12/12/13
It's a cold day with a grey sky, its low-hanging clouds lit up by the lights of Neo York City.
On the penthouse patio of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, Director Straffer stands in a loose shirt and tight shorts, taking a short walk as he talks on the phone. It's about 22 out, but he's not really feeling the chill. He's told his new body that he doesn't care to be cold, today, and it's obliged.
If only everything was so obliging, today.
"Okay then," he says, casting a glance back into the penthouse, and the person who's stomping around inside of it: "It's decided. He'll do it.
...
"Yes, he will, and you know why.
...
"Yes, because I promised you that you wouldn't have to do it, and under the circumstances he's the best one for the job. Absolutely.
...
"Well, you'd be !@#$ good at it, too, except I know you too well, Harvey. You want a challenge. And this would be a challenge, under the circumstances, but you don't want to lead from a desk.
...
"That's right. And he doesn't want to, either, but he's the best person to see the whole mess for what it is.
...
"Exactly. And that's why I want him in charge. But I want you to tell him, because... well, he might take it differently if it comes from me. That's all.
...
"Alright. Thanks. And for what it's worth? This would have been a lot of fun, even under the circumstances.
...
"Okay, you take care too, Major. Bye."
With that he hangs up the phone, sighs, and looks around the city. The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. landed in a really good spot the last time the city moved, and he was looking forward to having this nice view every morning. Coffee and breakfast on the patio, cold or warm, rain or shine.
But that's the problem with dreams, in the end -- the waking world keeps !@#$ing getting in the way.
Nodding at his own wisdom, he walks back into the Penthouse, just in time to see his lover pound yet another beer and -- not a half second later -- toss the can at the wall with such force and spin that it crumbles itself flat and falls down, right on top of a growing pile of similarly-rendered beer cans.
"Well, I guess we won't have any problems with recycling?" he asks.
"I just toss 'em the !@#$ over the side on garbage day," SPYGOD snorts, grabbing another beer from a nearby six-pack on the breakfast bar: "If I'm feeling charitable I actually !@#$ing aim."
"Well, that's better than flinging them at the Chrysler Building."
"Who told you...?" he asks, eying his lover with playful suspicion.
Straffer shrugs and looks at Bee-Bee, who's snoozing on a padded chair in a corner, draped around his AK-47. The cat farts and rolls onto its back, possibly in some kind of answer.
"So, did he go for it?" SPYGOD asks, chugging another beer and tossing the can at the wall.
"He did," Straffer says, coming over and grabbing a can for himself: "And I'm sure Faraj will accept, just like I'm sure everyone I picked for the team will follow his lead."
"Big !@#$ing risk," he says, putting his hands down at his sides and looking at the pile of cans.
"Yeah, but you have to make those calculations when you build a group," Straffer replies, having a sip: "Always start from the assumption that they'll kill you, first, and make sure the team can survive it. I think they can survive this."
"And you're sure?" SPYGOD asks, looking at his lover: "Not about the team. But about this?"
"Do you mean you and me?"
"No," SPYGOD says, reaching over to put an arm around his man: "I'm dead !@#$ !@#$ing certain about that. I mean today."
"I am, yes," Straffer replies, putting an arm around SPYGOD: "Disparaître was pretty forthcoming."
"That's some achievement, hon. I always thought that !@#$ didn't care."
"He doesn't. But I think I got him to like me just a little."
"Just a little?"
Straffer grins: "Give a Frenchman a cigarette and he'll take you anywhere."
"As long as it wasn't that !@#$ing cigarette, anyway."
"Hey now, we agreed," Straffer chuckles: "'You can have your ladyboys, and I can have my fun...."
"... just so long as they're gone by two and I wake up with you,'" SPYGOD repeats, smiling as he goes in to kiss him. What he gets in return is, bar none, the best one they've ever had -- even better than that first, thunderous kiss they shared when Straffer's new body was judged fit and ready to leave.
"How soon...?" SPYGOD asks, somewhere in the maze of kisses, some time later.
"Any minute now, I think," Straffer replies, holding his man as close as he can: "You sure this is what you think it is?"
"I'm sure," SPYGOD says: "My source is !@#$ing impeccable. But are you sure about what you're going to say to him?"
"I am," Straffer says, planting one last one on his lover's lips: "I stand by you, come what may. If that means I'm in whatever hole they shove you into, well, I hope the food's good."
"I think we'll be okay," SPYGOD says, winking: "They're French. I bet they got some !@#$ing hotel in the Rivera ready to lock down."
"I don't know about that. I hear Devil's Island's good this time of year."
"Then we'll be the best-looking couple on the whole !@#$ing island," SPYGOD replies, holding him close.
"They better hope we don't take the !@#$ over."
"I think we just !@#$ing might."
"I love you."
"I love you."
They hold each other, for a time. And then SPYGOD's ears prick up, and he looks around the penthouse.
"They're coming," he says, adjusting his shirt and putting his beer can down: "Last chance to !@#$ing bail and have your career back."
"No !@#$ing chance," Straffer says, standing proudly as the TU sends its men to tell SPYGOD that he's being charged with crimes against humanity, and getting ready to tell them that they can just find someone else to protect the Earth from the horror that's coming.
Right or wrong -- and no matter the consequences, or where this takes them -- he's standing by the man who's stood by him Because he loves him, and is not afraid to say it, or show it.
And besides -- they have a plan.
(SPYGOD is listening to The FIXX (One Look Up) and having a Full Moon Barley Wine )
Friday, December 27, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 5
11/25/12
They don't talk much on the plane ride back to Paris, Straffer and SPYGOD.
There's not much either of them can say at this point. There's not much that can be said, really. What just happened at the White House can speak for itself.
And as for what's going to happen next, well, they're in no hurry to hear it.
So they hold hands, instead. They take turns sleeping, or pretending to sleep. They eat the amazingly-prepared food that's served halfway and wish to God it'd been anything but turkey and stuffing.
And every once in a while, when they look at each other, Straffer tries to smile and SPYGOD tries to return it. But each time it fails to do more than make them not want to smile. There's not a lot to smile about, right now.
Not after what SPYGOD's just had to do.
Thankfully, they're the only passengers on this plane.
It's a small supersonic the TU's loaned out as a courtesy to those heroes who've come over to participate in the Trial of the Imago. It can make the DC-Paris journey in a little over five hours, provided they aren't loaded down with people and luggage -- which they aren't.
Maybe it was luck, and maybe no one wanted to be on the plane with them, but SPYGOD and Straffer have it almost all to themselves. All they have for company are the two pilots, who haven't left the cockpit, and two stewards, who seem terrified when they bring them meals and drinks. And that's it -- not even some harried, TU official who had to jump from one continent to the other at the last minute.
As such, the pair are in a perfect bubble. No one's turned on the entertainment system, so they haven't been stunned with the news. All the magazines are old and in French, on topics that neither of them care to read, anyway. And this morning's DC paper was thankfully left behind at the airport, so they don't have another, nasty reminded of what happened staring them in the face.
There's just the engines, the flight, the occasional interruption from whichever steward lost the bet this time, and each other.
And, after the last few days, that's a major relief.
Once they get to Paris, any hoped they had of just sneaking into the country are dashed.
The plan was for the airplane to disembark on the tarmac, rather than a terminal. They could then take a small car out of the airport, before anyone knew they were there, and get back to their hotel. That was the plan, anyway.
But as soon as the stairway is driven up, they see the vehicles of a dozen news agencies come following after it, each trying to race it way to the head of the pack. And that means that either someone leaked the details of their arrival, or the Paris press corps is !@#$ing psychic. Maybe both.
"Reporters, " SPYGOD spits, looking out the window at the fresh cup of !@#$ that life's decided to serve: "Ought to be a law saying we can shoot them on general !@#$ing principle."
"There is," Straffer offers.
"Really?"
"Yeah, but only in season."
"When does it end?"
"Yesterday."
SPYGOD looks at his lover, and they snicker at the joke. It's the first laugh Straffer's gotten out of him in days, and for that he is amazingly grateful.
"We'll be disembarking in a few moments," the overly-gracious steward says as he comes by: "I see you didn't fill out any customs forms? Do you have anything to declare?"
"I !@#$ing hate flying non-military transport," SPYGOD says.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" the man asks, trying to rebound.
"Is there a back door on this plane?" Straffer asks, smiling: "We really could do without the reception committee."
The steward turns white, and then red, and then, sheepishly, shakes his head. Straffer nods and waves him away, turning back to his lover (who clearly wishes he had a very large gun, right about now)
"You gonna be okay?"
"I really !@#$ing wish I had a big !@#$ing gun, right about now."
"Listen to me, (REDACTED)," he says, pointing out the window: "That's not the enemy, out there."
"You !@#$ing sure about that?"
"I am, love. That's the price we pay for doing what we get to do. When something goes good, they love us, and when it goes bad, they hate us. But the fact that they're free to hate means that, even we screw up, we're still doing the right thing."
SPYGOD looks at Straffer: "You're not really !@#$ing selling me on the concept of not !@#$ing shooting them all."
Straffer shrugs: "If it helps any, let me do the talking. I've got some sway with some of them-"
"Let me," SPYGOD says, putting his finger on his lover's mouth: "I know you want to help, and I know you'd take it all for me if you !@#$ing could."
"I would. Over and over again forever and ever. You know that."
"I do. And I !@#$ing love you for it. But this is my !@#$ mess, and I have to clean it up. This is where it starts."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Do I ever not have a plan?"
"Okay. Do you have a good plan?"
SPYGOD looks out the window, and then at his lover, and shrugs: "Good, bad, I'm the guy without the gun."
They don't talk much on the plane ride back to Paris, Straffer and SPYGOD.
There's not much either of them can say at this point. There's not much that can be said, really. What just happened at the White House can speak for itself.
And as for what's going to happen next, well, they're in no hurry to hear it.
So they hold hands, instead. They take turns sleeping, or pretending to sleep. They eat the amazingly-prepared food that's served halfway and wish to God it'd been anything but turkey and stuffing.
And every once in a while, when they look at each other, Straffer tries to smile and SPYGOD tries to return it. But each time it fails to do more than make them not want to smile. There's not a lot to smile about, right now.
Not after what SPYGOD's just had to do.
* * *
Thankfully, they're the only passengers on this plane.
It's a small supersonic the TU's loaned out as a courtesy to those heroes who've come over to participate in the Trial of the Imago. It can make the DC-Paris journey in a little over five hours, provided they aren't loaded down with people and luggage -- which they aren't.
Maybe it was luck, and maybe no one wanted to be on the plane with them, but SPYGOD and Straffer have it almost all to themselves. All they have for company are the two pilots, who haven't left the cockpit, and two stewards, who seem terrified when they bring them meals and drinks. And that's it -- not even some harried, TU official who had to jump from one continent to the other at the last minute.
As such, the pair are in a perfect bubble. No one's turned on the entertainment system, so they haven't been stunned with the news. All the magazines are old and in French, on topics that neither of them care to read, anyway. And this morning's DC paper was thankfully left behind at the airport, so they don't have another, nasty reminded of what happened staring them in the face.
There's just the engines, the flight, the occasional interruption from whichever steward lost the bet this time, and each other.
And, after the last few days, that's a major relief.
* * *
Once they get to Paris, any hoped they had of just sneaking into the country are dashed.
The plan was for the airplane to disembark on the tarmac, rather than a terminal. They could then take a small car out of the airport, before anyone knew they were there, and get back to their hotel. That was the plan, anyway.
But as soon as the stairway is driven up, they see the vehicles of a dozen news agencies come following after it, each trying to race it way to the head of the pack. And that means that either someone leaked the details of their arrival, or the Paris press corps is !@#$ing psychic. Maybe both.
"Reporters, " SPYGOD spits, looking out the window at the fresh cup of !@#$ that life's decided to serve: "Ought to be a law saying we can shoot them on general !@#$ing principle."
"There is," Straffer offers.
"Really?"
"Yeah, but only in season."
"When does it end?"
"Yesterday."
SPYGOD looks at his lover, and they snicker at the joke. It's the first laugh Straffer's gotten out of him in days, and for that he is amazingly grateful.
"We'll be disembarking in a few moments," the overly-gracious steward says as he comes by: "I see you didn't fill out any customs forms? Do you have anything to declare?"
"I !@#$ing hate flying non-military transport," SPYGOD says.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" the man asks, trying to rebound.
"Is there a back door on this plane?" Straffer asks, smiling: "We really could do without the reception committee."
The steward turns white, and then red, and then, sheepishly, shakes his head. Straffer nods and waves him away, turning back to his lover (who clearly wishes he had a very large gun, right about now)
"You gonna be okay?"
"I really !@#$ing wish I had a big !@#$ing gun, right about now."
"Listen to me, (REDACTED)," he says, pointing out the window: "That's not the enemy, out there."
"You !@#$ing sure about that?"
"I am, love. That's the price we pay for doing what we get to do. When something goes good, they love us, and when it goes bad, they hate us. But the fact that they're free to hate means that, even we screw up, we're still doing the right thing."
SPYGOD looks at Straffer: "You're not really !@#$ing selling me on the concept of not !@#$ing shooting them all."
Straffer shrugs: "If it helps any, let me do the talking. I've got some sway with some of them-"
"Let me," SPYGOD says, putting his finger on his lover's mouth: "I know you want to help, and I know you'd take it all for me if you !@#$ing could."
"I would. Over and over again forever and ever. You know that."
"I do. And I !@#$ing love you for it. But this is my !@#$ mess, and I have to clean it up. This is where it starts."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Do I ever not have a plan?"
"Okay. Do you have a good plan?"
SPYGOD looks out the window, and then at his lover, and shrugs: "Good, bad, I'm the guy without the gun."
* * *
The hate coming up the stairs is total. Visceral, even. It's like the two men were ugly spiders, discovered cavorting on top of one's pillow at bedtime, and all too close to a handy slipper.
Before either of them can so much as set a foot down, they're peppered with pointed questions in stilted English. Questions about what SPYGOD said at the trial, about the children. Clarifications about Mr. USA, and what he did and didn't do.
And, of course, questions about the White House. What happened over the course of the Thanksgiving celebration. How long he'd been planning this. Why he'd done it then and there.
Why a member of the First Family of the United States of America was dead by his hand.
SPYGOD holds up his hands as an answer until they get all the way down the stairs. Then, stopping at the bottom, he puts them down and looks around at each reporter, one after one.
"What happened during the Revolution is a matter of state record," he says: "You've heard what I said under oath. You've heard why I did what I did, and what I didn't do what everyone wishes I could have done. That's life, that's war. You don't have to like it, but that's the way it is."
"But what about what happened at the White House?" A fairly unfriendly-looking reporter asks, sticking his microphone in SPYGOD's face: "Is this the kind of justice we are to expect from you? To kill-"
SPYGOD grabs the microphone out of the man's hand. He looks like he's going to say something, but then he bites down on it like it was an ice cream cone. It sparks, and there's a horrible feedback noise that makes everyone there wince and put their hands to their ears.
And then SPYGOD drops the microphone, and spits out what was in his mouth.
"I don't care to make a statement about that at this time," he says, once his teeth are clean and clear: "And that's because I am not allowed to make a statement about that at this time. And I plan to follow my instructions on that quite closely.
"What happened, happened. Exactly why this happened is a classified matter that you don't need to know about. The fact that you do shows that something has gone seriously wrong, and may require some corrective steps.
"But yes, there will be a statement, but I won't be making it. I suggest you talk with my superiors if you want more answers than that, as they'll be the ones who decide what they want you to know. \
"Until then, get the !@#$ out of my face."
With that, they head for the waiting car the hotel sent. The reporters stay with them all the way there, almost not letting them shut the doors and drive away. But while they keep repeating the same questions, they don't seem to have the same fury and ferocity they did before.
It's almost as if they've given up on this avenue to get answers, and are already thinking of going elsewhere for them.
"Nice," Straffer says as they drive away: "You gave them so many other things to chew on that they left the bone alone."
SPYGOD shrugs: "Sad thing is, all that was just the !@#$ing truth."
"Really?" Straffer says, looking at his lover, who's looking out the window looking very dejected, right now: "You mean he's going to..."
SPYGOD turns to look at him, ever so slowly: "The President told me that he is going to !@#$ing crucify me the first chance he gets. This was the last !@#$ing straw for him. He's !@#$ing done with me, and that means I'm !@#$ing done, too."
"Doesn't he understand that-"
"Oh, he understands. I made !@#$ing sure of that. I explained what happened, and why, and what's been !@#$ing going on. And what that could have meant if it had !@#$ing kept going on."
"And then?"
"And then... he listened, he nodded, he cried, he got himself back together. And when I was done, he looked me in the !@#$ eyes and told me that as soon as he could !@#$ing fix it, my loose end was being tied up for good."
SPYGOD looks away, and then back. And then he grits his teeth and slams his fist into the seat in front of him. Thankfully, it's not the drivers' seat, but the man almost swerves the car off the road from the shock of seeing a fist come through the heavily-padded seat right next to him.
"!@#$ it!" SPYGOD screams: "!@#$ it to !@#$!
"Everything we did together! Everything we worked on! Everything we !@#$ing accomplished! It's all that's gone, now. Like it never !@#$ing existed. We're right back to !@#$ing square one with him wanting to !@#$ing fire me.
"And it's my fault," SPYGOD continues, putting his hand to his face to try and keep back the sobs: "If I'd just !@#$ing trusted him, in spite of what happened in China. If I'd just !@#$ing trusted him to make the right !@#$ing decision. To let me make the right !@#$ing decision..."
He cries. It's all he can do. And Straffer can only put his arms around him and let him cry, one man to another.
* * *
They drive the rest of the way in silence, through a city that clearly wishes they were not there.
Every television they pass is on the news channel. Every headline ticker reads the charges. Every paper that someone's reading has the front page story.
Everything a reminder that this is now enemy territory.
Thankfully, they are both alone and anonymous as they they travel deeper behind the lines. They pass by TU guards who wave them through barricades and roadblocks, leading up to the courthouse. They pass gaggles of reporters who wait at those barriers, who have no idea that the story of the day was just closeby.
By the time they're back to the hotel, they have passed all the paparazzi behind. This is a good thing: by that point, Straffer would have taken back everything he said and killed them with his bare hands if they tried to ask any questions. The broken man he loves deserves no less.
And as the night drags on -- and SPYGOD cries less and less -- Straffer holds that man tight in the hopes that he can shelter him long enough to put himself back together, yet again.
(SPYGOD is listening to Facing the Wind (The FIXX) and having a Jade Ambree)
Thursday, December 19, 2013
12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.3
On a windswept plain, before a great mountain, lies a small, squat cairn made of black and tan rocks.
It's only about two feet tall, just under four feet wide. It has no writing upon it, nor any identifying marks. And yet it radiates a sense of importance -- perhaps because it's the only man-made structure for miles around.
The only one visible, at any rate.
There's a strange noise, like markers on a whiteboard, and then two pairs of men simultaneously teleport within ten feet of the cairn. One of the pairs is a pair of white men: a taciturn fellow in a blue costume, who immediately lights up a terrible French cigarette, and a pretty blonde in a sharp-as-knives suit who takes the landscape in with a single, subtle glance.
The other pair are Indian: a scarred, well-dressed fellow with a subtle sneer playing about his features, and a large man in a black coat whose face is mostly hidden under bandages.
The two well-dressed men nod to each other and, walking forward, shake hands before the cairn.
"Dosha Josh," the blonde says: "Good to finally meet you."
"We've met before, Director Straffer," the other man says.
"We have?" Straffer raises an eyebrow: "I don't remember that. I usually don't forget a face."
"It was a long time ago. I wasn't nearly this handsome, and I wasn't quite so high in things."
"And I was," Straffer says, winking, and they both have a laugh about that.
"So?" Straffer says, looking around: "Your government had something to contribute to our efforts?"
"We do, yes," Dosha says, gesturing to the cairn: "If you'll follow me through here, I'll show you."
Straffer looks at the rocks, again, and -- cocking his head to the side -- smiles: "A shift door. How elegant."
"I thought you might appreciate it," the Indian man says: "But just so you understand? This is to be a weapon of last resort only. This is why we didn't bring it out against the Imago."
"I thought it was because you didn't know how the Sudarshana Chakram worked?"
"Oh we do," Dosha says, trying not to show how disconcerted he is that this man even knows its name: "It's just that we don't know how to control the thing."
"That could be a problem..." Straffer says, and Dosha shrugs:
"Well, hopefully we won't need it. But...?" and -- gesturing to his man that he's not needed -- walks right into the cairn, and vanishes.
Straffer follows not long thereafter, and does the same.
"Ever get the feeling you get left out of the good stuff?" Anil asks Disparaître, trying to make conversation. But the Frenchman shrugs, and goes back to smoking his cigarette and looking bored.
"Gaandu," Anil mutters, wondering how long his boss will be, this time.
It's only about two feet tall, just under four feet wide. It has no writing upon it, nor any identifying marks. And yet it radiates a sense of importance -- perhaps because it's the only man-made structure for miles around.
The only one visible, at any rate.
There's a strange noise, like markers on a whiteboard, and then two pairs of men simultaneously teleport within ten feet of the cairn. One of the pairs is a pair of white men: a taciturn fellow in a blue costume, who immediately lights up a terrible French cigarette, and a pretty blonde in a sharp-as-knives suit who takes the landscape in with a single, subtle glance.
The other pair are Indian: a scarred, well-dressed fellow with a subtle sneer playing about his features, and a large man in a black coat whose face is mostly hidden under bandages.
The two well-dressed men nod to each other and, walking forward, shake hands before the cairn.
"Dosha Josh," the blonde says: "Good to finally meet you."
"We've met before, Director Straffer," the other man says.
"We have?" Straffer raises an eyebrow: "I don't remember that. I usually don't forget a face."
"It was a long time ago. I wasn't nearly this handsome, and I wasn't quite so high in things."
"And I was," Straffer says, winking, and they both have a laugh about that.
"So?" Straffer says, looking around: "Your government had something to contribute to our efforts?"
"We do, yes," Dosha says, gesturing to the cairn: "If you'll follow me through here, I'll show you."
Straffer looks at the rocks, again, and -- cocking his head to the side -- smiles: "A shift door. How elegant."
"I thought you might appreciate it," the Indian man says: "But just so you understand? This is to be a weapon of last resort only. This is why we didn't bring it out against the Imago."
"I thought it was because you didn't know how the Sudarshana Chakram worked?"
"Oh we do," Dosha says, trying not to show how disconcerted he is that this man even knows its name: "It's just that we don't know how to control the thing."
"That could be a problem..." Straffer says, and Dosha shrugs:
"Well, hopefully we won't need it. But...?" and -- gesturing to his man that he's not needed -- walks right into the cairn, and vanishes.
Straffer follows not long thereafter, and does the same.
"Ever get the feeling you get left out of the good stuff?" Anil asks Disparaître, trying to make conversation. But the Frenchman shrugs, and goes back to smoking his cigarette and looking bored.
"Gaandu," Anil mutters, wondering how long his boss will be, this time.
* * *
For a moment, Straffer thinks that the prisoner hasn't understood what he's been told, or at least hasn't comprehended the full scope of it. The lack of shock or fear on his face is almost reassuring.
"And you are certain of this?" Faraj says, putting his hands out before him: "This is not a guess? This Preternatural is coming here?"
"I wish we were wrong," Straffer says, handing the man a folded-up piece of paper. The prisoner snaps it open with a languid gesture, glances over the data it holds, and then looks back at his liberator.
"When was this made?"
"Ten days ago."
"How many know of this development?"
"Not many. And they won't talk."
"That is good," he says, snapping it shut again and handing it back: "And you say that the people know that this beast is on the way?"
"They do, but I don't think it's sunk in, yet. The Imago told them it was on its way and that they were going to protect us from it. It turns out they were using us to help them escape the planet before it got here. I think most people have associated it with the rest of their broken promises."
"Or perhaps they are so broken that they cannot believe that fate would give them one more hardship on top of what they have already suffered," Faraj says, rising from the cot and walking to the far wall, his hands knitted behind him: "We must reach them as soon as possible. Otherwise when the end comes, they will panic. And panic is a deadly foe."
"I thought you might see it that way," Straffer says, getting up and following after: "That's why I need you with me. You know how to rally a people, Faraj. You've done it countless times before-"
"So you believe me, then?" Faraj says, looking down at Straffer and waving his hand before his extensive murals: "The Viridian Sea? The Islands of Time? The Endless Empire that claimed dominion over all? The Emperor and his Unknowing Armies?"
"I more than believe it," Straffer says, tapping a few of the things the prisoner drew: "I was up above the Earth around the time you came back. I had proof that what you were saying was the truth. It was practically raining on my front doorstep for a few years there, while the dimensional conduit was open."
The prisoner blinks, and Straffer thinks that's the first time he's seen this man be surprised (other than the cyborg thing): "And yet, here I have remained..."
"The Space Service was afraid of global panic," Straffer admits: "And after the civil authorities got tired of you, well, we couldn't get you out without admitting what we knew. We might be able to keep our strategic partners quiet, of course, but Morocco isn't known for its ability to keep its mouth shut."
Faraj is silent for a moment, and unreadable. But then he nods: "A sensible precaution. In retrospect, I was clearly wrong to try and rally the common people. I should have started at the top."
"I agree," Straffer says, extending a hand: "I've come to take you there. Will you join us?"
The man looks at the hand for a moment, and then takes it: "We will. But I will need some guarantees. And I have to tell you -- when Earth is safe once more, and I get the chance to go back to the Viridian Sea? I'm leaving without saying goodbye, and this time I think I will stay gone."
"I wouldn't blame you," Straffer says, feeling as though the man's grip could crush his steel bones with minimal effort, and admiring his restraint.
"Also? I need clothes."
Straffer tries not to smile at that -- he was rather enjoying watching this well-maintained, hirsuite man walk around completely naked.
"And you are certain of this?" Faraj says, putting his hands out before him: "This is not a guess? This Preternatural is coming here?"
"I wish we were wrong," Straffer says, handing the man a folded-up piece of paper. The prisoner snaps it open with a languid gesture, glances over the data it holds, and then looks back at his liberator.
"When was this made?"
"Ten days ago."
"How many know of this development?"
"Not many. And they won't talk."
"That is good," he says, snapping it shut again and handing it back: "And you say that the people know that this beast is on the way?"
"They do, but I don't think it's sunk in, yet. The Imago told them it was on its way and that they were going to protect us from it. It turns out they were using us to help them escape the planet before it got here. I think most people have associated it with the rest of their broken promises."
"Or perhaps they are so broken that they cannot believe that fate would give them one more hardship on top of what they have already suffered," Faraj says, rising from the cot and walking to the far wall, his hands knitted behind him: "We must reach them as soon as possible. Otherwise when the end comes, they will panic. And panic is a deadly foe."
"I thought you might see it that way," Straffer says, getting up and following after: "That's why I need you with me. You know how to rally a people, Faraj. You've done it countless times before-"
"So you believe me, then?" Faraj says, looking down at Straffer and waving his hand before his extensive murals: "The Viridian Sea? The Islands of Time? The Endless Empire that claimed dominion over all? The Emperor and his Unknowing Armies?"
"I more than believe it," Straffer says, tapping a few of the things the prisoner drew: "I was up above the Earth around the time you came back. I had proof that what you were saying was the truth. It was practically raining on my front doorstep for a few years there, while the dimensional conduit was open."
The prisoner blinks, and Straffer thinks that's the first time he's seen this man be surprised (other than the cyborg thing): "And yet, here I have remained..."
"The Space Service was afraid of global panic," Straffer admits: "And after the civil authorities got tired of you, well, we couldn't get you out without admitting what we knew. We might be able to keep our strategic partners quiet, of course, but Morocco isn't known for its ability to keep its mouth shut."
Faraj is silent for a moment, and unreadable. But then he nods: "A sensible precaution. In retrospect, I was clearly wrong to try and rally the common people. I should have started at the top."
"I agree," Straffer says, extending a hand: "I've come to take you there. Will you join us?"
The man looks at the hand for a moment, and then takes it: "We will. But I will need some guarantees. And I have to tell you -- when Earth is safe once more, and I get the chance to go back to the Viridian Sea? I'm leaving without saying goodbye, and this time I think I will stay gone."
"I wouldn't blame you," Straffer says, feeling as though the man's grip could crush his steel bones with minimal effort, and admiring his restraint.
"Also? I need clothes."
Straffer tries not to smile at that -- he was rather enjoying watching this well-maintained, hirsuite man walk around completely naked.
* * *
Across the heavens races a red and silver streak, going from pole to pole like she had no time to spare.
She laughs as she goes, this shiny shooting star. Red hair flying behind her in the cosmic wind. Metal feet planted on her glowing, ruby board. Riding the unseen waves of the universe, cresting and crashing on the invisible powers that that work in secret to keep all things as they are.
And some things as they must be.
Her names is Brightstarsurfergirl. It is not a name she chose for herself, but something the board whispered in her ear, when she first took it up. The board whispers many things to her, as they ride across the night. Amazing things, terrible things.
Things that only those who are chosen may know.
Today, she races to make a meeting on which many things depend. She must speak with the man she brought down to Earth, not too long ago. The man she found, right where the board said he would be. The man she saved, who will in turn save so much, and so many.
The spaceman, awaiting his next journey to the stars.
She could tell him of things to come. She could tell him of the triumph, the tragedy. She could tell him of the things that he will have to do for the future, the great and terrible choices that must be made to keep this world alive and safe.
But he would not understand them now. He may not ever understand them, to be honest. All that is certain is that he will make those choices, because he is the man to make them.
And she will be there to be sure that he does, because that is what she does.
She can almost see him, now, waiting for her on the beach. One day he may understand that she was waiting for him.
But not today.
She laughs as she goes, this shiny shooting star. Red hair flying behind her in the cosmic wind. Metal feet planted on her glowing, ruby board. Riding the unseen waves of the universe, cresting and crashing on the invisible powers that that work in secret to keep all things as they are.
And some things as they must be.
Her names is Brightstarsurfergirl. It is not a name she chose for herself, but something the board whispered in her ear, when she first took it up. The board whispers many things to her, as they ride across the night. Amazing things, terrible things.
Things that only those who are chosen may know.
Today, she races to make a meeting on which many things depend. She must speak with the man she brought down to Earth, not too long ago. The man she found, right where the board said he would be. The man she saved, who will in turn save so much, and so many.
The spaceman, awaiting his next journey to the stars.
She could tell him of things to come. She could tell him of the triumph, the tragedy. She could tell him of the things that he will have to do for the future, the great and terrible choices that must be made to keep this world alive and safe.
But he would not understand them now. He may not ever understand them, to be honest. All that is certain is that he will make those choices, because he is the man to make them.
And she will be there to be sure that he does, because that is what she does.
She can almost see him, now, waiting for her on the beach. One day he may understand that she was waiting for him.
But not today.
* * *
"So," Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir says over the roaring flames, finding it strange to be in clothes for the first time in three decades: "I see fashion has not changed much?"
"Not really, no," Straffer says, trying not to jump at the explosion behind him: "There was a hideous pastel phase in the 80's, but that went away before long."
"I remember. Thank the Maker for that."
"Won't they be upset about...?" Disparaître asks, turning around to look at the burning prison.
"The official story is that the Pit of Hell caught fire and burned," Straffer explains, watching as a gaggle of suddenly-unemployed guards shout and howl abuse at the fire that's taken their jobs: "All prisoners died in the flames."
"Not entirely true, of course," Faraj says, watching as a group of bewildered men stagger away into waiting police trucks: "Some will be incarcerated elsewhere, quietly of course."
"Of course," Straffer says, marveling at how quickly the man catches on: "And others, like yourself, are going back into the world."
"And perhaps it's ready for me at last," the man says, standing still and taking a moment to breathe in clear and smokeless air: "Perhaps this time I am ready for it."
"Where to now?" the Frenchman asks, tossing his cigarette away.
"Whitehaven Beach, in Australia," Straffer responds: "We've got a girl to meet. I think you might find her interesting, Faraj."
"I'm sure I will," the man says, turning to look one last time at his prison, burning down: "Adieu, Fosse de L'enfer."
And then they're gone -- to bigger and better things.
(SPYGOD is listening to Pandora (Rapha) and having a Tooheys)
Sunday, December 15, 2013
12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.2
There's a prison, outside of Marrakesh, where anyone can go in but hardly anyone comes back out again.
It used to be a Berber fortification, once upon a time. People spent a lot of time trying to break into it, with no success. But centuries later, it's become a jail, and now people are unable to break out of it -- an irony that's not lost on anyone incarcerated there.
It has an official name, as one expects from such a thing. It also has a number of other names in several languages, which is also to be expected in a country with so many. But the one name that tends to stand out is La Fosse de L'enfer.
The Pit of Hell.
So when Director Straffer comes to visit, he makes sure to have his transport bring them back to Earth right in the front courtyard -- right between the massive, closed gates and the entrance to the administration. This is partially because he doesn't care to be held up at the gate by surly prison guards, and partially because he just loves the idea of having his own personal teleporter for the day.
If his ride realizes this, he makes no sign of it. He's content to stand and impassively light a terrible-smelling cigarette as the stunned, well-armed interior guards stumble all over one another to threaten and harangue the man he's been assigned to, this day. But he can't help but smile a little as that man calmly stares down the sweaty, angry guards and -- ever so slowly -- pulls out the letter of introduction that the newly-installed Minister of Justice just wrote for him.
After that, everything changes, and they're allowed inside after all.
"Have to be kidding me," the Major says, looking down at his desk.
"No, I'm not," Straffer says, putting both hands on that desk and trying to look his former superior officer -- and current Doctor, after a fashion -- in the eyes: "You know when I'm joking, Harvey. This is not my joking face."
"Isn't, is it?" the barrel-chested man says, sighing and looking up.
"Don't you want to know why?"
"Think I do," the man says, getting up and walking across his small office to get a bottle out of its hiding place: "Security."
"There is that. If something happened to me-"
"Nothing's going to happen to you," he says, getting two glasses out: "Body'll outlast your brain. Maybe already has."
"Okay then, but I'll still need a good Number One. And that's you."
"Not selling me on it," Harvey says, pouring them both a glass of the Scotch: "Gave it up. No more rush. Why would I go back?"
"Because you can't stand being in charge of it all," Straffer says, taking a glass and raising it up: "You wanted a challenge, so you jumped at everything they gave you. Eventually, they made you the one in charge of saying who got what, but you couldn't go out and do things yourself, anymore. It was too much of an unacceptable risk."
"Paid attention," the man says -- sitting down, lifting his own glass and following through on a drink: "So why-"
"Because this time, you're not going to be behind a !@#$ desk," Straffer says, wincing at the drink's bite and putting the glass down: "This time, you'll be in the field. You'll be my eyes and ears. My hand on the world. You will be the one jumping through the hoops, and doing everything possible to make sure my !@#$ stays in one piece."
"I won't be in charge of the whole thing ever again..." Harvey says, mulling that over.
"Exactly," Straffer says, tapping his empty glass: "I'm tired of being !@#$ed by people I can't trust, Harvey. I'm tired of having to watch my back and worry about rogue androids or people who are too good to be true.
"I know you. I trust you. And you put me back together, for God's sake."
"Don't want you breaking, do I?" the man says, filling both their glasses: "Sir."
Straffer smiles and salutes with his glass. Harvey does the same.
The deal is done.
It used to be a Berber fortification, once upon a time. People spent a lot of time trying to break into it, with no success. But centuries later, it's become a jail, and now people are unable to break out of it -- an irony that's not lost on anyone incarcerated there.
It has an official name, as one expects from such a thing. It also has a number of other names in several languages, which is also to be expected in a country with so many. But the one name that tends to stand out is La Fosse de L'enfer.
The Pit of Hell.
So when Director Straffer comes to visit, he makes sure to have his transport bring them back to Earth right in the front courtyard -- right between the massive, closed gates and the entrance to the administration. This is partially because he doesn't care to be held up at the gate by surly prison guards, and partially because he just loves the idea of having his own personal teleporter for the day.
If his ride realizes this, he makes no sign of it. He's content to stand and impassively light a terrible-smelling cigarette as the stunned, well-armed interior guards stumble all over one another to threaten and harangue the man he's been assigned to, this day. But he can't help but smile a little as that man calmly stares down the sweaty, angry guards and -- ever so slowly -- pulls out the letter of introduction that the newly-installed Minister of Justice just wrote for him.
After that, everything changes, and they're allowed inside after all.
* * *
There's a man in a bar in Tokyo who shouldn't be there, but is.
The beefy, short-haired fellow's clearly not dressed for the establishment. He has a Hawaiian print shirt on, rather than the "casual" everyone's supposed to be affecting, here. He's also wearing heavy sunglasses, and has been nursing the same large drink all night, rather than obeying the two-drink minimum.
He doesn't look like he gives a !@#$, though. And none of the severs, bouncers, or patrons seen inclined to give him any. They're just letting him sit at the bar -- with plenty of space -- and drink in silence.
They even turned the music down just a little, just for him, just because he winced a little when some jarring "chill out" number came on.
And maybe that's because he's missing some finger joints. And maybe it's because there's something about him that says he could either buy or kill everyone there a dozen times over.
And maybe it's because they know who he really is.
So when Straffer walks over to him, and sits down right next to him without so much as a "Konichiwa", everyone nearby freezes in horrendous fear, thinking there's about to be some blood on the floor. And maybe there would have been, too, if the large man had been able to speak first.
But he doesn't get that chance. Before he can even open his mouth, the well-dressed interloper has pushed a photograph in his direction. It's of a smiling, young woman, dressed in a well-pressed business suit.
"I can get her back to you, Mister Ten," Straffer says (in Japanese, of course): "She may not be the same as she was, after what happened. But I can bring her around, in time."
"And what do you want, Spaceman?" Ju San, head of the Organization, asks, looking at this impudent gaijin over his shades.
"The world needs you back in the game," Straffer answers, returning his stare: "No more sitting at the bar drinking your day away. No more twenty hooker anime rampages in Shinjuku. You get back on your horse and you ride it, because you know what's coming, and we're going to need everything on the table, again."
"Talk to the government. I have no say in these things-"
"I did. They wasted my time trying to make deals. I don't have time for deals, Mister Ten. I need action. And I know for a fact you can provide it."
The man sighs and looks away. He says nothing for quite some time.
And then, at last, he nods: "You'll want The Dignitary," he assumes.
"To start with? Yes," Straffer says.
And then, in a flurry of photographs, he confidently proceeds to tell the most powerful man in Japan what else the world requires of him, for the future.
The beefy, short-haired fellow's clearly not dressed for the establishment. He has a Hawaiian print shirt on, rather than the "casual" everyone's supposed to be affecting, here. He's also wearing heavy sunglasses, and has been nursing the same large drink all night, rather than obeying the two-drink minimum.
He doesn't look like he gives a !@#$, though. And none of the severs, bouncers, or patrons seen inclined to give him any. They're just letting him sit at the bar -- with plenty of space -- and drink in silence.
They even turned the music down just a little, just for him, just because he winced a little when some jarring "chill out" number came on.
And maybe that's because he's missing some finger joints. And maybe it's because there's something about him that says he could either buy or kill everyone there a dozen times over.
And maybe it's because they know who he really is.
So when Straffer walks over to him, and sits down right next to him without so much as a "Konichiwa", everyone nearby freezes in horrendous fear, thinking there's about to be some blood on the floor. And maybe there would have been, too, if the large man had been able to speak first.
But he doesn't get that chance. Before he can even open his mouth, the well-dressed interloper has pushed a photograph in his direction. It's of a smiling, young woman, dressed in a well-pressed business suit.
"I can get her back to you, Mister Ten," Straffer says (in Japanese, of course): "She may not be the same as she was, after what happened. But I can bring her around, in time."
"And what do you want, Spaceman?" Ju San, head of the Organization, asks, looking at this impudent gaijin over his shades.
"The world needs you back in the game," Straffer answers, returning his stare: "No more sitting at the bar drinking your day away. No more twenty hooker anime rampages in Shinjuku. You get back on your horse and you ride it, because you know what's coming, and we're going to need everything on the table, again."
"Talk to the government. I have no say in these things-"
"I did. They wasted my time trying to make deals. I don't have time for deals, Mister Ten. I need action. And I know for a fact you can provide it."
The man sighs and looks away. He says nothing for quite some time.
And then, at last, he nods: "You'll want The Dignitary," he assumes.
"To start with? Yes," Straffer says.
And then, in a flurry of photographs, he confidently proceeds to tell the most powerful man in Japan what else the world requires of him, for the future.
* * *
There's a wait in a stuffy room full of photographs and maps. The chairs are uncomfortable and the windows are small. The ceiling is high and dusty, and the sad, creaky fan is too slow to move the air.
Eventually a small boy brings in tea from a cart out in the hall. It's strong and grainy, and desperate for sugar. Straffer takes it with two lumps, and Disparaître with only one. More cigarettes and silence, as per the Frenchman's desires.
Eventually, a sweaty, fat man in a uniform a size too small appears, mopping his forehead as he enters the room. He apologizes in broken English, and -- delighted to find that his guest speaks French -- launches into a lengthy discussion about the subject of their visit. Nothing he has to say is anything new to Straffer, but he nods along politely and pretends to be interested and uninformed.
Eventually, they get to the important part: why they're actually here.
"Do you mean to say that you are taking him out of here?" the Prison Director asks, clearly shocked by this.
"We are, yes," Straffer says, accepting the young boy's offer of more tea: "The Terre Unifee has need of him. I'm sure you understand."
"But you do understand the reasons he was put here?"
"We do, yes," Straffer smiles, sipping at his tea ever-so-politely: "There were some concerns about his demeanor?"
"The man was a !@#$ing lunatic," the Director stammers: "And a fruit! The things he said... the things he claimed. It was just as well they put him in here. They'd have ripped him apart on the streets of Marrakesh if we hadn't arrested him."
"That was thirty years ago," Straffer reminds him: "Times have changed."
The Director sighs and leans back in his chair: "What does the TU want with this man?"
"That's kind of a need-to-know matter, Msr. Director. I'm sorry I can't be more specific than that."
"I need more than that."
"You have a letter from the Minister of Justice. Isn't that enough?"
"Pfah! Minister of Justice? I could tell you things about that man and how he came to power..."
"I'm sure you could," Straffer says, leaning forward a little: "In the interests of transparency, I should tell you that he told us quite a few things about how and why you were installed here, in this prison. They made for an interesting discussion."
The Director blinks. Then he goes blank-faced, and then finally smiles, somewhat weakly.
"Very well," the man says: "But I should warn you, this man is a danger to society. The things he claims he saw and the ideas he has... they could be very disruptive. I think we're better off with him locked up so he can't pervert anyone with his insane talk."
"You could have just taken him to Tangier," Disparaître intones, almost absent-mindedly: "There's hardly a straight man in town."
The Director almost has a heart attack. The tea boy tries not to giggle. Disparaître goes back to looking disinterested.
And Straffer sips his tea, trying not to smile now that he knows they've finally won through.
And Straffer sips his tea, trying not to smile now that he knows they've finally won through.
* * *
"Have to be kidding me," the Major says, looking down at his desk.
"No, I'm not," Straffer says, putting both hands on that desk and trying to look his former superior officer -- and current Doctor, after a fashion -- in the eyes: "You know when I'm joking, Harvey. This is not my joking face."
"Isn't, is it?" the barrel-chested man says, sighing and looking up.
"Don't you want to know why?"
"Think I do," the man says, getting up and walking across his small office to get a bottle out of its hiding place: "Security."
"There is that. If something happened to me-"
"Nothing's going to happen to you," he says, getting two glasses out: "Body'll outlast your brain. Maybe already has."
"Okay then, but I'll still need a good Number One. And that's you."
"Not selling me on it," Harvey says, pouring them both a glass of the Scotch: "Gave it up. No more rush. Why would I go back?"
"Because you can't stand being in charge of it all," Straffer says, taking a glass and raising it up: "You wanted a challenge, so you jumped at everything they gave you. Eventually, they made you the one in charge of saying who got what, but you couldn't go out and do things yourself, anymore. It was too much of an unacceptable risk."
"Paid attention," the man says -- sitting down, lifting his own glass and following through on a drink: "So why-"
"Because this time, you're not going to be behind a !@#$ desk," Straffer says, wincing at the drink's bite and putting the glass down: "This time, you'll be in the field. You'll be my eyes and ears. My hand on the world. You will be the one jumping through the hoops, and doing everything possible to make sure my !@#$ stays in one piece."
"I won't be in charge of the whole thing ever again..." Harvey says, mulling that over.
"Exactly," Straffer says, tapping his empty glass: "I'm tired of being !@#$ed by people I can't trust, Harvey. I'm tired of having to watch my back and worry about rogue androids or people who are too good to be true.
"I know you. I trust you. And you put me back together, for God's sake."
"Don't want you breaking, do I?" the man says, filling both their glasses: "Sir."
Straffer smiles and salutes with his glass. Harvey does the same.
The deal is done.
* * *
"Do you want me in there with you?" the Frenchman asks as they walk down yet another long, cramped hallway -- guards on either side.
"No, I think I'll be okay," Straffer says, adjusting his cufflinks: "This man's not nearly as dangerous as they make him out to be."
"That's not what I heard."
"Well, he is dangerous," Straffer clarifies as they turn the corner, only to find yet another long, cramped, stone hallway awaiting them: "The man's taken on entire armies. Destroyed whole armadas. Repelled invasions, for God's sake, and sometimes single-handedly."
Disparaître whistles, not sure he's hearing this right: "How can he do such things?"
"Well, sometimes he had an army on his side, which never hurts. And sometimes he made those armies himself, out of people who were fighting each other just days before. But sometimes he only needed a sword in one hand and a blaster in the other to do it.
"And sometimes...?" Straffer says as they near the cell, which has two very nervous guards standing outside of it: "Sometimes all he needed was for his enemies to know he was there, and they'd turn around and run out of fear."
"And yet, here he is," Disparaître says, gesturing to the cell.
"That's right," Straffer nods: "Because there's one thing more terrible and powerful than alien invaders, evil emperors, and warring kingdoms from another galaxy."
"And what is that?"
"Your own government at home, convinced you're insane," the man says, winking.
And then he's heading for the doors, which the guards throw open rather hurriedly, and shut twice as fast.
Inside the darkened cell is a cot and a toilet. There is no window, and no light.
All the walls are covered in massive murals, all drawn by scratching onto the rude stone. Friezes of armies and battles, entire kingdoms new and old, people and places and wonders beyond imagining.
"Are you here to bring me a copy of the Noble Koran?" a man says, suddenly right behind Straffer. His voice is firm and supple, and he speaks Arabic with a cultured, shoreline accent.
"No, I am not," Straffer says: "May I turn around?"
"Not just yet," the man says, putting a single finger on the back of his neck and holding him there: "If you're not here to make me recant my heresy, then why are you here?"
"I am here to inform you that you are a free man, again," Straffer replies: "But there are some conditions."
"I could snap your neck with this finger," the man hisses: "Do not speak to me of...."
And then he falls silent. The finger is joined by another, and then a hand.
"Not... you are not human?"
"Yes and no," Straffer answers: "I am a cyborg. And I've been one for a long time, now."
"I did not think there were any that were this... convincing."
"Not outside of the Space Service, no. But we've always been ahead of the curve. You know that."
"Dear God," the man says, quickly walking around and showing himself at last. He is tall and well-muscled, with long, silver hair down to his waist, and a well-trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes shine in the dark, and his body, though old, appears to have been worn down very little by the decades he's spent in this cell.
"Faraj," Straffer says: "I know you have suffered greatly. I know you have been treated unfairly. I wish there had been a way, before now, to get you out of here. But the world needs you."
"Is the Empire invading?" Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir says: "Has that dog of an Emperor finally deigned to come here?"
"No," Straffer says, gesturing to the cot, so that they both might sit: "Something a billion times worse, Faraj. Something that makes that Emperor look like a little boy throwing rocks at fish in a pond. We are looking at the end of all life on Earth, and only someone with your skills could save us."
And that's all he needs to say to go from annoyance to center of attention.
(SPYGOD is listening to Sense the Adventure (The FIXX) and having a Special Flag)
Sunday, December 8, 2013
12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.1
11/18/12
It's an early morning in Paris, right after the !@#$ hit the fan, and SPYGOD watches his man get dressed from their large hotel bed.
He's not exactly pretending to be asleep, but he's not saying anything, either. He just likes to watch Straffer as he puts his clothes on -- methodically hiding his lovely, new body with each piece of clothing. Black socks, loose plaid boxers, tightly-pressed grey pants, a shirt so dark blue it's almost black.
And then the tie -- that tie. The one that practically screams 'I'm in !@#$ing charge, here, and don't you ever !@#$ing forget it.'
His Space Service tie. The one he wore every day on Deep-Ten.
"So you are taking them up on their !@#$ offer?" SPYGOD asks, a little piece of his heart falling away like a chunk from an iceberg.
"I think so," Straffer says, carefully selecting a jacket to go with the ensemble: "That'll depend on how things go, today."
"In court?"
"No," he says, making his choice -- excellent, as always -- "Today I see what we still have to work with, out there. Who we can rely on, who's on the fence, who's completely out."
"So you have !@#$ing thrown in with them," SPYGOD sighs, sitting up.
"It makes sense, hon," Straffer says, turning and kneeling down, so they're at the same eye level: "The Space Service was an always intended to be an international effort. And right now, whether we like it or not, the big international player is the TU. They're making the connections and getting the resources-"
"Aw, !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, putting a hand over his face: "Christ on a !@#$ing rocketship-"
"Hey now, lover, you know it's true," Straffer says, poking his man in the chest: "I don't like it any more than you do. I'd rather America was in a better position to get a planetary defense system back up and running, again, all by itself, and lead the others. But right now, with everything that's going on back at home, and the problems we're having there, we might need someone else to take the lead for a while-"
"!@#$!" SPYGOD shouts, slamming his other hand into the headboard. It breaks like balsa, causing the bed to shiver and lose some of its balance.
"Is that on your card or mine?" Straffer asks, after a moment. The way he says it completely defuses the moment, and the two men laugh, however ruefully.
There's a slight silence between them, and then SPYGOD sighs, mutters, and admits: "I don't trust these !@#$ers."
"I know."
"We've !@#$ing talked about this."
"We have, yes."
"So why do you want to !@#$ing throw in with them, knowing all that?"
"I don't," Straffer says, getting up and sitting next to his lover on the bed: "But it's the only game in town, right now."
"It's going to be a rigged game. You !@#$ing know that."
"I know that. But I also know that, sometimes, the giant has to be kicked in the !@#$ to get off its seat and lead."
"What do you-"
"You know what I mean, hon. You were there for it, remember? The Space Race? We blink and suddenly the Russians have a satellite in orbit, and then a man in a can floating around the world?"
"I was a little !@#$ing busy at the time," SPYGOD sighs: "But yeah, I !@#$ing remember that. The whole !@#$ing conversation changed, then."
"Right. And we got off our butts and surged ahead, just so we wouldn't have a red Moon and a communist-controlled NEO. And look what happened?"
"A couple decades of us versus them in !@#$ing orbit, followed by a bunch of !@#$ about Star Wars when we !@#$ing inherited Deep Ten. And then, after the Soviet Union collapsed, we got a decade or so of shaky cooperation-"
"And that's what we need, right now," Straffer insists: "Cooperation. All the nations we can get together working to make us ready for what's coming. Unless you're planning on going up there in the mother of all jetpacks and trying to shoot (Unintelligible Concept) down all by yourself?"
"It's !@#$ing tempting."
"I know," Straffer says, putting a hand on SPYGOD's chest: "But it wouldn't work, and you know it. Not everything is solved by shooting it."
"What if I get a big enough gun...?"
"God I love you," Straffer says, smiling: "You really would go and try, wouldn't you?"
"For America? For my friends and my people? The man I love?" SPYGOD asks, reaching up and running his hands through his lover's hair: "I would. Even if it !@#$ing killed me a million times over, I'd say I got the better part of the deal."
"Then let me do this," Straffer says: "This can't be any worse than that."
"It'll be !@#$ing imperfect as !@#$."
"I'm sure. But this is one of those times when you need an imperfect thing to work perfectly. That means you need the right people in the wrong places. And unless you can think of anyone better suited to make those !@#$ers do one thing right, when it matters the most?"
SPYGOD has nothing for that, so he nods: "And you're the best !@#$ right person to be in this wrong place at the right !@#$ing time, I guess."
"You better more than guess," Straffer says, bending over and kissing him for all its worth. And for a moment, there's no world, no politics, and no oncoming space monster -- just the two of them.
That moment must end, though, and it does so leaving SPYGOD wanting more. Especially today, when he really needs his man beside him with the others, and in Court, and when deciding what to do about the nasty and complicated situation in Israel.
But by the time he can think of something else to say, his lover has gotten ready, kissed him goodbye, and headed out the door.
(SPYGOD is listening to Do What You Can, For Peace on Earth (The FIXX) and having a l'amalthee)
It's an early morning in Paris, right after the !@#$ hit the fan, and SPYGOD watches his man get dressed from their large hotel bed.
He's not exactly pretending to be asleep, but he's not saying anything, either. He just likes to watch Straffer as he puts his clothes on -- methodically hiding his lovely, new body with each piece of clothing. Black socks, loose plaid boxers, tightly-pressed grey pants, a shirt so dark blue it's almost black.
And then the tie -- that tie. The one that practically screams 'I'm in !@#$ing charge, here, and don't you ever !@#$ing forget it.'
His Space Service tie. The one he wore every day on Deep-Ten.
"So you are taking them up on their !@#$ offer?" SPYGOD asks, a little piece of his heart falling away like a chunk from an iceberg.
"I think so," Straffer says, carefully selecting a jacket to go with the ensemble: "That'll depend on how things go, today."
"In court?"
"No," he says, making his choice -- excellent, as always -- "Today I see what we still have to work with, out there. Who we can rely on, who's on the fence, who's completely out."
"So you have !@#$ing thrown in with them," SPYGOD sighs, sitting up.
"It makes sense, hon," Straffer says, turning and kneeling down, so they're at the same eye level: "The Space Service was an always intended to be an international effort. And right now, whether we like it or not, the big international player is the TU. They're making the connections and getting the resources-"
"Aw, !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, putting a hand over his face: "Christ on a !@#$ing rocketship-"
"Hey now, lover, you know it's true," Straffer says, poking his man in the chest: "I don't like it any more than you do. I'd rather America was in a better position to get a planetary defense system back up and running, again, all by itself, and lead the others. But right now, with everything that's going on back at home, and the problems we're having there, we might need someone else to take the lead for a while-"
"!@#$!" SPYGOD shouts, slamming his other hand into the headboard. It breaks like balsa, causing the bed to shiver and lose some of its balance.
"Is that on your card or mine?" Straffer asks, after a moment. The way he says it completely defuses the moment, and the two men laugh, however ruefully.
There's a slight silence between them, and then SPYGOD sighs, mutters, and admits: "I don't trust these !@#$ers."
"I know."
"We've !@#$ing talked about this."
"We have, yes."
"So why do you want to !@#$ing throw in with them, knowing all that?"
"I don't," Straffer says, getting up and sitting next to his lover on the bed: "But it's the only game in town, right now."
"It's going to be a rigged game. You !@#$ing know that."
"I know that. But I also know that, sometimes, the giant has to be kicked in the !@#$ to get off its seat and lead."
"What do you-"
"You know what I mean, hon. You were there for it, remember? The Space Race? We blink and suddenly the Russians have a satellite in orbit, and then a man in a can floating around the world?"
"I was a little !@#$ing busy at the time," SPYGOD sighs: "But yeah, I !@#$ing remember that. The whole !@#$ing conversation changed, then."
"Right. And we got off our butts and surged ahead, just so we wouldn't have a red Moon and a communist-controlled NEO. And look what happened?"
"A couple decades of us versus them in !@#$ing orbit, followed by a bunch of !@#$ about Star Wars when we !@#$ing inherited Deep Ten. And then, after the Soviet Union collapsed, we got a decade or so of shaky cooperation-"
"And that's what we need, right now," Straffer insists: "Cooperation. All the nations we can get together working to make us ready for what's coming. Unless you're planning on going up there in the mother of all jetpacks and trying to shoot (Unintelligible Concept) down all by yourself?"
"It's !@#$ing tempting."
"I know," Straffer says, putting a hand on SPYGOD's chest: "But it wouldn't work, and you know it. Not everything is solved by shooting it."
"What if I get a big enough gun...?"
"God I love you," Straffer says, smiling: "You really would go and try, wouldn't you?"
"For America? For my friends and my people? The man I love?" SPYGOD asks, reaching up and running his hands through his lover's hair: "I would. Even if it !@#$ing killed me a million times over, I'd say I got the better part of the deal."
"Then let me do this," Straffer says: "This can't be any worse than that."
"It'll be !@#$ing imperfect as !@#$."
"I'm sure. But this is one of those times when you need an imperfect thing to work perfectly. That means you need the right people in the wrong places. And unless you can think of anyone better suited to make those !@#$ers do one thing right, when it matters the most?"
SPYGOD has nothing for that, so he nods: "And you're the best !@#$ right person to be in this wrong place at the right !@#$ing time, I guess."
"You better more than guess," Straffer says, bending over and kissing him for all its worth. And for a moment, there's no world, no politics, and no oncoming space monster -- just the two of them.
That moment must end, though, and it does so leaving SPYGOD wanting more. Especially today, when he really needs his man beside him with the others, and in Court, and when deciding what to do about the nasty and complicated situation in Israel.
But by the time he can think of something else to say, his lover has gotten ready, kissed him goodbye, and headed out the door.
* * *
"You are ready, Msr?" the man in the dark blue uniform asks as Straffer walks out of the hotel. As he does, he straightens up and tosses away the balto he was smoking.
"I am," Straffer says, extending a hand to shake: "It's good to meet you, Disparaître."
"We have met before," the man says, giving the hand a careful shake: "You may not remember me."
"Well, you'll have to remind me," Straffer says: "We have a whole day to-"
"I do not like to talk too much," the man interrupts: "Nothing personal."
"No problem," Straffer says, having already figured as much: "I'm ready if you are."
"Have you traveled like this before?" Disparaître asks, putting a hand on Straffer's shoulder.
"Actually no. What's it like?"
"Confusing, at first," the man hedges, a slight smile at his lips: "A little frightening, perhaps. It takes longer than you think, and sometimes people think I have lost them. But I never do, and there is nothing to fear. Trust me."
"I think I do," Straffer says, putting his hand on the man's shoulder in turn: "Let's go recruit some astronauts?"
The man nods. There's a bright light, and then nothing.
And so it begins.
(SPYGOD is listening to Do What You Can, For Peace on Earth (The FIXX) and having a l'amalthee)
Sunday, December 1, 2013
12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 3.2
At last, the body has taken full shape, minus its skin and its head.
It looks surreal, under those lights. An unearthly sculpture commissioned by some strange lover of the arts, and brought into being by the sort of person who envisions things best left unspoken. A headless nightmare in red, white, and silver.
A figment of a dream, real and gleaming outside of the sweaty fantasy that birthed it.
The screens around it seem to indicate that all its functions are working. The doctors seem confident that all is well. This means the second phase can begin, and it is the most dangerous.
For, up until now, the patient has merely watched from his table as his new body is created before him, piece by piece. Now, he must make the leap of faith from what he was into what he could be. What he must be, in order to survive.
And that leap requires sacrifice.
The holographic head that floats beside him is a perfect representation of what he looked like, before. Not the battered, beaten remnant that they salvaged when he was brought back to Earth, but a healthy, proud thing. It almost smiles, there, as though enjoying a pleasant thought with its eyes closed.
The doctors ask one more time if he's ready, and certain. He has to be both, or this stops now. They will need him fully active in what takes place next, and there is no room for uncertainty or hesitation.
We can't hear him from up here, or at least I can't. But when SPYGOD leans forward and smiles (and is that a tear in his eye) I know that he has heard what I clearly cannot.
The answer is yes. And so they obey.
It looks surreal, under those lights. An unearthly sculpture commissioned by some strange lover of the arts, and brought into being by the sort of person who envisions things best left unspoken. A headless nightmare in red, white, and silver.
A figment of a dream, real and gleaming outside of the sweaty fantasy that birthed it.
The screens around it seem to indicate that all its functions are working. The doctors seem confident that all is well. This means the second phase can begin, and it is the most dangerous.
For, up until now, the patient has merely watched from his table as his new body is created before him, piece by piece. Now, he must make the leap of faith from what he was into what he could be. What he must be, in order to survive.
And that leap requires sacrifice.
The holographic head that floats beside him is a perfect representation of what he looked like, before. Not the battered, beaten remnant that they salvaged when he was brought back to Earth, but a healthy, proud thing. It almost smiles, there, as though enjoying a pleasant thought with its eyes closed.
The doctors ask one more time if he's ready, and certain. He has to be both, or this stops now. They will need him fully active in what takes place next, and there is no room for uncertainty or hesitation.
We can't hear him from up here, or at least I can't. But when SPYGOD leans forward and smiles (and is that a tear in his eye) I know that he has heard what I clearly cannot.
The answer is yes. And so they obey.
* * *
There's prep, and then after-prep, and then one last check. And then it's just Straffer and the Chief of Surgery, alone in the room, looking at one another -- doctor to head.
"Ready?" the man asks, going down on his haunches to look his patient in the eye.
"More than you know, Harvey," Straffer says.
"Nervous?"
"Yeah. But it's the waiting more than anything else."
"Hear you there," he says, smiling a little: "Reminds me of the Service."
"'Go and then wait, wait and then go,'" Straffer quotes, and they both chuckle over that.
"You ever miss it?" Straffer asks.
"Sometimes," the surgeon admits, looking up at the ceiling: "Miss the rush. Going to 12 Gs in five seconds. The whole world shaking apart for three minutes that feel like three hours. Sky turning from blue to black..."
"And then that moment when you level out, and you're weightless," Straffer says, closing his eyes: "It's like being lost for days, and then finding your way home."
The surgeon smiles and nods: "Had other ways to describe it."
"You would, wouldn't you?" Straffer chuckles, looking at him: "You always were a dirty-mouthed !@#$."
"That's Major !@#$ to you, Lt," the man says, putting a finger in his patient's face.
"Not anymore. You quit, and I got promoted."
"Really want to argue with the man who's fixing you?"
"My boyfriend's going to be watching you, you know."
"I know," the man says, grinning and getting back up: "Does he know the theater's glass is bullet proof?"
"I guess he's going to find out if you !@#$ up."
"Won't !@#$ up," the surgeon says, looking at his watch: "Not here. Promised him that."
"I know," Straffer says: "I heard. And I know the risks, but I want this. And you know why."
"Then it's done," the man replies, and then there's silence between them -- a long period where neither of them know exactly what to say, or why.
Straffer finally breaks that silence: "Why did you resign, Harvey?"
"Told you when I did it, didn't I?"
"You did, but I never believed it."
"Your problem, Lt-"
"Come on, man. 'Needed new challenges'? Every day in the Service is a challenge. You told me that when I signed up, green out of the Academy, and you were more right than you knew-"
"Don't throw my words back at me-"
"Don't avoid the truth, Major. It isn't !@#$ing worth it. I know."
There more silence between them, and harsh stares. And them the surgeon's stare softens, and he sighs and nods, thinking of how to put this.
"Didn't feel dangerous, anymore," the surgeon finally says: "After the accident, the reconstruction, I felt removed. Not real, somehow. Like it was all happening to someone else. No more excitement..."
"No more rush," Straffer says, understanding at last: "I think I knew that, somehow. I could see it in your eyes when you came back from a mission. The thrill wasn't there, anymore."
The man nods: "Felt dead inside, like someone flipped a switch. Needed a change."
"I'm glad," his patient says: "This place needs someone like you, here. They need someone who knows what it's like to lose your own skin and need a new one."
"No need to brown-nose, Lt," the surgeon says: "Can't reach from there, anyway."
"That's Director to you, Major," Straffer says.
"Not anymore," the man says, and they laugh about it, warmly, allowing the chuckles to trail off into silence.
"Good?" the surgeon asks, extending a hand for a zen shake.
"We've always been good, Harvey," Straffer says, smiling at the hand: "I've always trusted you. I just figured... if this is it, let's get that out of the way."
"Not going to be it," he says, heading for the door: "Going to be something new."
And as the man leaves -- and Straffer remembers what it was like having him as a C.O. -- he feels as though he couldn't be in safer hands.
But still, he wants this over with. Now.
"Ready?" the man asks, going down on his haunches to look his patient in the eye.
"More than you know, Harvey," Straffer says.
"Nervous?"
"Yeah. But it's the waiting more than anything else."
"Hear you there," he says, smiling a little: "Reminds me of the Service."
"'Go and then wait, wait and then go,'" Straffer quotes, and they both chuckle over that.
"You ever miss it?" Straffer asks.
"Sometimes," the surgeon admits, looking up at the ceiling: "Miss the rush. Going to 12 Gs in five seconds. The whole world shaking apart for three minutes that feel like three hours. Sky turning from blue to black..."
"And then that moment when you level out, and you're weightless," Straffer says, closing his eyes: "It's like being lost for days, and then finding your way home."
The surgeon smiles and nods: "Had other ways to describe it."
"You would, wouldn't you?" Straffer chuckles, looking at him: "You always were a dirty-mouthed !@#$."
"That's Major !@#$ to you, Lt," the man says, putting a finger in his patient's face.
"Not anymore. You quit, and I got promoted."
"Really want to argue with the man who's fixing you?"
"My boyfriend's going to be watching you, you know."
"I know," the man says, grinning and getting back up: "Does he know the theater's glass is bullet proof?"
"I guess he's going to find out if you !@#$ up."
"Won't !@#$ up," the surgeon says, looking at his watch: "Not here. Promised him that."
"I know," Straffer says: "I heard. And I know the risks, but I want this. And you know why."
"Then it's done," the man replies, and then there's silence between them -- a long period where neither of them know exactly what to say, or why.
Straffer finally breaks that silence: "Why did you resign, Harvey?"
"Told you when I did it, didn't I?"
"You did, but I never believed it."
"Your problem, Lt-"
"Come on, man. 'Needed new challenges'? Every day in the Service is a challenge. You told me that when I signed up, green out of the Academy, and you were more right than you knew-"
"Don't throw my words back at me-"
"Don't avoid the truth, Major. It isn't !@#$ing worth it. I know."
There more silence between them, and harsh stares. And them the surgeon's stare softens, and he sighs and nods, thinking of how to put this.
"Didn't feel dangerous, anymore," the surgeon finally says: "After the accident, the reconstruction, I felt removed. Not real, somehow. Like it was all happening to someone else. No more excitement..."
"No more rush," Straffer says, understanding at last: "I think I knew that, somehow. I could see it in your eyes when you came back from a mission. The thrill wasn't there, anymore."
The man nods: "Felt dead inside, like someone flipped a switch. Needed a change."
"I'm glad," his patient says: "This place needs someone like you, here. They need someone who knows what it's like to lose your own skin and need a new one."
"No need to brown-nose, Lt," the surgeon says: "Can't reach from there, anyway."
"That's Director to you, Major," Straffer says.
"Not anymore," the man says, and they laugh about it, warmly, allowing the chuckles to trail off into silence.
"Good?" the surgeon asks, extending a hand for a zen shake.
"We've always been good, Harvey," Straffer says, smiling at the hand: "I've always trusted you. I just figured... if this is it, let's get that out of the way."
"Not going to be it," he says, heading for the door: "Going to be something new."
And as the man leaves -- and Straffer remembers what it was like having him as a C.O. -- he feels as though he couldn't be in safer hands.
But still, he wants this over with. Now.
* * *
The next step is gruesome, but necessary.
A
team of doctors crowd around their patient, and reach forward. As they
do, holographic hands nearby echo their own movements, allowing them to
touch him by remote.
The
skin is peeled from the back of his skull, allowing access to the metal
beneath. And then, with a series of movements (pressing sensitive
spots, unlocking certain things) the skull is opened up at the back, and
swung open horizontally.
The
face is distorted and misshapen as they do this. The eyes remain
conscious and alert, but soon he closes them, perhaps at their
direction.
The
force hands move in, and then out. As they do, the patient's brain
comes with them -- its folds full of wires and other structures. Some are
new and glistening, some are old and sagging, cracked from the stress
and strain he's put them under, recently. The old ones are gingerly
removed, revealing new ones, growing right underneath, like fresh skin
under peeling scabs.
The invisible hands take the brain from the now-empty head, and move it over to the hologram, over the smaller white square. Another set of force fields cradles it, just so, and moves it to the exact spot it needs to be in. For a moment there is a strange illusion of a half-transparent head, with its brain showing underneath like a 50's movie monster.
And then the white square comes alive and begins moving up and down, building a new skull around the brain, itself. One slow pass, and the cranium is whole, save for the front area. Another, faster pass, and it's mostly sealed up.
Then begins a series of quick cycles, creating the recognizable front of the skull: eye sockets, cheekbones, nasal cavities, the upper and lower jaw. Muscles are made and attached, creating the underlying face, and nerves and blood vessels stitched between the layers.
And finally an underlayer of raw, red skin -- fresh and new and beautiful.
The head is still for a moment, and then it shudders. Its newly-made eyes open, and its mouth opens and closes. The doctors ask it questions, and seem to approve of its answers.
With that approval, the next step can begin.
The invisible hands take the brain from the now-empty head, and move it over to the hologram, over the smaller white square. Another set of force fields cradles it, just so, and moves it to the exact spot it needs to be in. For a moment there is a strange illusion of a half-transparent head, with its brain showing underneath like a 50's movie monster.
And then the white square comes alive and begins moving up and down, building a new skull around the brain, itself. One slow pass, and the cranium is whole, save for the front area. Another, faster pass, and it's mostly sealed up.
Then begins a series of quick cycles, creating the recognizable front of the skull: eye sockets, cheekbones, nasal cavities, the upper and lower jaw. Muscles are made and attached, creating the underlying face, and nerves and blood vessels stitched between the layers.
And finally an underlayer of raw, red skin -- fresh and new and beautiful.
The head is still for a moment, and then it shudders. Its newly-made eyes open, and its mouth opens and closes. The doctors ask it questions, and seem to approve of its answers.
With that approval, the next step can begin.
* * *
"Yeah, I !@#$ing know," SPYGOD says, talking on his phone down a deserted hallway, just outside of the operating theater: "I !@#$ing saw what was !@#$ing left of Krwi. I still can't !@#$ing believe it...
...
"Yeah, I'm okay. Sort of. Me and that !@#$ing Pole, we've been through some !@#$ together, right? Who would have !@#$ing thought there were so many !@#$ commie vampires out there, eh?
...
"No, this doesn't !@#$ing change a !@#$ thing we talked about," he says, looking around to be sure they're not being eavesdropped on: "You keep a !@#$ing eye on things at the White House. Things get worse, you tell me. Things get better... aw, !@#$, who am I kidding. They never do.
...
"Yeah, tell me about it. I sympathize. You got a foot in each side of the !@#$ road, now. Not gonna be !@#$ing easy.
...
"I know. I do. But you hold strong, (REDACTED). I know we've been at the wrong !@#$ing end of each other's business since the !@#$ War, but I know you're a good man under all that. You do the right thing and I'll figure out what we !@#$ing do about that... thing. Okay?
...
"Okay. Knock 'em !@#$ing dead, Mr. Veep."
Then he hangs up, sighs, and leans up against the side of the hall, thinking of the vampire hunter he'd hated to love. He remembers the many times they'd fought side-by-side as allies. He reflects on the times they'd fought each other, which were all too frequent, lately. That horrible way that he'd died.
And the mocking message his killer left, there amongst the mess that was once a man.
"I get a moment, you're !@#$ing mine," he says, wondering if the other him can hear him, somehow: "I don't care where you are, or what you're doing. I will find you. I will kill you.
"And then I'm going to drink Krupnik until I !@#$ yellow for a month."
And with that, he turns his phone off, puts it away, and stomps into the operating theater, trying to think of nothing but the man he loves.
...
"Yeah, I'm okay. Sort of. Me and that !@#$ing Pole, we've been through some !@#$ together, right? Who would have !@#$ing thought there were so many !@#$ commie vampires out there, eh?
...
"No, this doesn't !@#$ing change a !@#$ thing we talked about," he says, looking around to be sure they're not being eavesdropped on: "You keep a !@#$ing eye on things at the White House. Things get worse, you tell me. Things get better... aw, !@#$, who am I kidding. They never do.
...
"Yeah, tell me about it. I sympathize. You got a foot in each side of the !@#$ road, now. Not gonna be !@#$ing easy.
...
"I know. I do. But you hold strong, (REDACTED). I know we've been at the wrong !@#$ing end of each other's business since the !@#$ War, but I know you're a good man under all that. You do the right thing and I'll figure out what we !@#$ing do about that... thing. Okay?
...
"Okay. Knock 'em !@#$ing dead, Mr. Veep."
Then he hangs up, sighs, and leans up against the side of the hall, thinking of the vampire hunter he'd hated to love. He remembers the many times they'd fought side-by-side as allies. He reflects on the times they'd fought each other, which were all too frequent, lately. That horrible way that he'd died.
And the mocking message his killer left, there amongst the mess that was once a man.
"I get a moment, you're !@#$ing mine," he says, wondering if the other him can hear him, somehow: "I don't care where you are, or what you're doing. I will find you. I will kill you.
"And then I'm going to drink Krupnik until I !@#$ yellow for a month."
And with that, he turns his phone off, puts it away, and stomps into the operating theater, trying to think of nothing but the man he loves.
* * *
There's some double- and triple-checking, and consultation with the screens, and then the doctors pick up the head with their force hands, gently cradling it by remote like a strange baby.
When nothing changes on their screens, they tip the head back, so that it stares at the ceiling. And then they move it -- oh so gently -- towards the red, white, and silver sculpture that lies on the table. It's a long, slow process, as they must make minor corrections in angle and trajectory every step of the way, ensuring that the neck aligns perfectly.
They take it over so far, and then leave it. Then there are a few minutes where the head and body float in space, like a planet and its moon.
Seconds later, something both miraculous and curious occurs: a long, silver tendril snakes from the head's portion of the spine, like the frond of some skinny, mechanical plant in search of sunlight.
The frond is soon kept company by another, and then another. Soon there are many silver strings, floating and twisting in the air between the two halves of the neck.
The doctors and the patient are speaking, and though I cannot hear them, I suspect from what the expression on the patient's face, this is both normal and desirable.
"Go on," SPYGOD whispers beside me, his voice like crushed glass: "It's your body, now. Take it and don't look back."
And then, not a full second later, the patient does exactly that. The fronds slide into the other end of the neck, one after the other. And when they are all in a straight line, the head and body begin to move closer together, once more.
Two feet, now. One foot. A few scant inches. The two parts become one, and as they do, the body begins to twitch and move, ever so slightly.
There's one last effort, then, and then contact is made. The patient closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, like a man sliding into a relaxing tub full of perfectly-warm water.
The two have clearly become one.
Seconds later, the large, white square begins to move, once more. It starts at the toes, and works its way up the body, ever so slowly. It lays down a layer of red underskin, and then another, and yet another. Layer after layer, building up on the body, until one last, white spray almost completes the process.
And there he is, at last -- a whole and perfect being, hairless and new, floating in space.
The doctors and surgeons crowd around him, asking him various questions and manually testing certain things to be certain the screens aren't lying to them. They're so busy, and there's so much going on, that for a few moments I don't see that SPYGOD is crying.
He says something. It might be "ecce homo" -- "here is the man." Or it might be something else. But I do not intrude, and let him have this moment.
Of course, they won't let this new man walk, just yet. There are more tests to be made. Decontamination. Sterile environments and allergic reactions. Nutritious meals and bowel movements. All sort of final things that must be done and measured after such a great undertaking.
But they let him lift up his arm, towards the windows of the operating theater, where we sit. He looks his lover in the eyes, and smiles, and says, quite clearly, "I love you."
And SPYGOD puts his hands on the glass and says the same -- keeping them there, and continually repeating those words, even after they've wheeled his rebuilt lover from the now-quiet and still operating room.
- Karl Scott, Neo York City
(SPYGOD is listening to Red Skies at Night (The FIXX, Shock remix) and having Krupnik by the ton)
Seconds later, the large, white square begins to move, once more. It starts at the toes, and works its way up the body, ever so slowly. It lays down a layer of red underskin, and then another, and yet another. Layer after layer, building up on the body, until one last, white spray almost completes the process.
And there he is, at last -- a whole and perfect being, hairless and new, floating in space.
The doctors and surgeons crowd around him, asking him various questions and manually testing certain things to be certain the screens aren't lying to them. They're so busy, and there's so much going on, that for a few moments I don't see that SPYGOD is crying.
He says something. It might be "ecce homo" -- "here is the man." Or it might be something else. But I do not intrude, and let him have this moment.
Of course, they won't let this new man walk, just yet. There are more tests to be made. Decontamination. Sterile environments and allergic reactions. Nutritious meals and bowel movements. All sort of final things that must be done and measured after such a great undertaking.
But they let him lift up his arm, towards the windows of the operating theater, where we sit. He looks his lover in the eyes, and smiles, and says, quite clearly, "I love you."
And SPYGOD puts his hands on the glass and says the same -- keeping them there, and continually repeating those words, even after they've wheeled his rebuilt lover from the now-quiet and still operating room.
- Karl Scott, Neo York City
(SPYGOD is listening to Red Skies at Night (The FIXX, Shock remix) and having Krupnik by the ton)
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