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.)
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