Tuesday, April 9, 2013

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 1

With the brilliant, sudden rise from twilight into full illumination, the rising sun's rays strike Japan, and stir it into motion.

SPYGOD stands naked before the window of his messy, note-and-bottle-strewn Tokyo apartment, and checks his watch. It's 6:14 AM, here, which means it's 2:14 in the afternoon in Los Angeles, and 5:14 in Neo York City.

He doesn't have any idea what time it is in the middle of the !@#$ing Pacific, but after today, his target is going to know what time it is, alright.

"Seven months," he says, turning to shoo last night's pre-battle entertainment out of bed: "And seven !@#$ing months is all you bastards get."

"Nane?" one of the three hosts he called up for last night asks, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"Wasn't talking to you, son," SPYGOD says, lighting up one of his special Cubans -- the kind he only smokes before a war: "Having a word with the !@#$ enemy. And boy are you !@#$ing glad you're not them right now."

None of the fey young men really speak English beyond directions, prices, and sexual positions, so the meaning of his words are almost-totally lost on them. As far as they know, they just got paid a lot of money to have an all-night foursome with some eccentric gaijin with one eye, no stopping point, a very strong liver, and a really strange penis.

(And once they've gotten dressed, collected a generous tip, and left, they get the feeling that's really all they want to know.)

That bit of housekeeping taken care of, SPYGOD pulls large, metal trunk out from under the western-style bed he spent way too much money on, plops it onto the couch, and opens it up.

And then he ponders the most important question of the day -- what to wear to the revolution?

* * *

All around the world, the revolution stretches its legs, looks at its watch, and watches the final seconds go by.

In the streets of Neo York City, Randolph Scott -- free to walk out in public once more -- stands by with a camera, a video recorder, and his notepad, ready to cover what is most likely going to be the greatest story he has ever covered. 

Along with him are his "kids": the cloned children of the fourth reich, rescued from the horrors of the Ice Palace and brought out to see a kinder world, only to be shown that it was just as dangerous as the abattoir they'd been liberated from. A disgraced, former Secret Service agent stands close-by, wondering if trading in a gun for a camera is going to be such a good idea.

But such decisions are what this day is made of, it-

seems I brought too many !@#$ choices, again. So do I !@#$ing wear the black destructopumps and the white Issy Miyake, or do I wear the white razor-sneakers and the black Vivienne Westwood? 

I swear I always make this more !@#$ing difficult than it has to be. Does this dress match the giant !@#$ing gun Ju Kikan got for me? Of course not, but should I !@#$ing wear it, anyway? 

Yeah, I guess I will. It's my war, and I can look like !@#$ if I want to. There's enough of that going-

Around the world, in small knots and clusters, the Freedom Force -- old and new -- wait near the Imago's large junction boxes, waiting for the signal to attack them. They do this alongside other countries' strategic talents, many of whom they've never met before, or even known of before this day. But in the interests of a free world, they are all happy to clasp hands and work as one.

After all, if they don't get this right, it may very well be the end-

look big? Yes it !@#$ing does. But you know, that's !@#$ing okay, too. 

Yeah, work it, hon. !@#$ing tin-plated freaks won't know what !@#$ing hit them.

Alright, speaking of which, it's decision time. I can't wear either of these shoes for what I might have to do. I need the magnet-heels. And I sure I hope I brought them, or this is going to !@#$ing suck. 

Oh yeah. Perfect. Issey, Armani, Lloyds, and Dr. Yesterday. 

Ah, Dr. Yesterday. I haven't !@#$ing thought of him, much, lately. I'm sorry I didn't save you, man. But if it means anything, I am going to kick the !@#$ of that freak that they replaced you with so hard that his !@#$'s going to sail- 

Beyond those small clutches of costumed heroes, the numerous and strange armies of the world are made ready.

Spetsnaz cyborgs and surplus super-soviet hunters prepare to work with vampire hunters and half-dead special forces. Were-tigers, killer ascetics, and rogue Gurkhas lurk in the shadows of the jungles and mountains, and Samurai robots and underworld enforcers carrying guns seemingly too heavy to use prepare for deadly combat in the hills and the cities.

A continent's worth of elite jungle commandos stand by reverse-engineered Mayan UFOs, ready to drive into whatever their heroes leave behind. And legions of unquiet, Aztec ghosts prepare to step from beyond the obsidian door into our world, their controllers no longer terrified of what may happen when they do.

Today is the day for the strange and the shadowy -- the dangerous, misunderstood, and grotesque. All other military units were demobbed or destroyed in the wake of 3/15. All that is left are things best denied for the sake of both image and security, to say nothing of sanity. 

Today is their day, and what reckoning comes thereafter will have to wait on whether there is a tomorrow-

they'll be counting the dead in the millions if we !@#$ this up. Can't afford to !@#$ it up. Can't afford !@#$.

Gotta !@#$ing bring everything, then. The big pistol. The small pistol. The other small pistol. 

Big knife. Small knife. Throwing knives. Punching knives. Build-a-gun. Stun grenades. Frag grenades. Crack grenades. Zap grenades.

The sword no one knows I have. !@#$, I keep forgetting I have it, until I !@#$ing need it, anyway. 

Well, that's what you get when you find an old grave-

On the Moon, Director Straffer stands by the massive device he's spent quite some time building, and smiles. 

It's a wistful sort of smile: the moment the jammer goes off, it will mean that Earth will be defenseless from any external threats for quite some time. It also means they'll still have to go up to Deep Ten and deal with whatever mess the Imago have left behind, which he's convinced will be quite considerable. 

He'll have to hire a whole new staff, which will be time-consuming and intensive. Once they get there, he suspects they'll find that the circuits are probably jacked all to !@#$, and the fake him probably changed all the passwords and encryptions. So they'll have to pull the plug and start everything up from scratch, and check for boobytraps and structural failings every step of the way.

(And God only knows what they did to his androids...)

But after this, it's all downhill. The Imago will be unable to attack from above, and have no defense against the nasty surprise the revolution is going to launch into orbit. And if that works, then the troops will just have to walk over the invaders, rather than having to fight through them. 

And the best thing of all? SPYGOD has no idea he's the one who's going to make this happen. He all but begged Doctor Power to not tell him he was the one who thought this up, and to keep the fact of his survival a secret. Just so he could surprise him.

Once this battle is over, and the Earth is free, he's going to give him three surprises, all at the same time. And that makes him really smile, in spite of the moment, the pain, and the nagging worry that something might go wrong-

attitude. Stop !@#$ing panicking. Stop looking at all the !@#$ cards on the !@#$ floor and walls and simplify it. 

You know the !@#$ plan. It fits together like a flow chart. One piece goes into the other goes into the other. Like chess pieces. 

That's it. Deep breath. Hold up that magnificent !@#$ gun they made for you. Just like that. Yeah.

And now look at yourself in the !@#$ mirror and repeat the words:

"I will not panic. I will feel no panic. Panic is for the weak, the unprepared, and the enemy. I do not panic. I cause panic-
At the Toon colony, out in the deserts between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, the Masked Leader of the Resistance watches as the final touches are put onto the lynchpin of their battle-plan.

So far as the Imago know, the Toons have only been eking out a minimal existence, out in the wastelands. They think the liberated, sentient cartoons been content to live in ramshackle huts and try to create a libertarian paradise from the sands and rock. And so, they've been content to leave them alone, and concentrate on more pressing concerns.

That was an error -- one somewhere on the scale of calling the Titanic "unsinkable."

Under the sands, the Toons have been creating that paradise: a technological wonderland where the impossible becomes possible, and the uncanny is rendered into the obvious and everyday.

But the map of the brilliant new world they've been creating requires freedom to be realized. And so they have gladly lent their unique strengths to the resistance: providing wonder-weapons to the fighters, reviving the link to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P 4 for their use, and helping prepare that will hopefully be the capstone of the Imago's control over the world.

On a series of platforms, below the desert rock and sand, six small but mighty rockets sit, ready to take their identical packages out of the atmosphere, and into orbit. Once there, the packages will begin transmitting a powerful jamming signal: one that will shut down any Imago-based technology, rendering the invaders little more than helpless babes trapped in suddenly-useless heaps of metal and flesh.

It will take some time for the satellites to move into their final orbits, and in that time the Imago will still need to be fought -- tooth and nail, gun and knife. But as soon as the launch is achieved, seconds after the moon device is turned on, and Deep Ten put out of the picture, the battle will be a foregone conclusion.

They will have won.

The leader smiles under his disguise, glad that soon he will be able to lay down the heavy burden he's carried for the last few decades. But at the same time, he knows that he's about to embark into a scary and exciting new territory, soon.

Up until now, he's known almost everything that is going to happen, and why. But now he no longer has his companion with him, and with him gone, the future is as uncertain as it ever was before. 

After this, anything could happen -- victory or defeat, all at the turn of a card.

And while he likes to say hes done more with less, and faced worse odds with fewer friends, he knows that's just not true. Nothing he has done before today comes even remotely close to this roll of the dice. 

So yes, he is scared. Anyone would be. But his fear will not rule him. 

Not today-

Music loaded, set to shuffle: Front 242; Dead or Alive; Depeche Mode; Front 242; KMFDM; Yazoo; EBN/OZN; Pet Shop Boys; Front 242; C-TEC; Ministry; Frankie Goes to Hollywood; Pet Shop Boys; Front 242; Front 242; Talk Talk; Front 242...

Anything else? Is there anything else? Anything at all?

Well then -- time to grab the gun and bring in the cat, I guess. Nothing more for me here but doubt and memories. And I ain't !@#$ing got time for either.

War it is, then.  Revolution, to be !@#$ing precise.

And then, if we're lucky? 


* * *

SPYGOD steps out into the hall, fully-armed and dressed for battle. 
For a moment, he thinks about wearing the white button he's had this entire time to help avoid capture -- the one he got from Ben Franklin -- but decides he doesn't need it, anymore. No more secrecy, no more hiding.

From here on out, he's out to get them, and not the other way around.

So he strides down the hallway in plain sight, smiling wider than he should. Along the way he wonders if he needs more lipstick, or less, but there will be plenty of time to figure that out, and plenty of help along the way.

Especially if everything goes as perfectly as he needs it to, which is why he's got several different plans in the first place.

But as he walks to his rendezvous, and starts making contact with his friends out West to hear how the final steps are going, he has no idea that things have already begun to go far from perfectly.

And he will have no idea just how badly until it's almost too late. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Pimpf (Depeche Mode) and wishing he had a bottle of Chateau Adolf, right now, for old time's sake)

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