1/7/13 - (Faraj) My Kingdom - pt. 1

The Alpha Base Seven Memorial is quiet and still, but then, so is everything else up here on the Moon.

It's a simple thing, really -- even rows of smooth, black, coffin-like blocks, raised up three inches from the lunar surface. Each one bears the name of one of those lost in the silent but deadly conflagration that took place on 3/15, which wiped out the entire base in one go. Over 300 souls lost in the blink of an eye, the victim of an alien invasion they could never have seen coming.

It's a great and noble memorial. Somber and eternal. A solemn reminder of the sacrifice the Space Service calls upon its members to be ready to make at any moment.

But to Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir, the new leader of the Space Service, it reminds him of something else -- the mutable nature of the truth, and how it can and must be shaped for a greater purpose.

The world will never know what really happened here, that day. It will never know that some survived the initial onslaught, and tried to live under the nose of Deep-Ten. It will never know that the weapons platform's stricken commander, former Director Straffer, sought sanctuary here, after his lengthy fall through the vacuum, and engaged in a plan to knock those big guns out of commission.

And it will never know that, thanks to the cowardice and fear of some of its senior staff, that plan was ruined -- bringing death not only to the base, itself, but to billions of people on the Earth when Deep-Ten trained its massive weapons upon them.

Faraj does not like that this must be done. When he spoke with Straffer about what he'd seen at Alpha Base Seven -- how they'd dragged themselves up from  near-death, and actually stood a chance of surviving -- he was filled with admiration and pride. Was it right to bury the truth of their brave accomplishments, just to help their new narrative?

No, it was not. But at a time like this, when all hands were needed on deck, and all minds needed focusing in one direction, it was not the time to add complexities and complications.

So it was decided that the human failings of the dead would not be allowed to ruin the outlook of the living. The world didn't need to second-guess the motives and nobility of its saviors. The world needed heroes, now -- heroes and martyrs.

And if its betrayal at the hands of its so-called protectors had to be swept under a hefty rug of lunar dust, then so be it.

Faraj adjusts his stance, ever so slightly, looking over the horizon at the Earth as it rises into the light. A glittering jewel, blue and green and ever so beautiful. He'd only ever seen the slightest bit of that beauty on his first trip into space, so now, whenever possible, he sees as much of it as he can.

Rank does, after all, have many privileges.

He comes here, to this sad place, to think. He does this at least once a week if he can, and more if he can spare the time. Here, surrounded by black cairns raised to the dead, he can get out from under the avalanche he's been tasked with skiing just ahead of.

And there's a lot of things rolling downhill, right about now...

A beeping brings him back, and he scowls a little, turning his communicator back on: "This is urgent, of course?" he asks as imperiously as possible.

"You asked to be immediately informed when the latest autopsies were performed, sir," his newest communications officer stammers: "They're done."

"I see, thank you," he says, turning his communicator back off, again. He knew this moment would come, this day, but he was hoping for a few more minutes of contemplation, and planning.

No matter. The answers are not to be found here, but back where he came from.

"Brightstarsurfergirl," he says, knowing she can hear him, even through the vacuum outside of his suit: "I'm ready for pickup, please."

"I know," he hears her reply. It's not coming over his suit's communicator.

And she was probably already on her way. 

He barely sees the red and silver streak coming before it gains fullness and form, resolving itself into a girl with silver skin and flaming red hair, riding the cosmic waves astride a red, ruby board. She expertly pilots it right before him, coming just a nose-hair's distance away from the black stone that Faraj was regarding.

"Hop on, Spaceman," she giggles into the void, as if they were sharing some kind of joke.

"I think I'll step, thank you," he replies, doing just that: "A hop might send me a little too far."

"I'd pick you up."

"I know," he says, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding on tight: "Take me to the Egress, please."

And she does, chuckling all the way, as, even after all this time, that joke's never gotten old.

* * *

The ship floats in geostationary orbit over Pontianak, Indonesia -- just outside the atmosphere, not far from where the Imago's Space Elevator once stood.

What does it look like? Faraj has asked every single person who's approached it for their own take on it, and received many conflicting answers. A skyscraper that collapsed mid-construction is popular, as is that one optical illusion where three pipes become four. Other answers are more personal, and less coherent.

Clearly, it was going to be multi-dimensional. In its early stages, it looked something like a sled, but as the Imago built it up -- and out -- it became seemingly less functional, and more baroque. It grew spines and quills, gained curls and spirals, and developed a massive, violent shudder of a mouth in the front -- strange energies crackling between its hungry, steel teeth.

This is what they fly into, careful to avoid the deadly, streaming trails of plasma that slowly move from edge to edge like some lackadaisical gate. The theory is that the field should be covering the entire opening, but, given the state of repairs they found it in, after the Reclamation War, it wasn't completed, yet.

Going through this area always makes Faraj's hair stand on end, and yet makes him feel alive, which is why he insists everyone do the same. He needs to be certain they all understand the stakes, here.

He wants them to all feel the same sense of urgency.

Past the crackling field lies a great, open space, its surface dotted with structures as odd and overly-ornate as those outside. Between those strange, beetling and cuboid areas lie great, cylindrical conglomerations of clear plastic and steel girders, looking a lot like an overly-sophisticated maze for pet hamsters. These are the tunnels, workstations, and living areas made by the humans who've come here, so they can work on this alien ship in some semblance of comfort and safety -- however deceptive.

Behind it all, floating in the rear center of the ship, lies the great, ever-shifting conglomeration of wheels and spheres they've come to call the Zero Room. The very heart of the ship, so far as they can tell -- energy source and engine, all in one.

And the thing that's killed more men under his command than he's comfortable with.

Brightstarsurfergirl aims her board over to a simple, flat docking platform in the forward center of the open space, where a number of shuttecraft sit, awaiting their call to be refueled and sent home. At the far end of that platform is the sizable main airlock, where all traffic into and out of the innards of this alien ship must go.

As soon as the two of them are down, the ruby board vanishes, becoming nothing more than a wave of glowing particles. They slip and slide around the silver woman's body as if they were a swarm of bees,  eventually depositing themselves back into her hair, and hanging there like crystal jewelry.

"I never get tired of seeing that," Faraj says, winking, as they approach the airlock.

"That's why I never stop doing that," she replies, giggling a little.

* * *

Once inside the airlock, the avalanche resumes.

He's barely inside the clanging, close-quartered lockers before any number of people need him to sign something, look at something else, or listen to a report. The fact that he's getting out of his space suit does not deter them in this, but no sooner do they surround him than he gives them one !@#$ of an evil look. And they all quickly scatter, knowing this is not the time.

"I really need to get a Second," he reminds himself, aloud.

"You don't," Brightstarsurfergirl playfully chides him: "You need to be in the front. You said so yourself."

"I did, yes," he admits, easing out of the layer of thermal longjohns and reaching into his locker for his proper uniform: "But I'd forgotten what a mess command can be at times."

"Did you not command where you were?"

"Oh yes," he says, smiling as he gets into his tight-fitting, off-white station uniform: "But it was war, pure and simple. We planned, we fought, we recovered, we celebrated. Day after day, year after year.

"And never once did anyone have me fill out a report."

"I'm sure you would have killed them with your pen."

He smiles at that, and winks, finishing up securing his grip-shoes: "It's just possible."

She giggles at that: "How many ways can you kill a person with a pen?"

"Right tool for the job, my dear," he says, reaching into the locker to get his sword.

* * *

The pair of them head from the lockers -- him walking slow and sure on the grab-pads, her sauntering along as though she were back on Earth -- and go through what used to be the central command area. It was everything to everyone when they first arrived here, but is now more of a storage area and repair bay. And, once through that, they enter a long, reinforced tunnel that leads to the rest of the complex. 

The place is a hum and hive of activity. New white-suited workers are arriving every day, it seems, all ready and willing to throw themselves into this project. And no one is leaving until the job is done. 

As Faraj's main job is to make certain the job is done -- preferably well ahead of schedule -- he considers this good. But he also realizes that too many people is sometimes much worse than not having nearly enough. 

Although, given how things are going in the Zero Room, having too many people may not be enough.

A pair of guards are tethered outside the medical wing. They nod as he approaches -- saluting might send them spinning, here -- and one of them makes ready to let him in. 

"I want you to go to the flight deck and check in with Doctor Heila," he tells Brightstarsurfergirl: "See if he's gotten anywhere on the problem I set him upon."

"He hasn't," she says.

"Oh," he says, scowling: "You're there, now, too, then?"

"I am," she giggles: "Should I hit him or kiss him?"

"I'm sure you can find some way to impress the seriousness of the situation upon our good xenotechnician that doesn't involve sex or pain," he replies, not happy to hear this: "But if you'll concentrate there, I need to be completely here."

"I'll do that," she nods, and fades away into nothingness -- doubtlessly going to join herself on the flight deck, though whether it's all the same person, or ripples on the pond of spacetime, is something Faraj realizes he'll never know. 

* * *

The medical bay is large, with strap-beds up against the walls and large amounts of equipment. One poor fellow's being treated for what looks like a compound fracture, and the nurses are having a lot of fun getting him to sit still and stop groaning. One sideways look from Faraj is all he needs, and he straightens right up.

"He's in there, sir," one of the nurses says, pointing to the suite they've started using for autopsies. Faraj nods and walks over that way, taking care to open the door as slowly as possible.

Behind that door, Doctor Fuller is floating over the two tables his subjects lay on. The middle-aged, whip-skinny fellow doesn't even look in his direction before speaking, his voice a Scots brogue so slick and thick it's a wonder he can be understood: "About !@#$in' time you got here."

"I was held up."

"You were !@#$in' paying your bloody respects is what you were doing," he says, looking down at the two men's heads.

"You have a problem with that?" Faraj asks, stepping off the grab-pads and floating up beside him.

"Only when it gets in the way of my !@#$in' timetable."

"I thought you liked that?"

"Whatever," the man says, rolling his eyes: "I got the results in. All the bloodwork, makeup, DNA scans... all that !@#$. And what that tells us is bugger all."

"Exactly the same as the others?" Faraj asks, looking at the terrible expression on the faces of the two corpses -- their eyes white and starting, their mouths open in a silent scream.

"Exactly," Fuller says, reaching down and slowly pivoting himself around, so as to be looking directly down at their skulls: "And this time I managed to take special !@#$in' care while removing the skulls for inter-cranial !@#$in' examination, so I didn't !@#$in' lose half the !@#$ brain like those first few times."

"What did you find?" Faraj asks, pivoting himself likewise, so as to get the same look.

"!@#$est thing," he says, reaching down with both hands and gently removing the skull top from one of them, revealing what looks like a blob of swirling red and coral matter: "You see that, there? That stuff that should be !@#$in' solid?"

"I didn't think brains were solid?"

"Well gold star for you, sunshine. They aren't. But this !@#$ here is a liquid. Totally watery."

"And that's unusual to say the least."

"!@#$ straight it is," Fuller says, closing the skull back up: "If we weren't in zero G it'd be sloppin' all over the !@#$in' table. And I did a check on it. Know what I found?"

"Not what you were expecting, I take it," Faraj smiles.

"The DNA? Completely !@#$in' inert. Not a single !@#$ chromosome anywhere to be found in that mess."

"That is unusual," Faraj agrees, looking closer at the horrified expression on the nearest man's face: "So whatever happened to them in the Zero Room, and no one's still sure what happened at all-"

"Because it happens so quick no one sees a !@#$in' thing, and then they're just screaming and floating away."

"Right. And all the portable surveilance cameras go blank just around them, as if they were giving off a great deal of electromagnetic interference."

"Which would not do this to a person, by the !@#$in' way," Fuller insists: "Bake your !@#$ brains? Maybe. Liquify them into !@#$in' soup and nuke your DNA from !@#$in' orbit? No."

"So whatever happens, it does... this," Faraj says: "And it only ever happens in the Zero Room, while we're testing what's in there. And never the same time, or the same way, or the same position."

"Something in that room's !@#$in' killing people, Faraj," the doctor says, leaning forward: "As your ship's doctor? I'm telling you to stop !@#$in' around with it."

"And I'm telling you that if we want to get this ship out of orbit, and off to fight the thing that's coming, we have to get it working," Faraj sighs.

"Then at least do it by !@#$in' remote or something!" Fuller shouts: "Get everyone out and turn it the !@#$ on then! Watch it on the !@#$in' cameras, have a !@#$ robot do it. !@#$, get that silver tart to do it. I bet she'll be fine-"

"We can't do that,' Faraj says, holding up a hand and looking the man in the eyes: "We cannot send signals into the Zero Room. We cannot run things by remote. They have to be done manualy, in real time. And for that, we need people."

"So not her, eh?"

"I'm hesitant to send her in there," he admits: "If something goes wrong with her, who knows what might happen?"

"Yeah, as opposed to these other poor !@#$ers, here," Fuller sighs, realizing he's not winning this one.

"I share your concern," Faraj says, floating close and putting his hands on the man's shoulders: "If there were any other way I could do this, I would. But we are so close to realizing how to work this machine, and so desperate to get it working. And running out of time."

"I know," Fuller says: "But as your ship's doctor? I have to say this is a mistake."

"I agree," Faraj sighs, turning to go: "But we must continue."

"Aye, we must," Fuller mocks him, however gently: "You'll be wanting them send into space, then?"

"Yes, please," Faraj says: "Clean them up and we'll convene a funeral at 1200 hours, tomorrow-"

"Have to make it the day after," Fuller sighs: "I checked. The ejector's on the !@#$in' blink."

"Really?" Faraj asks, smiling a little: "I'll have to talk to maintenance about that, then."

"Aye, you might," the doctor says, also smiling a little: "You busy, later?"

"I probably will be, yes," Faraj sighs, knowing what the man wants -- and what he wants too, !@#$ it -- "But I'll let you know if anything comes up?"

"Aye, do that, then," Fuller says, letting the pun slide without comment: "Oh, one other thing? You might want to keep an eye peeled. It seems we've got ghosts."

"Ghosts?' Faraj asks, turning around before he gets to the door.

"Got about a dozen reports in, last few days. People are saying they're seeing people one minute, and then they aren't !@#$in' there. Just vanishing, they are."

"What sort of people?"

"Can't get a good look at them, apparently," the doctor admits: "There and gone. Though I got one person what's sworn they !@#$in' said something."

"What?" Faraj asks, intrigued.

"'Intercourse,' if you can !@#$in' believe that," Fuller chuckles.

"Well, at least they've got healthy libidos for being dead," Faraj smiles, wondering what this means but hiding his concern: "I'll keep my eyes open."

And with that he's out and gone, thinking he knows what's going on, here.

And not liking it a single bit.

 (SPYGOD is listening to "My Kingdom" (Future Sound of London) and having an Orion Zero Life)

Missing Time: 11/28/12 - This Is What You Are - Pt. 3

10/04/12
Yekaterinburg, Russia
 
"You do not understand our story, O SPYGOD," Orange and Gold says, ever-smiling: "You know only the edges of it. You know nothing of who we were, or how we came to be here, or why. You see our actions as evil, perhaps monstrous, but you of all people should know that a people will do anything to survive."

"And you should !@#$ing understand that we might have helped you, if you'd just !@#$ing asked," SPYGOD says: "All you ever had to !@#$ing do was ask for help."

"That is not in our nature, O SPYGOD."

"Well, neither is rolling over and dying, O !@#$face. We will also do anything to survive. And if there's one thing I can do, it's do anything." 

"You can, indeed. We have clearly underestimated you, O SPYGOD. It will not happen again."

SPYGOD smiles as the Specials re-aim their guns right at him.

"Just so you know," SPYGOD says, looking right at the Imago: "Everything that !@#$ing happens from here on out? That's on you. All of you."

"It is indeed," the Imago says, and gives the order to fire.

The Specials make ready to pull their triggers. Their gauss rifles -- capable of killing even SPYGOD -- hum and hiss.

SPYGOD outstretches his arms, as if he is ready to embrace death at last.

And then, just before the super-swift, heated projectiles can turn him into a hot, gay BBQ, he does something no one's seen him do since just after the War -- he pulls a shining, silvery sword out of nowhere, and puts it down between himself and his foes.

Except that it's not much of a sword, anymore; It's big and bulky, oblong and misshapen. It almost looks like it's developed cancer from disuse, or something. 

As SPYGOD positions it, and quickly ducks down behind it, he forces the sword to expand even more. It becomes an aegis of sorts, creating a barrier between himself and his enemies. 

And as soon as it's as wide as he thinks he can make it, he holds still and prays that this will still work.

That the shooting doesn't happen right away he puts down to their surprise. That it doesn't happen a second or two after they should have stopped being surprised is, itself, quite surprising. But then the seconds roll by, one into another, and SPYGOD realizes that they should have tried to kill him by now.

So he very carefully looks up, creating a small hole in the shield so he can see what's going on.

What he sees is the last thing he saw before he pulled the sword out and ducked down. The Imago, floating. The Specials, aiming. The guns, ready to fire. 

"Well that's !@#$ weird," he says, still not daring to move.

Yes, it is, a voice answers him. He quickly spins to see who it is, and is mystified by what he sees there.

"Who the !@#$ are you?" he asks, searching for an appropriate gun to aim  at the wavering, indistinct figure.

A friend, the presence says, walking past SPYGOD and his sword-turned-shield, and heading for the Specials and their Imago master: I know that sort of answer doesn't make you happy, but a longer explanation would be... well, longer. And you don't have a lot of time. 

"I seem to have a !@#$ing lot of it, all of a sudden," SPYGOD says, watching as the Presence quickly (but carefully) repositions each and every Special so that their guns are pointed at one another: "Are you... I mean, you look kind of !@#$ing familiar, but-"

Here's the deal, (REDACTED), the presence says, surprising SPYGOD by using his real name: As soon as they realize that these people haven't caught you, they're going to use Deep-Ten to wipe out this entire area, just to get to you.

"Unacceptable," SPYGOD growls, still thinking of that train full of doomed people: "We have to stop it-"

We can't. The best we can do is give you time to get out of here.

"What, you mean you can !@#$ing stop time, but you can't !@#$ing do anything to save these people?" SPYGOD shouts, aiming his gun at the figure as he makes the sword-shield go away: "That's bull!@#$, pal. If you can stop time like this, there's got to be something we can do-"

There is, the presence says, sliding over to where SPYGOD stands -- faster than he can see, much less hope to pull the trigger: you can shut up, trust me, and go for a ride. 

And then they're somewhere else entirely. But as soon as SPYGOD realizes that someplace is most likely in Japan -- in an abandoned building, far from prying electronic eyes -- the presence has all but vanished.

"Well, !@#$," SPYGOD says, putting away the gun and looking out the window. He's just in time to hear the Earth's atmosphere part as a pulse cannon touches down, over in Russia.

"!@#$," he mutters, not at all happy at how this rather !@#$ty day has gone.

* * *

Which is how you got to Japan without anyone knowing you were there, the Presence says, patting SPYGOD on the cheek as more of his lungs goosh out of his upside-down mouth: But you had it right. You had seen me before. Sort of.

SPYGOD coughs some more, glaring up at the mysterious figure -- a being not even the Chandra Eye can clearly make out.

That's right. I was at Bastogne, too. I didn't appear until you walked away to try and relieve yourself. And by the time you found out the hallway went on forever, and decided to just use the wall, it was all over. 

But you did catch sight of me, didn't you? Maybe just a little while you shook the last few drips away. Just enough that, when I helped you, last month, you weren't completely surprised to see me.

And then there was that dream, the Presence goes on, getting a little more comfortable, beside SPYGOD's head: Except... wait, that hasn't happened yet. But it will. And soon.

A quizzical look, even through extreme pain.

Sorry, (REDACTED). When it comes to time, I'm on the outside looking in, most of the time. You might see our meetings as a linear progression, since that's how you experience time, but it's more than likely that my schedule for meeting you is well out of synch with yours. 

I go where I'm needed, when I need to be there, and the rest of the time I'm just looking down, or inside, or beyond. 

Yes, I know it sounds confusing, the Presence sighs, still reading puzzlement on SPYGOD's pained face: But believe it or not we have had this conversation, before. Several of them. In fact, while I haven't had them yet, you have had them with me, in my future. Which is your past.

SPYGOD's eye goes wide at that.

Took you long enough, the Presence says, dropping the blurring field. His face is a fantastic silver mask, and his high-tech costume is also silver -- shimmering and glittering and gleaming in the sun.

It's Shift.

"You..." SPYGOD coughs, trying to reach out a hand.

"Yes," Shift says, reaching out to take it: "It is me, my friend. It has been me, all along. And even when it hasn't been, it has."

SPYGOD tries to say he doesn't understand, but fails to overcome the stream of goo rushing from his chest to his mouth.

"I know," he says: "You saw me die, then. You see me live, now. I sounded different, then. I am different, now. Two limited lifetimes, one immortal life. Such is the nature of godhood, when all is said and done."

"Don't... you aren't..."

"I am," Shift says, tapping his chest: "All we ever were was an idea made flesh. And you of all people should know that ideas are very hard to kill or destroy, even if Heaven decides otherwise. If all else fails, we just find a new body to exist within.

"And thanks to you, I have done just that."

SPYGOD coughs some more, twitching.

"Yes, I know. You have more questions. And I promised you secrets. But first, let us look at yours."

With that, Shift gets up, and spreads his hands wide across the scene. As he does, it's filled with tiny, shimmering windows in space and time: pockets of places and scenes from long ago, or not too long ago.

And in those small replayings of times past, SPYGOD sees himself -- however inverted.

He sees his earliest days as a hero, fighting supernazis on the road to Berlin. He sees himself sneaking around behind the Iron Curtain, after the War. He sees himself in Korea, Vietnam, South and Central America, Europe, Africa, the Middle East, Asia.

He sees himself with the Liberty League, the Freedom Force, and the COMPANY. He sees himself with heroes and villains, spies and freedom fighters, destabilizers and nation builders. With President after President, and politicians and appointees galore.

He sees himself running the COMPANY. He sees himself fleeing from it. He sees himself trying to recreate it, however restrained by this new, post-Imago world order.

He sees himself sober and drunk, happy and sad, angry and angrier. He sees himself !@#$ing, !@#$ing, and !@#$ing.

And all the while, as he watches, he sees himself in charge. He sees himself making decisions, for good or ill. He sees himself giving commands, either knowing their consequences or no longer caring. He sees himself doing what needs to be done, however flawed his understanding of what led to these events, or how they might play out.

He sees a man he was, there. He hardly recognizes him, now.

"And that is the problem, isn't it," Shift asks, waving at one example in particular: "Look at yourself, here, (REDACTED). All that hard work you had to do to get the underground armies of the world on your side for that last battle against the Imago. All those deals, all those promises, all those bargains and tricks and called-in favors...

"Oh, look," he says, pointing to one particularly hair-raising negotiation: "You do make a very convincing Chinese prostitute. If I didn't know you as well as I did, even I might have been fooled."

SPYGOD tries to say something but the words get caught on something. It might actually be his diaphragm, oozing into what's left of his throat.

"Yes, I know," Shift goes on: "You really put yourself on the line for that one, and Gods only know how you are ever going to pay that back, much less live it down.

"But that is the point. You didn't even stop to think about any of that, did you? You just looked through your little black book, kicked down doors, and got what you wanted."

"Had to..." SPYGOD croaks, wondering how much more lung he can lose at this point: "No one else..."

"Exactly!" Shift all but shouts, pointing back at him: "That is exactly it, my friend. No one else can do these things. No one else is you. This is your calling. This is who you are.

"This is what you are," Shift continues, stepping in closer and continuing on: "You are the one who makes it happen, (REDACTED). You make the hard choices, the impossible decisions. You throw your life on the line because no one else will do it.

"And that's why all... this," he says, gesturing to the dead and dying around them: "Is so massively disappointing. Because you could have done much better, my friend. So much better than this."

SPYGOD grits his teeth: "So could... you-"

"Could I? Is this my thing to do? I patrol time and space, friend. I deal with things even you can't see, and problems even you can't imagine.

"In fact, as we are speaking, I am several different places at once. A clutch of chronovores are sliding into New Zealand. A time paradox is threatening at the South Pole. Certain safeguards and stopgaps I had put in place, in ages past, need to be checked up on and reinforced this very second, this very day. Locks must be checked, barriers strengthened, the fabric of reality shored up...

"That is my calling, my friend. And while I am happy to help you with yours, when I need to, the rest of the time... well, I'm really busy.  And besides, how would you have taken if if I had just appeared, while you were putting this plan together, and told you it wouldn't work?"

Not very well, SPYGOD has to admit. But then...

"Yes, here I am, berating you on your bad plan, after all. But let us consider this an intervention-"

"Liked you better... when you didn't... !@#$ing... talk..."

"I know. And I am sorry. But this time, it is necessary. And not just because of the dead, here, but because of what it signifies for times to come.

"You've done this before, you know," Shift says, gesturing to the remade nation he's just assassinated: "Gone it alone. Been so angry at your circumstances and orders and leaders that you've ignored all the friends and allies you have, and all the resources at your beck and call, and just strapped on all the guns you can fit onto your jumpsuit, and whatever else you can fit into your sword..."

He looks back at SPYGOD, smiling: "And that, by the way, was a stroke of genius. All those times you amazed people by putting things out of nowhere? They were just all hidden in your sword, all along. That was good thinking on your part, (REDACTED)."

"Thanks..." SPYGOD coughs: "Thought so... myself... !@#$..."

"Of course, it did lead to you having to rely on guns, but maybe that's not such a bad thing, given your profession."

"Can't stab someone from... half a mile away..."

"This is true," Shift continues, stepping through a small portal between two images and reappearing beside SPYGOD's tree: "That is not one of your skills. Not yet, anyway."

"What...?"

"Ah, I forget myself," Shift chuckles: "But then, so have you, (REDACTED). Consider what you have to play with. Consider who you can call for aid. You have geniuses and madmen. You have heroes and villains. You have a demon and an angel, for God's sake.

"Do you not think of of them could have found a way to save these people, somehow?"

No. He doesn't. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes.

"But yet, you went it alone. You told no one, except for your lover. You commandeered the people you needed to destroy that woman's extra bodies. You took the dangerous things out of storage.

"And then you came here, and killed millions of people, just because you did not want to get anyone else involved in your mistake."

"My mistake..." SPYGOD says: "I let her out... she got free..."

"Yes, but it was not completely your fault she did so. She had help, voluntary and otherwise. And just as you did not need to shoulder the entire blame and responsibility,  yourself, neither did you need to solve the problem all by yourself. Plans work better when you get other people involved. You should know that by now."

"Not always..."

"Well, how about this, then?" Shift says, gesturing to himself: "This is the result of one of your better plans, SPYGOD. This is what happens when you really think about what to do, and how to do it, and who to use to get what you need done.

"I am here, today, because of you."

And before SPYGOD can cough up anything else, the Super-God does something that, in all the years they've known one another, he has never seen this man do.

He takes off the mask.

Beneath the gleaming, smiling silver is the face of a youngish man -- and a familiar one at that. It takes SPYGOD a moment to realize who it is, as the last time he saw him he was much younger, and was most certainly not smiling.

"Questions, yes," Simon Pure says, his face flickering: "But I have talked enough for one day. It is enough for you to know that, when the time is right, you and Mr. USA really do need to have a talk about what happened to him, and to me."

With that he gestures, and the many pockets of times gone past disappear. And he kneels down and holds SPYGOD's head up, looking into his eyes.

"Let this be a sacrifice, (REDACTED)" Shift pleads with him: "Let this be the end of your old mistakes. Let what comes from this be the penance you pay for them. Let what springs forth from this be the start of something entirely new and different.

"Learn from this, SPYGOD," Shift whispers, putting his mask back on: "Heal and learn."

And he's gone, and there's nothing but the tree, the dead, and SPYGOD -- somewhere between all of them.

* * *

He hangs on the tree for nine hours, not sure if he's going to live or die -- not even certain that the conversation he just had was real or imagined.

By the end of that time -- reasonably certain that he's no longer in danger of choking on his own fluid -- he carefully pulls himself up, and stands on his own two feet again. 

Walking to the shore is painful, both physically and otherwise. With each step he sees the dead, arrayed around him. He can hear no heartbeats, here. No one has survived this holocaust but himself.

At the shore, he sees one last echo of Zalea, lying face-down on the beach. A massive bloom of brownish-red sand lies beneath her head -- a tombstone of sorts, and an accusation.

For a moment he almost kneels down to pull her head from her shoulders, just so he can have the head of another enemy on his wall. But he realizes that would be a bad idea. For all he knows, she might be able to resurrect herself from even that.

So he leaves her be -- taking only a second to flip her the bird -- and then wanders into the surf, wondering if anything can make him clean, today. 

Anything at all. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Pure (Gary Numan, demo version) and having a lot of shame)

Missing Time: 11/28/12 - This Is What You Are - Pt. 2

"So that's the Nation of Atlas, huh?" SPYGOD said some time later, as the car came to a stop in a lot in the center of Jerusalem, overlooking the remade nation he'd just invaded: "Guys doing all the brute work, girls doing the smart stuff, and no kids?"

"Oh, most of the children are in school, right now," the frontseat Zalea Zathros explained, allowing her backseat self to continue making out with Tish: "But we've gotten a few of them up here, just so this can be seen by a suitable representation of the populace."

"You want to go for an all-in-the-family vibe when you try and kill me," SPYGOD snorted, lighting up another cigarette and looking out the window at all the people that had assembled there, in the lot. The eager look on their faces was !@#$ed unnerving.

"That's a rather crude way to put it, but, yes," frontseat Zalea admitted, opening the gull-wing doors on both sides: "If you'd be good enough to exit the vehicle?"

SPYGOD did, making sure to get a good look around as he did. It was a circular lot, fenced in, with some lethargic olive trees along the periphery. From here you could get a good view of things, and that was probably why she'd chosen this.

That and the center spot was probably in the path of several of her heat beams.

He'd figured that was going to be the end of the guided tour she'd been good enough to give him. All the way from Ashdod, she'd been going on and on about all the great things they'd accomplished since she'd revived the nation. All their societal and technological advances, all their plans for the future. All that stock-standard, gloating supervillain bull!@#$.

He hadn't been listening, though. He'd been looking out the world at the transformed cities, and remembering things that had happened there, both to and around him.

They'd passed a cafe where he'd once told Golda Meir's personal secretary to suck the !@#$ from his !@#$hole, over something that was still !@#$ing classified, all these years later. They'd gone by the building that now stood in the spot where Molchanie once ran their strategic talents program, before one of their own people had rendered it uninhabitable by normal humans. The bar where he'd toasted certain HAGANAH agents for catching up to a rather hideous Nazi war criminal in 1969.

(The sad street in Tel Aviv where BUSH had killed Geri and Johan -- the loss still heartbreaking, even after all this time.)

All those times, all that history -- all of it was gone, now, except as minor pieces in the minds of the frankensteined people that now labored to rework and perfect this transformed nation.

And with each mile -- as one Zalea had essentially kissed a mirror right next to him, while another kept talking and talking -- his stomach had become exponentially sour, and he found himself wishing he'd just done what he'd wanted to do, the moment he'd watched Zalea's televised announcement about what she'd done here.

Nuke the whole !@#$ thing from orbit, just to be !@#$ing sure.

* * *

Yes, and that would have helped... how, exactly? the Presence asks him, taking him through the day's events one step at a time: Just scattered their ashes and atoms, again? Sent waves of radiation down onto the neighbors? Made the world just that much more damaged, especially after what the Imago did to it?

SPYGOD tried to talk, but couldn't. It was all he could do to keep breathing, what with his lungs dissolving almost as fast as they could heal. 

You see, that's always been your problem, the Presence continued: They say that when all you have in your toolbox is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Well, all you tend to have in your toolbox is weapons. Even that sword you don't use, much, anymore? Imagine all the things you could do with that, if you'd just expand your mind a little.

A sour look from SPYGOD.

Oh, I know. Believe me, I know all the work you've put into the spy game, (REDACTED).  All those plots and plans. All those schemes and conspiracies. It's just delicious how much time and trouble you put into making that huge web of cause and effect, and all the little things that happened when one strand or another got pulled on.

But in the end, there's only one thing that can happen with you. One final solution... if you'll excuse the phrase, especially in these circumstances. And that's that, sooner or later, when everything else fails, there's just you, and a gun.

And some poor fellow who walks right into two bullets, right to the eyes.

The presence tapped his obscured peepers for extra effect.

Case in point, what's happened here today, it said, gesturing to the dead and dying: All these poor people. They had no idea what happened to them when they died, and had no way to avoid coming back. And then you come here, today, and all you can bring them is death. 

More angry looks, coupled with a few weak coughs as the bloody stream of lung-mush gets even worse.

Well, perhaps, and perhaps not. But you know what they say about shooting guns, (REDACTED). You fire off one just big enough, and it goes around the world and comes right back to hit you.

With that, the presence made a gun of its fingers and thumb: "Bang, you're dead," I think you said?

And what could he possibly say to that?

* * *

"So, how do you plan to keep the rest of the world out?" SPYGOD asked, looking off into the distance, towards Egypt -- seeing the far-off TU troops massed there, waiting.

"The same way we'll be dealing with you," some of the people closer to him replied, holding up their hands. As they did, a heat beam arced from a tall building, striking the ground right in front of one of the TU's hovertanks.

"Well, that's pretty effective," he admits, watching the TU's line move back, quick as it can: "But aren't you worried they'll ask for their people back?"

"What people?" other people asked, holding up compact video cameras -- all trained on him.

"Well, it wasn't just Israelis and Palestinians who were killed here, that day," SPYGOD said, looking around: "Lots of tourists, even then. I'm sure their countries would like their ashes back... however animated they might be-"

"We didn't return them to life," backseat Zalea admits: "Just so we could avoid that little problem, in fact."

"Well, that was !@#$ing smart," SPYGOD admitted, winking at the nearest camera.

"So what did you think of our new society?" the many people there asked as one: "Is it not glorious? Is it not everything we've promised?"

"It's contradictory bull!@#$," SPYGOD pronounced, playing to the cameras: "You claim you're following in Ayn Rand footsteps? That's bull!@#$. As much as I hated that !@#$, I have to give her credit for upholding the individual over the state. But here? There's no individuals. Just one person."

He points to the backseat Zalea as she exits the vehicle after Tish.

"Oh, that's not really fair," she said, coming closer to him and indicating that he should stand in the center of the lot: "We've achieved something unique, here. We've created a true over-mind. Many minds, all operating together, sharing ideas and memories, innovations and inventions..."

"All under your control," he insisted: "That's not in keeping with the idea of the individual being free from force."

"I think you're failing to see the possibilities."

"And I think I've listened to enough of my boyfriend's early Rush LPs to know you're full of !@#$, Zalea," SPYGOD insisted: "But then, most so-called Objectivists are, anyway. I don't know why you'd be any !@#$ing different."

"Well, I guess we can't expect intelligence from someone who gets his information from concept albums."

He just smiled at that, and then looked at Tish: "Well, let's see what I can find out from real !@#$ing life, shall we?"

"How do you propose to do that?" Zalea asked.

"Tish?" SPYGOD asked, turning to look at the reanimated woman.

"Yes?" the woman answered, stepping forward.

"Zalea says you're an individual, and you can think for yourself. Is that right?"

"Yes-"

"Then what's your husband's name?" SPYGOD demanded, stepping towards her and staring her in the eyes.

There was a moment of confusion, and then she answered: "Amir-"

"How old are your children?"

"Seven and... and..."

"What are their names?" he asked, watching her grow even more confused: "What's their blood type? What cartoons do they like? When's the last time you were !@#$ing proud of them?"

The woman stammered and looked around, uncertain -- knowing that the memories should be there, but just weren't.

"An individual, huh?" SPYGOD snorted, turning to look at the backseat Zalea: "She can't even !@#$ing remember the name of the man she's had two !@#$ kids with, lady. God only knows what else you lost along the way."

The crowd murmured for a moment, and then all smiled and golf-clapped.

"You keep bringing that point up, SPYGOD," they said in unison: "I fail to see why."

"Because she's not alive," SPYGOD insisted, looking around at the cameras: "You're all dead, all of you. This !@#$ took your DNA and brought you back, and she can !@#$ing slip into you like a hand into a !@#$ glove. But you died that day. Your soul's gone on to someplace else.

"And some !@#$ing !@#$ with a god!@#$ god complex is walking you around so she can have her big !@#$ utopia at last!"

"I think that's enough of that, then," backseat Zalea said, stepping forward: "We've been polite, even to the likes of you, but this is where the hospitality ends."

"I thought I still had three days before I stank like fish?"

"Oh no," Zalea said, putting an arm around Tish and kissing her ear: "All those years in that awful hole, never expecting to leave it? I swore vengeance against you, SPYGOD. And now I'm going to get it, and you're going to take it."

"Really?" he said, smiling: "You don't think I'd come here without a backup plan, do you?"

"What could you possibly do?" She asked, smiling just as wide: "How can you fight a foe made of people? Will you kill all these people, here and now, on camera?"

"Eventually," SPYGOD said, a glowing sword appearing in his right hand: "But first? I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, look," the crowd laughed, pointing in unison to his weapon: "The mighty man, hiding behind his penis extension. Do you think you can chop your way through all of us with that-"

Suddenly, they all stopped talking. Then they all cocked their head to the side, looking askance as they did so.

And then they all looked hurt and helpless, as if something precious had been taken from them by a thief too large to stop, too fast to chase.

"That'll be my TU strike team in Barcelona," SPYGOD announced, holding up the sword: "Next up is Minsk. Then Rio."

"No," they all gasped, and then twitched twice as each pronouncement came true.

"See, I know how this !@#$ing game is played, Zalea," SPYGOD said, his sword suddenly changing its shape -- becoming thicker and shorter: "You'd never have your remote bodies anywhere near something like this, just in case someone called your !@#$ bluff and decided to nuke your nasty !@#$ from orbit. So you'd scatter them far and wide, like always, and normally we'd never be able to find them all without a lot of !@#$ time and work, since the signals are so !@#$ faint.

"But that's when you're running maybe 50 bodies? Not a couple million. You need a lot of signal to make that happen. And while it's still too !@#$ing faint for most things to detect, well..."

He tapped his eye, under his eyepatch: "Let's just say I !@#$ing did."

The crowd got very angry, then -- infuriated tenfold with each new twinge as another hidden body died. Then they twitched one more time, and screamed in utter despair.

"That'd be St. Louis, right near the Arch," SPYGOD surmised, doing something with his shrinking sword: "The last body. You're on your own, here, Zalea. Just you and your meat puppets. All you little !@#$ing Frankensteins."

"We'll tear you apart, you pousti," they all shouted, taking a step forward -- hands raised to do the deed: "And then we'll kill a tenth of us, just to show the world their error."

"I think we can !@#$ing do better than that, Zalea," SPYGOD said, holding up a pair of small, metal canisters -- each no longer than a pop can -- and popping the top on each can.

"What is that?" the clones asked as they stopped, and took half a step back.

"That, Zalea, is what we !@#$ing call 'blowback,'" he replied, scowling: "Remember back in the day, when you needed !@#$ing money for your early operations, after we froze your !@#$ accounts? Remember those weird German !@#$s you met with, and the bio-weapons tech you gave them? The viruses that homed in on specific genetic markers?"

There's a gasp, and then they all held their hands up to their mouths: "You didn't."

"That's just it, Zalea. I didn't. You did. You gave ABWEHR the means to drop viruses on Israel that would kill anyone with any !@#$ing Jewish blood in them. Even the slightest little drop. And you even threw in the !@#$ Arabs, just in case they wanted to scorch the !@#$ing Earth and salt it when they were done.

"Well, maybe you forgot about it, mostly because even those Nazi !@#$s were smart enough to hold off on using them as a final straw. But they !@#$ing kept them, Zalea, just in case. And when we stormed the Ice Palace, last year? I !@#$ing found them. And I took them somewhere safe and hid them, planning to !@#$ing destroy them.

"But, you know, with everything that's !@#$ing happened? I just never got the chance."

"And here they are," he said, holding the opened canisters out, revealing that each one bears German writing, and a bio-hazard symbol interspersed with a swastika: "You've been breathing them in for about a minute, now. They should start working in another minute."

"What?" the crowd said, some of them looking very ill.

"Short version?" SPYGOD said, making guns with his index fingers as he continued to hold onto his deadly cargo: "Bang. You're dead."

And then he laughed -- long and black. 

The crowd was no longer leering, nor threatening. All the faces that were of one, menacing expression just a second ago -- as they surrounded SPYGOD where he stood -- now shared one of fear. All those hijacked bodies took a step back, and then another, holding their hands up to their faces.

All of those voices screamed "no" -- many mouths, one mind.

One soul that realized it was about to meet its maker.

SPYGOD dropped the small, metal canisters to the ground. As they pinged and bounced on the concrete, he wondered: how much blood has been spilled over its ownership?

None more than today, he realized, watching as his enemy started to die

He wanted to stop looking as the men, women, and children of an entire nation fell down dying around him, but he could not. He wanted to stop hearing their wet and ragged screams, but his ears betrayed him.

He had to see and hear this because there was no way to tune out or block it. Her could not, and dared not. It was his penance -- his karmic payment having to do such a horrible thing.

For a moment, he thought he was crying. But then he coughed once, then again.

Then he looked at his hand and realized there was blood, there.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$?" tried to say, but it all came out bloody and ragged, pieces of his lungs flying up into his mouth...

* * *

Did you even know your Great-Grandmother was Jewish? the Presence asked, looking at him as the stream of blood gets even worse, somehow: Or was that just not discussed around the table in your Catholic living room?

More coughing, more blood. Now maybe some tears to go with it.

Ah, I see. Your grandmother never talked about her. And, given how she was, you never asked her. That makes perfect sense, now, (REDACTED). Just another mystery in a family full of them.

Only now, that mystery is going to kill you, it says, looking away: And just how ironic is that?

It pats SPYGOD on the side of the head, and then leans in to whisper -- But before you die? We have Some secrets of our own, you and I. Big secrets. The kind that change destinies and shake the world.

And I'm going to make sure you live long enough to tell me yours before I show you mine.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pure (Gary Numan) and having... lung junk. Lots and lots of it.)