've worked for enough dodgy employers to recognize this sort of recruitment tactic. Frankly, I expected better-"

"This isn't about you," Mark interrupts: "Why the !@#$ would we want to recruit you? We need heroes, here, Green Man. I know the government gave you a clean bill of health, but don't think you've changed at all."

"Then what do you want me here for?"

"It's about Thomas."

"His name is Thomas?"

"Yes. Thomas Samuels. He's 16 years old, smart and talented, and he looked like his mother... and his father."

"'Looked,' you said," Green Man repeats: "I don't like the sound of that."

"No, you shouldn't," Mark says, opening the door to his office and gesturing to the hallway beyond: "But it's why we brought you here. He's always wanted to know about his father, and he doesn't have a lot of time for real answers."

"What's happened?" Green Man asks, following quickly: "What aren't you telling me?"

On the way to the medical wing, Mark tells him everything he never wanted to know.  But it isn't until they actually get there, and he sees Thomas lying in that sterile chamber, that he realizes exactly why he came here, to this place. 

But suddenly everything makes sense. 

* * *

"Hello, dad," Thomas rasps, his voice barely audible over the hissing machines that keep him breathing.

"Hello, son," Green Man says, walking over to a chair by the boy's bed and sitting down: "How are you feeling?"

"A little stronger, I think," the shell that was a boy says, twitching his burned, stumpy limbs: "Dunno... maybe I can move more today."

"Maybe," Green Man says, leaning back and smiling, trying not to register the terrible smell that's coming from what's left of his child: "But you must conserve your strength, Thomas. You're not going to do anyone any good if you push things. I know the doctor's told you that."

"He doesn't tell me anything," Thomas says: "He comes in and takes my temperature, makes sure my drips are working, and changes my tubes. I try to talk to him and he just grunts."

"Well, he's not the best conversationalist," he says, planning some interesting revenge on the fellow: "But, speaking of that, you wanted me to read you something, today?"

"Yes, please," Thomas says.

"Something from the Bible, again?" Green Man says, reaching over to take the well-thumbed book from its nearby table: "New or Old Testament?"

"Actually..." Thomas says, trying not to cough: "Could you read something you want to read?"

Green Man blinks: "What do you mean?"

"Well... I don't know what your favorite chapter is. We never talked about that, and... I'd like to know. I'd like to hear it."

"Well," Green Man says, wondering what the !@#$ he could possibly tell him about that subject: "My tastes in religious literature are a little... off, I think is the right word. Are you certain?"

"Yes, please," Thomas says, blind eyes looking around the room: "It would mean a lot to me, dad. It'll help me to get to know you better."

"And you really want to know me better?" Green Man says, realizing what a horrible thing that might be.

"Yes. Please."

"I think I can do that," Green Man says, opening the book to any old page: "Lucky for us, this copy has the Apocrypha. Have you ever read it?"

"No... Grandpa said it wasn't really part of the Bible, so I didn't really look into it..."

"Really?" the man says, smiling: "Well, he's right. The Church had a big sit-down, many centuries ago, and decided what went into the Bible and what didn't. Some things couldn't be confirmed too well, and some things were really strange, or maybe too off-message or off-putting to make the final cut. But I find there's some very interesting things in here, especially in the Gospel of Thomas. Funny coincidence, eh?"

Thomas smiles and tries to laugh, but it doesn't work so well. Green Man has to help him clear his throat, and then, once he's sure he's not going to choke to death on his own phlegm, he sits back down, cracks the book open to any old page -- as this copy of the Bible does not have the Apocrypha within it -- and takes a deep breath.

"This is one of the parables that Jesus spoke to people," Green Man says: "It's a bit archaic, so I may clean it up a bit. Is that alright?"

"Sure," Thomas says, closing his useless eyes: "Tell the story the way you want to, dad."

And so he does. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Green Man (XTC) and having a Green Man IPA)

 

 

9/21/12 - How SPYGOD Saved Christmas

So it's a dreary-!@#$ morning in Beijing, now that we've gotten word of what's happened in LA.

The Imago are making it sound like my allies did this. They're all over the !@#$ing televisions, telling people that "Dangerous Persons" working with the threat from outer !@#$ing space are responsible. The Owl and Talon, in particular, which is just all kinds of !@#$ed up and wrong, considering.

To hear the Imago tell it, the Owl blew up a big !@#$ bomb in Hollywood just to say "!@#$ you, dirty Imago bastards. !@#$ you for trying to save the Earth from certain doom. And !@#$ you for being so noble, so righteous, so good... *sniff*"

Yeah, pass me the !@#$ing tissues, honey. That was no !@#$ bomb. That was a !@#$ing orbital pulse cannon, shot from Deep Ten. The same thing they used on 3/15 to knock the whole world down and make sure they couldn't launch a god!@#$ thing in retaliation.

I'm not entirely sure what the !@#$ my people might have been doing, there. Communication with that side of the pond's been a little spotty since I got back. I have it on good authority that things are under control, and that when I have a plan, they'll be ready to put it into action. But sometimes...

...

Eh, I don't know. And that's the real problem, here, son -- I don't !@#$ing know. 

I'm not in the direct loop with what's going on, here. My intel is !@#$. I get scraps every once in a while from interested parties, and snips and pieces from my !@#$ing drunk of a cat when the worthless ball of fur can bother to put down the vodka and !@#$ing drop me a note.

But the !@#$ satellites are gone, son. The internet is a !@#$ing trap. And while I can hear more than I can understand and see more than I can bear, putting it all together's kind of hard, right now.

I've lost control, son. Power gives you control, and knowledge is power, and right now I don't !@#$ing have it that control because I don't have the power that knowledge gives me. And that !@#$ing scares me, son. You would not believe how much that scares me.

!@#$, it scares me almost as much as !@#$ing time travel does.

Yeah, I figure by now you know why. But you don't understand that unless you really live it. It takes some really specialized and terrible knowledge to understand that, at any given moment, the entire pattern of reality might !@#$ing re-arrange around you like a bad dream because some !@#$head with more tech than sense went back to whatever-whatever BC and shot King Darius in the brains before he could sire Alexander.

And that's fear, son. That's being truly and properly !@#$ing frightened.

Now, some good news on that regard is that it's not nearly as easy to !@#$ things up as you might think.

For one thing, as I think I mentioned, the last time we talked about this, most people who have the knowhow to make a !@#$ing time machine in the first place are generally !@#$ scared to do it, much less use it. And that's because it's a well-documented fact that time travel is more like Quantum Leap than The Terminator, and that even a slight, small jaunt backwards in time is liable to cause all kinds of !@#$ing headaches and changes.

For another thing, you can't just put a time machine together using !@#$ you boosted from a radio shack. It requires some very expensive equipment, along with some rare elements, and you have to have some really crazy expensive tools to put it together. And then you have to !@#$ing power the !@#$ thing, which is an interesting hurdle in itself...

And for yet another thing, you know how we've had !@#$ing legions of psychics and telepaths working in various places, watching for certain things, and heading off certain threats? Well, we've also had chronologically sensitive psychics in place since the 50's, right along with them. They all sit in a room, watching the walls in shifts around the clock, writing down whenever they feel that someone's engaged in a little time-!@#$ing.

(Which happens more often than you'd like to think, but mostly for other reasons, which maybe I'll talk about another !@#$ing time.)

Yeah, son. Back in the day, various governments had whole !@#$ing rooms of Timekeepers employed to monitor the time stream, just to make sure that no one was going to !@#$ up reality from behind. And sometimes they managed to give us plenty of warning, but not always. Sometimes even they didn't have enough time.

And then we were in the !@#$, and it was up to whatever Strategic Talents were !@#$ing available to rush back there and stop whatever the !@#$ was going on... Ah, good times, son. Good times.

Yeah, son, it does sound like I've been thinking about this a lot, doesn't it? Well, no wonder there. After yesterday's bad bit of news from America, the President's been all weepy. And he's been right up my !@#$ with a spoon to try and get me to divulge some brown nugget of hope and cheer, or maybe something that'll make all this go away.

But there's only one thing you'll get if you go up my tailpipe with a spoon, son, and that's !@#$. Or maybe a reacharound if you're looking to make SPYGOD happy, today. But generally speaking, unless you are very well-hung Katooey, and I'm in the mood to catch rather than pitch, there's nothing in my !@#$ but the dark truth.

And that's that when !@#$ like this happens, all you can do is soldier through, and plan for justice, and vengeance, and victory. That and payback.

Massive. !@#$ing. Payback.

...

Oh, but yeah, let's talk about the President, because it's kind of funny.

You see, he actually asked me if there was any way we could just go back in a machine and stop all this !@#$ from happening. And I was about to smack him upside the head like I was !@#$ing Batman or something, but then I remembered that, for all the training we did, recently, I never told him about certain key facts of life. You know, like everything I just !@#$ing talked about.

(No, son, Presidents don't get told everything when they get into the Oval Office. They do get a folder of certain secrets that they really !@#$ing need to know, now, but everything else stays secret up until it's absolutely needed to know. And how often we've almost been !@#$ed by time traveling terrorists is not something they need to know about, because they !@#$ing have enough to worry about as it is.)

So I sat him down and explained the whole thing to him. I told him that not only would we need to find a time machine, and power the !@#$ thing, but then we'd have to have someone along for the ride who knew exactly what the !@#$ happened, so we'd know what to fix. We'd also have to have people back here in the present, who could be shielded from changes in the time stream, and they'd have to be in constant communication with us, so they could !@#$ing tell us if we were doing it right or not.

And then we'd have to be doing this with the Imago running up our !@#$es, and trying to stop us from doing it, which made the chances of pulling off a successful time-changing really !@#$ing remote. Not to mention the fact that there are other forces at work, out there, who might be even less keen on our !@#$ing around with time and space and all that !@#$.

Now, after I gave him that impassioned speech, which I only had to punctuate with threatened slaps and gun barrels once or twice, he was convinced that he'd been talking out his !@#$, and letting the grief and shock go to his head, and was pretty !@#$ well put off the idea. So I let him go off to have another talk with our new, favorite Harold and hopefully get his !@#$ mind of that whole !@#$ing thing for a while.

But it got me thinking about other times that I've had to go back and fix time with only a quarter of those resources, and more than a few odds against me. And I realized, after a few beers, that we probably could go back in time and stop all this !@#$ from happening, except that we don't have Shift, anymore.

However, having said all of that, I can indeed confirm that there was one time that I managed to fix a massive disruption to the timestream with only a few pieces of reliable intel, a jetpack, and a large, loaded gun.

How did I do that, you ask? Well, that's a funny !@#$ story. Let me set the scene for you, here...

Imagine that it's 1984. Rappin Ronnie is President of the United States of America, and the understanding with the Backers is in full swing. This also means that certain things have been dialed down or swept under the rug, and we're all having to get used to the fact that we've gone from fabulous to frumpy, !@#$ing overnight. The hippies are now yuppies, disco has been replaced by synthpop, and everyone looks and sounds like something off of Miami !@#$ing Vice.

Great times, huh? Well, you don't know the half of it. I dressed flashy and people !@#$ing loved it, and I could shoot someone five hundred !@#$ing times and only have to fill out one lousy piece of paperwork. Car chases were hip, massive destruction was A-OK, and everything could be excused or explained as long as it was done to keep the Russians at bay.

So there I am, driving through New York City in a Lamborghini as pink as a !@#$ing flamingo, wearing sunglasses two times as large as necessary, a pastel blue shirt under a pastel orange jacket, and a skinny black tie that just screamed "!@#$hole on the dance floor."

I've just shot one dumb !@#$ for talking to the Soviets, and terminally inconvenienced some other dumb !@#$ for not talking to them, and I'm on my way to see another dumb !@#$ to see which way he's gonna jump if I ask him if he is or isn't, or will or won't. Or maybe I'm going to go find a ladyboy and get !@#$ing laid. Who can say?

But I get a call from the Heptagon, instead. And this is back when our communicators looked like !@#$ing flip-up cell phones do now, rather than the crazy, big box and an antenna car phones everyone else was !@#$ing using back then, so I wasn't nearly as !@#$ing inconspicuous but still wishing no one could see me actually talking on the !@#$ phone. You never know who might be paying !@#$ing attention.

Case in point, no sooner do I pick up the phone than some !@#$er takes a shot at me. High velocity sniper round, being fired from three skyscrapers away. I hear the shot coming before he's even !@#$ing fired it and swerve to avoid it, but of course that means the poor !@#$hole right behind me is toast.

So I floor the car, hit the ejection seat, and leap up into the jetpack that comes standard in these COMPANY sports cars. By the time I'm airborne the shooter's about half done packing his weapon and getting ready to run, so !@#$ if he isn't surprised to see me up on the rooftop, flying right for him, with a big !@#$ing gun of my own pointed in his direction.

A little while later, we've been properly introduced, and he's going on and on about how Soviets will destroy western capitalism, and we're doomed, and blah blah !@#$ing blah. Turns out he's from SQUASH and can't keep his !@#$ing mouth shut, but doesn't have anything really important or intelligent to say, other than he was supposed to kill my fine gay !@#$.

So I'm about to toss him over the edge of the !@#$ing roof when he finally lets slip why they wanted to try and kill me that night. Apparently, something really !@#$ big was about to go down, that night, and they wanted to get me the !@#$ out of the way before it happened, so I couldn't stop it.

What might that have been? Well, he didn't know. So of course I dropped him over the edge, but right about then I get another !@#$ing call from the Heptagon, as the last one got cut off, and this time they're a little more insistent about my needing to come in. Apparently our Timekeepers are all tearing out their feathered and frosted hair and insisting that something !@#$ing crazy is about to happen to the structure of time, but they don't know what.

"The king is gone" is all they keep saying, in creepy unison like demon kids from a bad horror movie: "The king is gone. The king is gone."

Well, okay, but what does that mean? Is someone going to go back in time and kill a king? If so, who? Charlemagne? Henry VIII? George? Arthur?

Of course, they have !@#$ing idea. But I realize that SQUASH is involved, and they're wanting to destroy Western Civilization, and that leads me to believe that...

Well, okay, I still !@#$ing got nothing. So I call the Flier for a pickup, make sure the NYPD don't ticket or impound my !@#$ car, and start my COMPANY Agents looking into all the people we know who might have access to timejump materials. After a very panicky half hour, they get me a list of three names, all of whom are on the Eastern seaboard, but two of whom are between NYC and DC.

(Of course, I have someone fly down to !@#$ing Georgia to kick in the doors of Professor Chronograph, who, as it turned out, wasn't trying to !@#$ with historical events, that night, but was actually playing Bridge with a fellow nudist couple. One of the ladies had a heart attack and had to be rushed to the hospital, in the nude, and we got !@#$ing sued for half a million dollars. Not our greatest moment.)

I head to DC, and it's a bust. Empty warehouse full of dust, grime, and bad memories of kicking mad scientist !@#$ there about ten years earlier. So I have the Flier take me back to NYC, whereupon I crash into the offices of one Griselda Rodriquez De La Hora, who was notorious for selling high tech weapons and equipment to people we'd really rather weren't in possession of such nasty !@#$.

Is she there? Sort of. Poor woman's dead, and has been for some time. She was shot right through the eyes and left to die. But she managed to do two things before things went black, one of which was to write a series of numbers on the floor in her own blood, and the other was to grab her Bible and clutch it to her chest.

(!@#$ Catholic supervillains. Go !@#$ing figure.)

The numbers I couldn't make sense of, but one of my Agents figured out that it was a phone number. Problem was, it was missing its area code, but after going through a few phone books we figured that there was a really good chance it was in the 917, which led to an office building we'd suspected of being a Soviet front for quite some time.

So she wrote down the phone number of the person she'd been in touch with? Nice touch if it was true, but the last I heard from the Heptagon the Timekeepers were strangling themselves and dying from exhaustion, and that could only mean that the whole !@#$ing world was going to do a dive if we didn't act now. So I leaped out of the !@#$ing office window, jumped onto a jetpack they'd sent out for me, and rocketed over to Astoria as fast as I !@#$ing could.

I get there, and there's lights on in the penthouse. I smash through the penthouse window, and there's some !@#$hole standing over what is clearly a large time-space apparatus, designed to send non-living things, like cameras and probes, back through time and space. There's a large metal box in the machine, and the things' counting down.

The moment I crash through the window, the jerk in the red suit realizes he's !@#$ed and tries to speed up the countdown. I shoot him through the !@#$ing heart and rush over there, just in time to stop what he was doing and turn the !@#$ing thing off. He falls down, gurgling blood and proclaiming the eventual downfall of western decadent capitalism in the face of pure Soviet excellence. Me, I kick his jaw off so he dies quieter.

Right about then, I realize that the room's all lit up like a disco, only it's not. That's what the Chandra Eye shows me when there's a lot of !@#$ing radiation nearby. I also realize that the dumb !@#$ I just killed is burned and scarred from what is clearly radiation damage, as though he'd been sucking on an ingot of P-239 for a couple days.

Sure enough, I open the box and get a nasty blast of radiation. I slam the !@#$ing lid down fast enough to avoid passing out, but as I sit the !@#$ down I realize that the walls of the box were thick lead, the device inside it was clearly a crude nuclear bomb, and I may have just saved somewhere from being !@#$ing obliterated.

I look at the timer and the controls, up there, blinking away. I can't quite make out the coordinates, but the date's reading 0000. I wonder what the !@#$ that means for a second or two, and then the radiation damage is healed up enough to make me realize that I should !@#$ing call it in.

And when I do, and have the Agent on the other end find out where the !@#$ 31 42 11 N 35 11 44 E is. He takes a moment, and gets back to me to tell me it's !@#$ Bethlehem.

Suddenly 0000 makes a whole lot of sense. Especially when they tell me that the surviving Timekeepers aren't going !@#$ing crazy, anymore.

And that, son, is how SPYGOD saved Christmas.

...

What? You expected something like off of Charlie !@#$ing Brown? Well !@#$ you, son. You just don't know a real Christmas miracle when it stands up and offers you a quickie.

Yeah, get out, kid. Go have a day or something. I need to see if I can get in touch with something that can get me in touch with California, and see if we can't adjust this knowledge power control equation a little more to my liking.

It's all I want for Christmas, son. And !@#$ if Santa isn't going to make with the goods this year...

(SPYGOD is listening to Send me an Angel (Real Life) and having an Old Fezziwig Ale )

9/20/12 - (The Owl) Bigger Than God - pt.2

"Switch," Martha says to Kaitlyn, who has about a half-second to duck down as best she can before her Aunt pivots on one foot, and cracks the hippie lady right in the nose with the other.

The lady screams and lets go of Kaitlyn, who rolls forward and flings the something she was preparing at the Imago. It looks like a golf ball, only full of black holes rather than divots.

And the second it strikes Orange and Grey in the face, it screams loud enough to shatter every window in the place.

The angry McMob of customers falls to the ground, holding their bleeding eardrums and wincing as their teeth rattle in their skulls. The Imago holds his ears and closes his eyes, taking a step back, but not getting out of the doorway.

And when Martha jumps up, and delivers an absolutely perfect kick to his head -- one that should, by all rights, break his face and send him flying back onto his metal-plated behind -- all she does is howl as her foot bends the wrong way, and she flops down to the ground in front of him.

"Aunt Martha!" Kaitlyn screams, running to her side and helping her up: "We have to leave! Now!"

The kid's right, and she knows it. She limps as best as she can, turning right around and high-tailing it for the area behind the counter, where writhing McDonalds employees are trying to hold their eardrums together. If her and Kaitlyn can lose themselves in the maze of ovens, heaters, and brick walls, hopefully they can forestall the Imago from being able to shoot them.

But halfway through the kitchen the Screechball cuts out, and they both know that's not good.

"How many more do we have?" Martha asks, trying to ignore the fact that her maimed foot is one bad footfall from becoming useless.

"That was it," Kaitlyn shouts, running ahead of her stricken Aunt: "Minimal armaments, remember?"

"Darn it," Martha sighs: "Okay. Car. Now."

They see the back door in front of them. They run faster to get to it, but suddenly Kaitlyn hears the strange, whiteboard noise again. She holds out her hands to balance her skiddering halt, and reverses course as quickly as she can, hoping Martha follows her lead.

They're both turned around by the time the Imago appears at the back door, and running back the way they came the second it walks after them -- too quickly for someone wearing that much armor.

"Hey, you can't be back here-" the McManager says, trying to get in their way. Kaitlyn ducks between his legs, slides for two feet, and leaps back up into a sprint. Martha punches him in the nose to try and get him down and out of the way.

"Stay down!" she yells: "This thing will kill you! Stay down!"

"What you talking about, crazy !@#$-" the manager says, getting up and looking at the Imago, who's walking straight towards him. Before he can get out of Orange and Grey's way, the thing has languidly waved his hand into -- and through -- his head, leaving a splattered, red ruin up against the white, sparkling clean tile wall. 

"Monster!" Martha howls, and grabs a basket full of cooking fries to hurl at the Imago. She doesn't slow down to watch it clatter against his chest, and isn't therefore instantly disappointed when it doesn't seem to bother him.

"You cannot escape me," the metal-plated juggernaut states, calmly and clearly, as it stomps after them: "You cannot outrun my eyes."

A familiar sound is heard -- like electrical swords clashing together -- and Martha understands exactly what that means.

"Darkness!" Martha shouts, but Kaitlyn's already figured that out. She closes her eyes as tightly as she can, and relies on her memory -- and echo-pings from her special earpieces -- to guide her through the jungle of angry customers and cheerful tables that awaits beyond the frontline.

The horrible sound comes again and again. Each time it does, Kaitlyn and Martha hear someone scream in agony, and then fall down.

"Why are you doing this?" someone shouts: "We're trying to help you!"

"We love you!" someone else cries: "Don't hurt us!"

"Punish me if you must," someone else says: "I know you know better than I do-"

And then there's the sound of electricity, followed by the feel of something uncomfortably warm shooting past Martha's cheek, and the sound of a body falling.

And the acrid smell of human meat cooking from the inside out.

"Run, you poop-headed idiots!" Kaitlyn shouts, hoping she can avoid opening her eyes until they're outside: "Run!"

But they don't. They cry and scream and beg, and simply do not understand why the beings that saved them from themselves are turning on them, here and now.

And when the eyebeams find them, they die.

Kaitlyn's through the door before she can really think about what's just happened. Martha's not that far behind her. Once outside, they open their eyes, hoping that the thing's being inside the building will stop its beams from finding their brains.

The girl looks back for just a second, just to see where the Imago is in relation to them. When she does she sees the broken-nosed hippie lady trying to talk to the thing -- maybe hoping that the sight of her jealousy-inducing Green and Yellow shirt will cause him to spare her life.

Orange and Grey picks her up by the neck and shoots his eyebeams directly into her skull. Her brains blow out the back of her head in a smoldering, ashen heap.

Kaitlyn turns her head away.

(Pillar of salt, she reminds herself: Pillar of salt.)

"Harcourt!" Martha shouts into her phone: "Motor on! Begin traffic override! Ready electronic camouflage!"

"Done, Martha," the AI responds. Across the parking lot their green SUV vrooms into life, its lights come on, and its doors automatically open. As they jump into it, they can hear honking and screeching as traffic lights that were green a moment ago suddenly go yellow and then red, allowing them to drive back the way they came without interruption.

Kaitlyn thinks to look back at the restaurant lobby, thinking that maybe some of the people in there would have gotten out. This time she resists.

(Pillar of salt)

* * *

"Do we have anything on board that can stop an Imago, Harcourt?" Martha asks, gunning the motor and flooring them out of the parking lot, barely missing a sportscar turning in for a burger.

"Oh dear, what have you gotten yourself into?" Harcourt asks. Additional panels drop down from the tops of the dashboard, one of which has two pairs of Owl Goggles. They quickly put them on and adjust them so that everything they see is filtered through cameras, hopefully blocking the eyebeams.

Not a moment too soon, either. As they get out into traffic, they can see Orange and Grey coming towards them from the parking lot, shooting eyebeam after eyebeam. The paired lines of deadly, orange light seek them, but do not find, and instead strike pedestrians and other motorists, killing them instantly.

"Is the electronic camouflage ready?" Martha shouts.

"It is, ma'am," Harcourt announces: "We don't know if it'll work on them, or not-"

"Turn it on. We're going to find out now."

"If I do, the goggles will be useless. And if the camouflage doesn't work..."

Martha thinks for a second, looking back at the metal-plated monster in her rear view mirror, shooting out beams of death with every step.

"Time it for the next shot, Harcourt," she says, taking Kaitlyn's hand and looking at her: "And then do it."

Kaitlyn nods, pulls the goggles off with her free hand, and closes her eyes, praying. Martha does the same, hoping no one gets in their way right now.

The SUV hums and slows down as its battery is almost overloaded with the strain of running the extra system. The computerized ads and street lights all flicker and go out, and the rain of deadly eyebeams stop coming.

Kaitlyn looks back at her rear view mirror. Orange and Grey is looking around, visibly confused. She allows herself a smile, and maybe half of a laugh, but then she sees him look up and speak.

And she thinks she knows what he just said.

"We have to get out of here," Kaitlyn says.

"I'm doing that, honey," Martha scolds her, banking hard to the right to avoid crashing into a compact that just lost its driver, but not its momentum.

"I mean the city, Aunt Martha," she says: "I think he just said 'prepare extreme measures.' That doesn't sound good. They'll probably bring everything they have to get us."

Martha turns pale, knowing full well what that might mean.

"Harcourt..." she starts to say, looking up at the sky: "I need you to... oh, !@#$. Please God, no..."

"Martha?" Kaitlyn asks.

Martha looks at her, deliberating what to say, and do. She looks at her still-fragile eyes, looking at her for guidance. And-

"I hope so," SPYGOD says, tapping her on the forehead: "But just remember. If you ever run out of tricks and toys, and the world's leaning on you? You have to go with the needs of the many over the few, or the one."

"Needs of the many," Martha says, looking back at the road. Tears are swelling up behind her eyes as she looks around, seeing the screaming, angry faces that she cannot save.

"Aunt Martha, what are you going to do?" Kaitlyn asks.

"Harcourt... put everything you have on getting us out of Los Angeles. Get the forward shields up. And make sure you're hardened against an EMP."

Harcourt doesn't say anything for a moment: "Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm not shielded for that. Luckily, there's a backup copy that is. You'll have to manually install it, though."

"Understood," she says.

"Aunt Martha...?"

"We have to leave, honey," she says: "It's the mission. We have to live for the mission."

"What-"

"These people are dead, honey," Martha explains, letting the tears come: "We cannot save them. There is nothing we can do. We have to get out of here but we can't save them and there's nothing we can do. Do you understand?"

"Sodom..." kaitlyn stammers: "Just like Sodom and Gomorrah..."

"Yes, dear. And we're Lot. And we have to get out of here because we have to live. Okay?"

"..."

"Okay? I need you to understand me, here, Talon."

"Yes, Owl," Kaitlyn snaps to attention in her seat: "I understand."

"Good. That's good. So... just hold on, and let me drive. And pray for these people, and for us."

And then she floors it again.

* * *

Martha's driving is merciless. She plows into anything and everyone that gets in her way. She tries to avoid hitting pedestrians, but by the time she's almost on the freeway, again, she just gives up, truly realizing the horrible truth.

They really are already dead. All of them.

"Martha!" Kaitlyn shrieks, horrified as an old lady gets clipped and goes flying back onto the pavement.

"Already dead," her Aunt says, more to herself than to Kaitlyn.

"Martha, I'm detecting a massive electronic pulse," Harcourt interrupts: "It's well past Lunar orbit, but aimed right at where we were about ten seconds ago."

"Keep the electronic camouflage up at all costs!" Martha shouts, forcing a slow-moving car off the on ramp and barreling past it, realizing that she's probably just killed everyone in the vehicle. Or spared them what's coming.

The SUV leaps onto the San Diego highway, heading North at over 120 MPH, alternating between the fast lane and the breakdown lane, and muscling past every car that doesn't get out of their way. Some have to be smashed off the road, causing accident after accident as they race away.

"Now, honey, this is really important," Martha says to Kaitlyn, who's almost on the verge of tears: "When I tell you to, I want you to put your owl goggles back on, and click down the shields."

"I thought they weren't working-"

"This is physical, not electronic. Bring down the shields, and when I tell you to, get down into the wheelwell and stay down. Do not look until I tell you to. Can you do that?"

Kaitlyn blinks, and looks out the window, and then up. The sky is getting a lot brighter, all of a sudden, and all the hair is starting to stand up on her head...

"Now!" Martha shouts, putting her own goggles on as Kaitlyn dons hers and dives in front of the seat: "Harcourt, drive! Fast as you can!"

"Will do, Ma'am..." the AI says, and takes the SUV up past 160. The engine howls and whines, clearly running low of precious fluids. There's a scary moment when Martha thinks one of the tires fell off, but that's just them hitting another car.

Kaitlyn is holding Martha's hand, and praying. Martha joins her, just as static electricity starts arcing around the inside of the car. Harcourt begins praying with them.

And then...

* * *

"It's our fault, really," their leader is saying to Martha, later, back at the command post's sickbay: "We didn't know that they'd implemented that law about ID for all transactions until we'd sent you out, into the field. And then we couldn't contact you."

Martha doesn't even nod. She lies there, on her hospital bed, the skin on her face and neck a red, sunburned mess -- except for around her eyes -- and tries not to think about what just happened. 

"Kaitlyn's alright, if you were wondering," the hooded, masked man says as he gets to his feet, grey robes swirling around him: "We're going to wheel her in here, as soon as we're sure. Good call, making her duck."

"Good kid," Martha says, her face hurting with the movement: "She's gonna be great, someday."

"She already is," the leader says, leaning in and taking her hand in his: "Just like her aunt."

"I don't feel great, right now," she says, looking up at him, wishing she could recognize his voice, somehow: "If we hadn't stopped.... if we'd just kept going..."

"Then they might have made someone else, some other time, when the mission was more urgent," he says: "You can't blame yourself for what the enemy does, Martha. All you can do is adapt, survive, and save as many of your own people as you can. That and thank God you lived to fight another day."

She closes her eyes and tries to smile at that. It doesn't work so well. 

She keeps thinking of what she saw when she got out of the SUV, after the blast had struck. 

She keeps thinking of how strange the air felt, and what it smelled like, and how electricity crackled between metal surfaces.

She thinks of the screams, and the moans, and the howling of the people who'd been blinded by the light, or burned beyond recognition by its heat.

She thinks of the elevated freeway she'd been speeding up, and how it ended less than twenty feet from the back of her vehicle -- burned to cinders by the same energy source that had turned a wide swath of northern Los Angeles into a deep, burned crater.

And she thinks of the sight that greets her, at the edge of that deep, smoldering crater -- a lone figure, some distance away, floating above the devastation, slowly rotating to better view it.

A lone figure wearing orange and grey metal armor, searching for any sign that his quarry had been destroyed by his "extreme measures."

"Pillar of salt," she told herself, then. And then she got Harcourt's backup out of the back, packed up their emergency kit, and got her and Kaitlyn as far North as they could before help arrived, praying every step of the way to not hear that terrible, crackling noise again.

"Who are you, really?" she asks the leader, trying to sit up a little.

"Really?" he asks, turning around: "You don't suppose I wear masks in front of unmasked heroes for no good reason, do you?"

"No. But I'm starting to wonder."

"Why?"

"Because you're being so calm about this," she says: "I'm putting up as brave a face as I can right now, but I'm broken. I can't even conceive of what just happened back there, and what I had to do to get out of it... those people..."

"And here I am, calm as rock before the storm," he says, walking back to her side and sitting down on the edge of the bed: "You're wondering how anyone could be so bloodless and beyond shock, or horror. You're not sure if you're dealing with a human being, right now."

"I wouldn't have put it like that," she tries to smile.

"I can't tell you who I am, yet," he says, leaning in to whisper: "But let me assure you. We have worked together before. When you last knew me, we were allies, and friends. We had our differences, but when the call was sounded, we would both answer the same call."

"And I have to trust that you're wearing that for a reason?"

"I am," he says, getting back up: "When I choose to tell the truth, you will be the first one who knows, even before SPYGOD."

"Why me?" she asks: "Why not him?"

"Well..." the leader says, and maybe he's chuckling under the hood and the mask: "Let's just say it's the only way that's going to work. Plus, you have to admit, it's kind of funny to be there on the one day that SPYGOD doesn't know everything. Hmm?"

She nods, tries to smile, and leans back. Someone wheels Kaitlyn in, and the little girl smiles and runs to her Aunt's side. They hug -- painfully -- and cry and laugh, relieved that this is all somehow over.

And in the midst of it, their leader slips out of the room, and goes somewhere private, where he can pray to God, curse the Angels, and weep as bitterly as he can with no one to hear him.

"This is bigger than you," he reminds himself, over and over: "Bigger than anyone. Bigger than history. Bigger than God."

And that does not help him in the slightest.

(SPYGOD is listening to Open Up (Leftfield, Zoo DJ remix) and finally getting that shake)