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| "I Am Become Fabulous, The Savior of the World..." SPYGOD (Top) Bee-Bee (Bottom) (Art by Dean Stahl) |
* * *
Noontime in Paris, sun glinting off of the Palace.
Terre Unifee transports take off for America.
Early morning in Neo York City, taxi cabs honking.
Sunrise at the White House, just after shift change.
TU guards on high alert, expecting trouble today.
Sunrise at the White House, just after shift change.
Coffee and breakfast, sitting outside the Oval Office.
* * *
A small, squat cairn of black and tan rocks.
The President of the Terre Unifee at his desk.
The Russian hero in white armor, sitting on the couch.
The National Facilitator of America, Mr. USA.
* * *
* * *
* * *
In an envelope, Mr. USA's resignation letter.
"Shall we go for a short drive, gentlemen?"
Sitting before the waiting mountain, shimmering.
The President of the Terre Unifee at his desk.
Watching the transports leave with high anticipation.
The Russian hero in white armor, sitting on the couch.
Looking at his watch, wondering when this ends.
The National Facilitator of America, Mr. USA.
Adjusting a uniform he hasn't worn in some time.
* * *
Big white trucks, arriving all over America.
American All-Star Security logos, shiny and new.
Director Straffer, having a cup of White House coffee.
The son of El Inquisador Escarlata.
Putting on his mask, ready to interrogate his "guests."
Captured and restrained members of Team Alpha.
Hooked up to high-tech medical gear, beeping away.
* * *
An AAS truck, just up from SPYGOD's prison apartment.
TU guards, glad to see it, wave and smile.
Ben Franklin opening the door to Straffer's room.
The man smiles and nods, checking time once more.
Mr. Mental adjusting his disguise, ready to lie.
Falls in behind his "associate," wishing him dead.
Medical workers check Yanabah, drooling in a cage.
No one gets too close to her, fearing her jaws.
* * *
The ground before the cairn, shaking in the heat.
It's as if something moved, deep underground.
The President regards his rifle, long and thin.
There's just one bullet inside it, but it's all he needs.
SPYGOD sits on the couch, still crying at his song.
Sneaks a look at the clock, then stops sobbing.
Mr. USA scratches his beard, wondering things.
Tightens his utility belt, puts his old mask back on.
* * *
The mountain shakes as well, caught in the storm.
Rocks and boulders falling down, dust avalanches.
Operation Zarathustra, almost unveiled for all to see.
The President smiles wide, like a clown with no lips.
He still has the boobytrapped, metal half-mask covering his eyes.
But SPYGOD doesn't need to see to kill.
In an envelope, Mr. USA's resignation letter.
Puts it on the Oval Office desk, signed with his real name.
* * *
Static electricity snakes across the plain as it shifts.
The sand and dirt float upwards, losing cohesion.
Looks at the shot-up pictures of his enemy's face.
Laughs at them all, wishing they had been real.
"Bely Rytsar," SPYGOD chuckles, hands on his knees.
"Never had much !@#$ing imagination, did you?"
Walks down the hall, for what may be the last time.
Head held high. Never wanted this job, anyway.
* * *
Someone waves back from the cab of the big, white truck.
A big friendly smile, maybe a little weird.
"You boys are both on the level, I presume?"
The prisoner's guards look at Ben, and nod, smiling.
"Maybe I'll feed him to her, today," El Inquisador says.
Tapping his chin as they walk to their cells.
The lights flicker for a moment, on their bio-screens.
The heroes' vital signs waver, ever so slightly.
* * *
The TU guards wave back, and then shrug.
Someone asks why the girl in the passenger seat's familiar...
"I think we can drop the pretense, you old goat."
Straffer smiles at Ben, his voice no longer his own.
"Maybe you should try more subtle methods."
Mr. Mental (aka Commander) rolls his borrowed eyes.
A red light goes off on one, then another.
Warnings ring out in time, like a line of tapped car alarms.
* * *
The ground swells up, giving birth to itself.
The air crackles and roils, tasting of ozone and honey.
"The mystery of the gun," the President muses.
"Creation is destruction. Destruction is creation."
SPYGOD smiles sensing his guard's discomfort.
"Weren't you Krasnaya Gvardiya, back before the fall?"
Mr. USA goes into the elevator, heading down.
He makes a phonecall to the Heptagon: ring ring ring.
* * *
A bright, golden light shines right up into the sky.
Heaven has come from below the Earth, this time.
He puts the rifle down, crossing his arms at the wrist.
Right over left like Osiris - first of the gunslingers.
"From Red Guardian to White Knight, huh?"
"Guess you needed to!@#$ing hide after the Soviets fell."
"Hey Josie," Mr. USA says, smiling for real.
"I do believe it's showtime. How are we on your end?"
* * *
The truck opens up like white metal flowers.
People in white body armor rocket into the sky, arcing.
"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Franklin winks.
"But yes, this masquerade has served its purpose."
El Inquisidor Escarlata almost turns to rebuke his "assistant."
But then he sees the cells, and gasps.
The captured heroes writhe, shudder, and then stop.
Lines go flat and steady. A shrill screech rings out.
* * *
The TU guards take a step back, uncertain of this.
One white arc heads in their direction, zeroing in.
"Well, alright then," Straffer says, standing up.
One last sip of coffee. His face shifts. Gosheven smiles.
Mark and Martha are gone. Somehow no one noticed.
Lights out. Confusion. Emergency sirens wail.
Bedlam rules in the holding hospital.
It's five full minutes before they realize Gosheven's tank is empty.
* * *
The light becomes solid, then misty and flickering.
A thick, golden ring a mile in diameter slides up.
The President gasps, realizing he has it at last.
The Mystery of the Gun! It was in plain sight all along...
"All those Chechen kids," SPYGOD accuses.
"And the new government wouldn't !@#$ing excuse you."
"It's happening now," Josie says, checking in with the Third Base.
"Your package is here. Come and get it."
* * *
Its exterior edge shifts, sprouting short, squat laser cannons every few feet.
Rotating, spinning, shining.
The tears slide down his cheeks. He falls to his knees.
He gasps, he cries. He cannot contain himself.
"You be quiet!" Bely Rytsar threatens, shaking his fist.
"Or you'll do what, exactly?" SPYGOD snorts.
"Best news I've heard so far," Mr. USA says.
Elevator doors open, revealing Franklin and Gosheven.
* * *
The body armor lands right in front of them.
Not very tall, and strangely-shaped. Head like a dog?
Gosheven and Ben join Mr. USA, who presses a hidden button.
The elevator goes even further down.
"Mierda!" the scarlet-clad man says, running away from the cells.
"Stop!" Mr. Mental commands, but...
... all of the screens and monitors display a single thing, flashing.
"GAME ON. GAME ON. GAME ON."
* * *
They suddenly realize the person inside the suit is a brown dog.
"Ruck You," it says. Claps its paws.
Doors open into a new, but rarely used garage.
A souped-up, electric blue, 1938 Bugatti sits under a light.
"Who are you?" El Inquisador shouts.
The sirens wail louder. Lights explode. Gunshots!!
The Commander sighs, realizing the con is up. Pulls a gun.
The sirens wail louder. Lights explode. Gunshots!!
Then the Heptagon superslam locks down, tight.
* * *
One ring slides inside another. Lights shift and squirm.
The ring becomes more than one ring. A sphere.
He tries to call Henri, remembers he's in America, now.
Calls his phone. It rings and rings. He cries.
Bely Rytsar has had enough of this dermo, goes to hit SPYGOD.
That's when the dog's EMP hits him.
"Shall we go for a short drive, gentlemen?"
Franklin all but skips across the garage, leaps behind the wheel.
* * *
The Sudarshana Chakram hovers above its resting place a second longer.
It speeds away, heading East.
The President rolls onto his back, uncertain of himself.
What has he been doing? What was he going to do?
The white-armored hero stops, unable to move or see.
He can hear, though. He hears SPYGOD stand up.
"The Heptagon, first," Mr. USA says: "Then Third base."
"And then, four days ago," Franklin says. Vroom!
* * *
In a way-too-bright hallway in the headquarters of the Space Service, a solemn but fast-moving -- and very well-armed -- procession makes its way.
At its head is Minister of Justice Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud, using an imperious-looking motor-scooter he swore he'd never break out, except in the most dire of circumstances.
Stomping into a major TU office to arrest its treasonous and genocidal Director counts, he supposes.
Down the hall they go, rousting people from their offices along the way. Most of them have no idea what's going on, but need to leave the building while their computers are impounded.
(Some of them do, and these are quickly and methodically arrested.)
Finally, the Director's outer office, which thankfully has no door. It does, however, have a shrill and overprotective secretary, who pulls a rather large handgun from under her desk as the Minister's entourage gets too close for her liking.
"No!" he shouts, but it's too late. His men have already opened up and filled her full of lead. She goes down in a flash of harsh pinstripes and red blood.
(They find out later the gun wasn't even loaded. A very messy suicide by proxy.)
The door reads Guillaume Brilliand. The Minster has one of his men open it carefully, expecting traps or more guns.
But it's empty. The man is gone. And it's hardly surprising, but a disappointment nonetheless.
"Tell the teams mopping up Le Front Nationale to be on the lookout for him," he orders, wheeling into the office to look around: "He may be hiding out with them."
And then he sits there, his gargantuan heart racing too fast for his liking. He does not like this. He does not like what it says about his government. And he does not like who has to thank for this.
But it is justice, and he is its Minister. And he will see that justice done though the heavens fall.
At its head is Minister of Justice Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud, using an imperious-looking motor-scooter he swore he'd never break out, except in the most dire of circumstances.
Stomping into a major TU office to arrest its treasonous and genocidal Director counts, he supposes.
Down the hall they go, rousting people from their offices along the way. Most of them have no idea what's going on, but need to leave the building while their computers are impounded.
(Some of them do, and these are quickly and methodically arrested.)
Finally, the Director's outer office, which thankfully has no door. It does, however, have a shrill and overprotective secretary, who pulls a rather large handgun from under her desk as the Minister's entourage gets too close for her liking.
"No!" he shouts, but it's too late. His men have already opened up and filled her full of lead. She goes down in a flash of harsh pinstripes and red blood.
(They find out later the gun wasn't even loaded. A very messy suicide by proxy.)
The door reads Guillaume Brilliand. The Minster has one of his men open it carefully, expecting traps or more guns.
But it's empty. The man is gone. And it's hardly surprising, but a disappointment nonetheless.
"Tell the teams mopping up Le Front Nationale to be on the lookout for him," he orders, wheeling into the office to look around: "He may be hiding out with them."
And then he sits there, his gargantuan heart racing too fast for his liking. He does not like this. He does not like what it says about his government. And he does not like who has to thank for this.
But it is justice, and he is its Minister. And he will see that justice done though the heavens fall.
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