12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 1

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Myron looks up at the well-dressed, sweet-smelling person who's sitting at his kitchen table, talking to him. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and stinks of bad sweat and sour alcohol. His bathrobe hasn't been washed in forever.

And a cloud of despair floats over him, like stinky lines over a cartoon character.

"I do," he finally admits, putting his head back down on his kitchen table. There's barely enough room on it for all the beer bottles he has to shove aside to do this.

(And as for the messy floor in this darkened room...)

"Well, I'm listening."

"I know. But you don't understand."

"What don't I understand, Myron?"

"I want to talk about it. Really, I do."

"Well, I'm here-"

"I can't," he says, looking back up through red eyes: "I !@#$ing can't talk about it. That's what's !@#$ing killing me, here."

"If you're worried about certain... things coming to light, I should tell you they're already out into the open," the person says, leaning in close: "No one is going to threaten you for telling me. No one is going to harm you, or fire you. All that's done, now. It's just you, me, and this room that you haven't left for too long."

"I know," Myron says: "I know all that. But I... I just can't, okay? I saw... I saw. I was !@#$ing there. And I can't talk about it. Not now. Maybe not ever."

The psychologist nods, puts his papers back in his smart, leather briefcase, and gets up.

"Just so you understand, though?" the man says, turning to look behind him before he leaves: "This is our last conversation. I'm no longer assigned to you."

"What?" Myron says, sitting up a little.

"The COMPANY doesn't exist, anymore, Myron. I'm... well, I'm not certain what's going to happen, now. I'll probably be given an assignment in this Compagnie that the TU have created to replace it. But I'm not sure. They might just give me the boot."

"Then why the !@#$ aren't you out running up your COMPANY Card?"

"Who says I'm not?" he replies, smiling: "It's the day before Christmas. I have things to be and places to buy. So if you don't want to talk...?"

Myron looks at the man for a second. He weighs the options about throwing an empty beer bottle at him, just as a final !@#$ing mark of contempt. But then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and decides not to end this that way.

"I appreciate you trying," he says.

"I'd appreciate you trying," the man says, taking a half-step back towards the table: "I'd appreciate you actually taking steps to get out from under this rock you've crawled under. I'd appreciate you taking a !@#$ bath once in a while, or maybe eating a bowl of cereal instead of drinking its fermented components down by the !@#$ twelve pack."

Myron smiles: "I got to you?"

"Officially? I don't care. I'm not !@#$ing supposed to. For all I'm supposed to care, you could wipe your !@#$ with mashed potatoes and try to hump the vacuum cleaner and I'm just supposed to take notes and make sure you don't hurt yourself."

"The vacuum cleaner probably would..." Myron mumbles, wondering if he even has a !@#$ vacuum cleaner.

"But as a human being?" the man goes on, gesturing around: "As one person to another? Jesus !@#$ing Christ you've gotten to me. I'm disgusted at you. !@#$, I'm disgusted for you. I've never seen someone just... fall, like this."

"Have you talked to the COMPANY Director, lately?"

The man glares at him. Myron smiles.

"You know," he says, reaching for another beer, and finding that -- oh thank God -- it's still unopened: "This one girl I was seeing, for a while? She saw something that really !@#$ed her up. It messed her up @#$ good and ugly, broke her !@#$ brain like a wine glass.

"But she dealt with it by pretending nothing was !@#$ing wrong. She worked like mad, !@#$ed me red and raw, late at night, just carried on, either making sure to not remember or not letting herself remember. I guess there's a difference?"

"There can be," the psychologist says, slowly putting his briefcase down on the floor.

"And then, one night, it came to her," Myron continued, opening the twist-top and having a slug: "I don't know why. Maybe it was just !@#$ing time, you know? But she remembered it all. And she was ready to talk about it. And then, well... she didn't need to work like mad, she didn't need me, anymore. It was all out and done."

He takes another slug, and cradles the bottle: "So, I think maybe I'm not ready to remember it, yet. I think I don't want to face it. I think I would rather crawl under a !@#$ rock and watch bad TV, now that I can, again, and just... not deal with it."

"And this is not cowardice because...?"

Myron looks at the man: "Because if it was okay for her, it's okay for me."

"Well of course you feel that way," the psychologist says, shrugging: "I mean, you were getting some because of it-"

Myron screams. He throws the bottle at the man. Then he charges out of his chair, ready to punch that smug, well-meaning face until it looks like he feels.

He doesn't get that far. His !@#$ falls straight onto the floor the moment he hits a nasty, wet spill and he goes down into a field of glass bottles. It's only luck -- or maybe a thick bathrobe -- that keeps him from having more broken glass cuts than he gets.

The man towers over him as he lies there, weeping and whimpering.

"I didn't come here to listen to you cry like a kid with a skinned knee," he says: "I came here to find out what !@#$ing happened in the Ice Palace, that day."

"You already know!" Myron screams, wiping blood off his chest and knees: "You already !@#$ing know! Why the !@#$ do you want me to tell you!"

"Because you're the only one who can really tell us what you went through," he says, kneeling down and getting his face an inch away from Myron's: "I know what SPYGOD said, and what the !@#$ President said, and what that !@#$ magician would probably say if we could !@#$ing find him.

"But you're the one who's broken," he says, putting his hands on Myron's shoulders: "You're the one who saw it and repressed it the hardest. You're the one who held on for as long as he could, through the trial. And then, after what happened at the White House..."

He doesn't want to say. No one really does.

"So you need to !@#$ing tell me, because you need to say it to yourself in a way that means something," the psychologist goes on."You need to get out of this hole you dug for yourself. But you can't get out if you don't climb.

"Can you climb?"

Myron looks at him, and then-

10/22/12

-smashes down on the communicator button: "Come on! Answer me! Can you at least climb out of there? Can you !@#$ing climb?"

The only answer from Team 10 is static.

"!@#$!" Myron shouts, tossing the communicator at the stone floor of the top chamber of the Lost City. Its breaking echoes all around, momentarily enveloping the sounds of heavy machinery that have been dominating this area since his team moved in, three days ago. They have small hover-pods, drone swarms, powerful excavation equipment, anti-gravity isolation cubes -- everything you'd need to explore and exploit an alien city.

Everything but luck, it would seem.

"So what do we do?" the leader of the next team asks, looking at the massive, circular hole in the floor that the last five just vanished into. They've been suited up and ready to go all this time, but he's clearly not caring to follow their lead.

"I'm all for cutting our losses," the leader of the team after that says, shaking her head and kneeling by the lip of the hole: "We got all the Imago, right? We don't need to go any further-"

"Wrong," Myron hisses, grabbing his gear and getting ready to go down: "We need to get our people out of there, and then we can cut our !@#$ing losses."

"Sir, be reasonable-" she's about to say, but then he just stares at her, and she shuts the !@#$ up.

"Reasonable doesn't apply, here, people," he says, looking at her, and then at everyone else: "Reasonable went out the !@#$ window the moment this thing came up out of the Pacific. Reasonable is in !@#$ing Bora Bora having a drink on the !@#$ beach and a moonlight swim. It's just us and whatever reasons we bring to the !@#$ table.

"And I say my reason is that we leave no one behind. Ever."

"There may be no one left to leave behind, sir," the leader of Team 11 says, clearly hating to take Team 12's side: "We don't know what all's down there. The !@#$ probes don't work after a certain depth, and reports have been confusing at best. And this was a prison-"

"Didn't you ever !@#$ing see 'Escape from Alcatraz'?" Myron snorts, all suited up and ready to go: "And didn't I mention I used to be in charge of a prison, once?"

No one has a good answer to that.

"You, what's your name?" he says, pointing at Team 12's leader as he puts on his sunglasses.

"It's Lt. Mekkelson, sir-"

"Your name is now Lt. Chicken!@#$," he snorts: "Isn't that right, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir," she says, standing up and snapping off a salute: "Lt. Chicken!@#$, reporting for duty. Sir."

"Lt. Chicken!@#$, your orders are to stay up here and tally up everything that wasn't a loss. Call the Heptagon and tell them I'm going down, personally. If I don't physically make it back up here, then you call this a loss, and tell them I said not to send anyone else down there, even if they hear from me, or anyone else. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I mean that, Lt. Not until I'm back up here do they send anyone down, and even then they better crawl up my !@#$ fat !@#$ with a DNA sniffer to make sure it's !@#$ing me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," she says, still at attention.

"One more thing. There's a black box in the main gear stowage. If it starts blinking, then there's a button in it. Press it, and get the !@#$ out of the way of the massive storage box I brought with me. Is that also clear, Lt. Chicken!@#$?"

"Yes, sir. All clear. 100%. Like crystal."

"I sure !@#$ing hope so," he scowls, turning away from her: "Because you just earned a lifetime of !@#$ from me, just now. I might give an opportunity to work it off, but until then? You're Lt. Chicken!@#$, in charge of cutting losses."

"And what are we doing, sir?" the leader of Team 11 asks, taking a step forward: "We're ready to go-"

"Team 11? You're with me. We're going down in the pods and running the probes ahead of us once we're inside. Bring the viewers with us. Their signal might not be getting out of there but I'm willing to bet they'll work fine for us inside."

"Yes sir," the leader of Team 11 says, snapping his fingers at two of his men, who get the equipment in question.

"We go down at least an hour," Myron says, heading for the team's brace of open-air hover-pods, like sci-fi rocket sleds with the engines on the bottom: "If we find the previous teams, we get who we can, record what we see, and get the !@#$ out. If we find no one, we record what we see, and get the !@#$ out. The moment it goes weird or nasty? We get the !@#$ out. No heroics. But we're not giving up until I say we're giving up. That clear, everyone?"

"Yes, sir!" the rest of the team says, getting into their sleds, each one made to handle three people. Two men get into Myron's, and strap themselves down to the sides.

And then the four sleds are up, and off, and going down into the large, dark hole in the floor that swallowed up the other teams.

As they pass through the lip of the entrance, Myron can't help but think that maybe he should have stayed back up top. Maybe he should have just taken the leader of Team 12 seriously and called it off. He should have cut his losses and run, and told SPYGOD that they wouldn't be getting any tech salvage or intel from this thing the Imago broke out of, however long ago.

He could have, and maybe he should have. But that wouldn't be him, now would it? Not anymore, anyway.

The circle of light above them gets smaller with each second. The stone tunnel they're floating down becomes damp, and the air within it starts getting heavy. He can sense the strain on the engines, and knows how this might end.

But then the smooth walls of the tunnel become something else -- something he didn't see up top, because all the probes stopped transmitting, and the sled cameras wouldn't broadcast, and the descriptions were only every fifth word, at best.

And as he looks at what they've flown into, and feels the sense of the unknown come back to him -- the thrill of adventure that he's missed for so long -- he can't help but think of that fateful day, not too long ago, when he was called upon to embark on another, further adventure. One at the South Pole, in the Ice Palace.

And what happened because of it.

And what he had to do...

* * *

... well," Doctor Power says, looking down at the broken body on the floor: "There is something I can do, but-"

"Then do it!" Mr. USA shouts, balling up his fists: "We didn't come all this way to fail! Not like this-"

"We didn't fail," Yanabah insists, gesturing to the screens: "We won, didn't we? We got the Imago. The war's over. We beat them."

"But we lost this," Myron sighs, looking down at the dead body: "And boy, if we'd just been a little sooner-"

"Well, we weren't," Mr. USA says: "But if there's something we can do? Something..."

"But... the cost," Doctor Power sighs: "You don't know what you're asking. I shouldn't have even said anything. This... this could be really bad."

"Bad is us coming this far and failing," Mr. USA says, putting his hands on the old magician's shoulders: "If we won back the world, and yet couldn't save her, SPYGOD's victory will be for nothing. The relationship he's built with the President will be over, again. And... you don't want to know what happens next."

"You might not want to know what happens if I do this."

"I think we can take that chance," Myron sighs: "I mean, what? Does someone have to die for her to live? Are we all !@#$ed to !@#$ for even watching, or something?"

Doctor Power looks at him. He looks into the other room, where Skyspear has taken the other two to help them calm down. He hears them weeping and wailing, their hearts broken, their minds shattered by the brutality they've witnessed here, today.

He makes his decision.

"Get me room," he says, pulling something out of his coat. Something that's on a chain around his neck.

"Oh, thank God," Mr. USA says, going to move tables out of the way: "I knew there was something-"

"God has nothing to do with this!" the magician shouts, not looking in the old hero's direction: "This is... this is a bad thing I'm doing here, (REDACTED). A terrible thing. I can only hope that it'll buy us time to try something different."

"Wait," Myron says, getting up: "What exactly are you going to do, here?"

And then, through eyes suddenly red and shaking with fear, Doctor Power tells them. He tells them exactly what he is going to do, and how, and why. 

And then, !@#$ them all, they agree to let him. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Question (The FIXX) and having a Black Magic)

12/23/12 - Mr. USA - A Square of Hell - pt. 3

11/30/12

There's a moment of bright light, and then nothing, and then something again.

In the strange, seemingly-forever space between destinations, Mr. USA wonders if he'll be coming back, again. It's an old fear, maybe, but a sensible one. The human mind wasn't meant to be broken up in one place and re-assembled somewhere else, no matter what those with teleportation powers may say.

The world comes back suddenly, like a smoker's cough. He closes his eyes, and holds up his hand, suddenly hearing voices in French and unfamiliar smells.

"Ah, bonjour, Msr. Vice President," some tall fellow in a suit and tie says, extending a hand: "Welcome to Paris. It is two in the afternoon, if you care to set your watch?"

"I think I'll keep it set to my time, thanks," he says, looking around the small room the French hero teleported them into. There's no windows, a single chair and a small table, and a single door -- strong, with several locks.

Mr. USA can tell that they're underground, based on the poor air quality and decreased solar radiation, but how far down isn't certain. They didn't tell him where, exactly, they were going, other than "Paris." So he could be anywhere, and as far down as they care to dig.

Not exactly the greatest feeling in the world.

"Is he in there, then?" Mr. USA asks, gesturing to the door. The greeter's smile wavers just a little, and that's answer enough.

"He will send for us when he is ready," the hero who brought him here says, wandering over to sit down in the chair and light up some nasty, filterless cigarette: "In the meantime, you must get used to waiting. It is the way of things, here."

"I understand," Mr. USA says, understanding that there are several snubs going on here, but choosing to pretend not to notice them: "If you will tell Msr. Geraud that I'm here, and have a limited window?"

The greeter's smile wavers just a little more, and he nods, and, turning, talks into his watch. The tone and urgency of his jabber reveals quite a lot.

"Balto?" the hero asks, offering him a cigarette. Mr. USA nods, taking him up on his offer. Of course, he doesn't have a lighter, but the man's kind enough to touch the tip of his own, giving him a jump-start.

"Smooth," he lies, not really liking the taste or the sensation, but realizing that -- out of everyone he's met from the Terre Unifee -- this dark blue-clad fellow's the only one who seems to not be putting on any pretentious airs, and is just being himself.

And a man like that's a good person to have on your side, especially when the !@#$ starts pouring into the room and you need to know where and how to swim.

* * *

It takes an hour, ten minutes, and three seconds before Henri Valentin Geraud sends for him. They aren't offered a trip to the restroom, or any refreshments in this time.

(Lucky for Mr. USA, his bladder is still stronger than his right hook.)

A large, meat-faced guard with too many guns for his own good unlocks the door from the other side. He keeps a hand on his sidearm at all times when Mr. USA leaves the room, and walks right behind him as the thin fellow leads their procession. At some point in their march down the long hallway -- full of other, well-locked doors, all on the right side -- the blue-clad man teleports away without so much as an explanation, much less a goodbye.

The three men walk down that long hall, through another, and then through a well-guarded security checkpoint, full of men as meatfaced and overly-armed as the guard that brought them there. As they stand by, guns trained on his head, Mr. USA is scanned by several large machines, and then waved through.

The tall fellow does not advance with him. He merely gestures to a large, imposing door, past the human wall of guards: "Msr. President is expecting you now, sir."

"Thank you, gentlemen," Mr. USA says, smiling at them all and then heading for that door. It vanishes before he gets two steps towards it, revealing a well-lit office that's a strange mixture of neo-classical and futurist.

"Msr. (REDACTED)," a thick voice says: "Please do come in."

"Thank you," the hero says, walking into the room and looking around. The moment he's inside, the door re-appears behind him, and he can feel the room shudder into motion, somehow. The view outside the windows becomes rather bright, its illumination causing the gilded angels -- which adorn every flat surface in the room to varying degrees -- to glow like stars in the early evening sky.

"We are in transit, now," the small, thick fellow on the plastic couch -- made to look like a richly-embroidered and padded sort of thing -- says, gesturing to a plastic chair of a similar make and model: "We cannot be observed, overheard, or unduly influenced, here. We may say and do as we like."

"That's always good to know," Mr. USA says, sitting down and getting a good look at the short, fat-faced fellow who's so intent on getting the planet together.

"You knew my relation, I believe?" the interim President of the TU says, leaning forward: "Celestin Halevy, of the Armée de Libération du Peuple Supérieure?"

"I never met him," Mr. USA admits: "I heard of him, and all he did for your country during the War, of course."

"pfft," the little man snorts, waving a dismissive hand: "Grand-pere Celestin did nothing, Msr. Vice President, if the truth is known. He wandered about the landscape, looking for heroes to win our war for us. He had opportunities to find a better way to throw off the Germans, and he squandered them all, too fixated on his dreams of victory and revenge. It would not be until after the war that his true genius was discovered."

"Running Direction Noir," Mr. USA says, nodding: "And disguising its true intent, purpose, and efficiency."

The little man smiles and nods: "So you have understood?"

"I understand that we could have used some of your efficiency during the Reclamation War," he says, leaning back a little: "I lost a lot of good friends, that day. A lot of valuable allies gave everything they had to fight the Imago. And you pretended you had no one, and nothing, and all the while you were surrounded by wonder."

"We decided to become the unknown reserve, just in case-"

"You sat on your butts and did nothing so you could come out, after the war, and do this," Mr. USA states, calmly and without heat: "And there isn't a country out there that doesn't know that, either."

For a moment, Mr. USA thinks the little man is going to shout at him. Instead he laughs, and claps his hands. Three of the gold angels come to life, just then, and begin flitting about the room, assembling a wine and cheese repast for the two of them from a refrigerator and pantry, hidden in the corner paneling.

"I knew I would like you," Henri Valentin Geraud says, reaching up to take a glass of fine, red wine as it's gently flown to his hand: "So many of you Americans, you speak so diplomatically. I appreciate a man who will call me on my bull!@#$."

"Well, that is the Vice President's job," the hero says, also accepting a glass from the tiny, gold robots: "This is quite the layout you have here."

"Yes. We collected many things, over the years, in our quest to create a secure net of superhuman power. People, ideas, inventions, relics. This is but one of many things that The Maker created, before his unfortunate disappearance at the end of the Cold War."

"Not familiar with him," Mr. USA lies, having a sip of the warm, rich wine.

"Well, he was a quiet sort of fellow," Geraud says, sipping at his own: "He mostly stayed in his workshop, creating ingenious things for Direction Noir. Many of the small toys and weapons we carried into the field were of his design."

"Kind of like Q from MI-6?"

"Well, more like Z from MI-10, but that is another story entirely."

"Agreed," Mr. USA says, putting his wine glass down. One of the angels flits by and refills it by !@#$ing in it, as though it were a fountain. The look on the hero's face when this happens causes the interim President to laugh out loud for a full minute.

"So, what does the President think?" Geraud asks: "Does he believe that America should go it alone, as your God of spies and so many of your countrymen think? Or has he seen the wisdom in a world united against this threat that approaches, as well as so many other issues?"

"He thinks he needs more time to weigh the possibilities," Mr. USA says, hoping to avoid getting into any details: "He's also willing to discuss other arrangements. Trade agreements, military cooperation, the like."

"He does realize that, should he not join, he will soon be on the outside, looking in?"

"Hasn't harmed us before."

"In the world to come, it just might," Geraud says, holding his glass out for another angel to refill it: "I would hate to see America become the pariah nation it turned so many other states into, in its time."

"I don't think that would happen." 

"Are you so sure? Did you know that England is about to sign up?"

"No I didn't," the hero lies, wondering if this small man knows exactly why they've done this: "I bet that must be a thrilling turnaround?"

"It is, yes."

"And that's why we're being cautious," Mr. USA admits: "You see, you have to admit... you're taking the wrong attitude towards this whole thing. It doesn't feel like considerate and careful nation building. It really just feels like a nation that had great ideas, but never put them into place before someone else came along and beat them to it, or beat them at it. And now, here you are with a winning hand at the table, and you're about to grab the whole pot."

"Strategy, I think your previous President would have said?"

"That's one way to look at it," the hero says, picking up his wine and sipping at it: "But, between you and me? That man couldn't even spell the word without using a dictionary."

"And your new President... what of him?" Geraud says, leaning forward: "Flailing at his desk as his country goes to pieces. People trying to leave, no one coming together, his own government trying to replace him during a crisis. You have heroes playing at being police and your money is worth nothing.

"And now... these problems," the man says, leaning backwards and waving a hand over his wine: "This delicate matter in Israel, handled in such a terrible and final way..."

"We had to act," Mr. USA says, not letting the man get to him: "Something I didn't see you exactly doing."

"We were waiting for the right moment."

"You were stalling to see what happened next. And I don't blame you. But while you waited, we acted. And maybe you don't like what happened, then. I know I sure don't. But I know why it had to happen that way."

"And then there are the matters of your unfortunate revelations," Geraud pushes: "You and what you did, or did not do. And SPYGOD! Mon dieu, Msr. I do not see how either of you can sleep at night."
 
"I was brainwashed-"

"That is a lie," Geraud says, smiling: "You forget, I know of you, and what you can do."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"It was the Imago's early mind control tests, used by their agent on Earth. I got three times the normal dose-"

"Lies!" the little man shouts, spilling his wine: "Do you take us for fools, Msr? We have all the proof we need to know that you are lying."

"Such as?"

"Other than knowing exactly how and when the Imago created their mind control? Well, there is the matter of the phone call between you and your President..."

Mr. USA glares at the little man, who smiles back.

"So you're not above blackmail?" Mr. USA says, trying to calm down.

"No. And we would push the point home, in these negotiations, Msr. Vice President. In fact, I would call your superior right now, and tell him what a terrible job you are doing. But then, this horrendous thing that has happened, in the President's own home, to his own family..."

"Yes," Mr. USA sighs, thinking about that, and what the President had to say about it: "I remember all too well."

"I think, perhaps, the less stress upon his weary head...?"

Mr. USA glares at the little man, again: "You underestimate him. And his resolve."

"Do I?"

There's silence between them, then. The little man never stops smiling. And Mr. USA never stops glaring.

"So," Geraud says, snapping his fingers and attracting the attention of an angel with a sheaf of papers: "Shall we go over my proposal, again? I have made a few amendments since the last batch. Things that might, as you say, sweeten the pot?"

"I'm happy to listen," Mr. USA says, accepting one of the piles and getting out a pen. 

And all the while thinking how good it would feel to fling that pen right through the interim President's tiny little skull.

12/14/12

Mr. USA nods to the guards outside the apartment door. The two men nod, salute, and get out of his way. 

"Any trouble, so far?" he asks.

"No, Mr. President," the guard to the right says: "They've been in there about ten hours, now. Been some noise and some shouting, maybe some gunfire-"

"He still has his guns?"

"I think it's the cat, sir," the other guard says: "And I'm sorry, sir, but no one is getting near that thing. Not under Presidential orders, sir."

"I don't blame you, son," Mr. USA says, clapping him on the shoulder: "Let me in, please."

"Do you need an escort, sir?" one asks as the other opens the door.

"No, I think I'll be fine," the hero lies, and enters !@#$.

Inside is bedlam. Hundreds of boxes are everywhere, in various degrees of unpacking. There's the smell of fast food, stale beer, and mansweat. 

And cursing, of course -- a bright, blue streak of it, coming from the front room.

"!@#$ing little ingrates," SPYGOD is hissing as he stands in front of the window, wearing only his boxers and shoes: "!@#$ing !@#$s! None of you are fit to sniff the !@#$ out of my !@#$, you know that?"

"Oh, give it a rest," his boyfriend sighs, tossing a kitchen towel at his head: "Come back and have some pad thai, hon. They'll be there in the morning."

"I'm afraid they will, too," Mr. USA says, breaking in on their reverie. For a moment he expects SPYGOD to spin and point a gun at him, but the man just turns around and heads for the table his lover's seated at, as though he wasn't even there.

"How are you, Mr. President?" Straffer asks, apparently embarrassed by his lover's lack of decorum.

"Never better," the hero sighs: "How are you two?"

"Pretty decent, actually," SPYGOD says, tucking into some of the Asian noodles: "For a house arrest, anyway."

"Any news on when they might schedule the trial?"

"After New Year's," Mr. USA says, sadly: "They want the Christmas season to be light and joyful, and then... back to reality."

"Some reality," SPYGOD snorts: "I feel like I'm being !@#$ed to death by a swarm of small-!@#$ed pygmies all strung out on martian cocaine."

"We'll get through it," Straffer says, gesturing to an empty chair: "Our legal team-"

"Said we're !@#$ed."

"No they didn't, hon. They said we had a challenging case."

"That means we're !@#$ed."

"Well, maybe-"

"You're !@#$ed," Mr. USA admits, declining to sit: "The TU are going to try you, just like they did the Imago, in Paris. They're going to drag every last grieving parent into that room that they can, one by one. And then they're going to bury you under the weight of their dead children. I'm sure your legal team might be able to get a word or two in edgewise, but..."

There's silence, then, broken only by SPYGOD continuing to eat.

"A challenging case," SPYGOD chuckles, having a hit of singha: "I think that's what Charlie !@#$ing Manson's court-appointed lawyer called it."

"Well, as long as you don't carve an X into your forehead?" Straffer says, winking: "I can forgive most fashion faux paus, but that's a step too far."

"I was thinking of shaving my head-"

"Aren't you taking this seriously?" Mr. USA shouts, trying not to bang his fists down on the table: "They're talking about putting you away for life, (REDACTED)!"

"I'm sure they !@#$ing are," SPYGOD says, eating some more pad thai: "So what do you think we should do about it?"

"Well, I don't know-"

"Well, I do," SPYGOD says, pointing his chopsticks at the man: "You're the !@#$ing President of the United States of America, now. You have the ear of the man who's the President of the TU. All you have to do is throw a !@#$ing wrench into the works by telling the !@#$ truth, and it's all over."

Mr. USA blinks. He coughs. He stutters. 

"But you can't do that, can you?" SPYGOD says, looking away: "Because if you do, then that little !@#$ who was in charge of the TU, but is now overseeing their !@#$ing law enforcement branch, will make with the truth about what happened to you, all those years ago. And then the whole !@#$ing world will look back at you, instead of me. And then you'll be out of a job faster than you can slide a fresh baguette up an old leather queen's !@#$hole.

"And then... who !@#$ing knows," he goes on, looking back at him: "Riots in the !@#$ streets? Secessionists taking the initiative and seizing power? Chaos, anarchy, martial law?"

"You forgot cats and dogs sleeping together," Straffer says.

"Заткнись, иди на хуй," a growly voice comes from a box, nearby. An AK-47 is poking out the top.

 "Sorry, Bee-Bee," SPYGOD chuckles.

"I can't do that," Mr. USA says, sadly: "I wish I could, but the stakes are too high."

"Oh, I understand," SPYGOD says, taking another hit off his Singha: "I know what it means when it's all on your !@#$ shoulders and you can't do anything."

"You do...?"

"Sure. What was that I said to New Man, back in Paris, before you all let the really bad news slip?"

"You said 'some rules you just can't break,'" Mr. USA says, trying desperately to hold onto his composure.

"And then New Man said that being a hero was all about breaking the rules," Straffer adds: "Something about upholding the right and good."

"I think those conversations went in reverse."

"Yeah, I think you're right," Straffer admits: "Want some pad thai, Mr. President?"

Mr. USA looks at them, and the food. He sees the smiles on their faces and know that they're false. He can see the contempt in their eyes and feel the helpless anger in their hearts.

And all he can do is smile, shake his head, and turn to leave.

"I'll do what I can," he says as he heads for the door: "It may not be much, but I will try."

"Eh, no bother," SPYGOD shrugs.

"No, it is," Mr. USA says, turning back: "I told you I had your back. And I do. I just have to find a way, here. But I will. I swear I will-"

"We understand, really," Straffer adds, pointing to the copious amounts of food on the table: "You want some to go?"



"Please!" Mr. USA cries: "Please believe me! Please don't hate me! Everything I've done... everything, I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do. But... it's all going wrong. Just... terribly wrong...."

And the two men at the table just look at him as he tears up -- his face red and shaking -- but they say nothing. They just stare, as if embarrassed. 

"I swear I will..." Mr. USA says, and leaves -- exiting the apartment so quickly that the guards at the door don't even have time to realize their President had been crying.

* * *

"Well, that !@#$ing sucked," SPYGOD says, pushing his noodles away from him.

"Yeah," Straffer admits, daubing at his eyes with a paper napkin: "Did we really have to do that?"

"I was talking about the noodles," he says, winking: "After I've had yours, everything else tastes like !@#$."

"I'm serious, (REDACTED)," Straffer says, holding his hand: "Did we have to do that to him? Really?"

"Yes," SPYGOD sighs: "I don't !@#$ing like it any more than you do. But there's a sequence to these !@#$ things, now. And that's part of it."

"I just wish we knew more."

And SPYGOD looks out the window, knowing who's watching him.

"I'm afraid we're going to wish we knew nothing at all, here, pretty !@#$ soon."

And there's precious little to say after that.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Fool (The FIXX) and having a Singha)

12/23/12 - Mr. USA - A Square of Hell - pt. 2

11/3/12

"So, what do we think?" the President asks his cabinet, waving at the large stack of papers in front of him. Everyone else around the table as a copy of it, and most of them seem to be regarding it with the same look the average person does when offered liver for dinner.

"I don't know what to think," the Secretary of the Treasury says, and is about to say more when the Secretary of Defense bangs his fist down and scatters his pages around the table.

"I say we tell those Frogs to shove this !@#$ back up their little green !@#$holes," he announces: "I didn't give my sweat, blood, and flesh to the enemy just to sign up with some !@#$ world government."

"Joining would have its advantages," the Secretary of State says, mellifluous as ever: "We'd be part of a larger organization. We could shoulder the load for rebuilding-"

"We'd be lackeys," the badly-scarred man insists, rising from his chair: "We would no longer be able to say 'no' to another nation. We'd be forced to at least consider it."

"And considering how well that worked at the UN," the Secretary of Commerce points out: "We'd be screwed."

"I don't know what to think," Mr. USA says, shaking his head: "On one hand, yes, we'd have help. But whenever someone offers you help with one hand, you have to be careful of what's in the other."

"I bet you know all about that," the Attorney General snorts, shaking her head.

"What do you mean, madam?" the hero asks, not so much as turning to look at her.

"I think you're smart enough to know what I mean. You just don't want to admit how badly you screwed that up-"

"Hey now," the President says, holding up a hand: "We don't need to bring that up-"

"The !@#$ we don't," the Attorney General says, turning to glare at the two men: "Don't you think it's a little strange how, less than a day after the man in charge of the secessionist movement commits suicide by superhero, this... Terre Unifee comes out of nowhere and offers to save the world from its problems? Did we even know there was a Terre Unifee?"

"No we did not," a voice says, and all heads turn to look at the corner of the room. SPYGOD is standing there, smoking a cigar that no one saw him light.

"Well, this is a surprise," the President says, gesturing to one of the more dumbstruck guards to get him a chair: "I didn't think you were interested in these meetings."

"I'm not, no," he says, sidling up to the table and throwing his legs across the chair the guard brings him: "But we have a !@#$ing issue, here. And I wanted to talk about it."

"Okay, who the !@#$ are you, and what did you do with the real SPYGOD," the Secretary of the Treasury asks, which brings a few much-needed laughs. SPYGOD doesn't so much as smile in return, and instead taps the nearest pad of paper.

"I think I made my views on this clear to the good people of America-"

"Which I'd rather you hadn't," the President says, looking at him: "At times like this, we need to present a unified front."

SPYGOD looks over at him, and notes how the man doesn't so much as flinch. So he nods: "Point taken, sir. I will refrain from doing so in the future."

"But that does bring up a good point," the President says, still looking at him: "One of the issues we're facing, right now, is how we're going to keep all the promises we made to all the nations who went in with us during the war for independence."

"Can we really call it that?" the Secretary of Education pipes up: "There's already a War for Independence."

"I sure as !@#$ don't want to call it World War III," the Secretary of Defense snorts.

"How about the Reclamation War?" Mr. USA says, looking around the table: "Because that's what we did, ladies and gentlemen. We reclaimed our planet. And it's something to be proud of."

"Agreed," the President says: "And, now that this... Reclamation War is won, we have to pay off our war debts."

"And you think that signing on with this Terre Unifee would abrogate our debts?" the Secretary of Commerce surmises.

"Or at least put them off for a considerable amount of time," the Secretary of State adds: "And considering the shape we're in, right now? That can only be a good thing."

"Provided our new masters don't make us pay up, anyway," the Attorney General says: "And let's not forget that we don't know jack about these people, anyway-"

"They're what's left of Direction Noir," SPYGOD says, tapping his cigar onto the nearest pad of paper: "The organization that oversaw France's strategic talents, after the War. It turns out they were !@#$ing stockpiling their supers in case of an international emergency."

"Like being taken over by aliens?" the Secretary of Defense asks.

"Yeah, funny !@#$ story, that," SPYGOD continues: "But a story for another day, I think. Bottom line is that the guy who's running the Terre Unifee is Henri Valentin Geraud, brother of Charles Geraud Geraud, who was running Direction Noir right up until the Imago used him for target practice on 3/15. And they're both descended from someone who we really !@#$ed off back during the War. So I have to wonder if we're going to be played straight if we sign on."

"And do you think it's possible they're behind our problems with secessionists?" the Attorney General asks: "The ones your friend, here, just happened to inflame a few days ago?"

"That is totally uncalled for," the President says, putting a hand down on the table: "Lisa, I know your concerns, but-"

"It's not impossible," SPYGOD interrupts: "But while I agree with the Attorney General that the timing on this is !@#$ suspicious, I think our problems are genuinely homegrown. And if someone is !@#$ing pulling the !@#$ strings, I don't think it's the French."

"Any reason why not?" the Secretary of Defense asks.

"Because it's too !@#$ neat and tidy," SPYGOD answers: "Direction Noir was always a !@#$ing joke. The fact that they've waited until the right moment to play this big !@#$ card of theirs is just the broken clock getting the right time of day by accident."

The Attorney General looks between him, the President, and Mr. USA, and then nods: "Very well. I retract my statements and apologize. I am clearly letting my frustrations get the better of me."

"So should we consider this proposal, or tell them to eat snails?" the President asks, smiling a little: "I'd like to hear my trusted advisers weigh in, yay or nay."

"That's not me," SPYGOD says, winking and heading for the door: "A moment of your time when you're done, Mr. Vice President?"

Once he's gone, they take a vote. And while it's not exactly what the President wanted to hear, it at least pushes the question back another day.

* * *

"So what did you want to talk about?" Mr. USA asks later, in his office. He still hasn't really moved into it, yet: boxes and bags are still lined up between the door and his desk. They haven't even bothered to post guards outside it, yet.

"The other day," SPYGOD says, looking at the door they just closed: "At that compound up in Montana."

"I've been over it a million times in my head," Mr. USA says, sighing: "I was set up, (REDACTED). I know it."

"I agree," SPYGOD says, coming over and sitting down on the man's desk: "Question is, who?"

"I don't know," the hero says, reaching into his desk and pulling out a bottle of Scotch he keeps for such occasions: "I doubt it was the secessionists. They've got some smart people with them, but this was..."

"Too neatly choreographed," SPYGOD finishes his thought, taking the bottle of scotch and pulling half of it down in one go: "They must have known that man selling them the explosives was a Federal Agent. They planned to be followed. They had the explosives all wired up and ready to go. They had bullets that could kill strategic talents."

"And they knew I'd be coming once I learned who was in that compound," Mr. USA says, reaching over to take a small nip off the bottle before handing it back.

"Which means we got foxes in the !@#$ henhouse," SPYGOD says, finishing the bottle and neatly depositing it into the man's trashcan: "But where in the henhouse? Sympathetic small town police? One of the Bureaus?"

"Your superheroes?" Mr. USA asks, dreading having to ask that question at all.

"What do you !@#$ing mean?" SPYGOD asks back, clearly not pleased to have heard it. 

"Who says they're all on the same page?" the old hero asks, leaning forward: "You've had them on the shelf for a long time, before you activated them-"

"The COMPANY was monitoring them. Any of them went off the rails, they got !@#$ing smacked back into shape, or they got dumped."

"Okay, so what happens when the COMAPNY isn't there to watch them, anymore?" Mr. USA asks, tapping his fingers on the desk: "All those months after the Imago took over, when it was just them, and the world, and a big secret? Who's to say they didn't fall in with the wrong crowd, or develop their own opinions? !@#$, who's to say they didn't have those opinions to begin with? I don't think your trainers made a habit of asking them if the right side won the Civil War, or anything like that?"

For a moment, Mr. USA thinks SPYGOD is going to !@#$ing hit him. But then his gaze softens, and he slowly nods, and looks back at the door.

"You're right," he says: "And they would have been involved with that operation at all levels."

"And who's to say that young man and woman that were shot and killed weren't set up?"

"Or that they were the traitors, and this was just someone's way of crossing the !@#$ 't' before they sent the !@#$ing letter off," SPYGOD sighs, getting up from the desk: "Well, I'll just have to have that !@#$ing looked into, won't I?"

"Yeah, well you better hurry," Mr. USA says: "If they've gotten into the supers, we have a real !@#$ problem."

"We may have more than one," SPYGOD says, looking at the door, and then heading back to the desk: "I've been concerned about someone else."

As Mr. USA watches, he grabs a pen and a scrap piece of paper and writes KEEP TALKING. 

"Who's that?" Mr. USA asks, leaning forward.

"The Attorney General," he says, adopting a more conversational tone: HAVE YOU BEEN FEELING LIKE YOU'VE BEEN BEING !@#$ING WATCHED?

YES, Mr. USA writes back: "What about her? I mean, she's a little rude..."

HOW HAS IT FELT? I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, HERE. "A little rude? Nasty little !@#$ talked to me like that in front of the President I think I'd have made her eat a chair."

Mr. USA hesitates a moment -- "Oh yeah, I remember when you did that, once. Poor guy had to have his jaw completely restructured..." -- and then writes LIKE THAT ONE TIME IN THE WAR, WHEN YOU-KNOW-WHO CALLED UP A YOU-KNOW-WHAT TO ATTACK US.

SPYGOD looks at him, and slowly nods: THAT'S WHAT I'M !@#$ING AFRAID OF. ARE YOU FEELING IT RIGHT !@#$ING NOW?

Oh yes, he is. He points to the door, just knowing that they are being listened to. 

And all too aware that whatever's been giving him that feeling is what's doing the listening. 

SPYGOD nods -- "Well, if you want me to make her eat a chair?" -- and writes I'D BETTER GET DR. KRWI. MEANTIME, YOU KEEP AN EYE OPEN AND YOUR MOUTH SHUT. OKAY?

Mr. USA nods: "I don't think that'll be necessary." 

When he does, SPYGOD tosses the piece of paper up, at which point it smolders, catches fire, and turns to ash well before it hits the desk: "Too bad. You know how much I like getting away with that sort of thing."

"I think we better keep that to ourselves," Mr. USA says, blinking: he had no idea SPYGOD could do things like that. 

"Okay, well, you change your mind?" SPYGOD says, looking at the door. The terrible feeling is no longer there, but whether it got bored and left, or realized it was onto them, is something that will have to wait for a while. 

And then SPYGOD's opening it, and looking up and down the hallway. No footprints, no physical traces. 

Just the fading sense that something evil was standing here, listening to them talk.

11/17/13

"Please tell me what do to, here," the President is sighing into the phone.

"I really don't know, sir," Mr. USA says: "I just don't."

They're talking after a really bad day in court. The Vice President of the United States of America has admitted that, for decades, he allowed someone he thought was SPYGOD to tell him what to do -- more accurately, what not to do -- on pain of his wife and children being killed. As a result of his inaction, horrendous crimes were committed, numerous people were killed, and the steps were laid towards the successful invasion of the Imago.

Needless to say, things do not look very good, right now -- politically or otherwise. 

"How's everyone else taking it?" the President asks.

"Some surprisingly well, some... not so well. I don't think The Owl's going to forgive me anytime soon, and New Man's really angry."

"I don't blame him. I'm really angry."

"But you do understand?" Mr. USA asks, looking out of the window at the dark skies over Paris: "You do know that I was scared for them. I thought I was dealing with the real SPYGOD, here, and you know what it's like when he's set against you..."

"I do, yes," the President says: "And you and I both know what you did to make up for it... well, that goes well beyond the beck and call of duty."

"But we both know that we can't tell anyone about it," Mr. USA nods, sadly: "Some thing have to remain a secret, and that's one of them."

"Is there a reason why?"

"It's... complicated, sir."

"Oh don't give me that!" the President shouts: "Don't you dare give me that! I've got the Speaker of the House calling me every five minutes, trying to get me to dump you and appoint a replacement. And you know who he wants me to nominate, don't you?"

"One of the cabinet members you took on to make him happy," Mr. USA says: "Probably the Attorney General."

"Oh, he's already dropped her name a few times. And that's saying nothing of the press, and believe me, they're already all over me because of this secessionist thing, and what that crazy supervillain !@#$ just did in Israel, and-"

"Sir, calm down," Mr. USA says.

"What?"

"Calm down, sir," the hero says.

"How dare you say that to me-"

"I dare because I'm the man who's supposed to say that to you. That's what you appointed for me, remember?"

There's silence for a moment, then he hears the President mumble "Okay."

"Okay, now, take a deep breath. Think. You're getting wound up, and that's exactly what they want you to do. They want you to lose your cool."

"Oh, I already lost my cool. The only reason I'm not turning this phone back into oil is because I'm trying to be respectful to someone I respect."

"And I appreciate that, sir."

"I just... I need you to give me a reason not to lose that respect."

"Then how about this," Mr. USA says: "You tell the press that... I was mind controlled."

"What?" the President shouts: "Are you !@#$ing kidding me?"

"Sir, it happens all the time, and in a way it was true," the hero sighs: "In fact, if I think about it, I can believe this person was using hypnotic suggestions on me the entire time-"

"Oh, please. You can't be serious."

"I am serious. This person was a very capable and dangerous man, sir. And he still is."

"Yes, and when he hears that-"

"He'll come out of hiding," Mr. USA says: "And then we can finally get him. And then we can explain that my going public with what happened was all part of a ruse to get him out so we could get him."

"And after that, we can tie anything we want to on him," the President says: "Because it's probably true."

"Exactly!" Mr. USA continues: "Heck, he's probably guilty of things a million times worse than we even know about. And while what we're accusing him of isn't entirely true, and not even remotely honest..."

"... it'll keep us afloat until the next crisis comes along," the President continues. 

"And when that crisis comes

The President is silent for a time, and then takes a deep, raggedy breath.

"And in the meantime?"

"I'll talk to the press tomorrow, before we reconvene, and play up my part in this," he says: "You wait until then, and then give your side of it. Say that you didn't want to say anything about this to anyone earlier because... !@#$, I don't know. My family's privacy. National security. Ongoing operations. Anything you can think of."

"I can think of a lot," the President says, all those training sessions in lying with SPYGOD coming back to him, now: "Okay then, that's a plan."

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. President-"

"But just so we're clear?' the President says: "This is it, (REDACTED). This is the last time I'm going to play spin doctor to get you out of trouble you got yourself into, however long ago. I can't afford to be covering for you at the same time I'm having such a hard time covering for myself."

"I agree, sir."

"So if there's anything," the President says: "And I mean anything, that I need to know about, that you know and I don't? I want to hear it right now, sir. No lies, no cover stories. Is there something I should know about my Vice President that's going to come back and bite me in the !@#$ a month, a year, or four years from now?"

And Mr. USA thinks: does he tell him, here and now, what he knows about what happened in Antarctica? Does he tell him what happened to his family, down there, at the hands of the thing that was pretending to be Dr. Yesterday?

Does he tell him what SPYGOD now knows, and is going to have to act upon before too long?

"No sir," he lies: "I think the slate's clear now."

"I sure hope so," the man sighs, and then hangs up.

And Mr. USA can only pray he hasn't made another terrible mistake, right now.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cameras in Paris (The FIXX) and having a Pelforth)