10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 7

Seven months ago, the sky became the enemy.

The air was full of blinding, white beams of energy: annihilating columns that marched from target to target, one by one, until the world was crippled. All airports and fleets were compromised. All military bases and missile sites were annihilated. All nuclear submarines were sunk, and warplanes swatted down.

By the time it was over, thousands were dead, and many more were wounded or blinded. The financial cost was truly incalculable, both due to the damage, itself, and its effects on global commerce and transportation. Indeed, the world may have collapsed back into a second dark age if the Imago had not stepped in and "fixed" what they'd broken.

Back then, they told the people that this terrible thing had been done by America. They'd lied and claimed that it had been a scorched-earth policy, of sorts -- one carried out when it became clear that its plan to use proxy warriors to take over the world had failed. And they forced all living Presidents, past and present, to testify to that, so that their families would be spared.

Ever since then, the guns of Deep Ten have remained mostly silent. When they are activated, the Imago have been quick to come on the internet and tell their slaves that the people did not see a giant, white column of heat evaporating a target. How could that be? The "weapons satellites" were supposedly destroyed, after all.

No, what they saw was simply the detonation of a massive and terrifying weapon -- one that produced an explosion that looked a lot like the deadly, particle-cannon blasts of 3/15. Such devastating attacks were the doing of dangerous elements, in league with either the old American government or the looming threat from beyond the stars. And, thanks to the mental programming that went over the internet, all day every day, the people believed it.

But now there is no longer an internet. Now the brainwashing has been eliminated. Now an active rebellion is happening.

Now the Imago are actually in danger of being supplanted from their perch, just as the final stages of their plan are within sight.

So now, there is no longer any need to lie, or dissemble, or soothe the worries of the population. There is no need to keep up appearances or avoid contradicting previous statements. There is no longer a need for a soothing voice and a patting hand on the head, and a gentle promise of better things to come.

Now there is only war, and a war needs a victory.

And the Imago will have that victory, no matter the cost.

* * *

Alpha Base Seven dies first -- The Fist makes certain of that, partially as a test of the weaponry, and partially because it amuses him.

The particle cannons fire at the lunar surface from four different directions. They strike the remnants of the base from directly overhead, from the sides, and from below.

The time before, the base lost much of its above-ground presence, and a great deal of its personnel. This time, it loses everything. Volley after volley, strike after strike, what the survivors of the last lunar holocaust had quietly rebuilt is atomized.

Tate dies trying to get people to safety, which is -- if you'd asked him -- exactly how he'd wanted to go out. Clifton dies at his post, cowering under the computer he'd spent so many months rebuilding and perfecting. Marcus dies screaming at God, begging him to stop the killing long enough for him to tend to the casualties he's already gotten that day.

Acting Commander Barbara Martin dies in her room, weeping as she comes to realize that her plan -- rather that Director Straffer's -- has been the one to kill them. 

As for Director Straffer, he is nowhere near the conflagration. He is quite some distance away, sitting on the edge of a crater, with his back turned on the base as it's taken apart from above, between, and below. His eyes can handle the blinding blasts from Deep Ten's weaponry, but he doesn't care to see the full cost of his betrayer's actions.

It's just too painful to think about, right now.

Idiots, he thinks as he repairs the damage to his body and legs as best as he can. He wonders if Prentice acted alone, or if Martin put him up to it. And he counts the number of seconds between firing solutions, hoping that they're increasing, and that the being pretending to be him up on his station has either gotten bored or is about to move on.

Doubtlessly on to the satellites, and then probably the world. 

Even now, Straffer has a plan. It's not the best plan, and it's something he'd rather not do. It's something he's avoided doing this entire time, even though it would have been so !@#$ simple -- obvious, even. 

And now he has no choice. 

He feels a mighty moonquake rumble. He stops working on his knee until it passes. He counts the seconds between flashes. 

He promises the dead their due. 

* * *

"!@#$," SPYGOD mutters, seeing the telemetry from the satellites vanish, one by one: "!@#$ !@#$  !@#$ on a !@#$ing !@#$."

He doesn't need to see the blips on the screen go away. Thanks to the Chandra Eye, he can hear as, in upper reaches of the atmosphere, the rockets' roar is replaced by a loud, atom-rending scream.

And then he can sense their absence in the dark silence that follows, thereafter. 

"!@#$ing !@#$," he shouts, tossing an empty bottle at the walls of his flying saucer: "!@#$ !@#$ !@#$!!!"

He knew the plan had risks. He knew it might not work as intended. He had no idea what went wrong on the Moon (or even who was doing it, up there). 

And he had a backup plan -- several backup plans, in fact.

But it would have been so nice -- so !@#$ing nice -- if things had just gone right for a change.

Still, it's somewhat comforting to know that God is up there, laughing at him.

"Mister Ten," SPYGOD says, looking at a face on a screen: "Is the Dignitary ready?"

"It is," the Japanese man says: "But we will need some time to warm up the engines, and coax it into motion. It has not been in battle for so long-"

"Tell that giant white !@#$ to get its star-metal !@#$ in motion before I put the mother of all !@#$ing guns up its giant white !@#$hole and give it a laser enema," SPYGOD snarls: "No excuses, no delays!"

He turns the screen off. If he could shoot it without damaging his ship, he would. So instead he grabs another bottle of hooch and drains it in one, gargantuan gulp.

Plan B is in motion. And now, so is he. 

"Take us up, Bee-Bee," he says to his cat, who's downed his own bottle of emergency vodka while waiting for his owner/staff/hooch-provider to stop cursing and drinking and start thinking, again. 

The cat nods and says something in Russian, which could be best translated as "About !@#$ing time, idiot." And then the flying saucer SPYGOD took from the Fourth Reich, all those years ago, engages its cloak and leaves a lonely rooftop in Tokyo, heading for the mighty Ocean to its West.

And battle, though whether victory follows thereafter is even more uncertain, now.

* * *

The six rockets never even get to proper cruising altitude before they are picked off, one by one.

Each streaking projectile is enveloped in its own, personal line of white. Touched by fire, they melt almost instantly. All the hard work that went into making them -- to say nothing of their payloads -- is undone in less than a second.

That necessary task done, the firing solution moves on to more complex targets: the area surrounding the massive, white cubes that the Imago have erected outside of major cities, and in the wilderness areas beyond their sprawling, high-tech tent communities. Anywhere they are being attacked, they fire -- knowing that the shields surrounding their cubes can be adjusted to repel the deadly particle cannon fire they're raining down.

American Shield wonders why the sky is so bright, and reflexively holds his namesake up over his head. That gesture buys him only an extra millisecond of life, but it's enough time for him to realize that the weird dreams he's been having recently (him standing by an empty grave with his name on the headstone) were actually an omen. Had he more time, he would have prayed, but before he can even think to begin he has already joined with the body of his God, in a place where prayer is somewhat unnecessary.

He is not the only one to die, then and there, and he is not the only member of the Freedom Force to die in similar circumstances. The Visionary goes intangible a second too late, his last thoughts a cacophony of irony and annoyance. The Red Alchemist is too slow to remember the formula for energy transubstantiation, and can only hope that the new Golden Standard lives through this, and that their explosive comrade is not vulnerable to this kind of energy while he's scattered atoms.

Around the globe, American supers and foreign strategic talents wither and melt under the horrible, white glare that comes down from Deep ten.  And those few that survive, either due to their power sets or some obscene act of luck -- perhaps both -- have only moments to call in and warn their allies of what's happening, and to either take cover somehow or get away.

Some are able to do so. Others are not so fortunate.

And they may be the first of thousands. 

* * *

"Everyone Toon up!" Fred screams into his intercom as he realizes what the energy buildup the sensors are detecting right above them is: "Toon up and Toon everything you can!"

Within seconds, almost every Toon that has become real in order to perform tasks that must affect the real world has pressed their personal Tooninator -- a small box, usually worn on the belt, that turns them back into cartoons. It won't work in reverse, but it's good enough for them to escape real world damage. 

As for the few that remain, they bravely forgo taking care of their own safety, and instead grab their massive, Tooninator guns and begin turning every important gizmo, device, and mainframe in the place into a cartoon. Hopefully there will be just enough time for them to Toon up when their work is done.

But if not, then theirs is just yet one more sacrifice on a day that's going to be full of them.

As this takes place, an old man that everyone knows -- yet hardly anyone has actually seen before -- walks up to the massive television that the Toons have built to connect them with B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 . He sees that the machine is warming up, and therefore preparing to transport things from the other side to this one.

And, before anyone can stop him, he presses the override switch, and throws it into reverse. 

"Fred, when I'm through, if they haven't blasted this place yet, turn this thing off and Tooninate it," he shouts at the Toon who's been in charge of things. The look the Toon gives him is priceless, but the look the man gives in return both destroys all questions and makes it clear that his orders must be obeyed.

"You got it," the Toon says, nodding reverently: "It's... it's good to see you again."

"It's good to be seen," the man says, and steps into the machine's blinding, flickering field. 

A second later, he's through. A second after that, a beam of brilliant, blinding white comes down from the sky to the ceiling, and then though every floor in the place.

Some die, then and there. Thankfully, most do not. And the machine is rendered into stray molecules within moments. 

B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 is now on its own.

* * *

"Oh my God," Myron says as the machine stops working: "You have to be kidding me. You have to be !@#$ing kidding me!"

"Something must have gone wrong at the other end," Winifred shouts, continuing to aim her gun at the smashed-up, smoldering hallway that Moloch is coming down. The SPYGOD SCOUTS on the platform all shout and howl as one, both disappointed and afraid in equal measure.

"Try to re-establish contact!" Mark shouts, forcing himself to his feet and fighting off the wooziness that causes: "We'll hold the thing off!"

"Moloch doubts that," the brass beast exclaims, clanking into their view as it does. 

For a moment, Winifred allows herself to feel hope, for this is not the massive, raging beast they were fighting a few moments ago. It stands only as tall as Myron, and has no fire, nor any victim to fuel it. 

(Was this lesser body made in advance, in case something happened to the other one? Or did he just assemble it out of brass and steel, and pilot it down here? Winifred isn't certain, but already certain plans are forming, should the gun she's aiming at its head fail to work.)

But then it steps into the room, and her confidence goes away. The body jackknifes open into a much larger, more deadly form: sharp swords and cutting arms spread out in every direction, and the monstrous, raging head splits several times to become many things, all terrifying in their hate.

"Moloch will have its day!" the beast howls, slicing its way through the weak, wounded, and slow: "Bring Moloch the boy, Thomas! Thomas will bring SPYGOD here. And Moloch will destroy SPYGOD!"

"Don't you understand?" Mark shouts, firing his gun at the thing: "It doesn't matter, anymore! The plan's over! The machine won't work!"

"What?" the beast shouts, stopping in mid-stride.

"The machine's stopped" Myron says: "It stopped in mid-transfer, and we can't get it started again. And that means that either it's broken, or something's happened to the machine on the other end!"

"You lie!" Moloch rages, raising its sword-arms to the ceiling and slicing right through it: "Make the machine work! Or Moloch shall destroy you all!"

"Oh, !@#$ off," Winifred mutters, pulling the trigger. The bullets hit the beast right in the center of its cluster of faces, making it withdraw them into itself for a moment, and step backwards. But then it surges forward again, doing its best to kill her before she can fire once more.

Myron shouts and leaps forward, pushing her out of the way. Mark yells and fires, distracting the beast just as it's about to slice into Myron. Moloch turns on Mark and prepares to cut into him. 

And just then -- seconds before the brass blade can eviscerate its new target -- the machine surges into life, again. 

Moloch stops in mid-slice and turns to regard it: "The machine is broken, you said?"

"It's receiving!" Myron yells: "Everyone get off the platform!"

He doesn't have to tell them twice. The healthy haul the wounded away quickly, all moving to the far end of the room, well away from the metal creature that means them ill. In seconds, the area is blanketed by a white strobe light, and then a single figure can be seen through the haze and flickering fog.

Mark gasps as he realizes who it is. Myron blinks a few times, confused. Winifred squirms from underneath him to see.

"Who are you?" Moloch challenges the newcomer, looking down at an extremely old man wearing an ill-fitting but still-distinctive costume.

"Me?" the old man says, putting up his fists: "I'm your worst nightmare, you butcher. I'm someone you can't hurt, but who can hurt you."

"You defy Moloch?" the brass beast laughs, expanding itself out just a little more, as if to engulf the stranger in its sharp embrace: "You test the patience of a god, little man."

"You are not God, buddy," the newcomer says, levitating off the floor, electricity crackling between his knuckles: "But I'll be happy to introduce you to him..."

And Mr. USA flies right at the brass beast's numerous mouths, ready to show him the meaning of fear.

(SPYGOD is listening to Christmas Island (Depeche Mode) and having a Moloch)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 6

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a great city, recently risen above the waves.

It is a strange thing, that city: a single structure containing echoes from the architectures of all the world's great and long-lost civilizations. Aztec pyramids are surrounded by Greek columns, and rows of creatures akin to the Sphinx of Ancient Egypt stand guard over hanging gardens richly laden with strange fruit. The overlapping walls of Great Zimbabwe form a seamless, seemingly-endless labyrinth in the spaces between structures, their halls endlessly patrolled by the deadliest of sentries.

By day, the city shines strangely in the Sun, as though it were front-lit before a raging, black storm. By night it glows from within, its colors cycling in time with the many giant, white cubes around the world.

And sometimes, in those twilight moments when no human is anywhere near its eerily familiar pyramids and walls, glowing and misshapen things go in and out of its interior -- slipping through the air from the city to the massive, metal dragonfly that hovers above it, and then back again.

Inside that city dwells the great mystery of the Imago, themselves. It houses the massive enigma they have enslaved an entire world to protect. And it is also their weakness, for the secret is the answer.

And whomsoever answers it correctly will destroy them all.

Above that city, in the metal dragonfly that was once the COMPANY's Flier, the faces of most of the beings that have controlled the world for the last seven months are in deep consultation. One of their number -- the one they called The Sight -- is missing, as his incoherent screaming was too much for them to bear.

But even without him, and the powerful service he provided, they are still a force to be reckoned with.

How have they done this to The Sight? their hidden Leader asks, her voice sibilant and wet: What has happened to our eyes and ears on the world?

I think I know, leader, The Motion interrupts, his voice betraying how busy he currently is: Some time ago, there was talk of having a way of turning the entire Internet off. The so called "kill switch." Having an actual switch wasn't feasible, except maybe in the United States, so we, and by we I mean me, put together a package of very powerful viruses that would go all over the world wide web in seconds and destroy the networks. 

So why did you not make certain our networks were safeguarded against this threat? the Dragon asks, burbling up from the pit of neural circuitry he lounges within, deep inside the Flier.

I did. That was one of the first things I did. 

And yet the Internet is dead, and our friend blinded, The Dragon chides him.

Look, I did what I could. But this code is amazingly more complex than what I created-

Can you fix what has been done? The Leader asks.

Maybe not until we're ready to leave the planet, quite frankly, the Motion sighs: This is a mess. And I don't have time to deal with that mess right now-

Speaking of time, the one they call The Fist says, looking down from Deep Ten: I have the projectiles they've launched locked on to. They aren't warheads, and they aren't aimed at the platform. I think they're meant to launch satellites into geostationary orbit-

And there can be only two reasons for them to do that, The Motion interrupts: They're either going to set up a new, secured form of communications we won't have immediate access to, or they're going to send some kind of a jamming signal.

Can they do that? the Leader asks, sounding concerned: Do they have the know-how to do this?

We know that they do, my leader, the Dragon says: The one known as Underman used it on 3/15 to temporarily disable our technology. He has been missing for the last few months, but I doubt he has been idle.  And it would be a logical thing for him to improve upon his previous works.

And if don't have the ability to send a counter-signal through the Internet, anymore, they could knock us down like tin soldiers, The Motion says.

We could still send a counter-signal through Deep Ten, The Fist says: We could send it the same way we're sending our teleporter signals. But by the time we got it working, who knows how many of our power stations they might disrupt? And we'd need that power to send the signal.

Then we'd better shoot those things down quickly? The Motion says: And we'd better get our spy cameras up and running. There's thousands of people all over the world who have our eyes in their head. It's time to use them.

Agreed, The Dragon says: And perhaps we should also target the area around the power stations, while we are destroying the missiles. Their shields can be changed to match the harmonics of the particle cannons, and the deflection would cause a greater amount of destruction on the ground.

I'd be all for that, The Fist says: In fact, I've had a targeting solution planned for such an eventuality.

And speaking of that, the Motion says: While I'm sending out more Specials to mop up what survives the blasts, should we just activate the Extermination Order?

There is no need for that, yet, the leader says: We will need their energy and power in the months ahead. We must rebuild our elevator, and redouble their efforts to build our escape vehicle. 

We could do that with only a tenth of the population, The Fist says: And they'd be a lot easier to control-

It is never wise to throw a valuable resource away simply because it has proven a bit more cumbersome than anticipated, The Dragon opines: One can always find another to help carry the burden. But once the heavy load is gone, it is gone, and there will be no getting it back.

Plus, to be honest, we've still got a lot of converting to do, The Motion admits: Consider my idea withdrawn, at least for now.

Very well, the Leader says: Fist, you may begin. But you must also utilize the spy network, and be prepared to fire upon any sign of resistance. If they were planning on sending up a network to jam our technology, then they must also have forces ready to mobilize. They must be destroyed.

It will be done, The Fist says: And I could be wrong, but I just saw an explosion on the Moon, close to where their base was. May I fire at it a few more times, just to be certain?

That seems a wasteful expenditure at a time like this, The Motion sighs: What are they going to do? Throw moon rocks at us?

I leave that decision in your hands, the Leader says: You all know what you must do now. Do it with the knowledge that I love you all, and that we shall soon be through this crisis, and then back on our way to The Day. All you need is love.

All you need is love, The Motion repeats, preparing to adjust where he teleports his soldiers, and making ready to get them out of the way of their big guns.

All you need is love The Dragon says, sliding his consciousness back into the endless, contemplative loops of thought and memory he spends his time exploring.

All you need is love, The Fist says, targeting all six rockets and the Moon in his first volley, just to be certain. 

All you need is love, The Leader breathes, confident her beloved servants will yet save this day.

And then there is silence in the Flier, yet again, occasionally broken by The Sight trying to come up from his current state of blind panic. As he cries and screams for help, he wonders why no one answers him. Where is the Dragon, who is all-present? Where is the Leader, who says she loves him?

Will no one save him in his time of need?

* * *

"Oh you have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD says, looking up at the roof of Lady Gilda, and listening though it.

He didn't need the Toons to tell him the rockets were away. He could hear them, even all the way across the Pacific Ocean. He could hear them taking off, and could sense when they entered the upper atmosphere. He even felt the world shudder just a little bit as they raced out of it, and prepared to do what they'd been sent up to do.

And that's how he knows something is wrong on the Moon.

There should be a jamming signal coming from there. There should be a harsh, whining vibration, sluicing through the void and being picked up by Deep Ten's communications arrays. There should be a quiet but inescapable voice speaking to its computers at their deepest levels, saying "lay down your arms and surrender."

There is not.

He did, however, hear a loud thump from up there, right around the time he was trying to hear the signal. He felt the bass drum in his chest, and knows that wasn't just an overloaded device frying its circuits, or a blown fuse.

He knows the feel of an explosion. He knows the tactile sensation of a metal object stuffed with explosives one might make in secret, out of leftover scraps of material and chemicals stolen from a disused lab. He knows the taste it leaves in his mouth when they ignite and expand.

And he knows what happens when they're used to take out a pressurized environment...

"We've lost the !@#$ signal," he announces to his forces, wondering who that brave, doubtlessly-dead soul he just lost on the Moon could have been: "Deep Ten is still !@#$ing live. I repeat, Deep Ten is still live."

"What does that mean?" American Shield asks, doing his best to hold off the Specials that are all but overrunning his position.

"It means we're a few !@#$ seconds from !@#$ing needing plan B," SPYGOD says, quickly looking over his cheat cards: "Doctor Power, I need you mobile as of ten seconds ago. Mister Ten, stand by with the Dignitary. All allied forces, get ready to move. And all Supers..."

"Yes?" Mrs. America asks: "Do we have the go-ahead?"

"Converge on secondary targets," SPYGOD says, reaching for the bottle of the stronger stuff his cat has knowingly hidden until this very moment: "Total destruction."

There's cheering by some of his Strategic Talents at that order, but they don't know what he does. He can only hope that, once they learn what he's having them do, they can forgive him.

And maybe they can one day learn to live with that much death.

* * *

At that very moment, all around the world, thousands upon thousands of people begin to die.

Given that the world is raging against its captors, their deaths go mostly unnoticed, except perhaps by those who know them well. Even then, all those observers know for certain is that, for some reason, the dead stopped doing whatever they were doing, and stood or sat perfectly still for exactly ten seconds.

And, after that those ten seconds were done, the dead turned and walked away, heading somewhere else both silently and without emotion. They stopped rioting and looting, and came out of hiding. They walked from their homes or offices, abandoning their families and loved ones.

They got out into the streets to observe what was going on there. They walked behind the angry and idealistic crowds as they charged into Specials, and observed the less noble as they used the confusion to smash store windows and take what they wanted. They spied on hidden forces as they occasionally tipped their hand and came out to see what was going on, themselves.

They watched and listened, still as statues. They did not speak, or respond when spoken to. They could not be deterred or shooed away.

And they stood there until they either collapsed from exhaustion, or were knocked down or killed by stray bullets or sudden dangers.

Later, as the human cost of global revolution would be tabulated, it would be remarked that all these walking dead were people who lost their sight on 3/15, and had had their eyes replaced by the Imago as an apology. But by then, the damage was done. 

And there was simply no way to stop what was coming.

* * *

"Oh God, please help us," Mark says, trying to get up as the devil crashes into the buffet room, fire gouting from its eyes and mouth, its pathetic passenger's eyes still alive even though its body is wrapped in flames.

"Pathetic," Moloch hisses as it strides through the smoking ruin that used to be doors, shrugging off the numerous bullets and blasts from all the guns being pointed in its direction: "Would you kill a metal god with iron and steel?"

"We'll !@#$ well try, you !@#$," Myron shouts, jumping behind some crates of unpacked equipment and aiming for the thing's burning eyes: "No further! You !@#$ing hear me? No further!"

Moloch laughs, rears back, and launches a fireball at the crate Myron's hiding behind. He leaps out of its way just in time to avoid being disintegrated along with it, dropping the gun as he does.

"Let's get it!" one of the SPYGOD SCOUTS shouts, and leads a desperate charge, hoping to cover Myron and their wounded. They run and scream and fire, trying to find the weak spots in the creature.

But if it has any, they do not find it.

Somewhere in the doomed firefight -- as Moloch finds their weak spots all too well -- Winifred realizes that the machine is ready to operate, again. They could evacuate the room, and get poor Thomas back to the real world, if only they could keep the monster at bay long enough to let it warm up and activate. 

If only...

"Skyspear," she says, looking at the African woman, who's clearly wiped out: "How much control do you have over your teleporting ability?"

"I could carry the monster with me, yes," she says, trying to get up from the floor: "But I might not have the strength to return. It's too heavy-"

"I was thinking about the floor," Winifred says, pointing at Moloch's feet.

"Oh," Skyspear says, and, taking the teen's meaning, begins to jog over to the raging, brass beast hoping it doesn't notice her as it tosses fireball after fireball at its attackers, and slaps their burning, melting bodies across the great hall with unbidden glee.

"This slaugher is pointless," the brass beast snorts, turning its sights on the broken form, wrapped in a blanket, over by Mark: "Bring Moloch the boy, Thomas. Operate the machine to send a signal to SPYGOD. Do these things and Moloch shall spare your lives."

"No chance," Mark says, reaching over to shield Thomas with his own body: "You won't be getting any help from us."

"We shall see," Moloch says, getting ready to snort out another fireball. But, just before it does, it realizes that the woman who could appear and disappear is at its feet.

"Hello," she says, jabbing her hands into the wooden floor -- splintering it like matchsticks, and grabbing hold of what's left.

"You dare?" Moloch says, his breath singeing her eyebrows.

"Goodbye!" she shouts, and vanishes, taking a good chunk of the floor it was standing on with her.

Moloch shouts and reaches out, trying to regain its balance. It fails spectacularly, and tumbles down through the hole, breathing fire all the way. There is a spectacular crash, followed by another, and then another, and then...

"Oh wow," Myron says, getting up to the smoking hole and looking down: "How high up is this treehouse?"

"About a half mile," Mark says, making sure Thomas is okay: "But that thing's fast, Myron. Get that machine ready to go."

"You got it," the man says, taking off his bloody, broken sunglasses and going over to get the machine going: "Everyone who's hurt? Grab someone who's knocked out and get onto the platform. We're getting out of here, now."

He doesn't have to tell them twice. The survivors get onto the platform, dragging the badly wounded and knocked out behind them. A few of them have the good sense to organize a proper stretcher for Thomas, and one of the Scouts makes he's getting enough oxygen. 

Skyspear appears a second later, holding a large, medical-looking thing in her arms. She's able to take two steps before falling to her knees, bleeding from her nose. Mark hobbles over to her, taking the machine from her and handing it off to someone else.

"Thank you," he says, wrapping his arms around her: "What can I do to help you?"

"I will be fine, soon," she sighs, smiling at him with bloodshot eyes: "God willing."

"I think we're gonna be okay," Mark says, looking around and wincing at having just said that. All around are the dead and dying, their bodies burned and broken on the floor like wreckage from a bomb. 

Mark closes his eyes and prays for them, wishing this victory could have come at less of a human cost. As he does, strange, thumping noises can be heard. 

"What was that?" Winifred asks, holding up a hand.

"Not the machine," Myron says, looking around as the device in question begins clicking and clacking, preparing to go.

"Was that Moloch hitting the ground?" Mark asks, but then realizes the sound is coming from the hallway. 

And it's footfalls -- heavy, thumping. 

Metallic.

"Fools!' Moloch shouts, its voice echoing down the hallways: "What is a body to a god? So long as there is metal, Moloch is immortal."

"I need another three minutes," Myron sighs as the machine slowly thrums into life: "Please just keep him back that long!"

Winifred grabs the gun Myron put down and aims it down the hallway, for all the good it might do. In that moment, Myron couldn't love her any more. In that moment, she wishes she could tell him the same. 

"Oh !@#$," Mark says, holding Skyspear close as she starts to cry in frustration and fear: "Oh dear Lord, please help us..."

But the only god that chooses to act in that moment is Moloch, and it chooses to laugh.

* * *

All around the massive, trans-Lunar weapons platform known as Deep Ten, hatches slide open, and scores of large cannons protrude. Their movement gives the ring the appearance of a spiky leather cuff -- the sort of thing a rock and roll god might wear on stage to avoid looking wimpy under the lights.

And then, one by one, they swivel around on their mounts, so that they are no longer pointing outwards, as they were intended to do, but inwards, at the Earth.

The Fist -- the being masquerading as Director Straffer, however imperfectly -- sits in his grand control room, looking through a massive, glass and steel window, down at the blue and green gem that this truly amazing place once guarded.

And as his robots move around him, going from station to station and preparing to fire, he cracks his knuckles and ponders the best place to write his name -- his true name -- across the face of this world, just before they abandon it to its fate.

"Activate program B-4," he orders, sipping at the martini one of his robots has brought him: "Start with the lunar surface. Might as well get that out of the way, first."

The entire station vibrates and hums as the cannons build up to charge. It's a wonderful feeling -- almost sexual, as if he was about to come.

"I wish I could just vaporize it all," he muses, hoping that the Leader didn't hear him, but knowing that it means nothing to her, anymore.

And with a wave of his hand as he sips on a Martini, he condemns the world he hates to slavery, followed by oblivion. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Agent Orange (Depeche Mode) and having a !@#$ing !@#$ beer)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 5

As weightless as a thought, and as peaceful as the sea, Mark Clutch follows the white, cold light down, further and further into the holy silence.

He falls for what seems like a hundred years -- maybe even a thousand -- and remembers being told that the Kingdom of Heaven is beyond the conception of time and space. He is inside the Great Mystery, here in this tunnel of shimmering white. And he can only wonder, between flashes of life and memory, when he's going to touch ground, or at least hear a voice welcoming him home.

When he finally does, it's not God, but man.

"Mark?" he hears a woman say. It's a familiar voice, accompanied by a strange feeling.

Pain -- sharp and stinging.

"Mark, please," the voice continues as the white goes away: "You gotta open your eyes. Please !@#$ing open your eyes..."

There's more pain, now. It's to his face. His cheeks. It feels like someone's slapping him.

Someone is slapping him. And he can smell things. Metal and sweat. Wood and electricity. Burning things.

Blood.

There's one more slap, and then he opens his eyes, gasping for air as though he'd just breached the water's surface. He clutches at the air and wonders where he is, and how he got here.

And then he remembers what happened back at the infirmary, and what was going to happen. But he also realizes he's not burned, and not dying.

He's in the main buffet room, up against the far wall. The giant, television-like machine that they use to travel back and forth from the real world to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 is warming up. Myron is standing by the controls, holding a very large gun and pointing it at the door. His sunglasses are gone and his face is bloody, and the look in his eyes is terrifying to see.

Winifred is in front of him, looking extremely relieved. There's a number of SPYGOD SCOUTS near her, all holding guns at the door or tending to each others' injuries. He can't see The Wall or The Fist, anywhere. And Skyspear...

There's a strange noise, like the world being ripped open. For a moment he thinks that big, brass, fire-breathing monster he was trying to fight is coming here, crashing the treehouse to pieces as he goes. But then a hole in the air opens up, close to him, and Skyspear leaps through it.

She's holding something wrapped up in a blanket. A badly-burned stump that was once a teenager's arm is poking out from under it.

"He's awake!" Winifred shouts to the woman, who places the blanket-wrapped-boy on the ground and falls to her knees, panting.

"Thanks God," she says, between breaths: "I got Thomas out of there, but I could not get his machines. Do we have anything here that can help him?"

"I'll keep him breathing," one of the Scouts says, and hustles over: "But we'll need the machines. Can you go back?"

She looks at him, and then, bowing her head, nods weakly: "Give me time. Too many short jaunts weaken me. If I go too soon I may be lost..."

"You saved me," Mark says, holding his hand towards her: "You... I thought I was dead..."

She just smiles at him, and takes his hand in hers: "Alhamdulillah"

"Alhamdulillah," he repeats, noticing for the first time how truly lovely her eyes are: "Thanks be to God."

"Where are the others?" Myron asks, taking a step away from the controls (but keeping his eyes, and the gun, aimed right at the door): "Are they still fighting it?"

"They are," Skyspear says: "The Fist and Green Man are trying to distract him. I do not know where the Wall is, but I suspect he is near."

"Are the satellites...?" Mark asks, trying to get to his feet.

"That's what's going back now," Myron says, gesturing to the six large, metal spheres in front of the machine, caught up in the flickering, bright field that's starting to dominate all the light and sound in the room: "The thing's gotta rest for five minutes after that. Then we send back Thomas and whoever's badly hurt."

"What about the monster?" Winifred asks: "Can we hold it off?"

"We'd !@#$ing better," Myron shouts to be heard over the machine's noises: "If it gets past us, and figures out how to get this thing working..."

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. In fact, Mark remembers teaching the hero that monster was masquerading as how to operate it just the other week, before the metal man lost his temper and vanished.

If Moloch gets past them, he'll have no problems operating the machine. He'll go to the Toon colony and cause mayhem, there -- maybe even stop the rockets from launching. He'll destroy their entire war effort in one blow.

He'll doom the entire world just to win.

* * *

Prentice walks up the corridor to the main communications hub, doing his best to conceal the cylinder he's brought along as a surprise.

The plan is pretty simple. He'll apologize for interrupting, of course, and then he'll explain why he's actually here. It seems there's some energy variances that they detected not too long ago (true), and they're bound to play havoc with the signal that Director Straffer's machine is going to cause (maybe). 

The cyborg will probably want to look the papers over, but he'll want to do it by the machine. While he's doing that, he'll be far enough away that Prentice can pull out the explosive and arm it, and then show that grumpy, dictatorial narcissist the true reason for his visit. 

And then, while the shock's still setting in -- and before the clanking, stumbling, metal stick man can think of something to do -- Prentice will calmly and coolly tell him why this is happening.

And, most importantly of all, why Prentice is the one doing this.

He didn't get that short straw entirely by chance. He was meant to do this. And the reasons for that meaning -- that very legitimate and pointed meaning -- have been a long time coming.

It's the stuff of epic legends, that reason. And Prentice is going to tell Straffer all about it, just before he lets the trigger go and ends himself, the cyborg, the machine the !@#$er was working on, and the whole !@#$ room. 

As he walks closer to the door, Prentice can feel the weight of destiny alighting on his shoulders. He can feel the wheels of karma turning under his feet, and the brilliant shine of justice upon his brow. 

Everything that has happened, up until now, has brought him here, to this moment, on this day. He will do what must be done, and perhaps be remembered for what others would see as a noble sacrifice, or a logical decision.

But that doesn't matter to him. It doesn't matter if no one ever remembers this, or hears of it. He doesn't mind if his name is expunged from the history books the children of Alpha Base Seven will one day write.

All that matters is that Straffer will hear the reasons for his demise at Prentice's hands. That will be obituary enough for him, and a monument to rival the Pyramids.

That will be all he's ever wanted; who would go on living after such a perfect moment?

* * *

"Oh, thank God," one of the Toons says as the satellites begin to materialize in front of the giant television.

"They're coming through!" Fred shouts into the communicator to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4: "Well done, guys! Is everything okay, over there?"

There's nothing but static as a reply. Fred looks at the Masked Leader of the Resistance for assurance or instructions, but the man shakes his head and points to the six machines coming through.

"Get them on board the rockets as soon as they're fully here," he says: "And then get the machine pad cleared, and send for a medical team. I have the feeling we may be getting casualties."

"Casualties?"

"That's what I said, son," he barks: "Do you need to be reminded of what that means?"

"No, not at all," Fred starts, never having been shouted at by this man before: "I'll call them right now."

"You do that," the man says, watching the machines wax full and solid as the Toon technicians prepare to zap them with tooninator guns -- the better to smack them into Toon rockets, which will then be turned back into real rockets just before launch.

And then, once launched, begin a wave of counter-Imago signals that will end this horrible war before it even really gets a chance to start. 

But as the technicians begin working, and the medics run down to their ready stations, the man realizes that there's something else that needs to be done, here, if they're not only going to win, but be worthy of that victory.

Something horrible that he clearly can no longer avoid.

* * *

Moloch strides from the bloody, red ruins of the infirmary, watching as blood droplets quiver in the air, trying to reform themselves into something capable of giving into gravity.

It thought it had seen everything, more or less, but what just happened in that room defied all explanation. If it were not what and who it were, it might be toppled over, laughing itself to pieces at the thought. But it has no time for such things.

Not now that the end of the game is so tantalizingly near.

What happened was no less than the answer to an age-old question: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? It never had a good reply to that conundrum, but now it does.

Those two things explode -- taking out the rest of one's adversaries if one is very lucky, or a god. 

Moloch could not have coordinated the events any better. No sooner had it been denied the right to burn Mark Clutch from the face of this world, thanks to that Skyspear woman and her abilities, than it was attacked by the Fist. And while a single punch from her might not have been enough to destroy Moloch's mighty body, it was enough to cause some significant structural damage, and send it sprawling across the floor.

But it was not a clean hit. Moloch's body was incredibly hot, and whatever gifts the Fist may have been given at birth, withstanding high temperatures was clearly not amongst them. She got in three good hits, and then backed away from the fight, screaming at the smoking, melted ruin that were her hands.

Green Man had said some angry things at her, then, but his own attacks -- however embarrassingly precise -- were nowhere near as effective as hers. Moloch got to its feet quickly, hurling fireballs at the two of them, and the Green Man had entered into combat with it, again -- parrying all its blows and leaping out of the way from its fire, but unable to actually hurt its metal skin, or kill the human hero who'd been providing it with fire. 

But the human's attacks had not been entirely ineffective. In fact, they kept Moloch from seeing that its objective -- that broken boy, Thomas -- was being snatched from its clutches by the same hero who had gotten Mark out of the way of its fire. And by the time it noticed what had happened, it was too late to stop Skyspear from taking him.

It was not, however, too late to lash out in rage, and knock the maimed Fist off her feet, and towards the door.

Which is where she ran right into the Wall, who was coming in to aid his friends.

The Wall's power was well-known: he simply could not be moved, and any who tried to move him would have their energy rebounded upon them. The Fist, on the other hand, could not be stood against, as even the slightest flick of her finger could send someone flying across the room.

In idle moments, the two would often joke about what might happen if she punched him, or he bumped into her. They often liked to say that their abilities would just cancel each others' out, but they never dared to test it.

A wise decision, as it turned out. When they hit each other, in that way, their powers multiplied and broke against one another. And the force of the resulting explosion all but leveled the infirmary -- blowing out its walls and windows, and causing that part of the building to crack, break, and warp.

When Moloch got back to its feet, there was nothing left of the Wall and the Fist but blood, and a strange, quavering, red mist that could not fully resolve itself into being liquid. There was no sight of the Green Man, either, so Moloch assumed that its boastful harrier must have been destroyed by the blast as well.

And so did Moloch -- now wiser, and facing fewer adversaries than before -- begin to make its way to the room where the machine stood. No doubt Skyspear took the broken boy there, and it would need the great machine to communicate with the real world, and SPYGOD.

The plan would work. Moloch would push through and persevere. And if the pieces weren't coming together the way Moloch had intended, that was merely a complication, and not a barrier.

For what right did errant circumstances have to tell a just god "no"?

* * *

"Well, I do appreciate your bringing these things to my attention, Prentice," Director Straffer says, looking at the readouts the man's handed him and scratching the back of his maimed neck: "Lousy timing, though. I just got the signal from Earth. The satellites are on the rockets and we're just about to launch."

"Well, I got them here as quick as I could, sir," Prentice says: "I'm sorry if it wasn't fast enough."

"I'll fix it," Straffer says, hobbling his spindly, metal legs towards his machine: "And under the circumstances, I'll even overlook the fact that you didn't care to knock."

"Well, I had to press the issue at the door, sir," he replies, smiling just a little at the thought: "You instructed Carlson a little too well."

"Well, I'm told I have that effect on people," the cyborg says, winking, and then turning to fiddle with the massive device he's slapped onto the side of the main communications hub: "So, if the Van Allen belts are up, it might distort the signal enough to be worthless. So should I boost the signal, or try to widen it out to compensate for that?"

"I'm afraid that radio engineering isn't my specialty, sir," Prentice says, getting ready to pull out the weapon and have his say.

"Ah. Well, why don't you see if you can get Carlson in here?" Straffer says, turning his back on the assassin: "This was his baby, after all. He should have a better idea."

Prentice blinks, flabbergasted. Does this man really have no idea that he's come to kill him? Is he that dense?

"I'll go and ask," he says, turning to head back to the airlock, the plan changing with each step. 

"You could, but I think that'd be kind of difficult." 

"What do you mean, sir?" Prentice asks, turning around.

"I mean that I can smell his blood on you," Straffer says, most pointedly not turning around.

"I don't know what you mean, sir-"

"I can also see the cylinder you've been trying to hide under your arm this whole time."

"Sir?"

"You're not very good at this, are you?" the Director says, finally turning around and looking at him: "If you were, you'd have just detonated that thing the moment you got close enough to hand me the papers."

"Maybe not," Prentice says, no longer caring to hide the object in question. Instead he brings it out and holds it up, his other hand on the trigger: "I think I wanted to tell you why, first."

"I really don't think I care," Straffer says, stepping between the bomb and the machine he's been working on: "But you need to understand, and you need to get this !@#$ quick, Prentice, because we don't have time."

"No, it's you who need to listen-"

"If you destroy this, Earth is doomed. The Imago are-"

"Oh I am so sick and !@#$ing tired of hearing about the Imago!" Prentice shouts, holding the bomb aloft like it was a rock, or a knife: "Who cares about them? We are alive, here! We live! And you're trying to get us all killed!"

"I'm trying to save you, you !@#$ idiot!" Straffer shouts: "I'm trying to save the world!"

"By killing us!"

"Do you even know what's coming? Do you know why the Imago are building a spaceship in Earth's orbit? There's something worse than them on the way, Prentice."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not lying. It's coming-"

"Shut up!"

"It's coming here, Prentice. It's a million times worse-"

"Shut up!" 

"And if we don't stop them, we won't be able to defend ourselves, and that thing will walk all over us-"

"Shut up shut up I was going to tell you everything-

"And when it's done with Earth what do you think it'll do to the Moon? You will not survive it, Prentice-"

"I was going to tell you why I was going to do this and you ruined it! You ruined it!"

"Your only hope is that machine! Put the bomb down-"

"You ruined it!" Prentice shouts, letting go of the switch: "You ruined it..."

Straffer shouts and tries to knock the cylinder from Prentice's hands. Prentice narrowly avoids the attack by the stumbling, stick-figure of a man, but trips over a pile of scrap parts and goes sprawling. The bomb bounces out of his hands and across the floor, over by the wall with a brilliant view of the Earth.

And when the device goes off, it's all Prentice can do to not scream in rage and frustration. 

So close. So close and yet so far.

* * *

Without warning, six holes open up in the surface of the desert sands. Within seconds, six large rockets fly out of them, streaking towards the clouds, and then the dark blue sky beyond, and then the black beyond that. 

And victory, hopefully.

In a fantastic treehouse on a parallel world, a young man who's too smart for his own good, and too aware of the timing involved, assumes a proper firing stance. He raises a gun that's just a little large for him, and starts firing down the dark, wooden corridors at a flaming, metal monster that's heading his way. He knows he can't really hurt it, with this gun, but he hopes to slow it down, any way he can.

And lord knows -- hope's gotten him this far. 

In the secret underground of a colony of living cartoons, an old man switches one disguise for another. He does this knowing that this may well be the moment he's been left here to attend. If so, he's going to go out fighting the way he began, all those decades ago.

And he can only hope the fight will succeed, and that he'll be able to come back to see if the plan worked.

And on the Moon, in a chamber that had been securely filled with air, warmth, and gravity just a few seconds ago, a severely-damaged man-machine hybrid hangs on for what's left of his life, and knows that his part in the plan is finished. The device he'd been lovingly tending for the past few months is gone -- a pile of broken wreckage -- and with its passing also dies any hopes of ending this invasion with less bloodshed than it started with. 

He'd curse if he could hear himself do it. He'd pray if he believed. And he'd kick the spattered pieces of the pathetic man who tried to kill him if his legs were just a little longer.

But all he can really do is feel shame and anger at how stupidly this all came apart, and, hopefully, use that anger to fuel his next, critical moves. 

And force himself to do the one thing he really did not want to do, ever, but now may have no choice left.

(SPYGOD is listening to It Doesn't Matter Two (Depeche Mode) and having a Blue Moon Blackberry Tart Ale)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 4

"You know," the blue-haired young man says, lighting up a cigarette as he watches his tank-like ally attack the enemy: "I never really liked taking orders."

"Well, you're going to !@#$ing love this one, son," the angry voice in his ear shouts: "Do not destroy that cube. Not until I !@#$ing tell you."

"You want I should go catch some waves?" Mister Chaos asks, gesturing to the nearby, Hawaiian shore: "I mean, I'm clearly not needed here-"

"You have no !@#$ idea how !@#$ing badly they need you there, son. So !@#$ing stay there. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Mister Chaos snorts, very glad to hear SPYGOD hang up on the other end.

(Is this really the person the others were waiting for, and that his late father spoke so highly of? So far all he's done is bark orders that essentially come down to "one step at a time." Hardly a good strategy, now that they've got the enemy on the run.)

"What'd he say?" the hero known as Brightstarsurfergirl asks, her ruby board floating above the ground on a wave of silvery water it generates itself.

"He said not to attack the !@#$ thing, yet," Chaos says, taking off his black, leather jacket and putting on a pair of fingerless gloves: "Didn't say anything about the Specials, though."

"I think Ironface has them."

"I think he needs help," he replies, looking at her: "You aren't just going to let him have all the !@#$ fun, are you?"

She smiles, nods, and pilots her board off to the area in front of the cube, where the massive, metal hero they've partnered up with is literally picking up Specials by the handful and flinging them around. The ruby board barrels down on the Imago's shocktroops -- deflecting their weapons fire and knocking them down like errant waves.

A good start, but the Specials are being teleported in by the dozens; they're going to need help. 

So Chaos puts on his headphones, cranks up some early 80's punk, and closes his eyes, waiting for the dangerous feelings to come back. He focuses on this location (Waimea, Kauai, Hawaii), sees himself in his mind's eye, and then watches as his body distorts itself -- going in and out as though he were film being twisted in a projector.

The grass around him wilts, rises, and turns an orange hue. The wind becomes dirt and insects. The space behind him is no longer a pleasant, October surf, but a strange landscape that could have come from a surrealist painting.

And the look in his eyes could kill a God dead from fear. 

"!@#$ time yeah party" Chaos says, striding down to where his allies are battling. As approaches, the two heroes he was partnered with wisely get out of his way, and leap for cover. The Specials try to pursue, but soon whirl about to deal with the strange newcomer their previous combatants fled.

And his very presence makes the heavily-armored beings change to fit the strange, new world around them.

By the time he's done, his allies can only marvel at what was once a formidable group of enemy soldiers. Now there's nothing left of them but a mewling puddle of bubbling, white marshmallow goo. Smoldering sticks and bars of poisoned chocolate float in the spongy stuff, and an occasional clutching hand or silently screaming face tries to break the surface, only to be dragged back down seconds later.

"So what are we supposed to do now?" Ironface rumbles, stepping well clear of their leader's handiwork.

"We orders I disobey say..." Mister Chaos hisses, his misshapen face cycling through colors no one has a name for: "Inside see what's that !@#$ cube let's..."

And the others, not wanting to argue with a walking impossibility, do as they're told.

* * *

His name was Lonnie Carlson. He always obeyed orders. And now he was dying.

Carlson had been 34 when he'd been sent to Alpha Base Seven. His primary specialty had been communications repair, with a secondary of zero-G construction. He was supposed to study under the person he was going to replace, and then have a three year tour of duty, officially starting the day his predecessor got back on the shuttle for Earth.

That never quite happened. Three days after his arrival, 3/15 happened, and the base was shattered by particle cannon fire from Deep Ten. He'd been lucky enough to have been repairing communications lines underground when it happened, which meant he'd missed the massive, rolling decompressions, and the horrible decision to sacrifice half of what little remained in order to ensure that what few key areas remained could have a better chance of survival. 

When he crawled up out of the wreckage, a day later, he learned that his Commander was dead, his predecessor was missing in action, and the Chief Engineer -- Barbara Martin -- was now in charge. He also learned that they had effectively given up all hope of rescue or escape, and were, instead, going to make as much of a go of living through the disaster as they could. 

Carlson would not be repairing any communicators, because they would not be using the communications array for fear of being detected. He also would not be doing any zero-G construction, as they didn't dare rebuild what had been destroyed for fear of being spotted.

But he was young, strong, and knew a few interesting Krav Maga moves. So they made him a security officer, and assigned him to guard sensitive places -- mostly to make sure no one raided their dwindling food supplies, or tried to take the one, last lifeboat out of the base and aim it at Earth.

He didn't like it, but he obeyed orders. It's one thing he'd always been good at. 

And now it was killing him.

Not that he could blame someone for wanting to disobey the clanking, grouchy cyborg. Ever since he'd banged on their outer hatch and taken the base over, claiming to have a way to deal with Deep Ten, no one with any sense had really liked the situation. A large number of the survivors agreed with his reasoning, sure, but no one liked what he'd asked of the base, or the way he'd "asked."

Still, orders were orders. Director Straffer outranked Acting Commander Martin by a factor of five, and had to be obeyed -- especially in a massive emergency like this. And anyone who got out of line with him was looking at the mother of all court martials when they got back to Earth. 

(If they got back, as many pointed out.)

So here Carlson was, standing guard outside the walkway leading to the communications array he was supposed to be running, and making sure that no one else went in there. If someone brought supplies, he took them, inspected them, and brought them in, himself. When someone brought the borg's feeding tubes, he checked them over and took them to him. 

The only time he let anyone in was when Commander Martin stopped in, from time to time, and even that was hardly anything that Straffer wanted. In fact, the last time she came in, the cyborg had given Carlson quite a tongue-lashing for letting her through, and ordered him that, under no circumstances was anyone else to come in, ever, until the device he was building had been fired.

Which is why, when Prentice came up and said he had to deliver a set of parts in person, Carlson said no. That's also why, when he said he'd take the parts in himself, he got rather agitated when Prentice refused to hand them over, claiming that Straffer had expressly told him to deliver them in person. But, at the same time, he couldn't help but sympathize with Prentice's apparently no-win situation, and offered to go in and check for sure.

And that's why he's dying, now. The moment he turned to operate the door, he got a chop to the neck and a knife in the kidneys. And now, too weak to call for help, in a section no one comes through anymore, he's bleeding out.

(The worst thing? Prentice didn't say anything to him -- not a word of explanation. He just took his key card, swiped it, and stepped over him like he was a piece of debris, or something.)

He was just following orders, Carlson thinks as things go dim. Why do things like this always happen to people who just do what they're told?

* * *

 "Just stay here, he says," Mrs. Liberty sighs, adjusting the massive gun she's been using to mow down the Specials as they teleport in: "Don't go anywhere, he says. I might need you elsewhere, he says."

"Don't !@#$ing remind me," Liberty Belle snorts, getting ready to scream her lungs out, again: "I've seen better plans written on the walls of public restrooms."

"All you American women ever do is complain," their Indian ally says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms: "You need a proper husband, the two of you."

The two women look at him, then look at each other, and laugh. The man sighs and, putting up his hands, gets ready to rush back into battle. 

And as soon as he's gone, for some weird reason neither Liberty Belle nor Mrs. Liberty have any idea who they were talking to, or that they even had a third partner with them. 

But stranger things have happened in battle, one supposes.

* * *

His name was Nathan P Yellow. I didn't like him. And now I've just watched him die.

Nathan was a reporter for a FOX News affiliate based out of Scranton. Every so often I'd see him in Neo York City, covering some protest or counter-cultural event. He had a way of finding the smallest fault in anything, magnifying it a hundred times, and making it seem as though that fault was the overriding feature of that thing. 

And, seeing as how he liked to do this to protests and counter-cultural events, his conservative paymasters loved him for it.

In fact, now that I'm looking at his dead body, I'm remembering a talk we had, once. I covered a protest for Alternet, and we met at a bar, afterwards. And I remember listening to him explain, in excellent detail (off the record, of course) just how he used all these deceptive tricks of editing and camera angles to transform someone we'd both interviewed. But where I edited for clarity, he'd turned her reasonable-sounding interview into the most horrible, anti-American, god-hating screed that anyone could have ever hoped to hear come from a liberal's mouth.

I looked at him as he smiled at me and sipped his scotch, and I asked "How can you justify that !@#$?"

And he said "We all see what we want to see. I just make sure that everyone sees what I do. And if you're honest? You'll admit you do pretty much the same thing."

Obviously, I disagreed, then. I still do. But he had something approaching a point, and I took it to heart, which is why I didn't throw my own drink in his face and go talk to someone else. 

(That and the bar owner looked like he ate people who fought in his establishment. That part of town was, and still is, pretty !@#$ scary after dark.)

Nathan's attitude got him pretty far in the FOX noise machine. A couple years later he was a regular on Hannity and FOX and Friends, telling people what he wanted them to hear. There was even talk, behind the scenes, that he might get his own show, one day. 

But then 3/15 happened, and the Imago took over, and he went from being a FOX News correspondent to being a roving reporter for the Imago, themselves. And for the last few months, whenever the Imago have gotten out and said and done their mighty !@#$ things, he's been right there on the net to tell us what a great bunch of swell people they were.

I can pretty much figure out why they picked him, given his talents, but I have no idea what they told him. I like to think that, brainwashed by their !@#$ internet programming, he was mindsmashed into thinking he was doing the right thing. I like to think that he was a victim of their endless parade of brain-bombing bull!@#%, and not some little Eichmann, happy to lie to hide the Holocaust.

I like to think he had something of a soul. And maybe the fact that he's dead, here, proves it.

All I know for certain is that, outside the protective barrier of Neo York City, the world is coming apart. Men and women, emboldened by the President's speech, are ignoring his warnings and taking matters into their own hands. They are smashing the internet screens in case they come back on again. They are setting buildings on fire and grabbing anything that could be used as a weapon.

And when the Specials showed up, and started shooting at them, they turned into angry mobs and charged, all too eager to test the idea that even a well-armed and homicidal bunch of riot cops cannot stop the will of an angry people.

I watched this happen. I provided some cover fire, too. And as I saw the crowds surging and breaking against the waves of gunfire, before finally breaking it down with the weight of their bodies, I saw Nathan Yellow down there, screaming and hating and fighting along with the rest of them.

That was an hour ago. The mob has gone down to the other end of town. No one is here but the dead and the dying and those who are tending to them. 

Nathan P. Yellow was a horrible journalist, and may not have been a great human being. But in the end, realizing what he'd been doing for the last few months, he grabbed a lead pipe, went into the burning streets of the city, and went after the tools of the things that had turned him into a tool. And in that moment he was no longer a tool, or a slave.

Just another victim of a regime that's created too many. But at least we can say that he died free, and clean, and doing the right thing.

I forgave him a long time ago. Maybe now I can learn to like him.

-- Randolph Scott, Scranton, New Jersey, 10/15/12

* * *

"I said, where the !@#$ing !@#$ are my !@#$ing satellites?" SPYGOD rages at B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P.4. 

All he gets is hissing in response. And in that moment he begins to understand that something may just have gone terribly wrong. So he raises the Toon colony, instead.

"Hey, can you send someone over to the treehouse?" he asks: "I think there's a !@#$ing problem on that end, or something."

And the person he talks to says they haven't been able to raise them, either. And no one has any idea what the heck is going on. And they're trying to fire up the machine and send someone over, but they're not having any luck, either.

This sends SPYGOD headfirst into a rich vein of horrendous new curses, none of which help anything, and only succeed in scaring the person he's talking to (and making his cat hide).

And as he rages and howls, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to start this war without the satellites in hand, the masked leader of the resistance lurks nearby, crying under his cowl.

Because he knows exactly what's happening, over in that fantastic treehouse.

And he knows he can't do anything to stop it now. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Dressed in Black (Depeche Mode) and having a Golden Chaos)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 3

All around the world, the people stand in a state of shock -- their minds suddenly free of the subtle, but all-pervasive mental control they've been enduring since the Imago took control of the internet.

Some are angry enough at what's been done to them to want to fight. Some are ashamed enough of what they've done -- or not done -- to want to hide. But the vast majority is lost and shaken, uncertain of what this means, or how to approach it, or even what to say.

And when they reach for the internet, hoping to find information, or facts, or at least hear the voices of those who are feeling as they do, and add their own words to that stark, growing rumble of confusion, fury, and hurt, they find that they cannot.

All their smart phones and blackberries, all their tablets and laptops, all their computer labs and internet cafes -- all are black and still, unable to connect. The other programs work fine, and there doesn't seem to be any malicious, memory-eating worms working through their systems. But nothing can get the net working, anywhere, for anyone.

And, bereft of easy answers in a time when they need them most, people start to talk. They speak of what's been going on, and all the weird things they've noticed. All the strange lags and oddly-cadenced emails. How the news has seemed too good to be believed, or too strange to be understood.

And their children! Some of them -- especially in the less-developed countries, where they've been put to work for the Imago -- have had their children off in those big, white boxes since this all started. The Imago told them they'd be teaching them amazing things, in there, and they got to talk to them once a week. But the things they said, and how they said them?

The blank way they acted, at times? How far away and distant they seemed?

No, something is not right, here. Something has not been right since this all started. And now that they know -- now that they understand -- they won't be taking any easy explanations from glib-tongued metal people.

One by one, and then two by two, and then in large and shouting groups, the people of the world leave their blank computer screens behind. They head to their houses of government, and reason with the guards there to let them past, or else they'll stand outside and shout until they are acknowledged by their keepers.

And they will shout and chant and congregate, in their hundreds and thousands and millions, until they at last get the precious answers they have clearly deserved for so long.

* * *

Good afternoon, my fellow Americans. This is the President of the United States of America, reporting to you from a secret location.

I know that seeing me here, alive, must be a shock to many of you. I know that you saw me shot on live television. I know that you saw me die, and saw that SPYGOD was the one who fired the bullets.

But I assure you that this is me. I am alive. I am not the man who was shot dead, any more than SPYGOD was the man who shot that person. We have, both of us, been the victims of a very elaborate, and very deadly hoax.

A hoax that helped enslave the world.

The how and the why of what happened to me are not so important now. Not now that America, like the rest of the world, languishes under the thumb of otherworldly tyrants. Alien beings who quietly conquered our planet while we slept, and then engineered certain events to make us all fall right into their hands.  

The hands of the Imago.

Tonight, I accuse the beings who call themselves the Imago of being liars and monsters. I accuse them of working in collusion with a science terrorist outfit, GORGON, to lay the groundwork for an invasion of our world. I accuse them of duplicating thousands of people, around the world, and killing the originals. 

I accuse the Imago of using those duplicates to create a worldwide crisis. I accuse them of stepping in to exploit the chaos and terror they, themselves, engineered for that purpose. I accuse them of using our orbital defenses to destroy and kill on a global scale, both on 3/15 and ever since.

And, on a more personal note, I accuse the Imago of blaming that crisis on the American government, of holding false trials with duped witnesses and bullied defendants, and of executing without cause the surviving members of several Presidential Administrations, Federal Departments, and Congressional leaders.

I accuse the Imago of executing without cause my Vice President, who was one of the finest men I have known and worked with. I accuse the Imago of duplicating his wife. I accuse the Imago of using the safety of his family and mine to threaten him into saying anything they wanted him to.

I accuse the Imago of using the internet to subject the people of the world to mind control, and using their control over you to get you to look the other way as they quietly committed atrocity after atrocity.

I accuse the Imago of deeds of a scale of villainy that I couldn't even have imagined existing in this world, until I actually got back here to find out what they'd done, and how.

My fellow Americans, my fellow people of the planet Earth, right now the confusion you are feeling is a result of their influence over your minds leaving you for the first time in months. These signals are being broadcast to you over the televisions that, I am advised, most of you kept, even though they didn't work after 3/15. It will continue to play, over and over, until this crisis is past, and we have taken back our world.

I urge you, for your own safety, and the safety of your loved ones, to stay off the streets. Do not take matters into your own hands. Heroes from around the world are fighting for your freedom, this hour. 

And they will win.

To the Imago, I say your time has come. You are done. Leave this planet now, if you even can. And if you can't, we'll be happy to kick you off of it.

To the world, I say that America stands with you, tonight. Whatever we have been to each other in the past, in different times, does not matter in this moment. At this moment we are all a people under threat. At this moment we are all as one in the struggle to be free. 

To my country, I say that, in the words of Mark Twain, reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I hereby resume the office, duties, and responsibilities of the office you elected me to. I once said 'Yes we can.' Today I say 'Yes we must.' 

And together, and with God's blessing, we will. 

Good afternoon, good luck to us all, and may God bless us, the United States of America, and the world in this, our hour of need.

* * *

"This should be all you need, mate," Tate says, handing the small cylinder over to Prentice in the back of the workshop: "I've rigged it with a three second delay, in case you want to throw it and run or something..."

"That won't be necessary," Prentice answers, looking at the tiny switch on the underside. He doesn't even look at Tate when he says this; he's hardly looked at him at all.

"Yeah," Tate replies, putting his hands on his hips and looking around: "Look, I know we haven't always gotten on too well. It's been a rough couple months-"

"I never liked you at all," Prentice says, finally really looking at the other man: "Not before, not then, and not now."

"Well, it's all coming out in the wash, now-"

"But I will say that you are one of the few truly professional people I've dealt with, up here," Prentice says, tucking the weapon under his arm: "We're alike in that way. We both know we have a job to do, so we do it. Anything else is irrelevant. And liking anyone up here's just something else to get in the way of tough decisions."

"Well, I liked you, sometimes," the other man says, extending a hand: "And I've always respected you. And I want to say thank you, before I can't anymore."

Prentice looks at the hand. He takes it carefully, and shakes it. He even smiles, just a little, but it means nothing to him. 

It's all for the man who actually made the bomb, just to make him feel better about all this. To feel better about being the man who finally said what they were all thinking, and put forward the need to do this in the first place. To feel better about not drawing the shortest straw, after all that agitation. 

To feel better about not being the one who dies today. 

With that, Prentice turns and leaves the workshop, heading for the chamber where the former Director of Deep-Ten is holed up, creating a weapon that could destroy Alpha Base Seven if it's turned on. Which is why he's not going to let him turn it on. 

Everything else that's gone into this decision is irrelevant. There's only the here and now, the many and the one.

There is only this action, which will reverberate throughout history.

* * *

From his high perch, looking down at the great chasm below, Emperor Thurl must confess to fear. 

He has heard the words of the Overlander President. He knows that the time to act has come, and that he has pledged to do so. He knows that everything he has done, of late -- indeed, the entire reason it is he who stands here now, and not his previous formlife -- has led to this very moment. 

But yet, the decision will be a momentous one. The Kingdom is no longer held by the Overobligation. They no longer owe the air-breathing denizens of the Overland any fealty or apology for the actions of the past. They could live down here, in the dark, and never have anything to do with the surface or its wars again.

Now that the Imago are about to be wiped from the face of the Overland -- and hopefully their City of Darkness with them -- the Kingdom need never be involved with that again.

But he has made his promise to the one coordinating the attacks against the Imago. He has told this man that the Kingdom will send help, the best way it can. And in return he has been promised true absolution for the Great Mistake, and a place at the table of the surface world. Inclusion in their "United Nations." A proper trade treaty. 

(And maybe even an end to the garbage that is being constantly dumped into their world.)

It is a great leap forward. It can bring new and good things with it. It could also bring new dangers. Unseen obstacles. Maybe even untold disaster.

No adviser can make this decision for him. There is only the wisdom within his mind, and all the voice of all the formlives he's had. 

And they all say the same thing.

"My Emperor?" the warden asks, kneeling before him: "I tell you truly, the moment is upon us. If you would let it happen, it should be now, or they will surely begin to eat one another."

"Then let us give them something else to eat," Thurl says, holding his claws up: "Release the War Spawn!"

And with the rushing of many unfathomably-large beings -- the very stuff of nightmares, Overland or otherwise -- his words become law, and the decision is made. 

Hopefully it will be one the Kingdom can live with.

* * *

"Yes, I know you're getting !@#$ing hammered," SPYGOD shouts at one group of heroes, watching their movements on one of the many screens he has up in Lady Gilda: "Fall back a little. Let them think they're !@#$ing driving you back. Hold on-

"Okay, good. Well done, American Shield. Now hold that !@#$ position. Pretend it's !@#$ing Korea, again, and the Chinese are coming over the !@#$ hill. Okay? !@#$ing awesome. Hold on-

"Bee-Bee? Pass me some of that !@#$ vodka, will you?

"Okay, go ahead. What, how many times has the kid blown up? Not even a !@#$ scratch? Well !@#$. Okay, start using your alchemy thing, then. Have him blow up the !@#$ Specials when they show up. Hold on-

"Bee-Bee? This !@#$ sobriety isn't going to !@#$ing cure itself! Move your fuzzy !@#$ and give me booze!

"Sorry, yelling at the cat. Where are you? China? Okay, that's not where you were !@#$ing supposed to be... oh, you got that other one? Okay, then. Good work. Now if you take this one out, too? Just !@#$ing stay there. I may need you to go on to... hold on-

"Yes, Owl, go ahead. Oh, he did? Well !@#$ me running, that's !@#$ impressive. Okay, you hold that position. Do not go further. I may need you to swap with... ah, !@#$. Hold on-

"Okay, thanks Bee-Bee. You know I get if I don't get my !@#$ing vodka.

"Yes, Mister 10. We have you. Please don't start !@#$ing moving until we've got a green board on the satellites? I don't want you to get !@#$ing zapped from orbit-

"Come to think of it... Hey? How's that satellite situation going? They loaded up, yet?

"Hello? Earth calling !@#$ing B.A.S.E.C.AM.P. 4! Where the !@#$ing !@#$ are my !@#$ing satellites?"

* * *

"Tell him we're having some difficulties!" Mark Clutch shouts to Skyspear as he grabs the biggest gun he can find and runs off to the infirmary, leaving the massive, tv-like machine that dominates the grand buffet room to hiss and spit: "Just that!"

"And what if the difficulties come here?" she shouts, looking at Winifred, who's white-faced and crying, spattered with what's left of Running Bird: "That monster could destroy the machine with ease!"

"I trust you to keep him back," Mark says, stealing back one last look at her. And he does, too. 

A lot of thoughts are going through his mind, right now, as he runs. Where the heck is the Lion? Where are the satellites? Where's Myron, for that matter? Can they get the equipment back to the real world before the beast smashes their way in and out?

And are they going to have to sacrifice themselves to hold it here, so that what needs to get done on the other side of the television can be done?

On the way he has two of his questions answered when he runs into Myron, who's struggling to carry one of the satellites to the main room all by himself. He's been burned, and is either bleeding or covered in someone else's blood. 

"You alright?" he asks.

"That's a !@#$ stupid question," Myron hisses: "Is Winifred okay?"

"She's shaken, but not hurt."

"Oh thank God," he says, and continues a little faster: "I'll see if I can get the rest of them to the main room. But I'll need help!"

"I can get you some time," Mark says, continuing to run: "Hopefully that'll be enough!"

Myron says something in return, but Mark doesn't hear it. He's running too fast. Praying too loudly. 

Scared too much.

Outside the infirmary, there's fire and blood. SPYGOD SCOUTS are struggling to put it out with halon fire extinguishers, but the flames are proving intractable. If this gets any worse, the whole treehouse may go up. 

In fact, the only flames that are being put out are the ones doused in human blood. A good thing there's so much of it, Mark thinks. And then he curses himself for ever even being able to think it. 

(What the !@#$ is happening to him?)

He gets inside the infirmary, jumping over a charred lump of flesh and fat that was once their doctor, right through a broken, smoldering hole in the wall that used to be the door. Just past it is the broken, shattered remains of what used to be the examination room and operating theater. 

And beyond that is a sight he never thought possible -- someone actually holding off the monster that's rampaged through their base.

It's the Green Man, and he's moving so fast that Moloch can't get a hit on him, using surgical implements and steel bars to block and parry the numerous, slicing arms that the brass beast's limbs have separated into.

"You will fall before Moloch!" the monster rages, smoke and fire tumbling from its mouth.

"You will tire and give up before I'm even scratched," Green Man taunts him, leaping up and throwing a knife right at the thing's eye. It melts into metal steam before it can do any damage, but the skill needed for such a throw is unnerving, and makes the monster take a step back.

"Hey, ugly!" Mark shouts, and opens fire. 

The beast turns around to regard him as the bullets bounce from its hide. As it does, Mark sees where the Lion has gone during all this. And the sight of the man in the machine makes him hesitate, just for a second.

And in that moment, Moloch strikes, shooting a gout of hellfire right at Mark's face.

In the split-second before everything explodes, he wonders how Martha is doing, and if she'll ever know what he'd been trying to tell her, all these months.

And he thinks what a stupid and sudden way to die this is.

And he prays that Thomas' father can save his son, and that the others can save the planet. 

And he closes his eyes, hoping that the next thing he sees is Jesus, welcoming him home at last.

And then everything goes hot and noisy and yellow, then cold and silent and white, and he follows the cool, pale quiet down, wondering what he'll find at the bottom of it all.

(SPYGOD is listening to Fly on the Windscreen (Depeche Mode) and having a Fireball)