10/13/12 - The Wood Crashing Through the Wall

"And you should !@#$ing understand that we might have helped you, if you'd just !@#$ing asked," SPYGOD says, looking at the Imago that's floating in the air in the chamber, under Yekaterinburg: "All you ever had to !@#$ing do was ask for help."

"That is not in our nature, O SPYGOD," Orange and Gold says, smiling at him, and still not remotely fazed by how coldly SPYGOD executed their former collaborator.

"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 Specials assume proper stance and prepare squeeze the triggers. SPYGOD outstretches his arms, as if he is ready to embrace death at last. 

And then, just before they fire, something very interesting--

 

Woah, woah! Stop!

!@#$ing stop, there son.  Back that !@#$n train up a few stations. You're not quite ready for that, just yet.

I mean, I could tell you what the !@#$ happened, down there. God knows the President really wants to find out. And I'm sure Mister 10 wants to know, too, for reasons I'm not quite !@#$ing ready to divulge.

But you know me, son. When I'm telling !@#$ing stories, it's like anything else I do. I'm either all in or all out.

So if I tell you about that, then I have to tell you about a dozen other !@#$ things, too.

For example, I have to tell you about the guy I met that night we were !@#$ing crawling around Beijing. Remember when you had to wait in that !@#$ alley for a couple hours, hiding in a pile of rotten cabbage?

Yeah, I thought you did. And if I'm going to tell you about him, I have to !@#$ing talk about that Chinese xeno-arms dealer I lit on fire, exactly a month ago. And then I have to tell you what I !@#$ing got from him, which wasn't JUST what I used on the !@#$ space elevator.

And then I have to !@#$ing tell you about a half-dozen other deals and agreements and sleight-of-hand tricks SPYGOD's been putting together since I had my big !@#$ skull!@#$ing, when we got back from Alter Earth. All the meet-ups and !@#$-ups and drink-ups that were either intel-gathering in disguise or promises made or kept. The time I had to be a big !@#$ Chinese prostitute for a week...

And before you know it, I'm going to be !@#$ing telling you everything. And then I either have to !@#$ing shoot you or put you to work.

And trust me son, neither of us wants either of those.

Of course, if you've been !@#$ing paying attention, you could probably make a big !@#$ guess about what's been going on. And who knows? You might actually get it !@#$ing right.

But we don't have the time for that, right now, son. We just don't. We have a war to wage. And that means I've got to get all my !@#$ pieces lined up, and this time I have to get it !@#$ing right.

No ball gowns, son. No long-winded speech in front of the troops. No magnums of champagne and self-congratulatory bull!@#$.

No sense that we can't win, because we have never !@#$ing lost.

Because we have, son. We've lost it all. Big time.

And now we have to !@#$ing take it back, the hard way.

Which is why I'm sitting here, drinking beer like it's !@#$ing going out of style, and putting every single piece of the puzzle down on the floor of this !@#$ing apartment ju kikan was kind enough to provide for me to plan for when the war !@#$ing kicks off, a day or so from now.

Oh, yes, son. It's coming. Head on !@#$ing fire, it's coming. Wrath of god and hand of man and all that !@#$. Bullets and bombs and broken bodies.

Flame and hell and sound and fury.

And I'm the one who decides how it all goes down.

And that's why I'm mapping out about three or four different plans for what to do when the war actually starts. It's a puzzle of sorts, only I'm playing with people and tools instead of puzzle pieces. And I have no !@#$ing idea how it's going to look until it's halfway though the first couple skirmishes, and I can see what they've got left, and what I've got left.

Hopefully, it'll !@#$ing look like victory. But you can't be sure. Helmuth von Moltke, biggest and baddest of the Prussian Field Marshals, famously said "no battle plan survives contact with the enemy," which is why he had plans stacked on top of plans, wrapped inside more plans, and served up on a big !@#$ plate with some extra plans on the side.

Or, as a certain Floridian psychopath with a taste for creative murder and local history likes to say, "the number one directive of any decent Master Plan is unlimited sub-Master Plans."

(Reminds me -- I need to give that !@#$ crazy bastard a call, after this is over, and make sure he's okay. I'm sure, if anything, the Imago are !@#$ing afraid of him, rather than the other way around. But you never know for sure.)

So yes, son, it's Sub-Master Plans R Us for the next few days or so.

In this corner, I've got the who: Superheroes, Supervillains, superspies, SPYGOD SCOUTS, Submarine Warriors, Mongolian bandits, a couple underground armies, societal drop-outs, Harolds, sentient cartoons, the President of the United States of America, and a cat from !@#$ing Hell.

Over here, I've got the what: the big surprise on the !@#$ing Moon, the piece of anti-Imago tech my campers have been making, Lady Gilda, the nice thing that Ju Kikan let me play with, and one last, lonely satellite, among other things.

(That and the FDOS, which I'm sure I'll have to use, even though it's going to !@#$ing suck)

In the middle, I've got the where: That !@#$ing city in the middle of the Pacific, what's left of the Flier, Neo York City, Deep Ten, the Imago's spaceship, and all those !@#$ing white boxes where the kids wound up.

And if I'm really !@#$ lucky, I won't have to trash all the wheres to get what I want.

A lot of !@#$ to keep track of, huh, son? So you can imagine why I really don't have the !@#$ing time to explain everything, right now.

I'll talk more when it's all over, and we can have a beer in an Imago-free world, I swear. But for now, !@#$# off?

Thanks.


(SPYGOD is listening to Just One Kiss (Extended) (The Cure) and having a Shiga Kogen Pale Ale, or 50)

10/12/12 - A Death for No Reason

"So," the President says, putting his chopsticks down and having a long-overdue sip of his beer: "You still haven't told me how you got out of that situation in Yekaterinburg."

"No, I haven't," I answer, putting my big-!@#$ bottle down and looking him in the eyes: "I was waiting for you to tell me why you didn't shoot your target."

"How did you know...?" the President starts to ask me. Then I smile, and he remembers who he's !@#$ing talking to.

And then he just shrugs, sighs, and shuts the !@#$ up, which is how I like my Presidents. 

* * *

We're finishing up our lunch at the ridiculous, underground steak restaurant that I'm always threatening to take people out to, when I'm in Tokyo. You've heard of live sushi, son? Well, this is that, only on a larger, more intimate scale.

You not only get to see your food die, but you get to !@#$ing kill it.

That's right, son -- you pay a lot of !@#$ing money to have the help bring you a whole !@#$ cow, still alive, and leave all the tools and equipment necessary to kill, slaughter, prepare, and cook the !@#$ing thing. For a extra fee they'll do it for you, but it runs against the whole ethos of the establishment.
It's really meant for a full day's excursion for large groups of rich, somewhat cracked people. Me? I do it for a casual lunch.

And I just love !@#$ing taking new people here.

The President had no idea what the !@#$ was going on, today. We !@#$ing drank ourselves in and out of !@#$ing oblivion, after our deal, yesterday, and I didn't give him the time to sober the !@#$ up before taking him out. In fact, the security for this place is so !@#$ tight he thought we were going to yet another secret meeting, and got all !@#$ angry with me, because I didn't tell him what was up.

(You go to a !@#$ing imposing office in a large building in Marunouchi, sit in a waiting room, show off enough ID to sink a !@#$ boat, and swear you're not from the !@#$ health department. And then they put you in !@#$ car with blacked-out windows, and drive you around Tokyo for what feels like a !@#$ing hour. And if you ask too many questions on the way, they just ride around in circles for another hour, toss your !@#$ out by the docks, stamp on your !@#$ hands, and leave you to crawl the !@#$ home.)


So you can imagine his !@#$ surprise when finally arrive, he walks into the place (all decorated in cow hides, and staffed by large, Japanese women in cowboy hats and daisy dukes) and gets the first whiff of blood and !@#$.

Being polite, he just thinks we're at some strangely-placed steak restaurant, and that someone !@#$ing farted their guts out in the bathroom. It isn't until we walk by an open dining room, and he sees a group of sarariiman standing around a frightened heifer, waiting for the one with the bolt pistol to stop !@#$ing crying and kill the thing, that he knows what's up.

They're all wrapped up in clear, plastic raincoats, like they're in that one movie where Batman !@#$ing loses his !@#$,  and brandishing knives, and they're all staring silently at the crying guy. He must have drawn the short straw because no one wants to step in and help him, but no one's calling him a !@#$ing coward in that delightful, growly way the Japanese have of insulting each other, either.

(You don't have to pay the 60000 Yen per group until the !@#$ cow is dead, so you've got time to back the !@#$ out if you can't !@#$ing handle it.) 

We get to our dining room, I order the whole !@#$ing thing before the President can say a !@#$ thing, and then I make him a deal: I'll cut if he pulls the trigger, and then we can both cook our own meat. It took him a long !@#$ while to stop looking the !@#$ thing in the eye, put the pistol up to its !@#$ noggin, and put it out of its misery, but he did.

And then I let him sit down and have a !@#$ smoke and a beer at the table while I butchered the !@#$ing thing. And I'll tell you, son, you have no idea just how much work slaughtering a !@#$ cow is until you're up to your ankles in blood and steaming guts, with the smells of iron and !@#$ stinking up your nose.

(Learned it from villagers in north Vietnam, in case you were !@#$ing wondering. Good people. Great cows.)

An hour later, I've got the cuts washed and laid out on the chilled, clean surface they provide for you, and the President's got the grill going. Fifteen minutes later we're cooking and eating and drinking !@#$ good beer. And then he's !@#$ing full but I'm still working on the thing until it's skin, bones, and the guts I don't really !@#$ing care for.

(You have to eat the !@#$ing liver, son. If you think you !@#$ing hate liver, you haven't ripped it out of a still-steaming belly of a cow, sliced it thin, and tossed it onto the !@#$ing grill. No onions or mustard needed, here!)

After that, it's all over but the chopsticks, the sauce, and what's either exhausted satisfaction or true horror -- maybe both. They have blood-flavored ice cream for dessert, if you're still feeling !@#$ing adventurous, but you're probably better just getting the !@#$ check and going back to Marunouchi.

I've been going to this place since it opened, back in the 80's. I find it's perfect to put certain things into !@#$ing perspective. Capitalism. Consumerism. Carnivores-prey relationships. Our weird disconnection from the food we eat.

And, ultimately, war.

* * *

"So, did you feel sorry for Wen, or did you just lose your nerve?" I ask the President.

"A little of both, I think," he says, not quite wanting to look me in the eye: "I thought there was some way we could fix this, just for a second-"

"And then it was too late."

"Yeah."

"Imago?"

"Four of them. They appeared out of nowhere and he... I don't know, it looked like he was breaking down. I guess working with us was screwing him up."

"Oh, you could say that," I tell him, cutting off some more of that delicious liver I just cooked: "And I know better than to ask if you !@#$ing remember how to handle it when that happens."

"'Better !@#$ing rotting than !@#$ing talking,'" he quotes me, verbatim.

"!@#$ straight. And then you felt sorry for the fat !@#$."

"Yes."

"Well, next time? Don't. And I'll tell you why. You want to know what those Harolds are to us, Mr. President?"

"What?"

"You're !@#$ing eating it," I say, pointing my chopsticks over at the stinking pile of bones and offal that used to be a cow, over in the corner.

He looks at the cow, looks back at me, and nods: "Point taken."

"Good."

"So, my question. Was there any truth to anything I told him?"

"Like what?" I ask, chowing down on some more liver. The soy sauce here is !@#$ing exquisite.

"Like that box, for example. You had me give it to him so he could call me for help, in case things got hairy."

"Yes."

"Did it have a dual function, or was it always just a !@#$ing bomb?"

I smile a little, imagining the scene. There's Wen Boxiong, surrounded by floating Imago, crying his eyes out because he's !@#$ing convinced they know what he's been up to with us. And then he's slowly realizing that they didn't know, and he just confessed, Tell-Tale Heart style. So he pulls out the call box I had the President give him, hoping that somehow I'd come flying the !@#$ out of nowhere to save his fat !@#$ from the brutal brain-sucking they were about to give him.

But instead of calling me, it explodes, creating a fire hotter than white phosphorous, designed to completely incinerate everything within a radius of ten feet, and light paper on fire up to fifty feet away. It turns him into stray, singed, and traitorous molecules in a split second, thus ensuring that no one is going to stick their metal-plated thumbs into his eye sockets and read his !@#$ mind the hard way.

(Effective !@#$ing things, those blastboxes.)

Of course, it probably didn't so much as inconvenience those !@#$ing Imago, but they were so !@#$ surprised by the thing that it gave the President more than enough time to pick his !@#$ jaw up off the floor, pack up his !@#$, and run like !@#$ to Shanghai. Which is why he was able to grab his waiting disguise from the Ju Kikan's dropoff, prove a bunch of idiot birthers right by way of a phony passport and a highly-exotic disguise system, and get his !@#$ to Japan. 

As opposed to getting caught assassinating a foreign head of state, followed by what would have been one terrible !@#$ of an interrogation, and maybe a trip back to where those !@#$ing sick alien metal-wrapped body-jacking bastards left him, the last time they got their hands on him.

Of course, I'm so !@#$ing wrapped up in imagining all that that I forget there's a question I need to answer. So I smile at the President, have another delicious bite of cow's liver, and tell him the !@#$ truth.

"It was dual use. I had it switched over to call us, up until the point that I realized that keeping him alive was more dangerous than useful. And then I switched it to explode if he did."

"And when did you decide he wasn't worth it, anymore?"

"When I thought he might have squealed on us, after what happened at the train station."

"I think he did," the President admits.

"Well, I know he didn't," I say: "It was that Russian !@#$weasel. Try to keep up-"

"Not to the Imago," the President says: "I made a few inquiries, while I was waiting for you to rendezvous with me, here. That day I lost track of him? He went to the Botanical Gardens. He met someone there."

"Who?"

"I don't know. She was contacted as a beautiful older woman in a white coat. They were seen talking, then they went away. And when they were seen, later, she left alone in a huff, and he stumbled out of there like he'd been dumped with a vengeance."

"'Beautiful older woman?'" I ask.

"Caucasian. Dark hair. Long white hat. Smoked cigarettes with a black holder. Acted angry with him, then cozy. They looked like they might be going off into the trails to fool around...."

He goes on for a bit, there, but I'm not really listening. Because I know of exactly one !@#$ person who dresses like that and smokes like that, and I haven't seen here since all this !@#$ trouble started. 

Geri !@#$ing Yesterday -- wife of Dr. Yesterday, who I know has been replaced by the Imago, and had a big !@#$ hand in what happened on 3/15. 

She hasn't been seen since then, and I always assumed he's just !@#$ing killed her as part of his part in the plan. But then, she was always a !@#$ of a lot smarter than him, now wasn't she? 

And there is no !@#$ way that someone that smart gets !@#$ing killed by some stupid alien !@#$ who's replaced her beard. 

At some point in the President's over-exerting attempt to sound like a competent intelligence professional, instead of someone who !@#$ed up his first real job, I hold up a finger and look at him. Thankfully, he falls silent, so I don't have to punch him so I can hear myself think.

"Part of the reason I used Wen was because he was on my triple-red list," I say: "He was mentally weak, morally questionable, and in a position where those two traits would make him really easily talked into doing whatever the !@#$ we wanted."

"I think I remember you saying this, before."

"Well, we're not the only country with a triple-red list," I go on: "And I always figured it was only a matter of time before someone got to him."

"Alright, so are you saying someone else got to him after we did?"

"No. I'm starting to think someone !@#$ing got to him before we did," forgetting about my !@#$ing liver and going for the beer: "How does a shuddering, friendless loser like him get put in charge of those kinds of secrets, anyway?"

"Someone put him there," the President says: "Someone wanted him in charge of those files. So they could control the files through him."

"Only we come along and talk him into being a triple agent," I say: "So maybe this other person got him a long time ago, and he's had time to think it over and thinks we might be able to get him a better deal?"

"Or maybe something changed," the President suggests, taking a bite from my liver, since I'm not !@#$ing eating it: "My contact said it looked like they were two people who hadn't seen each other in a while. He was nervous as !@#$, and she was angry, then cozy."

"Like two old lovers, meeting again," I muse: "Must have been one !@#$ of a makeup !@#$, back in the bushes."

"So say he talks to her, and say he tells her everything. But the Imago tell you it's the President of Russia who gave you away. No talk about her at all."

"So who is she, and what kind of game is she running?" I ask, not yet wanting to disclose that I'm pretty !@#$ sure I know who she is, just yet. 

"My guy wasn't able to get a decent photo" the President sighs, handing me a piece of paper. I take it and open it, and see a decent copy of a decent security camera photo from the Botanical Gardens. Unfortunately, the area of interest looks like a computer !@#$ing threw up all over it.

"Electromagnetic shielding," I say: "Really sophisticated stuff, but not the best available. The really good !@#$ works so well there isn't even an effect. You don't even show up on the camera."

"Vampire coats," the President says, having some more of my liver: "I remember you talking about those, too."

"Alright then," I say, grabbing his beer and knocking it back, which makes him stop eating my !@#$ food: "We got ourselves a !@#$ing mystery to solve, here, Scooby Doo. But the problem is that we don't !@#$ing have time. The Imago are going to finish mopping up our little distraction in the next 48 hours, and that means we have a war of our own to start."

"We can farm this out," the President suggests: "We have enough people with their hands in their pants, don't we? We can have one of them look into it."

"Good idea," I say: "But before we start talking about bringing someone else into it? I just want to be clear on one !@#$ thing. The next time I tell you to kill someone? Just !@#$ing do it."

He looks at me, and nods: "I will."

"Because the next time this happens, I will just !@#$ing cut you loose and leave you on the sidelines," I tell him: "I don't care if that means it takes me twice as long to do what needs to be done. If I can't rely on you in the field, I can't have you out there. And I can just have you locked up in a !@#$ing hotel room in Tijuana until it's time for your close-up.

"You got that?"

He looks at me again, and nods: "I got it."

"Good," I say, knocking back the rest of his beer, and then regarding the dead cow in the corner.

"You got your speech, ready?" I ask after a while in silence. 

"Best I've written," he says, patting his shirt pocket: "You got the rest ready?"

"Pretty much," I lie: "Just a little more finagling, and we got ourselves a revolution."

He smiles, and leans back. I know he knows I'm not being entirely truthful. And I know that he knows that I know.

And maybe that's the real lesson of this crazy !@#$ meal, after all. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to Meat is Murder (The Smiths) and having some Asahi)

10/11/12 - Iron Demons, Metal Angels - pt 2

There are a little over a million and a half people living on Sardinia, and 6000 of them make the small island of San Pietro their home. 

They've fared fairly well, in this "Age of Imago." Their economy stabilized not long after 3/15, and even improved, somewhat. No one made any strange or unreasonable demands of them. They've kept their children by their sides, did not have a large white box installed by their main city, and the only times the Imago have showed up is to bring good news.

By and large, things are great.

Of course, there's still issues: the fishing's been a little weird, and the internet seems slower than it should be, at times. There's also the strangeness involved in visiting North Africa, and how, as soon as they remember the strangeness, they immediately do their best to think about something else.

(And then there's that disturbing old man in the high castle, up on the northwest promontory. But the less said about that strange and cruel fellow the better. They say he's a super-criminal, after all, and who wants to get mixed up with that?)

But those things are small issues; tiny fish in the big sea of life. The people of San Pietro work hard, and live well, and no one has any real problems to speak of.

Even today, with Rome set ablaze, and the skies of the world burning and bleeding, no one's seen any sign of the supposedly-worldwide fighting anywhere near the island. Perhaps they're just not important enough to bother with? And if so, why worry? Things should straighten themselves out well before they reach their shores.

They always do.

And that's why it's something of a shock when the sky becomes rather bright, all of a sudden.

The people's first thought is that a terribly powerful explosive has gone off, somewhere. The masses come out to see, shielding their eyes as best they can and wondering what's going on. But as soon as they realize that the brightness is directly overhead, it's too late to do anything about it.

The blast lasts for ten, long seconds. It goes from the north end of the island to the south. When it's over, there's nothing left of San Pietro but a smoking and molten hole in the sea bed, spawning a wave that swamps the shores of nearby Sardinian seaports.

Fortunately, most of the citizens of those towns and cities are indoors at the time: bolted down in their cellars and ground floors, hoping that the horrible, screaming, metal storms that are destroying the major cities of Europe do not come their way, too.

And so San Pietro dies unseen and alone -- a minor casualty of a larger war. Even now, newly-dead, they might not make the connection between the castle of the creepy old man and their sad fate. It's people never saw it coming, and had no idea that they would have been a target.

They never even had time to cry for help.

* * *

"Alright then," SPYGOD says, knocking back the sake that his dangerous host was kind enough to provide his guests: "You've heard my plan. You've heard what I need. I am here to ask what you can give me to help with this plan."

Mister 10 puffs on his cigarette, exhales towards the ceiling, and speaks. His assistant, Hanami, translates a few seconds later: "What sort of help?"

"To be !@#$ing honest? I'll take anything you can give me, as long as it's !@#$ big, !@#$ powerful, and likely to win the battle in the first few !@#$ing seconds."

The man looks at SPYGOD for a few seconds, and then laughs. It is not a kind-sounding thing.

"Is something wrong?" the President asks, before SPYGOD can remind him that he shouldn't be talking.

The man speaks, and Hanami translates: "Do you think this is a pink box? Do you think you can just borrow the things I safeguard as though they were there for your pleasure? We look after these things because they are dangerous, and must be studied and watched. We do not loan them out to failed warriors who need to win wars."

"Look, Mister 10, I mean no disrespect-" SPYGOD starts to say, but goes silent as a finger is put onto his lips.

"If you wished to show me respect, you would speak my language, and call me by my rightful name," Mister 10 says: "I did not mind giving you some aid, before. I do not mind giving you some aid, now, or in the future. But you may not ask this of me. And you know why-"

"How would you like total military autonomy in return?" the President asks.

SPYGOD looks at the President: "Shut your !@#$ mouth-"

"Please, continue," Mister 10 says, squeezing SPYGOD's lips together with his forefinger and thumb.

"When we are back on our feet, as a nation, and a world," the President says, sitting up straight and looking the man in the eyes: "I can pledge to you that America will no longer insist that Japan cannot have a fully-functioning, standing military. We will agree to a scheduled, gradual withdrawal of our forces, so as to allow you to build up your forces to full strength. And when you are, we will leave and not return, unless you ask for our aid. No more military bases, no more fleet movements. You will be free to pursue your defense as you see fit."

"The refusal to put forward an offense-capable military is enshrined in our Constitution, Mr. President. It has been a part of our national culture since the Occupation. Between our Self-Defense Force and the things my group looks after, we have beaten back everything that has ever threatened Japan. Why do you think we would even want this?"

"Because I think being invaded by the Imago is going to rankle your nation quite severely, when all is said and done," the President explains, wondering how long he can talk before SPYGOD punches him in the face: "I think you are a proud people, and for good reason. And once certain facts are brought to light, after we've liberated the Earth, I think your people will be ready to talk about having a real military, once again."

Mister 10 considers that for a moment, and then continues: "I thought you had to put such things before your Congress, Mr. President?"

"I do, yes. But I also think that, once certain other facts are brought to light, the Congress will be very happy to approve of my plan," the President says: "And if not, I'll write as many !@#$ executive orders as I have to."

The man looks at the President, and then at SPYGOD. Then he smiles, takes his hand away from SPYGOD's face, and leans back in his chair.

"Very well," he says: "On behalf of what it left of the Japanese government, I accept your gracious offer. And I will be happy to provide the temporary use of one of our more powerful properties. However, you must name the one you want, as I am not going to provide you with a shopping list.

"And I should warn you that our collection is not what it was..."

"What do you mean-" the President asks, but he's quickly silenced by Mister 10 shouting for more sake, and maybe some snacks.

He looks at SPYGOD. SPYGOD does not look at him. He gets the idea they may have just been conned.

And he sighs, realizing that maybe he really should have just kept his big mouth shut.

* * *

In Doctor Kyklops' large and impressive sea saucer, the mood has gone from elation to grim reality.

The holographic battle globe in the main chamber says it all: maniple after maniple of Slaughterbots are being targeted from on high, and utterly destroyed. The Imago are luring them into firing position, and then teleporting away a half-second before the particle beams come down.

From her vantage point, surrounded by smaller holographic screens, METALMAID seethes and fumes. It was all going so well! How could she have miscalculated this badly?

(Meanwhile, the destruction of his seaside castle has turned her "client" into a sad wreck, sitting in a chair far from the globe. But he wasn't offering anything in the way of a sensible battle plan, anyway, so that's of no concern to her.)

"Do not bunch up," METALMAID is ordering the groups of Slaughterbots: "If you are too close together, they will fire upon you. Reduce ranks to ten and scatter!"

"This Unit must point out that if they do not attack in a large group, they will lose their tactical advantage," V-16 wisely counsels.

"I know that!" METALMAID shouts: "But it's all we can do. We have no way of knocking out Deep Ten. The !@#$ tin machines are untouchable."

"Then this Unit suggests that we have only one recourse left," V-16 says: "The final move."

"They are still too strong, and we are losing."

"They will not fire their cannon at their own city," V-16 says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "They can risk the boxes. They cannot risk that."

"So if they scatter, and regroup there..." METALMAID says, nodding.

"This Unit still believes victory is possible, if they pursue that strategy."

"Alright," METALMAID addresses her troops: "New plan. All mobile units, all recycle units, find the nearest major body of water and dive into it. Maintain unit strength of no more than ten, and distance yourself at least ten miles from each other. Converge on the city, stay mobile, and wait for my signal.

"All Box units, stay at your tasks. Those things must be destroyed at all costs."

The many maniples register their acknowledgement, and comply. She watches as more beams come down from the heavens and destroy fleeing groups, doing the arithmetic in her head.

This was never a certain thing to begin with, but now it's going to be really !@#$ing close.

* * *

"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD says: "Your top exo-cyberneticist died of cancer?"

"It was very sudden," Mister 10 says, though Hanami: "One day he was fine, the next he was not himself, and then he was mistaking fermented soybean paste for his hat. A week later, he was dead."

"That's !@#$ convenient-"

"Not for us," the man interrupts: "And you, of everyone, should know the hazards of working with exotic materials. We lost dozens of men merely exploring the ship, before he came to the project. The fact that he was able to make the Fire Flier work was nothing short of a miracle, and the fact that he did not die sooner from some strange thing no one can predict was only luck. And luck eventually runs out.

"And no one else knows how the Fire Flier works?" SPYGOD sighs, his hopes getting shorter along with his list.

"Unfortunately, no. He was a very secretive individual. He was all too aware that, the more people knew, the less necessary he was."

"So I bet you're going to tell me he never !@#$ing trained those Flying Young Science Commandos how to fix the !@#$ thing, either?"

"That is correct," Mister 10 knocks back some sake.

"What shape is it in?" the President asks: "We have some people who could possibly figure it out-"

"Even if we would trust you to look it over, and we do not," Mister 10 interrupts: "It is in several pieces, at this moment. The last time we faced attack from Hell Island, the team took it into battle. It did not fare well."

SPYGOD sighs, and crosses yet another entry off his list. There aren't many entries left.

"The Giant Archer?"

"Intact, but indisposed," the man says, smiling slightly.

"What the !@#$ does that mean?"

"Something has to guard the entrance to Hell Island, now."

Another line is crossed off: "The Lizard King?"

"We do not control him. He comes and goes as he will, sometimes as a friend, and sometimes not."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Before 3/15. But sometimes he vanishes for years. I think we could grow old and die in captivity waiting for him to return."

"And we don't even have that long," the President says, shaking his head: "Too bad. We could have used him."

Another line is marked off: "The Revolutionary Men?"

"Missing in action, sadly."

"How the !@#$ does an entire group of hundred foot tall metal men go missing in action?"

"Your government exiled them."

"We did what?" the President asks, but SPYGOD holds up a hand.

"You mean they were... like ours?"

"They were. And when your Government entered into that deal, in the 1980's, we lost them. In fact, that is part of the reason why the Organization exists in the first place, to make certain such things do not happen again."

A deep sigh, and yet another line is marked off: "The cute, can-do android from the future with a punch that could take out a battleship?"

"Also indisposed."

"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me."

"I assure you, we are not," Mister 10 replies. Hanami smiles, this time.

* * *

The plan is put into action. The Slaughterbots spread themselves out as much as they can, without losing unit cohesion, and dive into the nearest large body of water. This saves them, without a doubt.

However, those units that are engaged in sabotaging the large, white boxes are not as fortunate. Each one, in turn, is fired upon by the same particle beams that were surgically taking out their airborne comrades. Europe, North America, Asia, and Africa -- they are picked off, one by one.

And the white boxes are not so much as scorched by the beams that engulf them.

As the Slaughterbots lose their numbers and cohesion, their enemy redoubles. Phalanxes of Specials are teleported ahead of them, firing terrible and heavy weapons at them as they retreat.

The Imago also follow them under the waves, using surprise and increased numbers to rend them apart. The seas boil with hidden conflicts, and the oceans run black and red with oil and blood.

And from her headquarters, deep beneath the waves, METALMAID watches her forces' numbers dwindle dramatically, and begins to think of an exit strategy.

This war may be lost.

* * *

"Well rat!@#$," SPYGOD says, crumbling up his piece of paper: "Not a single giant !@#$ing robot, no !@#$ wondervehicles, no giant monsters on a leash. You probably don't even have that metal gimp on the superbike, anymore, do you?"

"He is available," Mister 10 says: "But, to be honest, I do not think he would fare so well against your chosen target."

"We may just come to that," SPYGOD sighs: "And you really aren't going to just !@#$ing offer me something you do have? Really?"

"We made an agreement, did we not?" Mister 10 says, banging his hands on the table and clearly becoming angry: "You knew the rules when we began. You also know what my organization does, and why-"

"And I know that if the Imago don't !@#$ing kill us, whatever's coming at us from outer !@#$ing space will-"

"Perhaps I should kill you and save them the bother-"

"This building," the President says: "We'll take it."

Mister 10 opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. Hanami looks at him, and then the President. SPYGOD raises his eyebrows, and then leans back and smiles.

"You do not know what you are asking," Mister 10 finally says.

"It's powerful enough to destroy Tokyo if you mess with it," the President says: "So I suspect if you use it as intended, it must be exactly what we need."


Mister 10 looks at Hanami, and then back at the President. He nods, stands up, bows, and leaves the room.


"Did we..." the President asks, looking at Hanami and then SPYGOD: "I'm not sure what just happened, here?"


"We will be in touch, soon, regarding a way to contact us," the woman says, getting up and bowing respectfully: "You may stay in this room, or enjoy the bar, outside. But I should warn you that the people out there are dangerous criminals, and may recognize you."


With that, she's gone, leaving the President and SPYGOD to themselves.


"I think you just saved the !@#$ing planet, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, pouring the two of them some more of the fine sake their host left for them: "Care for a drink?"


"I think I'm going to need a whole !@#$ raft of them," the President says, gulping his down.


"I hear that," SPYGOD says, handing him the other cup and pulling right from the bottle.

"I wonder how the war's going?"

"If I've got my timing right?" SPYGOD looks at his watch: "Just about over, except for the screaming..."

* * *

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a strange and massive city, recently risen from the seabed. Its fabled contours -- reminiscent of every lost civilization of the Earth -- glows red in the evening Sun. Strange lights play inside its massive hollows and cyclopean doors, and weird, crackling balls of light float in and out of its many windows, as if watching for intrusions.

Above it all, hovering motionless, is a giant metal dragonfly. As night approaches, it glows a dull purple, beating in time with a hideous heartbeat. It seems to be breathing, this silver leviathan, but that may just be a trick of the light. 

At the horizon, there is a stirring beneath the waves -- swift and terrible, hungry for battle.

The last few maniples of the Slaughterbot army are converging on their target. They are fewer, now, but strong and certain. They know they can do this, if only because they have been ordered to.

But in that ordering comes certainty: they have a task to complete, and they must not stop until they have done so.

As one, they rise from the waves. As one, they fire their weapons at the city and the immense, steel insect that sits above it. As one, they scream their battlecry, falling forward into death and history. 

A blinding light, a raging fire, and then there is nothing but ashes and smoke.

(SPYGOD is listening to W.Y.H.I.W.Y.G. (Front 242) and having more of that fine Mukune Sake)

10/11/12 - Iron Demons, Metal Angels - pt 1

South Sumatera, perhaps 150 miles Southast of Pontianak. The sun comes up on a smoky and shimmering landscape of shattered glass and burning trees.

The remnants of the Space Elevator cover a wide, westward swath from ground zero. Its gargantuan base is still on fire. Every so often, it sends up a curling tendril of what little remains of itself, trying to commit to self-repair. Those delicate fronds of matter quickly blacken and burn, but there will be many more where they came from.

The glass is actually transparent metal. It twitches in the morning sun, thinking it should be larger, more complete. But like someone caught in a bad dream they can't escape, it can only lie there, waiting for the signal to awaken.

It may be waiting a long time.

The battleground is eerily absent of corpses. The victors have recovered their dead, and harvested all but the most badly-damaged of their foes for study or cannibalization. Only trace elements remain: here a gaudy green metal hand, there a sheared-off slice of gold shoulder or azure leg.

No flags have been raised, here, and no garrisons left. This was not a battle to take ground, but to deny the enemy its clearest signs of superiority and dominion.

And if the terrorist attack of last September showed that the Imago could be hurt, then today's battle shows they can be beaten -- and badly.

But for how long?

* * *

"So what should we expect from this meeting?" the President whispers to SPYGOD as they walk into the Heaven House Tokyo, following the young lady who greeted him at the ferry the other day.

"Let's just say you should leave the talking to me," SPYGOD whispers back, adjusting his hologlasses and hoping the disguise holds. 

"Because that worked so well the other day," the President sighs, reflexively adjusting his own. He doesn't like the fact that his hologlasses can see through the disguises generated by others. It means anyone else that's wearing a pair now knows a dead President is walking though Tokyo. 

(Not that there were a lot of people out on the streets. The city was uncharacteristically deserted, today. People were staying indoors out of fear of what was happening around the world.)

"Hey now, you don't know those !@#$ing people," SPYGOD says, raising a ringer as they enter a dark, long foyer just large enough for them to walk through side by side: "If we didn't do good cop, bad cop, nothing would have !@#$ing gotten done."

"Did anything get done? As far as I could tell we got a non-committal commitment to have them get in touch with what's left of their governments, and then you made them all !@#$ in their pants by telling them about the FDOS."

"But we got them !@#$ing scared," SPYGOD says as they come to an inner door, guarded by two large, burly men in white suits, also wearing hologlasses: "And with them? That's all they need to get their !@#$es in motion."

The young lady shows one of the men something from her purse. He looks at it, looks at her two companions, and grunt-nods. He pulls out a phone and calls someone, and then, nodding at whatever he hears, puts the phone away and opens up the doors. Behind it is a blindingly-bright room, through which only the subtlest shapes can be discerned.

"Shi Heya," he announces. 

"Room four," Hanami translates, indicating that they should follow her into the light beyond the darkness.

* * *

All around the world, white hot battles are being fought for its future -- skies burning as angry, grey iron demons rage tooth and claw against brilliant metal angels.

London and Seattle lose their tallest buildings as combatants whirl and twirl around themselves like warring flocks of birds. Moscow and Sao Paolo lose entire neighborhoods as the war in heaven touches the ground. New Delhi catches fire as smoldering pieces of the wounded fall to the ground, stately Rome has already been abandoned and left to blaze.

And Paris watches in horror as the Eiffel Tower falls down -- shattered like a child's toy by the ferocity of what's happening around it.

Both sides would seem to be evenly matched: the Slaughterbots' lasers and railguns merely bounce off the Imago's shields, and the Imago's death-stare is good only against those with eyes, and a brain. As such, hand-to-hand combat is the only recourse, and all parties are strong and savage fighters in that regard.

But the Slaughterbots were ready for this battle, having trained and prepared for this war for some time. The Imago apparently had no idea it was coming -- no conception that anyone might dare to challenge them in these numbers, and with this ferocity. And while they can teleport away from a losing battle, their foes seem able to track their movements through space, and reposition their forces accordingly.

So are their losses staggering. And everywhere, in the cities and fields, as the broken pieces of the Imago fall to the ground, they are quickly snatched up to build yet more Slaughterbots for the fight.

The afterlife may have a revolving door, in this war, but so far it only seems to be working for one side.

* * *

Heaven is a large, white room with bright lights, crystal fixtures, and shiny metal furnishings. A central bar serves only clear or white drinks, all poured from silver bottles with no markings. Loud, clanging techno beats echo around its walls, but there's no room to dance.

Everyone in the bar, itself, is wearing the brightest white they can, complemented by brightly-polished silver and clear glass. Most of them also wear white masks: skull masks, blank masks, dominoes, and the like. Those who are not are wearing hologlasses, and those all appear to be employees.

No one notices SPYGOD and the President coming in. They are all watching video screens, listening to the sober delivery of a topless, female newscaster as she talks of horrible fighting in China, Korea, and Taiwan. As the due follow their guide, the screens go over to an amateur's footage of what looks like a block of flaming, metal birds tearing itself to pieces over what is clearly Hong Kong. 

"That's that, then," SPYGOD says, gesturing: "It's gonna get !@#$ing messy."

"How are they seeing any of this?" the President asks: "I'd have thought the Imago would be keeping this off the internet."

"They are, I bet. But that's not the internet."

"Oh?" the President asks as Hanami gets them to a door, over by the left wall. There are a number of doors, all with numbers. Between three and five is a door with no number. 

"Room four," their guide says, opening it up and gesturing that they should go inside: "Please be seated. I will get Ju San."

"Thanks, hon," SPYGOD says, poking his head in, and only then allowing the President to follow him on in to the small room. There's a round, white table, silvery metal chairs, and a light fixture, and that's it.

"So if that's not the internet-" the President starts to say, but SPYGOD holds up a finger, and quickly looks all around the room. Then he puts the black cube he used at the bar last night on the table, and turns it on. 

"Okay, really !@#$ing quick," SPYGOD says, watching the door: "This man we're about to meet is one of the most !@#$ing dangerous people you are ever going to work with in your life. If we thinks we're not on the level, we're !@#$ing dead."

"You're kidding me," the President says.

"No. I am not," SPYGOD replies, gesturing for him to sit down: "The Japanese government's had a !@#$ weird relationship with organized crime since the 80's, and the Organization is one of the fruits of that. The sort of things Mister 10 looks after is the sort of things that no government should really be allowed to have, so he keeps them safe."

"What sort of things?"

"The sorts of things that could have stood toe to !@#$ing toe with the sort of people it took the Backers and Rappin Ronnie to get rid of in America."

"And safe from what?"

"The Japanese government, primary. But also us."

"Us?"

"Yes, Mr. President. Us. We don't !@#$ing allow them to have a !@#$ing military worth a !@#$, so any crazy and powerful !@#$ they come up with's likely to fall into our hands. And given how we were playing with our toys, back in the 80's, that could have been !@#$ bad."

"And that's why they formed the Organization?"

"Yes. And this is one !@#$ing scary organization that has led to the creation of one !@#$ing scary man. Mister 10 has killed government officials with his bare !@#$ hands to keep their secrets. He's strangled diplomats and even shot a foreign dignitary or two.

"And forget about !@#$ing convincing him you're not out to steal his !@#$. Oh no. As far as he's !@#$ing concerned, he doesn't have the time to be sure or make sure before he acts.

"He is unreachable, untouchable, and only accountable to one person in this whole !@#$ world. And the Imago mashed his head into a !@#$ wall when he told them to go eat fish, a few months back."

"So what happens if we don't measure up?" the President asks.

"If we're lucky? Two to the head with a gun that shouldn't even exist in this timeline."

"And not?"

"He'll just !@#$ our brains through our eyesockets," SPYGOD says, sitting down: "And that, Mr. President, is why I'm doing the talking today."

"By all means..." the President says, sitting up and trying to not look scared out of his !@#$ mind. 

* * *

The battle continues on, but now the Slaughterbots are causing real damage. 

By the major cities of Europe and North America, there are large, white boxes -- each as large as a sports stadium. They are supposedly there to help regulate the flow of energy and supplies to the people of those regions, but an exact accounting of their purpose and functioning remains elusive. And anyone who gets too close is usually met by an Imago, who is happy to either gently turn the interloper away, or roughly remove him from the human race. 

The Slaughterbots, however, are not so easily moved.

It takes some doing, for the boxes are well-shielded, and quite impervious to the sort of firepower that even the heaviest of war robots might carry. But with long bursts of concentrated fire, followed up by caustic explosives and other, exotic weaponry, the walls eventually give way just wide enough to allow something small and explosive to be tossed in.

And those small explosives pack a very large blast, as several cities in Mexico, Canada, and Russia soon find out. 

The boxes are being taken down in a pattern: one after the other, city after city, all leading to the interior of their continents. The fighting in the skies subsides as the Imago rally around those boxes, ready to give their lives rather than allow them to be destroyed. 

But as they battle, they become aware that many of their new foes are wearing old friends: Slaughterbots created from the remnants of fallen Imago are taking the battle to them, and when they fall they are simply snatched up, taken behind the lines, and put back together again.

Box after box falls. City after city goes dark and silent. A wave of blackness threatens the Age of Imago. 

Something will have to be done. 

* * *

The door takes a long time to open up again. The President knows the man is out there, but he's stopped right at the door and hasn't come in yet. It's like he's waiting for something.

The President wants to stand up, somehow. He wants to go and open the door. But the second he so much as twitches, SPYGOD shoots him a look and points his finger at him, and then down.

He doesn't so much as twitch after that. And a full sixty seconds later, Mister 10 is in the room.

(The President swears he didn't even see the door open and shut.)

He's a big, beefy man with a short, salt-and-pepper haircut, and very heavy-lidded eyes. He wears an off-white shirt with a floral paisley pattern, white leather pants, and heavy boots. When he walks over to the table, he does it without directly looking at them, and when he puts his hands on the chair he intends to sit in, the President notices he's missing a few finger joints.

He's sat in enough meetings with the FBI to know what that means -- Yakuza. 

The man notices the President noticing, and half-nods to him. Then he looks at SPYGOD, and half nods as well. Only then does he sit down, full and thunderous, and put his hands on the table.

When he sees the black box he snorts, and points at it. SPYGOD nods, turns it off, and puts it away.

The girl, Hanami, comes in and sits down next to him. She smiles and puts her hands down on the table, mirroring the man's stance.

"Ju San understands English, but does not care to speak it," she says: "He says that it is distasteful language, easily perverted by foreign words that have no business within it. As such, I will translate his half of the meeting for you. Speak as fast or as slow as you like."

"That's funny," SPYGOD says, leaning forward in his chair: "The sign on the door says 'Heaven House Tokyo,' in English. Is that for the visitors, then?"

When Ju San speaks it is soft-spoken but firm. A few seconds after he begins speaking, Hanami translates.

"Your impudence is noted, but you have a good point. I am not permitted to change the outside of the building. It has been like that since the time of the original Organization. To effect such a change now would be to alter the building, itself. And that would be a bad thing."

"How bad?"

"I do not think it would be a good thing for Tokyo to be blasted off the island," Ju San replies, though Hanami, and not without a smile: "Especially since we have spent so many years keeping it safe."

"You mean this building is one of the things you've been protecting?"

"It is. But you do not need to know what it is. Not if you wish to leave this room alive."

The President gulps. SPYGOD rolls his eyes. Ju San smiles.

"May I offer you a drink?" the man says, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes: "I find negotiations of this sort go much better with alcohol. It takes a bit of the edge off the blade, so to speak."

"Sounds like a !@#$ fine idea to me," SPYGOD says, offering him a light: "I don't like signing any bargain clean and sober. Do you?"

"Not at all," Ju San replies, graciously accepting the flame: "If we can save this world, that is worthy of celebration. And not every celebration should wait until victory is achieved.

"After all," he continues, leaning back and exhaling smoke at the ceiling: "What happens if it never comes?"

* * *

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, above the risen city, the faces of the powers that run the Imago are in deep consultation with one another.    

What is happening in North America? the hidden leader demands, her voice hollow and wet: How can we have lost so many links in our power chain this quickly?

The deployment is clearly not working, leader: the former head of the CIA -- now The Sight -- says, chiming in from his cocoon of stolen brains and internet connections: We have clearly been outmaneuvered.

We have not been outmaneuvered! Doctor Yesterday -- now The Motion -- angrily responds from the Antarctic redoubt: We have merely been taken by surprise. And if you'd been doing your !@#$ job we wouldn't be having this problem, now!

Don't you dare put this on me-

Please be calm, my children, The leader says: Do not let the heat of the moment overwhelm your judgments. Remember that if they continue to attack us in this fashion, we will be crippled. Worse still, we will lose time in our effort to leave this planet. We need sound decisions, now. We can worry about what has gone wrong later.

The problem is that we do not know our enemy's plan, the writhing, cyclopean mass of neural circuitry that was once The Dragon says: We do not know this plan because we do not know the enemy. Once we know the enemy, we will know the plan.

Um, we know who the enemy is, Dragon, The ersatz Director Straffer -- now The Fist -- says as he gazes down from Deep Ten: It's that Dr. Kyklops fellow, remember? He took credit for the attack, yesterday.

And I know what robots those are, The Motion says: Those are Slaughterbots. I should know. I've repaired SPYGOD's pet enough times.   

I do not think you understand me, The Dragon says: I meant to say-

Don't you have a fortress to run? The Fist says: I say we don't worry about who or why until we've won. I can pick them off from here, if you'll let me. 

If you do that, then you'll be firing a lot of blasts down on the planet, the Sight says: And while we've been able to blame those on our enemies so far, sooner or later the people will start asking too many questions.

At least they'll be alive to ask the questions, the Fist replies: I'm seeing what those robots are doing to any humans they come across. This doesn't look good-

There is another question, here: The Dragon says, calm and serene:  I find it hard to believe that what happened in Neo York City yesterday has no connection to this. The city throws us out, just as a powerful enemy attacks? I would suspect the origin of our troubles lies within the city.

I say the origin of our troubles lies with Dr. Kyklops, the Motion says: Once we take him out, we've got half the battle won. 

And I am very ready to take him out, The Fist adds.

And I can use this as a means to redouble people's loyalties to us, and this increase production, The Motion says.

These are good things to hear, the leader says: Dragon, I understand your concerns. Please apply your brilliance to finding the true meaning behind this attack. 

I will, The Dragon replies, and falls silent.

The rest of you? The Leader continues: Prepare to counter-attack. This has gone on enough, and harmed our efforts enough. And remember that we do these things for love -- love for one another, our people, and our cause. 

Soon we shall be free. Never lose sight of this. 

And then there is silent assent, and the sound of the world remaking itself in their alien image.

(SPYGOD is listening to Commando (Front 242) and having a Mukune sake)

10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 4

10/10/12

In an undisclosed location, a young man comes into his darkened workroom, bringing a cup of morning coffee with him. The mug says EVIL GENIUS.

He sits at his cluttered desk, and wakes up his computer. Once it pops into life it gives him all the information he'd told it to watch for, and he smiles at what it tells him.

His phone rings, and he answers it: "Yes? ... Yes. I think we are. ... I'm pretty sure. I'll get in touch with her and see, but I think she's taken what I said to heart. 

"Okay, good to know. Let them know I'm ready when they are-

"Oh, that quickly? Well !@#$, Ben. I'm impressed.

"Okay, will do. You can count on me...

"Yes, I do know what you said about hanging separately. No worries, here. I'm all in.

"You too. Talk to you soon, old man."

He puts the phone down and smiles.  His eyes glow purple as he sips his coffee, and violet sparks jump from his teeth to the cup.

"Let's go change the world," he says to himself. 

* * *

"... still reeling from the events of yesterday afternoon. We're not entirely sure what's happening inside Neo York City, today, Wolf, but one thing's for sure. Something just changed, here and now. And the world we thought we knew has been turned upside down."

"What do you mean, Bob? Can you at least tell us what's happening where you are?"

"I can. I'm by what's left of the west end of the Queensboro Bridge. It's... well, as you can see behind me, it's a mess."

"You mean the Ed Koch Bridge, Bob?"

"Well, Wolf, no one here calls it that. It's Queensboro to the people who used it every day to get back and forth from Queens to Manhattan. And now it's a mess of twisted metal and broken concrete. Dozens of civilians dead, hundreds wounded."

"And you're saying this was done by the Specials? The rapid response troops the Imago have been using as security worldwide?"

"That's correct, Wolf. There was a massive car chase, all the way up 25 from the Eastern outskirts of Queens. A lot of armed men who have been identified by the police as being suspected of Mafia involvement were chasing a white van, shooting and trying to run it off the road. It got as far as the west end before coming to a halt, and then they got out of their cars and started shooting at it-"

"Right, and we have some amateur footage of that. A commuter named Ed Jones was kind enough to film it on his phone and post it to his youtube account. This footage you're seeing has not been retouched, and, Bob, I'm presuming you can see this, too?"

"Yes I am. Now, what you're seeing is all these armed men firing at a white van. We're told by the authorities that these men chased it all the way from Queens because they were after the masked vigilante known as The Black Card-"

"Okay, and that's the body they found at the scene, right?"

"Well, Wolf, that's going to be hard to say, for reasons you'll see soon enough. But he had an accomplice, and that's the woman you can see in this film, shooting back at the men."

"Do we know who she is?"

"No we do not. As you can see in the film, she throws a smoke grenade, right about here, and then high-tails it down the bridge. About five seconds later the van catches fire. The police are saying it was an incendiary device, which is what's made it hard to really identify the Black Card, if that was indeed him."

"And then... well, they take off after her, and then we see the Specials teleport in. There's a lot of scared people in cars, and they're trying to get out of their way, and... what are we seeing, Bob? Is that what we think it is?"

"It is, Wolf. The Specials marched across the bridge and turned it into a giant kill zone. They shot everything moving. The suspected mobsters, the people in their cars, everything. And they kept marching and firing, chasing after the female accomplice as she ran to the other side of the bridge."

"Okay, and you can actually hear people screaming and crying for them to stop. I think that Mr. Jones is screaming for them to stop."

"He is, yes. And then this happens."

"That's Bronze and Blue, right? One of the Imago from New York State, right?"

"Yes, it is. He looks right at Ed, and you can hear Ed screaming at him to stop them. To just stop them from killing any more people. And then there's that flash of light from the eyes of the Imago, and we hear Ed scream. Then the camera's falling down, and looking up..."

"And then that boot, coming down on it."

"That's right, Wolf. We just saw an Imago execute an American citizen without trial, right on the spot, for filming their Specials killing civilians while trying to quell an armed riot."

"Alright, so, as difficult as it is to process that, and just setting the reality of what this means aside, what happens next? You've been talking to people who were watching at the time, and people who are there, now?"

"Well, the Specials didn't stop, Wolf. They kept marching across the bridge, firing and firing. And then they chased her down the off-ramp. But the moment they actually got onto the ground, something happened. People who were there said it was like the first few times the city woke up, and the people who were there were all snatched up by force fields and moved out of harm's way. Only the Specials were all picked up and flung right out of the city, just like the planes that one time those terrorists tried to fly planes into them, back in 2001, and the last time the city was attacked, last year."

"And has it done that before?"

"Not that anyone knows. And it didn't just hurl those Specials out, Wolf. The reports I'm getting say that all of the ones in the city were tossed out. And any that have tried to teleport in since then have been flung right out again."

"What about the Imago?"

"The same, Wolf. They're not even on the ground a second before they're up and flying away."

"And what's going on in the city? Are there riots? Crimes of opportunity?"

"No, Wolf. No one's doing anything violent, at least as far as we can tell. There's a makeshift memorial for the people who were killed and a lot of people are there, putting down flowers and wreaths. The police have called for calm and order, and I think the mayor is going to make a public statement sometime today."

"Now, I did hear something that sounded a little weird. There are apparently reports of street people setting up portable televisions in public places, all over?"

"That's true, Wolf. In fact, I even saw one. I asked him what he was doing and he just smiled at me and said 'turn on, tune in, drop out.'"

"Well, that's a blast from the past. But I thought televisions weren't working any longer, Bob?"

"I thought so, too. But there's something being broadcast on them. I'm just not sure what, yet."

"And what about that woman who was being chased by the Specials? Do we have any news on her? Is she still alive, or...?"

"That's another unanswered question, Wolf. Eyewitnesses say that she was wounded but still running when the Specials were being flung away. No one's seen her since. We have no idea who she was, but we figure that the whole world saw her on that video. It's only a matter of time before her identity is made known."

"Alright. Thank you, Bob. We're going to go back to the Situation Room, here, for a moment..."

* * *

They say that Japan is as close as you can get to being off the planet without actually leaving it. If that's true, then the world-famous Harajuku district, in Tokyo, must be the launching pad.

The real blastoff doesn't happen until Sunday, when every grey-faced wage slave with a few Yen to scrape together for a cool costume will be down at the park, pretending to be something they're not. But until then, there's always the crazy fashion shops and unique boutiques, selling their wares to the dedicated and curious alike.

And there's also the bars and cafes, each dedicated to a different subsect: bars where everyone dresses like anime characters, coffee houses for "blackface" players, rockabilly diners -- anything you could imagine. There's even a bar that caters to people who like to dress up like the Imago, though the clientele are being a little circumspect, today.

Which is why it's not so outrageous to find a SPYGOD PLACE, here, in spite of everything that's happened in the last year.

It's a dark, 50's-style bar, serving drinks and food they stole from the menu of the nearest rockabilly establishment. It's full of posters of SPYGOD, the COMPANY, the Liberty Patrol, and the Freedom Force in action, and features fairly decent replicas of their costumes up on the walls, and special gadgets and weapons under glass behind the bar. The staff dress like COMPANY Agents from the 50's, and the clientele dress as Strategic Talents, supervillains, science terrorists, famous enemy agents, and the like.

(Their number one selling t-shirt has a freeze frame of SPYGOD shooting the President, with the phrase GET YOU THE HOT BULLETS TO DIE!!! on it. Available in white, black, and pink; sizes S, M, L.)

Tonight, the bar is quite packed. There's a party going on at one of the central tables, and the normal customers are quite in awe of how good their costumes are. If they didn't know any better, they'd swear that SPYGOD, himself, was sitting at the table, along with the President he shot. But that's just impossible, surely.

(Conversely, they have no idea who the other people at the table are. Two Indians, some scruffy-dressed big guy with a large beard, a black man in a nice suit, and some insane-looking old, white guy in weird prescription eyeglasses? It must be some international group from a nearby university, out for a drink or something.)

"You always take us to the nicest places, SPYGOD," Mikhail grunts, downing what must be his third bloody mary: "Are you certain we are safe here?"

"Safe as !@#$ing houses," SPYGOD replies, knocking down a beer and gesturing to the server to set everyone up again: "Everyone here just thinks we're !@#$ing re-enactors. And that big !@#$ black box in the center of the table's scrambling our conversations and turning them into Japanese conversation. So far as anyone outside the table knows, we're talking !@#$ about our professors."

"Clever," Khalil says, wishing he could remember what he needed to tell SPYGOD: "Is that one of your devices, then?"

"It's courtesy of our friends at Ju Kikan," the President says: "And before anyone asks -- no, they will not be joining us, tonight. They're willing to do a deal with us, but I think they're not sure about you all, yet."

"Feh," Dosha Josh says: "It's not unusual. The leader of Ku Kikan hardly ever came to our little meetings, either. I don't think he trusted us. Not completely."

"The infamous Mister 9," Mikhail says, raising his empty glass to his memory: "The Tsar is dead. Long live the Tsar."

"So what are you wanting to talk to us about, then?" Dr. Krwi asks, regarding his straw-wrapped bottle of barenjager: "Is there something we can do for you?"

"Yes, there is," the President says, looking at each man in turn: "SPYGOD tells me that each of you is still in touch with what's left of your countries' real governments. And that some of them are in touch with what's left of their allies. I'm going to want to talk to them, fairly soon, about what we're going to do once the Imago are done."

The men all fall silent, look at one another, and then look back at him.

"You have to be joking," Dosha says: "With all respect, sir... do you have any idea how far underground they are right now? I'm barely in contact-"

"No one in Poland is worth a !@#$," Krwi sighs: "Worse than the Communists at this point."

"I'm not even going to get into how bad things are in my country," Khalil sighs. 

"And as for Russia, well..." Mikhail says, casting a look in SPYGOD's direction: "We still do not have a full understanding of what has happened there."

"Neither do I, come to think of it," the President says, giving SPYGOD a look.

"Look, you all !@#$ing knew it was coming around," SPYGOD says, getting his beer and smiling at the ersatz Agent who gives it to him: "And after everything we've learned and done, recently, it's got to be sooner rather than later. !@#$, it's starting now, in case you didn't see the news from Neo York City. And right now, we're the ones who are spearheading this !@#$ing thing."

"Which 'we' do you mean?" Dr. Krwi asks: "We at this table? We and our countries?"

"He means we, as in America," the President says, pointing to the two of them. 

"It is always nice to know the Americans are in charge," Khalil sighs.

"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "And do you know why we're in charge? Because we're the ones who are !@#$ing getting !@#$ done. Always have been, in case you didn't !@#$ing notice. You all are too busy !@#$ing arguing and debating, and by the time you've got a !@#$ idea hammered out we've already beaten back the !@#$ thing and taken its skull. And then you complain our troops are getting fresh with your hookers-"

"I might just be leaving, now," Dosha says, gesturing to Anil, who nods and makes ready to teleport them out of there.

"That's not the point, here, Dosha," the President says, leaning forward and raising a hand: "We don't want this to be unilateral. We want this to be a group effort. It has to be. If we take the point on this, we might win the war, but we're going to screw up the peace and the reconstruction really badly. Especially if we have to do some of the things we may have to do."

"Such as what?" Dr. Krwi asks.

"I think you know," SPYGOD says, having a pull on his beer. 

Dr. Krwi looks at the President, and then SPYGOD. Then he puts down his drink, and crosses himself. The others look at him funny, but no one cares to elaborate.

"So are we all gonna share the !@#$ responsibility, risk, and reward on this, or are you all gonna make !@#$ing excuses about not being able to find your leaders and their friends, and then complain that America !@#$ed it up, again?" SPYGOD asks: "Because I don't have the !@#$ time to hear excuses, gentlemen. We're !@#$ing meeting with Mister 10 tomorrow. We're !@#$ing putting the final big !@#$ plan into action not long thereafter.

"And when it goes off, we're gonna need everyone on board for what happens next."

"Especially after you do what you're going to do," Dr. Krwi says.

"What I might have to do," SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "I'm hoping we can !@#$ing circumvent that."

"Does someone want to say what this something is?" Mikhail asks.

"Not really, no," the President says, looking at SPYGOD: "If we're lucky, it won't come to that."

"My people swear they can knock them out without having to do it," SPYGOD says: "But there is something we are going to have to do, gentlemen. And it's a doozy."

He holds up a piece of paper and shows the whole group. Dr. Krwi puzzles over it and shrugs. Everyone else's jaws drop to the table.

"You would not," Mikhail says.

"I did not think it existed," Khalil says: "I thought it was only a myth..."

"It is no myth," Dosha says: "it is very real. And if you press it-"

"When I press it," the President says: "It will deprive the enemy of their greatest asset on this planet. It will give the people their freedom and their minds back."

"And it will set this planet back decades," Mikhail sighs: "Mister President, there must be another way."

"Then talk to your leaders, tell them what we're up against, and ask them to find another solution," the President says, taking the paper from SPYGOD and thumping it down on the table: "Because from where I'm sitting? It's an unavoidable casualty of war."

And then there is silence at the table in the SPYGOD PLACE.

* * *

Ladies and gentlemen of the world, your attention please.

I am a man of few words, and so I shall keep this message short and to the point.

You may not remember me, though I am something of a legend amongst certain circles. 

But from here on out, when you hear the name Doctor Kyklops, I hope it will be held in the highest of esteem.

The reason for this is simple. I am about to conquer the world.

Now, I am certain you may be asking yourselves "What of the Imago? Do they not now rule?"

And you would be right to ask that. 

But I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: "What of the Imago?"

Oh, they may seem scary. They may have the numbers and the power. They have have taken control of certain key services and the like.

But I? I have decades of experience in this sort of thing, whereas they only just arrived.

I also possess an army the likes of which they have never seen, nor ever reckoned with.

And finally? I have the iron will necessary to do this. The will to take on the entire world.

The will to power.

Before that, their might is nothing.

And so begins the war. 

As you hear these words, my army is flying towards their space elevator, and will tear it from the ground and fling it at them. All who stand before them shall be crushed. All who stand with the Imago will die.

Your best chance to survive is to stay inside. You have my word that no one who submits will be harmed in the slightest. 

My rule will be fair but firm... but we can speak of this when victory is mine.

For now, stay indoors, and pray to what gods you call yours. Today is the war. Tomorrow, the victory. 

And after that, the world is mine.

(SPYGOD is listening to SEQ666 P.U.L.S.E. (Front 242) and having a Scorpion Death Rock)