12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - Verdict and Sentencing

An ending, then. And about !@#$ing time, too, if you ask me.

Not that you're bad company or anything, son. But this has been one long !@#$ night, talking about this !@#$. Lots of !@#$ I really didn't want to !@#$ing think about or bring up, again. Lots of unfinished business, nasty !@#$ing connections, unfortunate god!@#$ revelations, and really !@#$-ugly truths.

And, always, it all comes right !@#$ing back to me, now doesn't it? Same as it ever was.

Heh. "My God, what have I done...?"

...

You gonna drink that, son? No? Okay, lemme take it for the common good, here...

Ah, down the !@#$ing hatch.

* * *

So, Thanksgiving happens. I pull my gun out and shoot something that should not be so full of magic !@#$ing bullets that it's a wonder I don't have to go back in time and snag one of the ones they tried to use on President Kennedy, that one afternoon in Texas. It's all over the !@#$ world by the next day, and I'm having to explain my !@#$ to the President of the United States of America, who, as you might understand is not !@#$ing happy with me. 

At all.

A day after that, while I'm at home in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., essentially laying low by Presidential order until he figures out what the !@#$ to do or say, or do with me, the Fourth Estate finally tracks down Mister Chaos at the Ashram he's been !@#$ing hiding out at since the Reclamation War ended, and asks him for his version of things that day. And he makes it clear that, yes, he broke orders, and a team member died, and so on.

But yes, Wolf, he was able to bring those children back to life. 

And yes, Anderson, it's possible he could have done the same !@#$ thing for all of them, if he'd been given the time and the right circumstances to twist around.

And, yes, Sean, he didn't have the time because it was not given unto him. Because I ordered those White Boxes be destroyed once the initial plan didn't !@#$ing work. 

A day after that, it's official. I am now the mother!@#$ing face that's been applied to the absent gravesites of a billion dead children. My face goes up on signs and banners and websites all over the world, and they all want my !@#$ing fine gay !@#$ on a silver plate for having made that decision.

And just like that, I'm public enemy number one, all over again. 

Now, you know me, son. My first instinct when someone throws a punch is to shoot them in the !@#$ing guts. And here's all these fists coming at me, from all !@#$ directions, and you know I have enough !@#$ing guns to shoot their owners all down like ducks at the !@#$ state fair, right?

Fortunately, my boyfriend smacks some sense into me... well, !@#$s some sense into me is the better term, not that you really needed to know that, but okay. And a few hours later, after I've nutted over half the !@#$ bed, knocked back a drink or two, and kicked the !@#$ cat out of the room about five !@#$ times because it keeps stealing my !@#$ing vodka, I'm back in some semblance of control, again. 

And that's !@#$ good, because the day after that is the day we've all been !@#$ing waiting for. The day that the trial of the Imago officially ends, and the verdict is read. 

Now, you I know you haven't been !@#$ing living under a rock, son. You know how it all went down. And you know that this was all as certain as sunrise. 

But it's all the little details that matter, because you know one of the go-to questions of the next 100 years is !@#$ing going to be "Where were you when the Imago were found guilty?"  

And I will never !@#$ing forget.

* * *

Silence so absolute you could cut it with a butter knife -- that's what greets SPYGOD the moment he shows up at the courtroom, heads down the row, ready to take his seat with the other Prosecution witnesses.

Everyone is here, today. All the Strategic Talents who fought in the Reclamation War, from all the nations that had them to spare, most of whom pretend they don't see him. All the heads of the Weird Armies that attacked and defended, some of whom SPYGOD dealt with, and some of whom have since been replaced due to madness or death. All of the Spymasters and Talent Handlers, most of whom either give SPYGOD a cold glare or just nod, and do nothing more. 

Heads of state and their endless assistants and bodyguards. Ordinary people who have been brought to watch and bear witness. The press, the writers, the media personalities. 

And none of them want to shake hands with the pariah. (Not here and now, anyway.)

SPYGOD moves quickly down the aisle, glad that, here at least, no one's going to shove a !@#$ing camera in his face. Director Straffer walks beside him, casting a withering glare on anyone who looks like they might be the one to start booing. And somewhere between the occasion and the look from his eyes, no one dares.

The three chief Defendants are here, under lock and key, and guarded so completely it's a wonder anyone can see them at all. Every so often they can hear Dark Star cackle about something, or hear The Sight gibber something nonsensical, or ask what time it is. One time he declares "time has come today!" and, thankfully, a ripple of laughter makes its way through the court.

SPYGOD looks around and smiles, hoping to see one directed back at him, but his gaze all but withers the human moment on the vine. 

"Tough crowd," he whispers to Mr. USA, who's sitting beside him.

"Very," the man says, and, not caring that Straffer has his arm around him, puts his elbow up on the man's shoulder, in a wordless sign of solidarity and support. 

"Thank you," Straffer whispers just loud enough for the other Talents there to hear.

"Anytime," the old hero says, looking at both of them, his eyes just a little wet from the emotion.

And then the Judge ruins it by entering. 

* * *

One loooooooooong !@#$ing speech later...

* * *

"... so, as best as it is given unto this court to judge you for your actions, and as best as we are able to hold you accountable for the crimes that you committed against this planet, this court, as agreed upon by all parties, finds the entirety of the race of the Imago guilty on all counts."

There is a roar, then, of uncertain provenance. Is it happiness at the right thing having been done, or relief that it's finally come around? Is it anger at the defendants, now finally being uttered now that they have been found guilty, or sadness at how many deaths it took to get to this day?

No one knows, but, like some kind of virus, the roar spreads from person to person. It engulfs. It immolates. All within the courtroom pick it up and carry it for as long as they can, as loudly as they must.

SPYGOD is no different. Indeed, he's the one who actually stands. And, even though he is now, in many eyes there, as bad as they are, the others in the court follow his lead.

As one human being, the many people in the court stand and roar, carrying out their own pronouncement upon the Imago. A message both personal and impersonal, unique and not. A condemnation from all lips.

A message, unmistakable and sere, that they picked on the wrong !@#$ planet. 

The Judge, wisely, lets this go on for as long as it needs to. He does not so much as reach for his gavel to quiet it. He sits there, staring at the Imago -- defendants no longer, but properly named the guilty -- and lets the people of the court say the things that he cannot give utterance to at this time.

Duty has stilled his voice, but the people of the world have let it be heard.

How long this "human scream" (as the press and historians later call it) goes on for is a mystery to all who are involved within it. But, by degrees, it dies, moment by moment, and voice by voice. 

And then there is the silence of the court, broken only by the mocking, but subdued laugh of Dark Star, herself. 

"We shall meet here again in three days' time for sentencing," the Judge announces, putting the rest of his speech aside: "The guilty will be escorted from here to their holding cells to await their fate."

The gavel speaks. All rise. All eyes turn to the trio as they are slowly and solemnly marched from the room.

And then it's just the room, and SPYGOD. Thankfully, no one within it's in a mood to take their frustrations out on him. 

Not that he sticks around long enough to give anyone the chance. 

* * *

 A lot can !@#$ing happen in three days, and believe me son, it did.

I had to do something I really did not want to do, but had to. And then I had to do something that I'd been !@#$ing waiting for a chance to do since !@#$ing forever, but couldn't have come at a worse time, or in a worse way. 

Then I had to !@#$ing duck the blowback from both those things, which didn't !@#$ing help things at all. And then I had another talk with the President, who was even less amused with me than before, if that was !@#$ing possible.

And then, on the third day, under threat to not do anything else to !@#$ things up on pain of the mother of all Executive sanctions, Straffer and I headed off to Paris to watch another piece of !@#$ing history happen. 

And this time, we had special company waiting for us, there.

* * *

"... and so, it comes to us to find an appropriate punishment for you," the Judge says, his hands steepled in front of his face: "And this is where things become very difficult."

"I have a few suggestions, if you are short of ideas," The Sight giggles, much to the consternation of Dark Star and Green and Yellow. Someone shouts obscenities from the back row, and the Judge holds up his hand, rather than banging on his gavel.

"I share your anger, here and in this moment," he says, perhaps breaking decorum a bit: "But please, let us reflect upon this solemn moment. It is a rare thing for a race to hold another to account for its crimes. Rarer still for such a race to place a consequence upon it."

He steeples his hands before his face, once more, and then puts both hands down on the desk in front of him.

"There is a school of thought that you should be executed, somehow. We have the means to configure energy from one kind to another. We should, therefore, be able to channel your energy in such a way that you lose all sense of identity during the transfer. 

"A cruel thing, perhaps, to be condemned to an endless, living death. But given the cruelty you showed us, it would be justice of a sort. Indeed, unlike us, at least you would know it's coming." 

There is some measure of assent throughout the court on that.

"But, there is another school of thought that says that we, perhaps, have no right to execute you. Earlier in this trial, you spoke of wasps and spiders. Was the wasp guilty of immobilizing the spider and laying its eggs within it, or does guilt not apply in what is an instinctual response? An evolution-tested act of survival?

"This time, the spider has merely turned the tables upon the wasp. But does that spider have the right to destroy all such wasps, everywhere? Do we? 

"I must say no," he says, holding up his hand against the roar that would otherwise erupt in his court: "I cannot condemn you all to death. If we would kill you for, as you rightly point out, obeying your species-based drive to survive, then we would become no better than you. And that is not a line I am willing to cross."

There is silence, then. And he looks at the defendants, all of whom mock him with their eyes (save for Green and Yellow, of course).

"Imprisonment, then, seems our best option. It punishes you for your crimes against us. It takes you from the board. It relegates you to somewhere where you can be no harm to us.

"And, as this imprisonment must be eternal, it ensures that you will never be a harm to anyone or anything, ever again."

This makes the court happy. The Judge allows them their susurrus of agreement, and then continues speaking. 

"But we must learn from those who imprisoned you, before. They sent you to another dimension, our dimension in fact, and here to spend your days far from them, but also not be within their control. We must never lose control of you, but yet we cannot have control over you, for fear of someone or something acting to free you."

The Judge nods to the older man who has come with SPYGOD and Straffer. He stands, his dark uniform something of a rarity in a room filled with so many bright costumes and shiny fatigues. His white, long hair is braided and looped all the way past his waist.

"This is Mister Freedom. For many years, the American government has relied upon him to create escape-proof prisons for their criminals. Unto his care we relegate the lot of you to the darkness, for an eternity. May you find kindness there, within it. We have none to give you here."

A gavel ends the session. The guilty are taken away, down a different hall, and the older man goes to follow them.

"We still need to settle up after Cuba," SPYGOD says, nodding goodbye to him.

"No need," the old man says, putting a hand on his shoulder and winking: "It's good to know I can still be foiled from time to time. I'm just glad it was a friend."

And the word 'friend' makes SPYGOD's heart smile for the first time in days. 

* * *

The next time I saw them, the imprisonment was happening...

Oh, what? Yeah, just need to take a slash, son. Be right back. Have another drink.

Just got to deal with one more thing before we get to the end of this !@#$ story. 

Really. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to In Power We Entrust the Love Advocated (Dead Can Dance) and having a Three Monts )

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 8.

So, scandals.

I've been involved in enough of them to know how they !@#$ing go, son. And I think the best thing I can !@#$ing liken them to is a bad !@#$ing fart.

Now I know you know what I'm !@#$ing talking about, son. Imagine you've shoveled down half your weight in Indian curry that may have been made from a dead dog they found in the !@#$ing alley behind the restaurant, and drank five bottles of overpriced "imported" beer that may have been bottled next to where they found the pooch for all you !@#$ing know. And, now that you're working on some slimy concoction they jokingly call a dessert, you feel this gassy rumbling and thundering between your stomach and your !@#$hole.

And you  know how !@#$ bad this is going to be.

Now, in a perfect world, you'd get up, wander somewhere semi-deserted, and expel it out of earshot (and, more importantly, immediate noseshot). That way, as long as you don't !@#$ out half of what you ate in the process, you can just flee that !@#$ing stinkcloud of doom like you'd scamper away from some crazy-eyed greenhorn bugchaser at the leather bar.

But then, on your way to the can, you trip over your shoelaces or fail to hold it in for one, crucial second while getting around someone's chair... and then BOOM.

Next thing you know the whole !@#$'s room's filled up with the horror of what you've been eating. Everyone's holding their noses and screaming. Someone !@#$ing throws up, the manager threatens to kill you, and the EPA kicks down the !@#$ door to take you to a containment unit in the name of public safety.

Because's there's no !@#$ question you're the culprit.

Got all that? Well, that's scandal for you, son. One wrong !@#$ word, one wrong !@#$ move, and the stink-lines appear over your !@#$ing head like you're Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon.

And they don't !@#$ing go away for a long !@#$ time.

So, I'd just shoved my big !@#$ foot straight down my big !@#$ mouth and out of my big !@#$ !@#$hole, in court, and it was sticking out so far I could !@#$ing hop to work. The bad !@#$ing vibes were swirling around me like the smell of that bad Indian food doomfart. And I knew there was no !@#$ing getting away from it.

Not this time, anyway.

See, in the past, I could always find a way to !@#$ing deflect it. I could !@#$ing blame it on mind control, finger some third-rate supervillain from the Legion, shoot them full of !@#$ing holes, and call it a day. I could tell the press to shove it and hope some other scandal came along to take me off their mind, or arrange to have another scandal come along.

Now? I ain't got !@#$. The Legion is gone. The COMPANY doesn't really exist, right now. I have no real support structure to get my fine, gay !@#$ out of trouble once I get into it.

And boy, was I ever in it, after that little admission, and that was just a !@#$ing taste of treats to come.

See, I got on the plane for America feeling like a !@#$ing pariah, and wondering when those horse-eating !@#$ers were going to start throwing rotten tomatoes and stale baguettes at me. And I got off the plane to a mob of !@#$ing reporters who wanted to know what the !@#$ was going on, and what did I mean by what I said, and what about Hawaii?

What about Hawaii...

...

And then I went to the White House for Thanksgiving dinner, and wound up having to kill someone after dessert. Which is when everything I'd worked for since the President was !@#$ing kidnapped went right down the !@#$ing toilet, leaving only the bad smell behind.

Which is why I'm in this well-heeled prison apartment, with my boyfriend and my cat, and awaiting trial. Not for having killed that person at the White House, but because of it.

(If that makes any !@#$ing sense? But if it doesn't now, trust me, it !@#$ing will.)

No son, I'm being tried because I couldn't do the impossible in the middle of a war, but someone else did.

* * *

Let's talk about Hawaii. 

There was a cube on Kauai, by Waimea. I sent Mister Chaos, Ironface, and Brightstarsurfergirl there to knock out the Specials around it. And then they were to hold down the fort and nail anything the enemy sent West, towards the Lost City.

At least so far as they knew.

The truth was that I put them there for damage control, as I wasn't a hundred percent sure of any of them. Ironface had a bad !@#$ing habit of losing his !@#$ and attacking his friends, Brightstarsurfergirl gets tied into the whole !@#$ universe and goes flyabout if her meds are just a little off.

And Chaos? Well, his dad, Captain Chaos, was able to cause disruptions in physical laws by looking at something, but he couldn't control exactly what happened. He'd look at a car and want it to stop moving, but instead he'd reverse gravity and next thing you know the !@#$ thing was heading for the !@#$ing stratosphere.

Now, back in the War, when we needed massive amounts of !@#$ing destruction, that was great. But come peacetime, that never !@#$ing worked out too well. I mean, if you needed to catch someone who was in the car, and he went into !@#$ing orbit, well... there you go.

(We solved that problem by partnering him up with someone who could fly, in case you wondered.)

So his son comes along, and his power set is controllable, in an uncontrollable way. He could keep the effects contained within one area, and if anything got outside, they'd be reversed. Which was good because he had a habit of seriously overdoing it, and we'd have to move his victims away to bring them back to normalcy.

So, given their little problems, I figured we were better off keeping the three of them away from anything sensitive. And !@#$, they might learn something while they were !@#$ing cracking heads. Like control, maybe. Or how to !@#$ing pay attention.

But then, after I !@#$ing tell them not to attack the cube, because it's full of kids (not that they !@#$ing know that) they go in there and start blowing !@#$ up, anyway. And that would have been !@#$ing tragic on its face, except that they got disgustingly lucky not too long into the war.

And we owe it all to The Fist trying to !@#$ing kill them from trans-lunar orbit.

* * *

Ironface is crying, now. Black, gritty oil is leaking from his tin and glass eyes, shorting out external circuits as they course down his face and chest, but he doesn't care. He's crying and screaming and smashing things because he can't stop, anymore.

He just can't.

"Come back, sweetie..." Brightstarsurfergirl is saying, flying after him on her ruby board. Broken bodies wash to the sides of the corridors as she goes -- things that were once children, but now only resemble what happens when a small boy or girl is stretched out past the point of skeletal collapse, and then welded back together with metal clamps and bone glue.

Ironface killed a hundred of them before he ripped off one's robes and saw what he'd been killing, all along. Now he's regretting it. 

Now they're all regretting coming here.

"up is !@#$ed this !@#$," Mister Chaos says, looking around, seeing the energies at play, and wondering what it all means.

He reaches out to take hold of the wall, and it gives up its secrets to him. Suddenly, he knows everything, and understands why SPYGOD told them not to come here. 

"off feeding of are kids they...." he stammers, almost in danger of losing his chaostrance, but for the music he's listening to: "kids just. kids..."

There's an explosion nearby, and then another. The whole cube shakes, and it brings him back into the here and now, the then and when. 

"'they shot the pope...'" he sings, letting it all go wrong around him: "'they shot his !@#$... it's over now... that's what I said...'"

The explosions continue. White light falls in from the crack they made in the ceiling when they broke into this place. Chaos knows what it is a split second before it comes down to scour them all clean.

Particle cannon fire. 

And, smiling, he raises his hands to the sky and lets the power wash over him, and then through. Just enough to get a taste of the death he's being denied, today. And just enough to know its shape, and how to bend it.

How to change it. 

And he does. 

* * *

According to the debriefing we had, about a week later, Brightstarsurfergirl comes to a couple minutes later, and finds out that she's alive, somehow. Must be something to do with how she can !@#$ing handle cosmic radiation, I figure.

Ironface wasn't so !@#$ing lucky, poor bastard. She said that there was a robot-shaped shadow up against a wall and a few scorched parts on the ground in front of it. I guess that's the way that goes...

...

So she flies over to where she left Chaos, and finds him !@#$ing sprawled out on the floor, alive and human, again. All around him are children. And they're alive and whole and wondering what the !@#$ happened to them, because they can't !@#$ing remember a thing.

Last thing they can remember, they were coming into the doorway of the box and being told something special was going to happen. And then everything goes mercifully blank. 

What happened? Well, son, somehow, Mister Chaos turned that big !@#$ing wave of destructive energy into something else entirely. He made it heal them all. He made it bring them back to life, in some cases. He made it like nothing had ever happened to them. 

And when he woke up, an hour later, he couldn't stop !@#$ing smiling.

Of course, I ask him how he did that, and he just !@#$ing shrugs. He had no idea. And I don't !@#$ing think he ever will, either.

But that's how the ten thousand kids in that !@#$ing white cube lived while every other kid in every other white cube died, that day. 

And that was somewhere around a billion kids, son.

I mean, can you even !@#$ing conceive that? A billion. People throw big numbers around and no one ever gets any !@#$ing clue as to what they really mean. But a billion?

Hitler killed kids, too, but how many were in that ten million? Not even a !@#$ing drop in the pond compared to what I ordered my people to do, that day.

And you could say, yeah, they were already dead. And yeah, they were. And yeah, maybe there was nothing you could have !@#$ing done about it, either.

But then you look at that, and you wonder if maybe there wasn't something we could have done, if we'd just tried.

If...

...

Yeah.

So, there I am, and I !@#$ing had homicide for dessert at the White House thanksgiving, and the only reason I wasn't in !@#$ing jail, or worse, is because one of !@#$ of an extenuating circumstance. And instead of everyone being grateful and saying "hey, way to go, SPYGOD. Tough choice, tough world, tough man," suddenly people are asking about the White Boxes, and Hawaii, and everything else. 

And that's about when I just know that I ate the !@#$ing dead dog curry and sharted out the mother of all !@#$ scandals into my pants on the way to the can.

Stink lines and all.

* * *

Now, I bet you're wondering what, exactly, I noticed at the trial? That little thing I've been playing close to my chest?

Well, it was just a look between the Prosecutor and the Judge, at some point during my testimony. At the time I really didn't think anything of it, because I was too !@#$ing busy trying to save my fine gay !@#$ from looking like a fool, or a monster. But I did notice, and something made me !@#$ing file it away for later.

So it's a week after what happened at the White House, on Thanksgiving. And me and my man are heading through NYC, and we get set on by some !@#$ paparazzi.  Now, me, I'd just !@#$ing shoot the !@#$holes on sight, but Straffer's a cool cucumber, and figures out some way to get us past them and into where we were going. And he figures out how to tell me by just looking at me, and then where we need to go.

And you know how he looks at me, right?

Well, I remember, at some point, that's how the Prosecutor looked at the Judge. Like they were sharing a secret plan that had another secret behind it. The sort of secret that you really don't want people knowing.

(Not such a secret in my case, of course)

And, a week ago, I got it confirmed thanks to some little birdies in the TU. The Judge and the Prosecutor are carrying on something of a big !@#$ affair, and don't think anyone actually knows.

Now, there's not a lot I can !@#$ing do with that info, now. I can't even !@#$ing bring it up without sounding like a !@#$ing hypocrite, or some kind of wuss. But it means that Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud, whose ancestors did not like me all that !@#$ing much, conspired with his Prosecutor to put the !@#$ing screws into me when he got a chance.

And we've !@#$ing seen what's happened since, haven't we?

Yes we have.

...

Another drink, I think. This story needs a !@#$ing ending, and that's just what you're going to get.

If only everything was that easy.

(SPYGOD is listening to Return of the She King (Dead Can Dance) and having a Taj Mahal)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 7.

Okay, so, in the space of just 24 little !@#$ing hours, the tables have turned, flipped over again, and broken into !@#$ing firewood.

Suddenly, I'm the responsible adult at the party, because half the people I went to Paris with want to !@#$ing kill Mr. USA, and the other half are helping me hold them the !@#$ back. All because America's greatest hero admitted, in court, that he'd been !@#$ing helping the Imago all along.

Not because he wanted to, of course. But the piece of !@#$ wrapped in human skin that's supposed to be me from Alter Earth was pretending to be me, and making him do and not do things on their behalf, or else he'd kill his wife and kids. And since he thought he was !@#$ing me, and he knew what I could do if I put my !@#$ing mind to it, he was sufficiently scared enough to do !@#$ing nothing to stop it.

But while Mr. USA had no idea what was really !@#$ing going on, he knew he was doing wrong. But he couldn't help it because he was in love, and scared, and worried for their lives.

Yeah, it sounds like a !@#$ing spandex soap-opera plot, son. But it's real. !@#$ing !@#$ real. And yours !@#$ing truly had to !@#$ing drive the bus on it, which meant I had to put myself between people who had been friends less than a day earlier and keep things from !@#$ing degenerating into a !@#$ing Jerry Springer episode.

I think I actually used the phrase "We're !@#$ing doing their work for them" at least three times. And if that doesn't !@#$ing qualify me for a seat in cliche !@#$, I don't know what does. 

Luckily, that was the end of the Imago testifying, right then and there. So no more nasty revelations came out, at least from them.

(I mean, they !@#$ing tried to get the guy that was the former head of the CIA, aka The Sight, up on the platform to talk. But he was plugged into the Internet when we pulled the !@#$ plug on it, and it !@#$ing fried his brains. So we wound up with a wasted !@#$ day of weird answers, word salad, and the occasional scream when it all came together for him, again.)

After that, they got us back on the !@#$ing stand, over the next few days And it was pretty much by the numbers. The Owl talked about what happened to her family, what she saw in LA, and what happened during the Reclamation War. New Man talked about how they !@#$ing infiltrated the COMPANY, and what they did to him afterwards. My man talked about what they'd tried to do to him, and explained exactly what the !@#$er that had been pretending to be him had been using his weapons platform for.

(Nothing about what happened on Alpha Base Seven, though. We'd agreed to keep that quiet.)

Myron telepresenced in and told about what he'd seen, and had to do because of it, but he did it without looking at me. I think he !@#$ing knew that I knew, by then.

And yes, son, Winifred brought the house down with what she had to say, as expected. She actually !@#$ing managed to keep it together for most of it, in spite of her ordeal. I think being massively !@#$ing angry at Mr. USA and me helped.

By the time it got to me, I was looking out at an !@#$ing empty courtroom, friends-wise. The Owl and Talon left after her deposition, and New Man left after Winifred's. So it was just me, Straffer, Mr. USA, and Winifred in that courtroom, and Straffer was having to sit between Mr. USA and Winifred to keep her from having a direct line-of-sight for her patented Death Stare.

So I !@#$ing got up there, smiled, tried not to !@#$ing threaten the !@#$ Prosecution with a gunshot to the !@#$ing face when he asked for my full name, and answered their questions as best as I could. I told them about Unit 731, GORGON, and Imago, and the big !@#$ connection between the three. I told them about the things we knew about, what what we didn't know until just now. And I told them how we'd been fooled, and how we'd fooled them, and a lot of what had been done to !@#$ing save the world from them once I got back and moving.

And throughout it all, the Imago were just !@#$ing looking at me, as if they were waiting for me to say something. I did my best to not !@#$ing look at them, just because I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence any more than I already !@#$ing had.

So this went on for two whole !@#$ing days, them asking questions and me talking and trying to avoid looking at the defendants.  And it's three in the !@#$ing PM on the day before we break so us American witnesses could have Thanksgiving at home (which the TU was !@#$ing nice enough to do for us) and I'm so !@#$ing talked out it's a wonder my !@#$ing jaw hasn't fallen out of my !@#$ mouth.

And that's when I !@#$ it all up.

* * *

Prosecutor: Now, there is one thing I am curious about, and perhaps you could enlighten the court.

SPYGOD: Ask away, Jacques. I got all !@#$ing day.

(Laughter)

Judge: The witness will kindly keep decorum, and a clean tongue. 

SPYGOD: My apologies, your honor. Long day.

Prosecutor: I know, and we do appreciate your willingness to tell us as much as you have, or at least as much as you can. My question is regarding these so-called White Boxes. The ones that the Imago told us were schools, but were actually... harvesting camps.

SPYGOD: Yes. I don't think there's anything I can add to what that piece of... what the defendant known as Dark Star had to say regarding them. She pretty much told you the whole story. 

Prosecutor: So you did know what they were?

SPYGOD: Yes, I did. 

Prosecutor: How long did you know for?

SPYGOD: Well, I had a really nasty idea, right from the beginning. Generally, whenever anyone wants to take a whole group of children away from their parents for what's supposed to be their own good, there's something !@#$ suspicious going on. I think there's any number of indigenous people around the world that could-

Prosecutor: That issue aside, could you tell us how you learned for certain, and when?

SPYGOD: How is going to remain a secret. But as for when, that would have been towards the end of September. Maybe the 23rd. 

Prosecutor: You cannot say or you will not say?

SPYGOD: The date or how?

Prosecutor: How, Msr. SPYGOD.

SPYGOD: The how involves a very long !@#$ story, more than half of which is classified. Let's just say that someone who could get into something you couldn't just walk into went in there, for me, and told her story to someone who was used to dealing with people like that. And then I heard it from him, and adjusted my plans accordingly.

Prosecutor: Are either of these two persons able to testify?

SPYGOD: No. They're both dead. 

Prosecutor: I see. How did they die?

SPYGOD: That's classified. 

Prosecution: I think that, in the interests of the overall search for truth, some redactions can be made to the testimony for public consumption-

SPYGOD: No. No redactions, no black lines. You want the truth? I'll give you as much as I'm able to give you. You want to nail them to the wall with that truth? I'll help as much as I can. But either we clear the courtroom and it's just you, me, the judge, the dancing monkey, and the three pieces of filth sitting down behind him, and I'll tell you the whole !@#$ story, you just accept that I can't tell you certain pieces.

Prosecutor: Well then.

Defense. Dancing monkey?

Judge: The witness will kindly refrain from referring to the defense as a circus attraction.

(Laughter)

Judge: Order! The court will remain in order!

SPYGOD: So are we done asking about that?

Prosecutor: Very well. Let's proceed on the fact that you knew what these things were before you put the plan to retake the world together?

SPYGOD: Sounds good to me.

Prosecutor: I have read the reports of how the fight went that day. The beginning, the changes of the battle, the climax, the end result. It is quite a terrifying thing.

SPYGOD: It is, yes. 

Prosecutor: And all of this went according to plan?

SPYGOD: Well, since we're being honest? We lucked out, to be frank. If it hadn't been for the bravery of quite a few people that I hadn't been counting on, or that I thought were out of the game, we might not be having this conversation right now.

Prosecutor: Yes, I've looked at the movements, especially as regards the White Boxes. At first, you were telling your people to attack some of them, but not all of them. And then, at one point, you tell them all to attack all of them.

SPYGOD: Yes. That is what happened.

Prosecutor: What is the difference between the boxes?

SPYGOD: Well, the ones I had them attacking initially were the junction boxes. They had some that harvested energy from their... prisoners. And then they had ones that collected the energy from other White Boxes and redirected. When... Dark Star was talking about the cars that ran on children, they were getting their energy from those junction boxes. 

Prosecutor: So why did you tell them to attack all of them?

SPYGOD: There was a point where things went badly, and I decided we couldn't take the risk of them being able to draw any power from any of them. 

Prosecutor: Did the people attacking the boxes know what they were attacking?

SPYGOD: No. They did not. 

Prosecutor: Why did you not tell them of this?

SPYGOD: Because I didn't feel it should make any difference. 

(gasps)

* * *

Yeah, son. That's right about when I !@#$ing realized that I'd just said something I shouldn't have. Between the gasps and how the Prosecutor was looking at me the same !@#$ing way he'd looked at Green and Yellow and Dark Star. I also caught the Judge just !@#$ing glaring at me, right about then.

But you know, when you're down on your face and you're getting kicked in the !@#$, you know you have to take a few more kicks to the !@#$ before you can get up and kick back. So I rode it, figuring I could turn the thing back around.

I really shouldn't have done that, though. I really should have !@#$ing put my foot down and said no more questions. But I didn't !@#$ing think...

...

Yeah. So he looked at me like I was Hitler and he'd just caught me at the gay rodeo while wearing a Little Bo Peep costume, stammered a bit, and went on.

* * *

Prosecutor: They should not have known that the structures they were attacking were full of children?

SPYGOD: No. 

Prosecutor: In God's name, monsieur. Why not?

SPYGOD: Because they weren't children, anymore. They were raw material for the enemy to use. I had to deny the enemy that raw material in order to win the war-

(Crosstalk, gasps)

Prosecutor: That is...

SPYGOD: Monstrous. Is that what you're going to say?

Prosecutor: At least.

SPYGOD: What did you do, that day?

Prosecutor: Me?

SPYGOD: Yes, you. We were fighting to free the entire world from an enemy that was willing to put your children in energy removal machines and turn them into walking scarecrows. What did you do that day?

Prosecutor: I hid in our apartment's basement garage. 

SPYGOD: That's right. You hid. All of you !@#$ing hid. And before that, you were obeying orders. And with some of you it was because you didn't know any better. And for some of you, well, maybe you had an idea or two. But--

Judge: The witness will kindly refrain from calling the trial's audience into account-

SPYGOD: Now you let me !@#$ing finish! All of you. You're all sitting there in judgment of what I did. I made terrible decisions. People died. Men and women in the prime of their lives who knew what they were getting into died. People who had no idea what was going on died. Children died. The weak and helpless and totally ignorant died. 

Well, that's war, folks. That's what a world war is. And I have seen enough of them to know that, when you declare total war, and go after an enemy that's taken control of your lands, and your people, you don't worry about who your bombs are going to hit or how many people might get killed when you do this operation or that one. You go forward. You prosecute the war. 

And you can only pray that, when you're done, more of you are left standing than the enemy. And that's what I did. And that's why I did it. 

(silence)

Prosecutor: So... would it be fair to say, in your assessment, that there was no other way to win this war, other than killing all these children?

SPYGOD: Oh no. There was a way. There was a primary plan that, if it had gone according to plan, would have dropped every single one of those tin-plated mother!@#$ers right where they stood. But things didn't work out at the last minute, and that plan fell apart. So we had to go with another plan.

Prosecutor: And I suppose the reasons that fell apart are classified as well?

SPYGOD: No, but I don't feel like entering the personal failures of a number of scared and desperate people into the official record. 

Prosecutor: ... ? 

SPYGOD: That's all I'm saying. And I really shouldn't have even said that.

Prosecutor: So when that plan did not work, you went with the other plan. And this is why these children are dead.

SPYGOD: Yes.

Prosecutor: And you consider those children to have been raw materials, rather than prisoners of war?

SPYGOD: I do, yes. But even if they had been prisoners of war, that would not have deterred me, any more than it deterred the Allies back during the War, or any nation that went after certain groups of religious zealots after the Computer Hell virus. If they put a playground or a mosque in front of the training center, we'll blow it up to get to the training center. That's war.

Prosecutor: Well, that's... an interesting viewpoint.

SPYGOD: It's a sad viewpoint is what it is. And it's sad because it's realistic. It's the total, !@#$ed-up reality of total war, and it takes totally !@#$ed-up people to deal with it. And that's why you have totally !@#$ed-up people like me make those decisions in total war, and people like you hide in their basement garages and !@#$ themselves. 

Prosecutor: Well-

SPYGOD: And I'm sorry for the !@#$ing stream of foul language, your honor. But that's what it comes down to in the end. War is !@#$ing !@#$. And I walked through that !@#$ to save the world because it had to be done. And better me than you to bear those decisions.

Prosecutor: And we do not get a say in how those decisions are made?

SPYGOD: Did you expect me to call you in the middle of the battle and ask for your !@#$ opinion?

Prosecutor: Do we not get a say in how those decisions are made?

SPYGOD: Woah, there, chief. You're not Nathan Hunt and I'm not the Joker. Now, if you don't like the job I do, you can bring that up with your leaders, but-

Prosecutor: How many billions of children are dead right now because you decided they weren't worth saving?

SPYGOD: Too !@$# many. But there was no way they could have been saved. They were dead the moment they walked into those boxes. And if you don't believe me, ask your other witnesses-

Dark Star: Tell them about Hawaii, SPYGOD.

SPYGOD: Excuse me?

Prosecutor: Hawaii? What about Hawaii?

SPYGOD: Now look, that was a !@#$ing fluke. One in a !@#$ing million. 

Prosecutor: I'm waiting to hear an explanation.

SPYGOD: You're not getting one. I'm done.

Judge: You will sit in your seat and-

SPYGOD: I am !@#$ing done!

Defense: Your honor, with all respect, as much as I love seeing the Prosecution treat one of his witnesses as a hostile witness without asking the Court for its permission, first, I should point out that this court was not called to lay charges against this witness. It was called to ascertain my clients' involvement in what took place throughout the world over the last several months. And this line of questioning stopped being about that quite some time ago.

Judge: Very well. Prosecution, do you wish to continue treating this man as a hostile witness?

Prosecution: No, your honor. I do not. I suppose these are matters that could be brought up in a subsequent case.

Judge: Very well. The witness is dismissed, and this court will stand adjourned for the next two days. We will convene on Sunday, the 24th, at 8 in the morning. 

* * *

And the moment I got out of the stand, I saw the Prosecution and the Judge give each other a really !@#$ing interesting look. I didn't make much of it at the time because I was so angry I was shaking, but I just knew something was up.

Winifred wouldn't look at me. And Mr. USA comes over, puts a hand on my shoulder, and says "I've got your back."

Fat lot of !@#$ing good that's been so far, let me tell you...

...

Ah well. Here's to the sweet !@#$ing mystery of life and war. 

Down the hatch.

(SPYGOD is listening to Agape (Dead Can Dance) and having more !@#$ing Brenne)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago Interlude - The Long, Strange Trip of Mr. USA (Part 2)

Okay, okay. You're going to want to mark the !@#$ time and have someone take a !@#$ing photograph, son, because I am actually going to !@#$ing apologize, here.

I am really !@#$ing sorry, son. I shouldn't have made you try to catch up to me with that !@#$ nasty French whiskey. I wasn't trying to poison or kill you, I swear. I just wanted you loose enough to understand what's coming next.

Are you okay in there? I haven't heard you throw your !@#$ guts up in a while.

*knock knock* You alive?

Okay then. I'll take that weird noise as a yes. Now, where the !@#$ was I before you started making like a fratboy's halloween costume  of Mt. Vesuvius...?

Oh, yeah. I'd gotten Mr. USA back, for the first time in decades, and learned what my evil twin had !@#$ing been up to. And then I lose him, only to get him back, but in such a way that I have no !@#$ing idea it's him, which is pretty !@#$ funny, you gotta admit.

(And, yes, seeing Shift again after losing him the first time... that kind of !@#$ed up my ability to ask any questions.)

But then came the day the masks all came off.

* * *

10/17/12

"I take it you had no idea about any of this, either?" The President is asking, looking at how SPYGOD is looking at Mr. USA.

"I..." SPYGOD gasps, shaking his head.

"Well, that's twice I've had you at a complete loss for words," Mr. USA says, leaning backwards to stretch his muscles, as if they were just standing around talking at a spa, somewhere, and not at an all-star gala on the White House lawn. Strategic Talents from all over the world are there, tonight, celebrating the world's freedom, and if some of them actually understand the significance of what's just happened, they let the two men deal with it on their own. 

"All along," SPYGOD says, finally, grabbing a drink off a plate as someone walks past with it.

"All along," Mr. USA confirms.

"So... what was this, you and Shift teamed up, and he... what?"

"It's a long story," Mr USA says, putting both his hands out: "How about we !@#$ing make up and talk about it later?"

SPYGOD looks at Mr. USA, realizing that he'd never heard the man utter a blue word in casual conversation before. 

"I think you're supposed to hug him, SPYGOD," the President says, smiling and walking away.

And that's about the moment he can't talk it, anymore, flings his drink down, and hugs the other hero for all he's worth.

"I'm not going to break you or anything, am I?" he asks after about five minutes of them both laughing and crying.

"No, I just look old," Mr. USA says: "Well, I am old. But..."

"Ah, shut the !@#$ up," SPYGOD says, hugging him tighter, as though he were the anchor keeping him attached to the world. 

"Now, what the !@#$ happened, here?" SPYGOD says, breaking off the hug ever so gently and stepping back: "The last I saw you..."

"Simon Pure sent me away," Mr. USA finishes, nodding: "And then he brought me back. And... well, there's a few things that have to remain quiet about that-"

"Oh !@#$ you," SPYGOD laughs: "Okay, what can you tell me."

"I can tell you that I've been leading an amazing life," the old man says, smiling: "I found a way to beat the monster, (REDACTED). After all those years, we finally beat him."

"What did you do?"

"I went back to my wife and children," he says, taking a drink from a waiter and passing another to SPYGOD: "Shift took me back to the point just after I called to tell her goodbye, and I explained what had happened. After after that, we just kept a low profile, with Shift's help."

"That crafty bastard," SPYGOD says, knocking his drink down in one smooth gulp.

"I had no idea he had it in him. But my wife and children, we had a lifetime together, and he never saw. By day we lived as husband and wife, and at night, well..."

"Well...?"

Mr. USA smiles and taps his nose: "Let's just say I've been really busy. Mostly keeping that monster from seeing her or the kids. But also doing other things."

"Like pretending to be my right hand on Earth while I was off doing !@#$ knows what !@#$ knows where?"

"Like that, yeah," Mr. USA says, smiling as he sees the President walk up to a podium. He puts an arm around SPYGOD as the man starts talking, and then releases it to applaud as he's joined by his wife and daughters. 

"Didn't know you got all teary at speeches, old man," SPYGOD chuckles, seeing that Mr. USA is crying.

"I don't, normally," the older man says: "But we do have a lot to talk about."

"I'm game if you are."

"When the time's right," he answers, putting his hands down and his arm back around his friend: "I promise."

* * *

'When the time is right' was right, alright. But !@#$ was that a bad time.

Of course, you already know all about that, don't you, son? That's part of why I'm all !@#$ing locked up in this high-end prison cell disguised as a luxury apartment...

...

Ah, !@#$ it. No sense dwelling on that now.  Plenty of time at the trial. 

But that's the problem with trials, son. If they're done right, everything comes out. And that's including the things you don't want to wear on your sleeve, or around your neck.

So Mr. USA admits to the fact that he'd been blackmailed by my evil twin for years. That all those decades he was supposedly America's greatest superhero he was actually sitting on his hands and letting terrible !@#$ing things happen, just to keep his wife and kids from being slaughtered by that evil son of a !@#$. 

Now, me? I understand. This is the kind of world I live in, after all. Blackmailing, suborning, turning... I've !@#$ing lost track of the number of strategic talents I've had in my !@#$ back pocket at one time or another. It's a nasty !@#$ing business, and it never ends well.

But you try telling the world that, son. Normal people just do not !@#$ing understand these kinds of things.

And then, you try !@#$ing telling your friends and allies, who've thought all along that you were the epitome of American heroism.

Yeah. That did not go well.

 * * *

"I just can't believe it," New Man is saying, not even wanting to look Mr. USA in the eyes. 

They're all back at the common area of the cluster of rooms the TU were kind enough to provide. Talon's been sent off to bed, thankfully, but the rest of the so-called adults are all there, listening to what Mr. USA has to say. 

And it feels like the room's temperature has dropped quite a few degrees. 

"Well, look," SPYGOD says, standing right behind Mr. USA, and holding up his hands: "Before we all start using this man as a !@#$ing dart board, let's not forget the whole picture. There were... circumstances."

"There was no excuse," Mr. USA says, shaking his head: "I should have told him to get lost. I should have told other people. I shouldn't have let the world burn for me. And that's exactly what's happened here."

"But then you did what you could to fix it," Straffer says, edging a little closer in his seat to both SPYGOD and the older hero: "As the Leader."

"Yes, but that was after the fact," New Man says, scowling: "And you'll pardon me if I don't consider it an adequate apology. He should have found some way to warn us."

"I lost my entire family because of them," The Owl says, her eyes wet with tears: "My son..."

"Your son's alive, Martha," I remind her.

"You call that being alive?"

"I call it something," Winifred says, not looking at anyone: "And that's better than my friend has."

"I'm sorry?" Mr. USA asks: "I thought Myron made it through okay-"

"Not him," she hisses: "Jesus !@#$ing Christ, don't you even remember what happened to me? I went to one of their !@#$ white boxes to find Dagworth. I found him in a pit along with everyone else they !@#$ing used for bodies or brains. He was alive enough, then, and he found a way to get me out. But when the internet got turned off..."

She doesn't have the strength to finish the thought. 

"And what's all this about you having gone back in time?" The Owl asks: "Is it true?"

"Yes," Mr. USA says: "I went back to my wife and our children. I was with them the entire time. And at night, I went out and made sure everything that evil thing was going to try and do to my family was nipped in the bud."

"But that wasn't all that you did, was it?" SPYGOD asks: "Don't be !@#$ing bashful, man. Tell us."

"I also did things to prepare for the Imago. I built networks, created relationships. I stopped things from happening and made sure that other things did."

"So you built the groundwork for the resistance before there even was a resistance," Straffer surmises, nodding: "Nice work."

"It still doesn't mean he couldn't have found a way to warn us," New Man says, getting out of his seat: "I mean, for crying out loud, he had all those years! Couldn't he have found a way to stop this from happening at all?"

"I couldn't alter the timeline," Mr. USA said: "I could work in the small undefined spaces where no one saw anything, or made certain that things that were supposed to happen did. But if I tried to change too much, or stop it, well... I know some of you understand what happens when timelines bend back on themselves."

"That doesn't make me feel any better about what's happened," The Owl says, leaning back into her seat: "I still feel like there was something-"

"Martha, be reasonable," SPYGOD sighs: "I know you're hurting-"

"How the !@#$ do you know how I feel?"

"Because your father was one of the finest men I ever knew!' SPYGOD shouts back: "Don't you think I'd give anything to bring him back? Don't you think I'd do anything to stop what happened? And if I can't think of a way to pull it off without blowing a big !@#$ hole in time, then what makes you think Mr. USA could?"

"How about the fact that he was running around with Shift the entire time?" Winifred asks: "Isn't he supposed to be one of those supergods?"

"Yes, and he had his limits, too," Straffer says: "Just like they did. You remember why they aren't around, anymore."

"I thought being a hero was supposed to be about breaking the rules to uphold what was right and good," New Man says, shaking and angry: "I thought that's what we were doing."

"Some rules you can't break," SPYGOD sighs: "No matter how much I wish we could. And you know exactly what I'm talking about, there. You and Dr. Power had monitor duty for that one."

"And I didn't have the courage to pull the trigger," Mr. USA says.

"So, does this mean that what Doctor Manhattan said is true?" Winifred asks: "Are we all just !@#$ing puppets on a string? Do we actually have free will, or is time already set in stone?"

"What does that have to do with this?" Straffer asks: "We're talking about changing things that already happened, not making choices-"

"Don't you see it's all the same thing?" Winifred pushes the point: "I mean, if he had known what the !@#$ was going to happen all along, then why didn't he take steps to make sure the President's daughter didn't die at..."

She blinks. She bites her lip. She looks askance. 

Mr. USA sighs.

"What?" New Man asks.

"Honey, what are you talking about?" the Owl asks, putting her hand on the girl's shoulder as she starts to sob.

"Agent," SPYGOD says, looming over her: "What happened?"

"Doctor Power tried to make us forget what happened, when he fixed things," Mr. USA explains: "But his powers were so weak at that point that the spell didn't last. We all remembered, recently, and swore to each other we'd keep it a secret."

"Keep what a secret?" SPYGOD asks, not turning to look at the man's face, and getting a really sick feeling.

* * *

...

So they told me. And I had to excuse myself, and go throw up for a few minutes.

And that's about when my newfound respect for Mr. USA went right down the !@#$ter.

But hey, son. Buck up. We haven't even gotten to the really bad part of the show, yet, have we? 

That's where I take the witness stand, bend over, and !@#$ myself in the !@#$.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Carnival Is Over (Dead Can Dance) and having Brenne)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago Interlude - The Long, Strange Trip of Mr. USA (Part 1)

Okay, this might take some !@#$ing explaining, son.

You know Mr. USA and I have had something of an... interesting !@#$ history. We were friends, once, and then we weren't, anymore. And for all that time I had no !@#$ing idea what the !@#$ happened. I didn't know if I'd said or done something wrong, and he didn't want to !@#$ing talk about it. So I just let it drop and said '!@#$ him,' right?

Well, things were more complicated than I knew. It wasn't until after the President was supposedly dead, and Mr. USA came hunting me, that I found out exactly what the !@#$ was going on.

And boy, was that a !@#$ing doozy.

* * *

3/13/12

"Wait..." SPYGOD says, looking at his bound captive: "You're telling me... that's the !@#$ing reason you've been hating me since the War?"

"At first, yes," Mr. USA says, his anger a white-hot, palpable thing: "And yes, I know it's stupid. And it was, then. But then you made it worse-"

"How did I make it worse?" SPYGOD asks, holding up a hand: "My door was always !@#$ing open to you. I made a million !@#$ overtures and peace offerings. You !@#$ing ignored them-"

"Why the !@#$ should I take a peace offering from someone who's threatening to kill my wife?" the superhero shouts, straining against the inhibitor manacles: "Why should I give you the !@#$ satisfaction?"

SPYGOD blinks. Twice.

"What...?" he says, shaking his head and leaning back: "Your wife? You're married?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," Mr. USA hisses: "Don't you dare."

"(REDACTED), I swear, this is the first time I'm hearing about this," SPYGOD says, holding up his other hand: "I didn't know you were married. No one did."

"You dirty liar," the hero continues: "You knew! It was your voice on the phone! Every week, sometimes every day, telling me to look the other way when you did your evil, !@#$ed up things! Making me impotent, unable to stop you, unable to see her, unable to see my children... my son, my daughter..."

"You have children?"

"Yes! And they've never even met their father, not that they can remember! And it's because of you and your messed-up plans for the world! And I've tried to expose you and I've tried to get you fired and I've tried to stop you but every time you just find some way to stop me, or another way to threaten them, or weasel out of it, or escape! And now... and now..."

"And now the President is dead because of me?"

"Yes! You !@#$ing killed him! One of the finest men I've ever met, the best man we've had in that office for decades, and you !@#$ing shot him!"

"(READCTED)," SPYGOD says, putting his hands on the man's shoulders and looking him in the eyes: "Look at me. Look at my eyes. You always knew when I was kidding you, back in the War, remember? I could never lie to you. You were always that much better than I was. I could hide things from you, but never lie. Remember?"

"Yes..."

"Then look in my eyes, here and now. And I'm telling you, I did not know you had a wife. I did not know you had children. I have not been threatening them. I have not been blackmailing you. And I did not shoot the President."

Mr. USA's eyes flare up as bright as the Sun. If the manacles weren't on he'd have melted half the tent, then and there. They stay bright and bright for far too long, and when they finally go dim he's weeping.

SPYGOD regards him for a time, and then, with what might be a moment's hesitation, presses the switch on the manacles' controls. The steel bands turn off and fall down around his captive. The man doesn't so much as move, too busy weeping.

Which he lets him do for quite some time.

* * *

Once he stopped !@#$ing crying, we started talking. 

I learned about how he'd met a young woman, over in France, during the Occupation. How they'd worked together on an op and she'd impressed him, which is !@#$ing saying something. And how, after the War was over, he went back to Paris and found her there, waiting for him. 

Of course, it wasn't a good !@#$ idea for people like us to be involved with normal people. What they did to us at Camp Rogers changed us in ways that might have made us really !@#$ing incompatible with normal folks. Might have caused mutations, defects... all kinds of nasty !@#$.

But he didn't give a !@#$. He figured he was owed something, and I figure he was, too. So he took what happiness the world saw fit to !@#$ing give him. 

They were married in secret. He saw her when he could. She gave him a son, and then a daughter, and when they made it past a year apiece he figured the doctors had been wrong, or just overly !@#$ing cautious. And they made plans to have a life together, as soon as he could swing it.

And then the phonecalls started, and he couldn't see them anymore. 

He couldn't tell her why, or what was happening, or even where he'd !@#$ing gone. He just told her it was over and she should keep her head down, and not tell the children who he was. And then he had to cut it off and never see her again, and do what the voice on the phone told him to, or else she'd pay for it.

My voice, supposedly. But now we know who it really !@#$ing was, now don't we?

And oh, he tried to fix things, Mr. USA did. He tried to run around on the !@#$er. He tried to get back in touch with her. He tried, but the Alter Earth version of me knew what he was doing at all times, and always found some clever way to let him get just far enough before !@#$ing slapping him back down again.

Always.

I wished we'd had more time to talk about it, but of course he came to find me just as I was about to head to !@#$ing Alter Earth to snatch the President out of the living !@#$ they'd sentenced him to. And once we got him out of that !@#$ing holy sex-torture palace, the plan went face-first into a pool of !@#$.

And then, thanks to Simon Pure, I figured Mr. USA was dead. 

So you can imagine my !@#$ing surprise when I find out, months later, that not only is he alive (and over 100 years old, somehow) but that he's been !@#$ing working on my behalf for months.

And I had no !@#$ing idea, even though I actually !@#$ing met him, once.

* * *

9/19/12

SPYGOD opens the door and walks into the backroom of the Beijing gambling den. It's musty and filled with old food and things best left indescribable. For a moment, he wonders if maybe he's in the wrong place, but then there's a strange noise, right behind him, and he turns to find the person he was looking for.

People, actually. 

One of them is doubtlessly the man he's come to see. A tall fellow, wearing a hooded and robed costume with a mask that defies all SPYGOD's attempts to see through or around it. He stands with a proud, almost military bearing, and has his hands extended in friendship.

The other is a strange and uncertain sight. He shimmers in the corner, looking like an image on a television in need of tuning. SPYGOD cannot see him fully, either, but suspects there's something familiar there...

"SPYGOD," the masked man says, his voice quavering: "It is good to see you, again."

"I don't know you," SPYGOD says, not taking the hands: "So maybe you better !@#$ing explain how you found me, and why I just crawled through half of !@#$ing Beijing to find you."

"You do know me," the man says, putting his hands down: "It's been some time, I'll admit-"

"Name names."

"I can't, yet."

"Then why am I not !@#$ing shooting you-"

"Because that does not happen, now," the other man says, his voice a strange and echoey thing that sounds like someone talking underwater.

"Oh, you do not want to do being this !@#$ing predestination jazz on me right now," SPYGOD snarls, pulling his gun out and pointing it at the mask: "Not after !@#$ing everything that I've been through."

"Then how about this," the masked man says, apparently not afraid of being shot in the face: "By now, your allies know me to be the leader of the resistance, acting under your authority. If you shoot me, here and now, that will not happen. And if that does not happen, you will create a time-space paradox large enough to rip the world in half."

There's a moment of nothing, and then SPYGOD lowers his gun, ever so slowly: "I didn't think paradoxes worked like that."

"They can, if they're the right kind," the echoey man says, stepping out of the shadows: "We are in three different places, right now, doing different things. And that's just now. Kill him now, and many things collapse, past and future. You do not want that to happen."

SPYGOD blinks, takes a step back, and nods: "Okay then. But I could always just !@#$ing leave and refuse to play your !@#$ game, now couldn't I? And you can't make me do anything, now can you?"

"No, but we think we can convince you."

"You can convince me to let a complete !@#$ing stranger I can't !@#$ing identify !@#$ing take charge of the people I !@#$ing left behind to !@#$ing free the world once I have enough !@#$ing intelligence on what we're going to !@#$ing do?"

"Yes, well... I'll admit it's a hard sell," the masked man says, shrugging under the robes: "I wish I could tell you who I am, but for the time being I must be a cypher. There are certain considerations. Lives at stake."

"Oh, like there aren't 6 !@#$ing billion lives at stake-"

"Would it help if I proved that you knew me?" the echoey-voiced man asks.

"It would be a !@#$ good start," SPYGOD says, looking.

The man nods, walks fully into the light, and changes. His face becomes a fantastic silver mask. His suit shimmers and changes into a high-tech silver outfit, worthy of a god. Time and space glitters and gleams around him, like a halo, and when he smiles the mask smiles with him.

"When last you saw me, I was ending, and warning you of bad things to come," Shift says: "And here I am, again, at my beginning, in the midst of those bad things. We have come full circle, you and I. Please walk with me a bit more."

SPYGOD gasps. His jaw drops. He shakes his head, and takes another step back. Maybe he wipes away a tear, maybe not. 

"Do you believe me, now?" the masked man says, extending a hand once more.

"I do," SPYGOD says, taking it: "But when this is over, you and I need to have one !@#$ of a talk about a few things."

"Oh yes," Shift says, nodding: "You will indeed."

* * *

And boy, did we ever.

Maybe we should switch up our drinks. I got some amazing !@#$ing French hooch here, somewhere. Hang on and let me see what I can find.

Oh yeah, this story's not done yet, son. This is just where it really gets !@#$ing weird. 

(SPYGOD is listening to I Can See Now / American Dreaming (Dead Can Dance) and looking for the French hooch)