10/04/12 - I Will Never Be Clean Again - pt. 3

The President of the United States now realizes the enormity of his mistake.

He should not have hesitated. He should not have assumed he had the time to take a second and think about what he was doing. He should have taken the shot and killed Wen Boxiong.

But now he has no recourse. The Imago are here, floating around him. He will simply have to wait for one of them to get out of the way for him to fire.

And he realizes that, the moment he fires, the Imago will sense his presence, and come for him. He may just have enough time to press the button and destroy his apartment, and press another button and destroy the gun. But he won't have any time to get away after that.

The moment he pulls the trigger he is most likely going to kill both the General Secretary and himself.

(Thus proving a whole, probably-now-deceased gaggle of Washington Neo-Cons right, he grimly notes.)

But that is of no matter. The man must die. The President must be the one who kills him, even if it kills him, too.

He tries to vector the shot differently, wondering if he would have a better angle if he stood, or moved to another window. But by the time he left, anything could have happened. It would be far better to watch and wait for the right moment. 

As he watches the encounter go on, he realizes that Wen is becoming agitated -- quite animatedly so. He cannot hear what he is saying, but he seems to be screaming it at them.

"What are you doing?" he asks, wondering why the man he was about to kill seems ready to commit suicide by alien invader. 

* * *

 

"Greetings to you, O SPYGOD," a booming, self-satisfied voice announces, just a second before its owner teleports into the empty room, there to join the fifty or so Specials who arrived just five seconds before. 

The ex-President of Russia and SPYGOD are in the center of a circular firing squad, staring down a lethal ring of gauss rifles. The Imago appears in the doorway they came through, his Orange and Gold arms outstretched as if in welcome, or if he were gracefully landing. His smile seems as wide as his face.

And his eyes are afire with malice thinly disguised as kindness.

"Well howdy-do to you, too, !@#$face,' SPYGOD snorts: "I guess you found me."

"We did indeed, O SPYGOD."

"You didn't seriously think that !@#$ty plan of yours was going to work, did you?" he asks, weighing his options: "You really should have just !@#$ing killed the President, !@#$hole. I eat nasty-!@#$ alternate realities for !@#$ing breakfast. Ask anyone."

"You are indeed an unusually resilient man, O SPYGOD. But-"

"Wen talked, didn't he?"

"Wen?" the Imago asks, seemingly perplexed: "Which Wen would that be?"

"You know who, you tin-plated !@#$-"

"No," the ex-President says, holding up a hand while fishing around in his mouth for another, broken tooth: "I just told you, SPYGOD. I told them where we were, after a fashion."

"Explain, Valentina," SPYGOD says, taking a step back from his captive but still pointing his gun at his head.

"I was charged to make a report every night. If I did not, then it could only mean that I had been compromised, and that could only be by you, or one of your people. So they would begin tracking me, and follow where it led. Though I think the ending point was never in doubt."

"You...?" SPYGOD says, blinking and taking another step back: "Not Wen? You?"

"Yes, SPYGOD," the ex-President says, smiling through a mouth of broken teeth: "Me."

* * *

"Just do it, already!" Wen Boxiong shouts at the Imago surrounding him, jumping up and down like some kind of idiot: "I know that you know! I know what she told you!"

"Who is this person you speak of, O Wen Boxiong?" One of the Imago asks.

"You know who she is! Stop toying with me!"

"What are we supposed to know, O Wen Boxiong?" Another asks.

"You know what I've done! She told you! Stop it!"

"Perhaps you should calm down, O Wen Boxiong," yet another suggests: "We do not know what you are talking about-"

"Stop it stop it stop it!" the man shrieks, balling up his fists and shaking: "I hate you! You and your smirking faces and metal brains! This is torture!"

"Why do you accuse us of torture, O Wen Boxiong?" One asks.

"Why are you so certain we know something worth harming you over, O Wen Boxiong?" Another asks.

"What are you trying to say, O Wen Boxiong?" Yet another asks.

The man howls and screams, his face turning as red as blood and his eyes screwed shut. Even like that he can see their smiling faces and friendly eyes, and feel the contempt they hold him in. Why won't they just tell him what they know and then kill him?

Why are they being so !@#$ cruel?

* * *

"Bull!@#$," SPYGOD snorts, looking at the Imago and then his captive: "Then why did they blow up that train just after I found out my contact in Beijing might have been made?"

"A necessary deception," the Imago announces: "We did not want you to suspect you were being set up for a trap. We calculated that throwing an attempt on your life in your path would make you feel as though you were, as you say, jumping through the correct number of hoops."

"Well it's a !@#$ funny coincidence-"

"It was just that, SPYGOD," the ex-President says, finally getting his hands on that pesky, busted tooth and pulling it out for inspection, and disposal: "A coincidence. But at the same time, a coincidence you can believe in."

"The proper poetry of things," SPYGOD glowers: "And if I hadn't seen it was coming, what then?"

"You would have survived, and made certain that he did as well," the Imago says: "The ammunition we used on that train was not anywhere as harmful to you as what these guns are loaded with."

"And even if you did not save me, I would see to it that you were given the means to get here," the ex-President says, fishing in his pocket and holding out a small, black cube: "This key also opens the door."

"You !@#$ing idiot," SPYGOD says, looking at the man he's been bullying, beating, and carting around Russia for the last few days: "Why? What on Earth could have !@#$ing gotten you to go in with these things? Don't you know what they are? Don't you know what they do?"

"They came to me after I disappeared," the ex-President explains, his eyes suddenly wet and reverent: "I thought I could evade them, but they showed me the lie in that. And they told me of the Day, and the plan, and I realized that this was the moment my entire life was building towards."

"Really? What the !@#$ are you getting out of this? A lifetime supply of Vodka?"

"I will be leaving with them," he says, smiling: "When the Day comes, and this world is forfeited, I will be riding their ship with them. Together we will go into the darkness, hand in hand. I will know eternity, my friend. And you will help me."

"When the day comes?" SPYGOD asks, looking at the Imago.

"Oh yes, O SPYGOD," the Imago says: "We are surprised you had not pieced it together already. This is not an invasion.

"This is an escape."

* * *

As the President watches the encounter go on, he realizes he cannot make the shot. Not cleanly, anyway.

It will only be a matter of time before one of them reaches out, takes hold of Wen's face, and begins to drain his memories. At that point the entire game will be up, and everything they have worked for will be over. 

He decides on a course of action. It will not be clean, quick, or pretty, and it will leave no chance for escape at all, but he will have to do it.

He adjusts his aim. One shot to the knee will bring the man down so that his head is on the ground. And one more shot after that will turn that head to useless, red mush.

But two shots will delay him a few critical seconds, which will be all the time they will need to find him. And then all he'll be able to do is die in such a way that they learn nothing. 

He thinks of his wife as he does this. He wishes he could find a way to say goodbye, and that he loves, her, just one more time.

His finger is on the trigger, and he makes ready to pull it.

* * *

"O Wen Boxoing, I fear you are trying to tell us something," the Imago who's done most of the talking says: "What is it? What should we know? What are you so afraid of us knowing?"

The General Secretary unscrews his eyes and looks up at the floating, metal man. And in those eyes he realizes, for the first time, that he has misjudged this encounter. 

They were not here to kill him for his sins. They were not here to question his loyalties, or confirm their suspicions. 

They really did just want to know if he was alright, given that he went off the grid the last few days.

"I..." he stammers, realizing that he has condemned himself. There is no way out of this. They are going to kill him.

Unless...

* * *

"Getting out ahead of the big nasty thing you've been warning us about, huh?" SPYGOD asks, wishing he had a cigarette to pull on, right about now: "Yeah, I didn't really !@#$ing think you were going to save us."

"Exactly, O SPYGOD," the Imago says, gesturing to the room they are in: "The spacecraft is not meant to defend against (UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT). If we wished to fight it, we would simply use Deep Ten, but even its mighty armaments will mean nothing to the creature when it arrives."

"It's meant to get them and their trusted servants off the planet in time," the ex-President says, the look of starry-eyed reverence still making his eyes glow as he turns to look at the Imago: "Everything that has been done... the orbital elevator, the harvesting of energy, the freeing of the Imago from their prison... all has been done to further this goal."

"Trusted servants," SPYGOD says, looking at his captive: "Your escape is built on the backs of the dead, Valentina."

"Isn't everyones?" the ex-President asks, smiling at his savior.

SPYGOD raises his gun and shoots the man in the skull, right in one temple and out the other, pulping his eyes in his sockets at the same time.

"A foolish gesture, O SPYGOD," the Imago says as their loving servant falls to the ground, dead as a stone: "Do you not imagine we already know everything that he does?"

"That wasn't protection for me, !@#$face," SPYGOD says, dropping his gun on the floor and raising his hands: "That was mercy for him. I'm sure whatever you had !@#$ing planned for him would have been !@#$ing awful."

"We merely would have used his energy to further our goals. Not a painless fate, but not awful either-"

"You took a walking weasel of a man who believed in nothing but what he could gather for himself, and made him believe in a cause higher than himself for the first time in his life. You filled his head with bliss and his heart with joy. And then you were going to !@#$ing pull the rug out from under him right when he thought his reward was due?"

"That is essentially correct, O SPYGOD-"

"Well, maybe they don't have the word 'cruel' where you come from, you metal !@#$-stain, but that's about as cruel as it gets."

"Oh, we understand cruelty, O SPYGOD. Perhaps better than you do."

"I !@#$ing doubt it-"

"You do not understand our story, O SPYGOD. You know only the edges of it. You know nothing of who we were, or how we came to be here, or why. You see our actions as evil, perhaps monstrous, but you of all people should know that a people will do anything to survive."

"And you should !@#$ing understand that we might have helped you, if you'd just !@#$ing asked," SPYGOD says: "All you ever had to !@#$ing do was ask for help."

"That is not in our nature, O SPYGOD." 

"Well, neither is rolling over and dying, O !@#$face. We will also do anything to survive. And if there's one thing I can do, it's do anything." 

"You can, indeed. We have clearly underestimated you, O SPYGOD. It will not happen again."

SPYGOD smiles as the Specials re-aim their guns right at him.

"Just so you know," SPYGOD says, looking right at the Imago: "Everything that !@#$ing happens from here on out? That's on you. All of you."

"It is indeed," the Imago says, and gives the order to fire.

* * *

The President of the United States of America pulls back on the trigger, making ready to shoot Wen Boxiong in the knee.

Wen Boxiong pulls out a small box and presses a button, expecting to get help from the man who's about to shoot him.

SPYGOD outstretches his arms, as if he is ready to embrace death at last. 

And then...

(SPYGOD is listening to Strobe: Fragments (Front 242) and having a Baltika no 6)

10/04/12 - I Will Never Be Clean Again - pt. 2

Of course, walking for "some time" turns out to be a long time. Several miles, in fact -- all done along a very old, very unsafe length of underground tunnel that seems ready to all come down at a moment's notice.

The walls writhe and pulse with generations of strangely-colored spiders the size of a young boy's hand, none of which care to skitter out of the way of the flashlight beam the way such things should. The ceiling and walls have collapsed in some areas, especially around the center of the city above, necessitating close squeezes and careful crawls around the falls.

And this means getting up close and personal with the legions of arachnids, leading to bites that they only hope aren't poisonous, or worse.

Along the way there are revelations -- broken doors and collapsed walls revealing treasures from a bygone age. Old soviet powersuits rust in the damp, awaiting a war that will never come, now. Rack upon rack of fully-grown clone soldiers rot in their jars, the preservatives having long since ceased to be worth the name. Harvested psychic brains still kept alive after all these years feebly whisper of missile launches yet to come, unaware that no one has listened to them for almost a quarter of a century.

"Ah, Sverdlovsk," SPYGOD says as he regards the ruins of a captured alien spacecraft more jellyfish than saucer: "You guys really had some weird !@#$ going on here, back in the day."

"You should know," the ex-President of Russia says, itching a very bad spiderbite at his neck: "You penetrated the defenses enough times, you and your men. Did you not stop to look? Or were we chasing you too swiftly?"

"Mission specific maneuvers, Valentina" he says, casting his flashlight back on the path ahead: "If you come for the crown jewels you don't have !@#$ing time to grab the Rolls Royce, too."

"Unless you can escape in it."

"Spoken like a true professional."

"And you would know, wouldn't you?"

"Says the man I caught !@#$ing napping in his safehouse," SPYGOD snorts: "How much were you paying that poor metal !@$ to be your human shield? You should get your money back."

"Perhaps I will," the ex-President says. And something about how he says it -- and how he reacts to SPYGOD's silence at the end of that reply -- tells SPYGOD that he knows what's coming next.

Which makes him just a little more dangerous, now. But it's not like he can get away from down here, now is it? All SPYGOD needs to do is step on the flashlight, and he's !@#$ing dead.

And the more he thinks of it, the more he thinks he might just do that.

* * *

The President of the United States of America breathes slowly, trying to enter the slow, grey space he needs to be in to make this shot work. He imagines the rifle as an extension of his own body: his eye the scope, his finger the barrel and the trigger.

The bullets his will to see this man dead.

He blanks his mind of any thoughts of that man. They did not work together, or talk together. He did not teach the man how to blend in better, and shake his security detail. They did not share confidences as one leader to another. They did not laugh at jokes or have that one meal, at a corner noodle place that the man liked to visit incognito.

He is not betraying him now, even though he is. 

But it is one betrayal for the freedom of the world. One death to save billions of lives.

"I'm sorry," the President says, wondering how true that really is. But it's now or never, never or now.

And then he takes a deep breath, compensates for the wind, and makes ready to pull the trigger back as soon as the target -- no longer deserving of a name -- comes into view.

Any second now.

* * *

"This is it," SPYGOD's captive says, gesturing to a sealed door to his left. It's a big, green, metal thing, with a keypad attached to it, and what looks like a rifle sight attached to that.

"The room containing all the !@#$ files on Unit 731," SPYGOD says: "That and all the equipment you had up there, trying to replicate their results. All grabbed and shoved down the memory hole after that little accident with the !@#$ing anthrax. Just like this city's old name, huh?"

"That would be correct," the man says: "But as always, the memory hole is not always final. We keep some things alive, just in case."

"And boy is that !@#$ing good for you," SPYGOD sneers: "Open it up. Let's see what's been keeping your sorry !@#$ alive for the last few days."

"But let me ask you this," the ex-President turns to look SPYGOD in the eye: "Do you really think you will have the time to find what you need to? There is a lot of information in there. Files upon files, in Japanese, Chinese, Russian... you would need an army to sift through it, and another to decode its many secrets."

"So you're saying it's too tough, and I should just !@#$ing quit?" 

"I'm not saying you should quit, but I am saying-"

A crack across the face with the butt end of a gun ends his sensible talk, and he holds his hand to his cheek, wondering if it's broken.

"You need to hear what I am saying, Valentina," SPYGOD says, getting right in his face and putting a finger right between his eyes: "Right now, you are looking at a desperate man. I have a planet to save, and so far the only way I've found to do it is to do something that is so !@#$ing terrible, that even I couldn't !@#$ing live with myself if I had to do it. And if anyone ever finds out that I did it, I'd be !@#$ing tossed in a cell and thrown into the !@#$ Sun to roast like a human marshmallow. 

"Now, do I look like I want to be turned into a !@#$ing human marshmallow, Valentina? Because something tells me you know the answer to that is 'no.' And that means that if the only way to find a solution to this problem is to go in there, get on my hands and knees, and root around like a pig to find out if there's something about GORGON that wasn't in the files in Beijing, then by God I will !@#$ing get on my hands and knees and root around like a !@#$ pig. I'll even !@#$ing squeal and roll around in mud if it'll help.

"Now are you going to help me save the world, or am I going to jam your !@#$ing skull into that retinal reader and guess at combinations until I get the right one?"

The ex-President looks at him, and then at the reader, and then goes to the door. He puts his eye up to the sight and types in a six-digit code. A light shines from inside the sight, and he steps back, squinting at its brightness.

And then, with a foul, metal-and-oil smell and a satanic hiss, the green metal door slides out, then in, and then to the left, revealing a dark hole beyond.

"On the third wrong try you would have triggered a bomb," he says, rubbing his zapped eye: "One that I think would have even killed you."

"Well, guess we'll never know, now," SPYGOD says, hoisting up his gun and looking inside.

* * *

At last, the target steps into view, and he's all alone. 

Wen Boxiong walks into the kill zone, looking like a condemned man on the way to the gallows. He's going slowly, as if he was in no hurry to get to work. And maybe he isn't.

The President adjusts his aim. All he needs is one good, clear shot, right through the medula oblongada, and this can all be over. The explosive ammunition will turn the man's head into a red cloud of smoke, wiping away all chance of the enemy finding out what he knows.

Wiping away all traces of there ever having been a conspiracy against their evil order. 

He hesitates for just a second, trying to rationalize this. Wondering if there really isn't any other way to do this. Couldn't they just talk? Can't they disappear together? Would that be so bad?

(SPYGOD screaming in his face. Hitting him repeatedly. Telling him he !@#$ed up everything. Never seeing his wife and daughters again. The world ending. God telling him he !@#$ed up the whole planet. Hell waiting just for him.)

Yes, it would be that bad.

He takes another deep breath, compensates once more for the wind, and again makes ready to pull the trigger back. The man, the tool, and the weapon, all united in purpose to do one swift and terrible thing, here and now. 

But just before he can, there's a weird light, all around Wen. He stops in his tracks and looks up, and suddenly he is surrounded by four Imago, who float around him like metal angels.

And one of them is blocking the President's shot.

* * *

SPYGOD roughly pushes his unwilling companion into the dark room ahead of him. Then he stalks in after, gun up and ready to fire, scanning it from left to right as he slowly puts one foot in front of the other.

The room is large and circular. It is lit with passive lighting systems that come on as they enter, creating a dull aura of visibility that's just enough to see by, but not much more than that.

But he doesn't need it, or his eye, to tell that there's nothing in this room.

Nothing at all.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$..." he says, turning in a circle, astounded by this.

"It is empty, my friend," the ex-President says, shrugging: "Even you can see that?"

"There's nothing here."

"That is what they mean by empty-" the man starts to say, but is quickly silenced by a rough blow to the face, sending him sprawling across the floor, teeth falling from his mouth as he goes.

"Where is it?" SPYGOD screams: "Where the !@#$ is the information, !@#$hole? Where are the files? Where is the !@#$ you got from the Japanese?"

"Gone," the ex-President says, struggling to get to his feet: "Destroyed."

"What do you mean, gone, destroyed?"

"I mean gone, and destroyed," he says, slowly rising and fixing SPYGOD with a look: "I saw to its removal and burning not that long ago, actually. A little over six months ago, in fact."

"Why?" SPYGOD hisses, stomping over and shoving his gun under the man's chin: "Why the !@#$ did you get rid of it?"

"In case this happened," he says, still giving SPYGOD the look: "And look, it has. I guess we deduced your moves correctly, my friend."

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you think that it was too convenient that you actually found me?" the ex-President says, smiling with more than a little contempt in spite of the gun in his face: "You should have known me better than that, SPYGOD. I've been playing this game long enough to stay hidden, should I want to."

"So you wanted me to find you, and bring you here, to an empty !@#$ing room," SPYGOD says, getting ready to punch him again: "Why?"

"So they could have you."

"They who?" SPYGOD demands, but he already knows the answer to that question.

They're teleporting in, even now.

(SPYGOD is listening to Collision (Front 242) and having a Stary Melnik) 

10/04/12 - I Will Never Be Clean Again - pt. 1

Wen Boxiong does not get out of bed to turn his alarm off. He never does.

The piercing noise wakes him up, yes, but he does not leave his bed to be done with its annoyance. Instead he lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to catch the last vestiges of his dreams before they leave him. To let the final, fleeting strands of them play out as they will, before they are gone forever.

As a young boy he was saddened that his dreams were so quickly forgotten, shortly after waking. He did not want to leave the warm cocoon they had spun around his mind at night., but he could not catch them like this, then. He had to go to school, or to work, or to attend his mother's endless needs, and she was not one to let him lie about dreaming in his bed.

After one memorable occasion, in which the sweetest dream imaginable was shattered by her screaming in his face to wake up, he swore that when he was older, and no longer under her roof, he would not let a single dream go unresolved. He would watch them leave as gently as they came, and only then -- when their edges had blurred and plots had fallen to pieces, and there was no more joy to be had from them -- would he rise to meet the day.

And so he did.

This extended arrangement with his dreams has not always been easy. He has had to rise from slumber earlier than he would like in order to have the time to let the visions leave of their own accord without being late for his responsibilities. He has never had anyone stay the entire night with him, as their presence there would complicate his sleeping and waking. And this lack of total togetherness has all but ensured that his liaisons have been short and one-sided.

(Except for the time with her, but that was strenuous and strange, and left him erotically inspired and politically elevated, but broken inside.)

But he is happy with this. His dreams are his own, now and forever. No one can take them from him. And they come and go at his choosing.

Which is why, when his alarm goes off today, he lets it ring and ring for a full hour, until it shuts off by itself. He watches the dreams until they are shambling parodies of what they were when he first opened his eyes. And he cries to see them leave at last.

Because he knows this is the last day. The last morning. The last dream.

Today he will look in the mirror and see a man condemned.

* * *

SPYGOD doesn't so much wake up as crack himself back into motion, as though someone flipped a switch in his skull. He stands straight up, tenses and relaxes his muscles, cracks every joint in his body in one loud wave, and grunts. He blinks one eye, does a 360 scan with the other, and farts loud enough to wake the dead.

He's spent all night sitting in the corner of the underground bolthole he's sharing with the ex-President of Russia, hovering over the ridiculously-opulent vodka he appropriated for the revolution, yesterday. Why it costs three million dollars a bottle he'll never know; he's had a lot better for far cheaper. He figures it must be all the gold and gems on the outside of the glass, rather than what's sloshing around inside of it.

(Which probably explains everything anyone ever needed to know about life, quite frankly.)

SPYGOD has to be very !@#$ careful when looking at himself in the mirror. If he looks at himself straight on, the Chandra Eye creates an infinite and baffling series of reflections. Its much like being between two mirrors in a fancy hotel elevator, only without the eventual curve into grainy dissolution; he can literally see into the far, deep pit of the eternity inside him, one slightly-more-warped reflection at a time.

The first time it happened, not long after he put the eye in his skull, he stared at himself for days on end, and had to be roughly pushed out of the way to break the spell. Since then, it's only happened a few times, and he's usually been able to pull himself out of it after an hour or two. So he closes his eye to shave, doesn't bother with rear view mirrors when driving, and if he has to argue with himself, he does it while looking into whatever he's drinking at the time.

And he is almost always drinking something.

* * *

The President of the United States of America drinks water as he stands before the bathroom mirror. Two glasses a day, every day, right after he gets up and before he takes his shower. It re-hydrates, gets the digestive system working, and makes sure his vitamins get absorbed correctly.

And, recently, he's been using it to center himself, and hold onto his true identity in spite of everything that's happened. 

He looks at himself in the mirror as he does this, observing the false Asian face he's been wearing since he got to China. He does not like it. He looks like a weird amalgam of his own features and something else. Maybe someone he could have met in his childhood, in Malaysia.

Sometimes, he imagines that he's not the one doing these things, here. All the questionable things he's done since he teamed up with SPYGOD to save America -- to save the world, for that matter -- have been done by this strange character he sees in the mirror. It's been his hands shaking hands with the most powerful man in China. His lips making poisoned promises.

His fingers to be around the trigger of the gun that kills him, today.

He doesn't like having to do this. He knew it was a possibility -- possibly even an eventuality -- but he'd allowed himself to hope that, when it was all over, they could all just go their separate ways and say nothing of it. What would it matter if the leaders of two nations worked together to save the world from an invasion? What did they really do that was so terrible that it might later turn into blackmail or extortion?

But no. I would appear that the Imago have found out what he knows, somehow. They know that he told them about the lockup of information gleaned from Unit 731. They know why that's relevant, and why SPYGOD is in Russia, right now. They have even tried to kill SPYGOD, there, to stop him.

And if they choose to press their hand, Wen might tell them that the President of the United States is in the country, working alongside him. And that would be very bad for everyone involved.

Especially the President.

So today, when the man walks from his apartments to their house of government, as the President knows he will, he will be waiting for him, with a very powerful gun. He will assassinate him from a few football fields away, and then get as far away from Beijing as he can.

And hope it's enough.

He looks at this strange man in the mirror. He remembers the time that, when he wore his own face, he ordered young men and women to go and kill in the name of their country. He wonders if they, too, had some kind of similar ritual, or if they took full personal responsibility for the terrible but necessary things they did for their country.

The man in the mirror doesn't have an answer. Just an alien expression that's going to haunt his wearer for the rest of his life.

* * *

The Ex-President of Russia does not look at himself in the mirror. Not once. Not ever.

* * *

"Alright, President !@#$face," SPYGOD says at some point, pretending to look at his watch: "It's time."

"I suppose it is," his guest says, getting to his feet. He looks terrible, frankly: puffy and red-eyed, with some nasty bruises around his face. Too many transpistol shots over too many days have turned his muscles brittle, and liable to snap and bleed. 

But that part of the journey is done, now. No more reverse gender assaults on his person. He needs to be who and what he is for this next bit to work. 

"Do you remember how to get there?" SPYGOD asks as they step out into the corridor of the unlit tunnel, apparently not worried about all the large, nasty-looking spiders that crawl over the damp and crumbling walls. 

"I do," the ex-President of Russia says: "We go left at the next junction, then right, and then left. And then we walk for some time."

"Any security we need to worry about?"

"No. Not down this deep. The only things you could find down here without someone like myself along would be supply closets and empty rooms."

"Well, good thing I've got you, huh?" SPYGOD smiles, gesturing with his flashlight: "You first."

"I would like a flashlight."

"I would like a billion rubles, ten ladyboys, and a steak the size of a card table. Start !@#$ing walking or I'll drag your sorry !@#$ behind me."

 

"Very well. But if I slip and fall-"

 

"Listen !@#$-o," SPYGOD hisses, grabbing the man by the lapel and yanking him uncomfortably close: "All I need to get into this room is directions and one of your eyes. I got the one, and the other doesn't need to be in your !@#$ head, now does it?"

 

There's a moment of silence as the two men look at each other, and then the ex-President nods, and, as soon as SPYGOD lets go of him, walks forward into the darkness, doing his best to stay in the splash of light his captor's flashlight provides.

 

There is nothing to do but walk, now. And if he knows he's going to his death, he's doing it rather bravely. 

 

But that will not deter his killer -- not one !@#$ bit. 

 

* * *

 

In Beijing, not too far from the houses of government, there's a building. In that building is a room with a window that, if you strained your eyes just so, you could almost see a decent amount of a certain walkway from. 

 

And if you had a high-powered rifle scope, you could see that walkway perfectly, and have quite a decent amount of visible space to set up a good killshot.

The President of the United States of America sits there, in that building, in that window, with the rifle in his hands and his eyes in that scope. 

Thanks to the emergency call box they gave Wen Boxiong, all that time ago, he knows that the man is on the move. He knows he and his small security detail will be in sight in a minute or so. And he knows that, with this gun, and the ammunition in it, he only needs one good shot to destroy the man from the neck-up, robbing the Imago of the ability to use his dead brain for any information.

He knows these things, but he does not like them. He also does not like that he planted a bomb back at his apartment that will not only destroy his rooms, but might also cause a fire that will bring the whole building down. He likes that he only needs to press a button to set it off remotely, but he knows that when the moment comes, he'll probably hesitate a few seconds, wondering if he should call in a threat first so that the building is evacuated.

 

He does not like knowing that, in spite of that hesitation, he will press it, anyway. His training is too strong for moral objections, now. What they have to do is too important to waste time or sentiment over. 

There is nothing to do but kill, now. And as he waits for the General Secretary of China to step into his field of fire, he feels like a !@#$ coward.

But that will not deter him. Not in the slightest. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Figurehead (The Cure) and having a Толстяк)

10/03/12 - Bodies in Motion - Pt. 6 - The End of the Line

So no, son. We're not !@#$ing dead. Not yet, anyway.

They tried, though. I'll !@#$ing give them that. A big !@#$ station platform full of !@#$ing Specials armed with !@#$ing alien gauss rifles, and all of them aimed at the express train. I bet that was the !@#$ing highlight of their year, shooting a bunch of unarmed civilians who couldn't have shot back if they'd wanted to.

All just to get me.

I could go on, son. I could talk about how it's a bad !@#$ing thing that they know I'm back, now. I could talk about how they probably know why I'm here, and might even know who I've got along for the !@#$ ride. And if I really get !@#$ing wound up, I might be able to talk all about how this has essentially !@#$ed my plan right in the !@#$ eye, and out the !@#$ ear.

I could, but I'm too !@#$ tired right now. Too tired, too drunk.

Too angry.

...

Mostly, I'm angry at myself. I really should be angry at the President for not handling his Harold better. He should have been !@#$ing watching him more closely, and making sure he didn't come into extended contact with the enemy, or anyone we couldn't !@#$ing identify.

But maybe I didn't really cover the finer !@#$ points of this kind of work with him when I brought him up to speed. Maybe I was too busy teaching him to shoot guns and dodge knives, and forgot how much of what we actually do gets done before you draw steel and throw the !@#$ down.

Maybe I was having too much !@#$ fun getting to smack my former boss around to really teach him what he was going to need to know for the big !@#$ plan I was making.

But you know what they say, son. A bucket of maybes ain't worth a !@#$ fact. And the !@#$ fact is that the Imago know I'm back on Earth, alive, and on the move. And that's going to make all this a lot more !@#$ interesting, and maybe a lot !@#$ing quicker than I'd like.

Still, nothing to do now but wait. They probably figured out by now that I was not on that train when it pulled in. They probably also figured that the ex-President of Russia was not amongst the poor human kibble they scraped out of what was !@#$ing left of that train. So they're probably combing the city, looking for us. And that means that it's not safe to stick our heads up, right now.

Fortunately, Yekaterinburg, being a former closed city and Soviet military hot spot, has big !@#$ secrets buried under its more obvious secrets. And one of those big !@#$ secrets is that there's underground tunnels running all over the !@#$ place, most of which they probably !@#$ing know about, already, but some of which no one has any !@#$ing idea exist at all.

And that's because the people who knew about them aren't really !@#$ing around to talk about them, anymore. All courtesy of the Soviet Union's rather heavy-handed way of dealing with secrets, loose ends, and potential loose lips.

So of course, the man I've been dragging around since Moscow knows, seeing as how he's one of the people who dealt with the other people who !@#$ing knew. And I know, because I'm !@#$ing SPYGOD and that's my !@#$ job.

But just imagine that, son. It's the !@#$ing end of the Soviet Union, the military that isn't involved in the coup or the counter-coup is falling apart like river ice in the springtime, and there's a !@#$-ton of secrets that need to be kept forever. And because of that, a whole lot of files have to be shredded, a lot of computer tape unwound and burned, and a lot of people made as quiet as the !@#$ grave.

Literally.

Stone cold? !@#$ right, son. Any time something like that happens you have to be, or else all you worked for is going to go up in smoke.

Of course, they'll all say they'll never !@#$ing talk. But that's bull!@#$, son. Sooner or later someone always !@#$ing talks. They need money, or they want recognition, or fame. Or maybe someone gets a hold of them or their families and !@#$ing make them talk, which is never a good thing for anyone.

And that's why half of having a Harold is knowing when to violently end the working arrangement.

I mean, let's put it this way, son. You remember when I talked about Harolds? What I might not have made clear is that the only !@#$ way they're probably ever going to leave the spy game is in a !@#$ing coffin. And that's provided they can !@#$ing find enough of them to bury.

Not that it's an absolute, big !@#$ !@#$ing guarantee, though. Nothing in life is, other than death and !@#$ing taxes.

So there is just a chance that a Harold will never be activated. And if he is, there's nothing to say that it won't be just once or twice, and then he'll never hear from his !@#$ing handler again. And even if his handler decides to run him down like a !@#$ing farm nag, or get him to do something that's so massively illegal and career destroying that you'd normally have to !@#$ing pay someone a couple million dollars for it, he might just get away with it.

But it's a lot more likely that Harold's going to be !@#$ing stupid and pay for it. He'll talk in his sleep, or try to fess up to his !@#$ boss. He'll try to sell his !@#$ story for cash, or he'll blab to his !@#$ wife or his !@#$ing girlfriend or the part-time leather weasel he sees for some down-low action on the side, and they'll sell him out. Or maybe take too much !@#$ing initiative, or try and change the rules, and get noticed.

!@#$, son, he may just manage to hold it together long enough to do what you need, and then get sloppy, or just get caught.

And after that? He's !@#$ed.

If you're !@#$ lucky, then he'll just got shot, stabbed, poisoned, or drowned in a river while trying to !@#$ing get away. And if you're not !@#$ lucky, he'll get caught, which will mean he'll be !@#$ing tossed in a hole, somewhere. And then they'll start !@#$ing interrogating him. And maybe they'll be straight-shooters and try and talk sense to him, and make him promises about seeing his wife and kids, and maybe getting him life in prison instead of shot, hung, or gassed like a !@#$ rat.

But it's more likely they'll start what you might call "enhanced interrogations," which is a nice way of saying "do everything short of leaving a !@#$ physical mark." Waterboarding his sorry !@#$, or putting him in "extreme stress positions." That kind of !@#$.

And if that doesn't work, then they'll hit him in the face, just to show him they mean business. And then they'll pulling his !@#$ fingernails out, zapping his !@#$ with a taser, or going at his knees and knuckles with a steel baseball bat. Maybe even ship his !@#$ to some other country that specializes in doing even worse things, especially if they don't want his !@#$ blood on their kid gloves, much less their floor.

(And yes, son, I remember what I said about torture being a !@#$ ineffective way of getting information from people. But that's me. Other people are not so !@#$ing enlightened, which is why so many intelligence agencies are a !@#$ing contradiction in terms.)

And that, son, is where Harold is going to !@#$ing wind up, in the end. Either dead trying to escape, or dead in a dungeon in some rathole in a country no American can find on a !@#$ map, much less know the name of. And if he doesn't die there, after a few years, he'll be !@#$ing begging for it.

Which is why every handler should be ready, willing, and able to do his or her Harold the supreme favor of ending his or her life as cleanly and humanely as possible. Preferably something really !@#$ quick and !@#$ing explosive, both so they won't feel it and the enemy won't find out what he was up to, courtesy of a lack of eyes and brains. 

I mean, I hope the President didn't have any mealy-mouthed, liberal illusions of us all going our separate ways, waving goodbye like a family going on a boat to America, and leaving China in that guy's hands after we were !@#$ing done with him. Especially that !@#$ing worm. Sooner or later he'd try and get leverage over us, and blackmail us with what he knows, and what we asked him to do.

And if he didn't the people who !@#$ing replaced him sure as !@#$ would.

I hope he didn't think that, but I'm !@#$ sure a small part of him does. Thankfully, I've taken certain steps, just in case he can't do what's necessary, or just won't.

And with any luck, he won't have to tell me, and I won't have to know.

Just like he won't have to know about what's going to happen tomorrow, when the ex-President of Russia and I go to where we're going, and get what we came for. Because when I am done there, and have what I need, this sorry son of a !@#$ing !@#$ is going to get ended as unclean and slow as time will allow.

Not because I don't trust this piece of !@#$ wrapped in stolen human skin to not betray me, but because I owe Boris that much, as well as a lot of other people.

And I'm not going to lose any !@#$ing sleep over it, either. He's had this coming for a long !@#$ing time.

But then, so have we all, son.

And !@#$ me, so have I.

(SPYGOD is listening to Carnage Visors (The Cure) and having a bottle of Billionaire Vodka he stole from dead Russians. Because !@#$ you.)

10/02/12 - Bodies in Motion - Pt. 5 - I Always Feel Myself Becoming Him

All around the world, and in a few places beyond it, the shadow people are moving.

They take time of from work, and let their friends and family know that something's come up. They tell their butlers and personal assistants to hold their calls for the next week or so. They disappear into the crowds, or the quiet, lonely places where anything could happen, and often does.

For the shadow people are coming home. 

There, they open old trunks and high-tech closets, hidden bases and dimensional pockets. They put on old costumes and new armor. They change their illusions or reveal their true selves. Renew old bargains with the hidden powers or make new ones.

The shadow people are becoming something else.

They take up their tools and trappings of unseen office. Items of power and words of wisdom. Secret formulas and magic words. Puissant relics that shook the world, once, and subtle, sly things that escaped notice, but changed the course of nations.

Supercars and flying carpets. Capes and cowls. Guns and gauntlets. They summon them all into service, this day.

For the shadow people are here, again.

They have been silent too long -- absent from view. Watching from the darkness while conquerors strode the land, and made it theirs. Quiet in the shade as the invaders spoke their lies, and spread their poison. Seemingly serene as the world was remade into utopia, but all too aware that paradise was perched over a black and soul-destroying nightmare.

The shadow people have waited long enough.

Armed with new information, they stand tall once more. Given marching orders from the leaders of the revolution, they make themselves ready. Prepared to fight for the nation they call home, they leave their lives behind for battle.

Prepared to die for the world of their birth, they step from the shadows at last.

Bright heroes and dark vigilantes. Old soldiers and new supermen. Aged sidekicks and teenage subordinates.

Harsh gods and loveable monsters.

The shadow people have come, and they have brought the light with them.

* * *

MRS LIBERTY: So what exactly is the plan?

DOCTOR POWER: I'm not 100% certain. But I think it's going to require a couple different things going off at once.

AMERICAN SHIELD: We have to get Deep Ten off the playing field first. If we start attacking and they start firing, it's all over before it even starts.

DOCTOR POWER: That's not going to be a problem.

FREEDOM BELLE: Are you sure? I know what you said about Alpha Base Seven, but that's one !@#$ big thing to 'not going to be a problem.'

DOCTOR POWER: I agree. But he says he can deal with it. And given who he is, I trust him.

AMERICAN SHIELD: Fair enough. So that leaves the Imago, the False Faces, that city in the Pacific, what used to be The Flier, and God only knows what else to deal with.

RED ALCHEMIST: The DEROS, too. Don't forget them.

MR CHAOS: Not to mention every co-opted public servant, soldier, and police officer who thinks we're the criminals, courtesy of the mass media.

THE VISIONARY: I have it on good authority from Old Ben that he's got that in hand. They'll be confused at first, but I think they'll be on our side when it goes down.

MR CHAOS: You mean that creepy sex addict who claims to be a founding father? I'm surprised we have anything to do with him. 

MRS LIBERTY: He is who he says he is. And yes, he's a little eccentric. But when it comes to dealing with things like this, he's the best man we have. Especially since we don't have Dr. Yesterday on our side, anymore. 

AMERICAN SHIELD: !@#$. I forgot all about him. What do we do about him?

DOCTOR POWER: Antarctica will be dealt with, and him along with it. 

LIBERTY BELLE: What do you mean by 'dealt with.'

DOCTOR POWER: I mean that I have been told that, when it starts, drastic measures are going to be taken. I don't know the full scope of what that means. But I think SPYGOD's cat is involved.

MRS LIBERTY: Oh my god. That's... I have no words. 

MR CHAOS: I do. 'Awesome.' Best kind of work for that !@#$ thing. 

LIBERTY BELLE: Do you have no soul, young man? Even an enemy does not deserve that.

MR CHAOS: My soul doesn't factor into it. You all know how I see things. This is an example of putting the right resources at the right problem. And I think we all know that cat's best left off the field, or somewhere where it can do a lot of damage and then go cough up a hairball or something, somewhere far from us. 

RED ALCHEMIST: I can't disagree with that. But what about the other part of the plan that's got the big question mark on it? The white boxes?

AMERICAN SHIELD: The energy generators SPYGOD was talking about? Apparently, we may have to destroy them all. Without them, the Imago will lose a lot of their power.

RED ALCHEMIST: So why the question marks?

DOCTOR POWER: According to the Leader of the Resistance, SPYGOD is still looking into whether it's a good idea or not. And if that sounds like it's not a lot of information, the Leader of the Resistance agrees. But that's all he got from SPYGOD, and until he finds out what he needs to find out, we're not touching them.

LIBERTY BELLE: What is it with the Leader of the Resistance, anyway? He seems to be deferring to SPYGOD an awful lot.

MRS LIBERTY: SPYGOD is the one who's in charge, dear. And I know that sounds weak, but I've found it's best to trust him in things like this. Besides, if the Leader of the Resistance didn't trust him, he wouldn't be following his lead.

THE VISIONARY: Speaking as an illusionist, that's silly. We don't know who we're following, here, and that's part of what got us into this mess in the first place. 

LIBERTY BELLE: And speaking as someone who's dealt with SPYGOD's mess for too long, I don't think we're going to be following his lead for too much longer after this. The drunk idiot more or less bungled our planet's security because he decided to attack things we'd had at bay. The President died under his watch. These things invaded. He has a lot of blood on his hands, and a lot of explaining to do.

DOCTOR POWER: Oh, stuff it. Please. I think we know why you're really angry at him, and it has nothing to do with this.

MR CHAOS: Woah! No flame wars, people. We have a world to save, here. 

MRS LIBERTY: Agreed. We can puzzle out who the leader is later. What's important now is what we do once the shooting starts.

LIBERTY BELLE: Fine. But don't complain when you're left holding the bomb, again. And I think we all know that's going to happen. We should be solving mysteries, not serving them. 

RED ALCHEMIST: The mystery is the mystery itself, LB. 

LIBERTY BELLE: Oh !@#$ you.

* * *

"My God," Martha Samuels says, putting her hands to her face as the man in front of her puts his mask and hood back on. They're all alone in the sick bay, but he clearly doesn't want to be uncovered for longer than necessary.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," the masked leader of the resistance says, adjusting his cape: "But for the next few weeks, I'd appreciate it if you didn't let on that you've seen my face."

"I don't think they'd believe it," she says, sitting down on her hospital bed: "How... how long have you...?"

"Decades, more or less," he says.

"More or less?"

"Well, some of it's been linear, some of it's been jumping back and forth, and some of it's been backwards. I've just gone where I've needed to be."

"And you can... do that? Just like that?"

"Not me, no. Someone else has been helping me."

"Who?"

He holds up a hand: "I can't tell you that, Martha. I'm sorry, but that needs to be a secret, at least for now. But if it helps any-"

"I know him, and I've fought with him, and we answered the same call," she sighs: "Is this secrecy, again?"

"It's prudence," he says: "And actually, I don't think you ever met him. not really. He was on the way out when you were on the way in. But you have heard of him. And I think you heard good things."

"I haven't ever heard too many bad," she says: "I'm sorry. I know this must be difficult for you."

"More than you can imagine," he says, sadly: "I've been a prisoner to history, Martha. I've been working in secret in its corners and grey areas since just after World War II. I've seen friends grow old and die, all over again, and been unable to change much of anything. 

"But I've done this because it needed doing. We're up against something truly terrible, here, Martha. The Imago aren't even the tip of the iceberg of what's coming. They're just a bad wave ahead of it.

"So I've done what I can, when I could. I've protected people from things they had no idea about, and threats no one else could see. I've pulled strings and woven threads, put people together and kept them apart. It's been a heck of a ride, at times, but it's always been done with sadness, because there's some things I could never change. And believe me, I wish I could."

"Like my father," she says, looking up at him.

"Your father. Your brother. Everyone we ever lost before their time. I've had to watch it happen all over again and do nothing. And that's been... terrible. I just wish there was some way I could prove this to you."

"It's okay" she says, taking his hand in hers: "I knew you. And I trusted you. My father looked up to you immensely, and so did I, even if we never worked together all that much. So I still trust you."

"Thank you," he says, extending his other hand to help her up off the bed: "And I think I can trust you with something in return."

"What's that?" she asks, standing up.

"With what's coming, I might not have time to explain everything. If something should happen to me, there's a letter I left in my quarters."

"Where?"

She thinks he's smiling behind the mask: "You'll know where to find it. Wait a month, just to be sure I'm really dead, and then read it."

"Is it the whole story?" Martha asks, a little amused.

"It's enough of it," the man says: "It'll explain everything you'd have a question for, anyway. Will you do that for me?"

"Anytime," she says, hugging him: "My god, you brave man. You brave, brave man."

"More lucky than brave," he says, hugging her back: "And I'd do it all over again, Martha. I hope you know that."

"I do," she says, and they stand there for some time, just holding each other. 

In an hour, once the doctor gives her a clean bill of health, she will leave here. She will then get Kaitlyn, and talk to her about what's happened, and what's to be done. An oath will have to be made, along with a prayer, and then the cycle that has ruled her family for the better part of a century will repeat itself. 

The battle that's coming will need heroes, and the Owl will need her Talon.

* * *

In a train station in Yekaterinburg, not far from what little remains of a train, a young girl hides next to a trash can and tries not to think of what's happened to her.

Her name is Katya,and she has just turned five. She was traveling from Moscow to Omsk on the express, to see her grandparents for her birthday. Her parents were cross with her, because she was so happy to be going to see grandpa and grandma that she was bouncing all over the place, and getting in the way.

When the train stopped in Yekaterinburg, she was told she had to stay in their room. She had been bad and was being punished, which made her cry all the more because it was the day before her birthday. Her father said if she was good and stopped crying he might relent, but she couldn't stop the tears, so in the room she stayed.

Was that what saved her? She doesn't know. All she knows is that as soon as the train stopped, there was a terrible noise, and the entire train went to pieces around her.

Her mother was sitting in front of her when it happened. She didn't have time to scream and then she was in pieces too small to see. Wood and metal and plaster and bone and flesh and blood flew everywhere, and the noise got louder and louder.

The last thing that Katya saw, she was looking at where the noise was coming from, and saw a line of metal men with large guns, firing them at her. Then one of the things they fired went right into her eyes, and everything went black.

When she woke up, it was a day later. She was lying on a pile of bodies, off to the side of what was left of the train. The men in metal suits were walking around, talking with each other, and then to the Imago who watched over Omsk (Orange and Gold). He seemed to be approving of what they'd done, though it was hard to understand exactly what they were talking about.

She thought to tell him that the bad men had destroyed the train, but realized that if she did, they'd shoot at her again. So she crept away from the pile of bodies, and hid until most of them were gone.

It wasn't until a few minutes ago that she realize that she'd been lying on top of her father. Her mother had come apart like a roast, right in front of her, but her father was still recognizable, even with half his head gone. But somehow she didn't realize it until just then.

And somehow she kept herself from weeping too loudly, because she knew they'd hear and come to hurt her.

She does not know how she is still alive. She does not know how she could have made it through what happened to the train and not even have a scratch. Her clothes are ripped and torn and full of holes, but she is just fine. She's not even hungry or thirsty, and hasn't had to pee since what happened.

This is strange, but she cannot bring herself to process it. All she can do is sit by the trash can and wonder what has happened, and hope somehow that her grandfather might come. He would know what to do.

She hears a strange noise, like what you hear when someone opens a door and it's a windy day outside. And then there is a young boy, standing next to her. He's just a little older than she is, and she remembers him from the train. He got on in Moscow, too.

"Are you alright?" he asks, looking around and then crouching behind the trash can, along with her.

"Yes," she says: "My mommy's dead. She fell apart in the train. Daddy, too."

"Mine too," he says. His eyes are still red from crying, but he seems to be moving past that, somehow.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Petr. What's yours?"

"Katya."

"Katya, we need to get out of here," the boy says: "I... I don't know how I can do this, but if I think about it, I can go somewhere that no one can see me, but I can see them. It's weird, but I can do it. It's how I lived through what happened."

"My grandpa and grandma are in Omsk," she announces: "He'll know what to do. We need to get there."

"I think we can do that," Petr says, holding out his hand: "We might have to walk there, though. You okay?"

"Yes," she says, getting up and taking his hand: "I'll walk with you."

He smiles and closes his eyes. So does she. And when they open them up, again, they're somewhere that none of the men who destroyed the train can find them.

They have entered the shadows, now. And it's a long walk to where they're going, but they're going to get there.

Somehow they just know.

(SPYGOD is listening to Possession (The Cure) and having a Superhero IPA 

10/01/12 - Bodies In Motion - Pt. 4 - Imaginary World is Fading Fast

It's 8 in the PM, local time, and I've just found out that we're all !@#$ing dead.

Yes, son. Dead. As in deceased. Erased. Offed. Murdered. Put down. Killed in action.

Blown to holy living !@#$, right along with everyone else on this !@#$ train, as soon as it gets into the station in about fifty minutes or so.

Now, I bet you're wondering how I !@#$ing know this. And this would normally be the part where I look at you funny, smack you upside the !@#$ head, and announce "SPYGOD knows all," as if saying that !@#$ing thing over and over again actually makes it true.

But this time? Son, I think it's time we had a little chat about a few basic facts. And that's not because I want to !@#$ing bore you to death, or anything. But you've probably started wondering what the !@#$ is up with me, lately, given every !@#$ thing that's been going on.

And I wouldn't want you to think that I'm slacking off on the !@#$ job, now would I?

So, here's the basic !@#$ situation. It's me, the ex-President of Russia, and a couple fake IDs on the Trans-Siberian Express from Moscow to Yekaterinburg. We're going to Yekaterinburg because there's something there that might be able to help us when we do the big !@#$ final push on the Imago. And it's a "we" because he's the only one who can get me into the !@#$ing place, which is why I dragged him out of his cozy little hidey-hole in the first place. And boy has he done nothing but !@#$ing complain, since.

Not that I can blame him. Getting transpistoled every !@#$ing day with one of those old models is probably doing his !@#$ some damage. But it's not like I really give a !@#$ about whether he's ever going to have !@#$ing children, so !@$# him.

And as to whether anyone's going to have time to !@#$ing have any more children, well... that's what this whole thing's about, isn't it?

My plan was to take the !@#$ train, get out at our stop, and go find what we !@#$ing came here for. In a perfect !@#$ world, we'd continue to be !@#$ing undetected, at least right up until we got what we !@#$ing needed. And then, if !@#$ got unleashed on our !@#$es, at least it'd be in keeping with what Second would have called "the proper poetry of things."

Gods I miss him. It just about broke my heart when I found out he died on 3/15. I can't begin to tell you how !@#$ing poorer my world is without him in it...

...

Anyway, that would be the proper !@#$ing poetry of things. But instead, we're getting something else.

My satellite of love is just over the horizon, now, so I decided to look out the !@#$ window and talk to it. Lucky for me, it talked back, tonight. And what it has to say is really not good news.

First bit of bad news? The President's pretty !@#$ sure our man in Beijing has gone off the !@#$ing reservation. They had a dinner meetup last night, and it got broken with no reasons why. And now no one's seen the !@#$er, but he's not dead, and the Imago are just that more active around the !@#$ houses of government.

So of course I told him to get his !@#$ emergency bag and get the !@#$ out. And while I'm checking up on that, I see if I can get my people on the West Coast to tell me what's up on their end. And they're still buzzing from the nasty !@#$ revelation that poor SPYGOD SCOUT dropped on them the other day, but they think they can use some of what they learned to make a tracking device, somehow.

And boy is that good !@#$ing news, because it turns out their potential tracking device also covers Specials, since those False Faces are operating with similar energy signatures. They don't have any !@#$ tracking devices set up, yet, of course, but they tell me what those energy ranges are, and I'm able to look ahead a little bit, through the cameras at the station we're about to come into.

Which leads to the second bit of bad news, which is the !@#$ing doozy. The Yekaterinburg railway station is a giant sausage fest of Specials -- maybe a hundred of the !@#$ers. And they're armed for !@#$ing bear, tiger, and lion.

I caught a little of their chatter. The orders are !@#$ simple. As soon as the train's pulled in, they're going to aim their big mother!@#$ing guns at it, and not stop shooting until the whole length of it is one big bloody hole.

And that brings us to the third bit of bad news, son. This train's going to be at the station in less than an hour, and everyone on board is going to die, and I can't do a thing to save them.

No, son. Not a !@#$ing, !@#$ thing.

If I stop the train, the Specials will teleport over from there to here, and !@#$ing shoot it, anyway.

If I warn everyone, they'll want off, and they'll start leaping off the back, and someone will notice. And then the Specials will teleport in, anyway and !@#$ing shoot them all.

And if I get on top of the train, pull out my guns, and start !@#$ing shooting at the !@#$ers when they get into range? Not only will they !@#$ing teleport over and blow the !@#$ train out from under me, but they'll just send in more !@#$ers where they came from. Maybe even a few Imago, while they're at it.

And they will !@#$ing rip everyone on this train to !@#$ing pieces, just to get to me.

Now, I can get away, son. I know I can. There's a dozen ways I can get the !@#$ out of here without anyone seeing or knowing, and a handful of ways I can get me and the Ex-President of Russia off this !@#$ing train without being spotted, too.

But everyone else?

The nice old guy in the berth next to me who chatted me up about the circus? The cute kid in pigtails whose parents kept apologizing for her running all over the place? The young couple who were going out East for their !@#$ing honeymoon?

The !@#$hole who took our tickets? The cute boy who brought our meals and kept staring at my "wife" because she looked familiar? The porter who brought around a never-ending supply of vodka so me and the Missus didn't have to leave the !@#$ cabin?

The engineer? The technician? The !@#$ing guy who sits at the back and watches the landscape go by?

They're dead. They're all dead. Every one of them.

And there's nothing I can do to save them.

This is a ghost train, now, son. Just another !@#$ mass murder I've created because I've gotten too !@#$ close to normal people again.

I remember, back in the 70's, when some !@#$hole with more armor than sense tried to attack The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, just because he thought he owed me a punch in the face. Jack!@#$ launched a giant walking robot at New York City to try and get to me. !@#$er tore up about three blocks of the city fighting the automatic defenses, and one more fighting me, and then took one more out while it fell down to !@#$.

And when the shooting was all over, and I was standing there, triumphant on what was left of its head, some guy comes running at me, his hands all bloody, calling me every !@#$ name in the book. Lucky for him, the police tackle him before he touched me, and I just spit in his direction and tell him to !@#$ off home.

But then later, someone tells me that his wife had been stomped on by that armored idiot's deathmachine. Mashed her flat on the street while she was running away, and he saw the whole !@#$ thing.

And then when he realized what !@#$ing happened, and why, he came after me. Because if it hadn't been for me, that giant metal thing wouldn't have turned his wife into a red smear on the pavement.

If I didn't live in New York City, they'd be walking hand in hand down the street for home, right then. 

No, son, it's not good to think of !@#$ things like that. It's not right to blame myself for things like that. And it's really not healthy to think of my !@#$ contribution to the world in terms of how many people wind up dead because I'm nearby, having a !@#$ing drink and trying to get my !@#$ sucked.

But I'd be !@#$ blind to not notice that it happens. And !@#$ sorry to not care about it.

That's part of who and what we are. That's why we dress up in !@#$ing costumes and hide away behind secret rooms and hidden fortresses. That's why we have secret identities and alibis, all that !@#$. It's not to keep us safe. It's to save the people we live next to.

It's to save the people we love.

These people are dead. There is nothing I can do to save them. But I will see them avenged. I will see to it that their deaths are taken out on the Imago in pain and punishment. I will see to it that their names are held up high as victims of this occupation, and their families told of the role they played in freeing the world.

I will see to it that they are not forgotten, and maybe that's the best I can do. But it seems a !@#$ poor tradeoff for seeing these people I've shared this !@#$ ride with come out alive on the other end.

Really !@#$ poor. 

Less than an hour, now. I have to get that !@#$ing human monster up and running, and see to how we're going to sneak off this train before we get too close to the station. And he'll probably !@#$ing complain and I'll probably smack him around some more, and boy he had better not !@#$ me off, right now.

Because I am in a mood, son, and by now,you know what that !@#$ing means. It means payback, SPYGOD style.

Because I'm going to think about that little girl, and how she would have run off the train, happy and alive. And I am going to think about who I have to think about that not happening.

And I am going to !@#$ their !@#$ just that much higher up into the !@#$ing stratosphere because of it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Winter (The Cure) and drinking rage. Pure !@#$ing rage.)

9/30/12 - Bodies In Motion - Pt. 3 - Toys as Tall as Men

The room is dark -- lit only in patches -- and full of strange things, all promising pleasure and pain.

A naked, pudgy man hangs from the ceiling, suspended by straps and chains. An older woman stands in front of him, wearing a one-piece suit so white it almost has a light of its own. 

"Listen to me," the woman is whispering into the man's ear, while holding his !@#$ so hard that it's a wonder it doesn't explode in her hand like a ripe, pulpy tomato: "What we do is secret. What we do is safe. I will show you things you can never believe, but must never reveal. And in return, you will do what I want, whenever I want, so long as you may live."

She squeezes his manhood just that much harder, and blood begins to dribble from it: "Do you understand?" she hisses.

"Yes..." a much younger Wen Boxiong says, lost in the ecstasy of this one moment-

* * *

It's morning in Beijing, and an older, much larger Wen Boxiong wakes to find a hauntingly familiar scent in the air.

He blinks and rises, wondering if it's just something from a dream. But then he inhales deeply, and realizes that the smell isn't something he's imagined. It is all too real.

It is her.

He looks over at the table by his bed, where he keeps his glasses and teeth. A small, delicately-folded note sits there, tucked right under his glasses.

He puts them on and opens it up without hesitation, and with all due haste. As he reads the words he gasps, and holds his hand to his mouth. His eyes close tightly, and he knows fear and arousal in near-equal measure.

The Botanical Garden, the note instructs: Noon. Alone. 


She doesn't need to sign it. He knows her handwriting and style of delivery all too well. And if that wasn't enough, the scent of her perfume is unique in the world.

The Lady of Pain has come back to see him, and tonight he will either know love or death.

* * *

On a day like today, there is no time to be hesitant.

He changes his entire schedule, including his after-dinner meeting with the American President in disguise. He tells his security detail that they will accompany him on a tour of the city, but that they are to leave him after a certain point, and yet continue to radio in that he is with them. He will rejoin them at his residence, later, and they are to tell no one of this.

He picks out a suitable disguise, like the American President taught him to. A reversible coat, a ballcap, and bad shoes will make him look like an entirely different man, and the special contact lenses he pockets will confuse any optical scanners. 

(He mulls bringing the small, boxlike emergency communicator his new allies have given him, but decides to leave it back here; if she finds it on him, it's unlikely he will survive the encounter.)

He makes certain that various things are seen to, around his official apartment. There are some secrets that may come to light after his disappearance, or death, and he cannot control them. But there are other secrets that he can control, and these are hidden in such a way that his new allies will find them. Hopefully they will know what to do with these things, but if they don't, then it will no longer be any of his concern.

All that done, he takes his leave of the place -- possibly for the last time -- gets into a waiting car with his security detail, and prepares himself to do something he thought he'd never have to do again.

Not since she spurned him, anyway. 

* * *

The hasty plan goes better than he had hoped. 

He ditches his security team on cue, in a place where he knows the security cameras are broken and the advertisements old and useless, and they do not so much as blink an eye. He slips into a public restroom that isn't used that much, locks himself into a toilet stall, and changes his clothing. He puts the contacts in, hating the sting of them, but consoling himself that having red eyes will make him just that much less recognizable to others.

The change done, he goes out into public a different man, unworthy of special attention. He strides meekly and humbly through the crowded streets of the city, pretending to marvel at the new devices being installed on streetcorners and tall buildings, and be reverent to the Imago who float nearby, watching.

It's an educational journey. He almost gets pickpocketed waiting for a light. Older women make eyes at him and younger men sneer in his direction. When he gets onto the bus for the gardens, he only sits for two stops before he's impolitely urged to rise and remain standing so that some other, high party people he knows only by reputation can sit down.

(He amuses himself with how funny it would be to reveal his identity to them. It doesn't quite make up for how rude their minder is, but that can be dealt with another time. Hopefully.)

After all that, the actual ride to the gardens is quick and tidy -- almost anticlimactic. He gets there, pays to be let in just like any other person, and walks through the new, large security gate they placed there. No one calls or shouts after him as he walks through it, so it would appear the contacts work exactly as advertised.

But somehow that does not make him feel very secure.

* * *

The Lady did not tell him where they would meet, but he has a good idea where to find her. 

The tomb of Liang Qichao and his wife is in the northeast part of the garden. It's as much of a tourist attraction as any, but people tend to go there in small knots and clusters, if at all. It makes it a good place for two people to meet and have a quiet conversation while pretending to be admiring the scenery.

As he approaches, for a moment he finds himself hoping that she will not be there. Part of him hopes that this has all been a mistake -- maybe some kind of weird joke on his other ally's part -- and that he will get there, and be surprised to find that man instead, perhaps dressed as a woman. Or maybe this is some practical test on the American President's part, both to see how Wen would react to such a thing, and to ask him about that one, black secret in his new contact's somewhat-checkered past...

But no. He doesn't need to get more than halfway to the pavilion before he sees her there, resting up against a structure and looking right at him. She's dressed in a white coat with a long, round hat, and smoking a black cigarette on a long, white stem.

And she is as beautiful and terrible as ever.

He smiles. She does not smile back. He drops the smile and walks towards her, hoping this will be over quickly.

"You are late," the woman says as soon as he gets within earshot, her accent betraying a German heritage.

"The bus took longer-"

"No excuses, Wen Boxiong. I expect promptness, or have you forgotten?"

"I have not forgotten," he says: "But you told me never to expect to see you again."

"That is still no excuse for being late," she says, tapping her cigarette out. The smell of it excites his senses -- sweet, earthy tobacco with just the slightest hint of something else.

"No, it is not. I am sorry."

She smiles, puts her cigarette holder away, and pats his cheek: "I accept your apology. I am sure you were just confused, after all these years. You clearly have forgotten a few things."

"And some things I have not forgotten," he says, holding his hand to where she touched him: "And never will."

"I am glad to hear that," she says, taking his other hand in hers: "I am sure you were hurt by how I ended things."

"Yes," he admits.

"And I am sure that, being hurt, you were angry."

"I could not be-"

"Do not lie to me, Wen," she says, squeezing the hand in all the right spots to create an intense flare of pain: "You never could then and you cannot now."

"Yes," he admits, yanking his hand away and holding it: "I was angry. I still am."

"But you came, anyway."

"If I did not come, then the next time I saw you there would be no chance to talk."

"No," she says, smiling: "I suppose not. Do you still fear me?"

"Yes."

"Do you still want to fuck me?"

That word. The way she says "!@#$," like it had just been invented and unveiled for the first time. A million sense-memories exploding in his mind, like fireworks. Pain and pleasure, completion and rejection, love and hate. 

Having it all and then watching it leave him.

"Yes," he breathes, closing his eyes and letting her scent overtake him.

"Well then," she says, turning and indicating that he should follow: "That's a start, at least."

* * *

They walk in silence, for a time, until they are all alone on a path.

She lets him kiss her, then -- hard on the mouth. She places his hands under her coat, revealing that she's not wearing anything under it. She lets him explore her, there, under her coat, his hands and heart building to an amazing crescendo of desire.

And then, just as he might be wanting to pull out his !@#$ and put it inside her, she jabs a very long, very thin, glass needle right under his breastbone, and into his heart.

He gasps in surprise, but not pain. Oddly enough there is no pain, any more than there is blood.

But the look in her eyes is terrifying. There is no love or warmth there, anymore. Merely hate.

"You betrayed me," she states, simply: "You took the thing that I gave you and gave it to another."

"Yes," he says, knowing that it would not be a good idea to lie, right now.

"You told an outsider about what was locked down in those files I gave you dominion over."

"Yes... I did-"

"I want you to tell me why you did this."

He hesitates for a moment, and she nudges the glass needle ever so slightly. The pain it produces is explosive, and for a second he almost screams. But she clamps her other hand over his mouth before he can, somehow holding him up and in place with just one arm.

"No lies," she says: "Nothing held back. It is not yet too late for you to live through this. But I want you to tell me everything, even if I do not ask for it. Do you understand?"

He nods. Oh yes, does he ever understand.

And as soon as she takes her hand from his mouth, he tells her everything she wants to know.

* * *

Later, when Wen Boxiong gets back to his apartment, he only gets as far as his living room before he falls to his knees and vomits. He does this for what seems like hours, wracked by horrible chest pain as he does. And when he has thrown up everything in his gullet he cries and sobs for what seems hours more.

He told her everything. He told her about the American President. He told her about SPYGOD. He told her about their interest in Unit 731. 

!@#$ him to !@#$, he even told her why they wanted to know.

And when it was all done, and there was no more left to tell, she just looked at him, pulled the needle out of his heart as swiftly as she'd pushed it in, and left him to writhe in pain on the path.

"You will never see me again," she said, licking the blood from the needle: "I won't bother to kill you. You have done a good enough job of that already."

"Please..." he whimpered, holding out a hand: "I love you..."

"You do not even know what that word means," she hissed, stamping her foot onto his chest. He screamed and collapsed into a ball, mewling in pain. And when he finally came to, she was long gone.

No, he will never see her again. He knows this. And it would have been kinder if she'd just killed him.

But she might tell the Imago of what she now knows. She might want to do a deal with them. She may want to bring the entire arrangement crashing down around Wen Boxiong's head.

Can he tell the President? Should he? Does he dare risk SPYGOD's anger?

He doesn't know what to do, now, except to cry.

And so he does.

* * *

On the outskirts of Beijing, late that night, a woman in a white coat looks up at the sky, focusing on the stars.

Inside the city, you can't see a !@#$ thing, up above all the reflected light. Even out here it's hard to make it all out, with the clouds and smog. But at least it's a better view than in there, and even that's a better view than she'd have ever gotten back home.

Home. It seems a million lifetimes ago, now. She thinks of everything about it that she's missed, and tried to replicate here, and finds herself tearing up a little.

So she closes her eyes on her tears, and opens her mind up.

Are you there, my love? she asks her partner, who, though he may be halfway around the world from her, is always just one directed thought away: (REDACTED), are you there?

I am, Geri Yesterday, comes the languorous reply: I am a little busy, though. The three toys I brought back to my room are proving to be most distracting.

I'm sure, she says, luxuriating in the sensual backwash she's getting from the edges of his mind: But please, lover, don't call me that, anymore. That role is done, now. 

As mine should be-

Not quite, she thinks, feeling his pleasure as he watches the life slip slowly from one of his "toys": I have just learned some disturbing things from one of my old tools. 

Let me guess, lover, he replies: my damn twin is still in play, after all?

Yes, she says, somehow not surprised that he knew this, or kept this knowledge from her: And he's learned about the connection between the people we bargained with and the information that was hidden here, in China. 

I think he's learned about the Object, too, he says, sensing her curiosity at his motives, and doing his best to block them from her: He may have an idea on how they all fit together.

That could be a problem.

I don't fucking think so. So what if he destroys these metal-clad aliens? We'll still get what we need-

I'm not convinced. They may not have told us everything we need to know to make the device work. And if he manages to destroy them...

... then we won't know for certain until we activate it at home, he finishes her thought: That is a concern.

Especially since, once they're gone from this world, we won't have anywhere else to go if the device doesn't work.

You know, you really do know how to ruin a perfectly good artfuck, love, he sighs, killing the other two without much panache or pleasure: Where is (REDACTED)?

I do not know where your twin is. 

Find out for me?

I think you can find that out on your own, lover, she says, smiling: Consider it due payment for not telling me what you knew, before.

A fair price, he chuckles: Are you going to tell those metal fucks what you've learned, then? 

The line goes dead in his mind, and the SPYGOD from Alter-Earth shrugs, knowing that the !@#$ he's been sharing a mission -- and occasionally a bed -- with for almost an entire century will do whatever the !@#$ she's going to do.

As for him, he'll get on the trail of his unknowing enemy in the morning. But for now, there's art to make of these three, dead toys.

And he's not going to stop until he's convinced the most horror-hardened member of Capetown's police force will cry for hours after seeing what he's done with them.

(SPYGOD is listening to Splintered In Her Head (The Cure) and having a Naale Stoutbeer)