Monday, December 28, 2015

TechnOlympos: 12/21/15 - 12/27/15

"They paint the grasses green / Repeating history / They don't say what they mean"
Straffer at the White City

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *
36
* * *



Monday: 12/21/81

"Oh, for !@#$'s sake," SPYGOD shouts, parrying another dangerously-accurate thrust from Prince Charming -- MI-10's most dangerous (and flamboyant) assassin.

"I will kill you, you damned blackguard!" the man shouts, his romantic, blue greatcoat swirling about him as he rains another shower of blows down and around the superspy -- who's barely keeping up with the stylish killer: "My employer insists!"

"Your employer is a !@#$ing nazi you clown!" SPYGOD shoots back, leaping up to avoid a slash to the knees, and losing about an inch off the bottom of his heels as he does.

"I'm a dandy, not a clown," Prince Charming retorts with a grin: "There is a difference, you Colonial clod."

"Concentrate, man! I know they taught you to overcome mind control!"

"Not my sort, I fear," Wilhelm Kietel says, laughing as he observes the two superspies clashing below him on the mansion's main floor, a glass of wine perched in his right hand: "You will have to kill him to end it, mein freund. And if you do not, he will assuredly kill you."

"Of all the !@#$ing revolting..." SPYGOD grouses, just barely avoiding an expertly-timed slash to the cheek. His new, specially-made Members' Only tactical jacket is in tatters, his pants are about to fall down, and his utility belt hit the ground right off the bat.

And as the two allies circle and clash, he hates to admit it, but the supernazi might be right. He's fighting the greatest swordsman in all of the United Kingdom -- possibly even all of Europe, if the stories were true -- with a mostly-decorative sword he yanked off the wall at a moment's notice.

And worse, he gets the idea that Prince Charming is just toying with him.

For now.

* * *

The sad thing was that this was supposed to be easy -- maybe too easy. 

MI-10 found out that ABWEHR was planning something suitably nasty and grotesque, here in the north of London. As SPYGOD was over, participating in joint exercises, he was asked to accompany Prince Charming to go deal with the brutes. And when they learned that the notorious Wilhelm Kietel was overseeing it, well, here was a chance to finally plant the scum into the ground, once and for all.

("To put paid to him," as MI-10's director put it in his so-melodious way.)

They figured it would only take the two primary -- and most stylish -- assassins of each organization, and for the first three-quarters of the mission that was all they needed. But as soon as they got inside, they discovered it was a trap. 

And the trap consisted of Kietel looking down at them -- ever so languorously -- and ordering them to kill one another.

Of course, that sort of !@#$ didn't work on SPYGOD. Unfortunately, it did work on Prince Charming, who is now absolutely intent on killing the man he's known and worked with for years.

And all SPYGOD can do is hope the Nazi bastard's mind control wears off before he has to bring a gun to the swordfight this evening has become.

* * *

"You fight without elan or panache, my friend," Prince Charming taunts SPYGOD as they circle around one of the main floor's many wooden columns: "I could have slain you three times before now."

"Then why the !@#$ haven't you?" SPYGOD asks, wondering if he can take the fight up to the balcony where Kietel is, kill him, and end this !@#$ before it goes any further down the damn toilet. 

"I've been trying to sharpen your skills, my good man," the Brit laughs as he thrusts, steps to the side: "Some heat and blood does wonders for remembering such things, I find."

"Well, you got one outta two," SPYGOD says, stepping back: "So what's the !@#$ing endgame, here, you Nazi !@#$? Was this just a damn trap all along?"

"That would be telling," Kietel says, smirking as he savors his glass of wine.

"I'm all ears, jackass," the spy snorts, parrying another rain of blows: "Unless you really don't feel like !@#$ing gloating for once..."

"In truth, I have nothing to gloat about, at least not yet," the ABWEHR man says: "I could tell you that I am stalling you while something actually goes on, somewhere else. But for once I feel strangely compelled to be honest. I let you know I was here because I knew they would send the two of you. And I very much wanted to see you two kill one another."

"Well, thanks for the !@#$ing honesty," SPYGOD says, looking at Prince Charming: "Come on, man. He just !@#$ing admitted he's using you as a damn puppet. Snap out of it!"

As if in response, the swordsman moves almost too quickly to see, and SPYGOD develops a very painful and deep slash across the top of his left thigh.

He steps back, wincing. The wound heals itself almost instantly, but the blood is a sticky distraction he doesn't need. 

"You will do far better to aim for his head," Kietel taunts from his observation post, pouring himself some more wine: "I fear this one cannot be taught at all."

"Very well then," Prince Charming says, his stance changing entirely: "Perhaps we should end this small dance?"

SPYGOD looks at the friend he's been fighting for the last few minutes. Then he looks up at the smirking supernazi, up on the platform.

And he smiles, and drops the sword -- holding his arms out as if in surrender. 

"Fine by me," SPYGOD says, looking Prince Charming in the eyes: "Come on if you think you're !@#$ing hard enough, you damn fop. One clean thrust and it's all over... if you can hit me..."

Prince Charming laughs and skips forward.

SPYGOD just stands there.

The blade catches him right under the breastbone and erupts out the other side.

"No you damned fool!" Kietel shouts, dropping the wine glass: "His head! Take his verdammt head!"

But it's too late. The blade is already halfway through SPYGOD's chest.

The superspy coughs up blood, and rolls back his eye.

And then, faster than a dying man should, he grabs hold of Prince Charming's hand with his left, and then his arm with his right.

With a strength the assassin maybe didn't know he possessed, he pulls the man straight towards him -- wincing as the blade goes even deeper into him.

And then, when they're face to face, SPYGOD wraps his hands around the man's head, pulls him close.

And kisses him like the world was about to end...

Tuesday: 12/22/15

... "... luckily for the free world, I'm a goddamn amazing kisser," the voice recording goes on, and SPYGOD rolls his two white eyes as his voice from 34 years ago brags about the encounter: "It took a while, and damn did that hurt, but eventually he stopped !@#$ing trying to kill me with his tongue and actually started kissing me back.  

"Thank God most MI-10 people went to Public School..."

"Yeah, yeah," SPYGOD sighs, miming masturbation with his right hand: "Sodomy and British Intelligence go hand in hand. Rah !@#$ing rah."

"Unfortunately, by the time he did come out of it, Kietel was gone. So it was just up to us to scour the mess and see if we could learn anything, which was !@#$ing nothing, and get the !@#$ out. 

"We did promise not to say anything about that embarrassing little incident, and he gave me his word my secret is safe. I really like people not knowing they can't !@#$ing mind control me, even if it leads to some unfortunate bull!@#$ like today.

"But I have to get smarter, son. I really do.

"I mean, !@#$, I could have ended this horse!@#$ in under a minute. I could have regrown anything Charming took off me in seconds while I was rushing him, knocked him out carefully as !@#$ing possible, and then leaped up to smash that Nazi !@#$ into goddamn mush under my damn boots. 

"But there I was, scared !@#$less of the world's best damn swordfighter and his flashing blades..."

"And too damn stupid to use your own, huh?" SPYGOD says: "You forget about that?" 

"But then, ever since I put the Chandra Eye in? Using my own power's become a !@#$ing headache," the voice goes on, as if to explain to his future self: "And I mean that literally, son. Something about it just makes my head hurt like a mother!@#$er. 

"I can handle it, sort of, but it's like an icepick behind the eyes. And nothing I want to deal with when I'm actually trying to !@#$ing fight."

"Yeah, tell me about it," SPYGOD admits: "They say I popped some blades when I !@#$ing woke up. And I screamed myself back to sleep afterwards cause they !@#$ing hurt my head so bad..."

"So I just use it for extra storage," the voice goes on: "Which comes in damn handy, let me tell you. And I let my guns do the talking for me.

"Still, all's well that ends well," the tape goes on: "MI-10 owes me a favor, I showed I can still !@#$ing hold my own with a sword, and after we reported in Prince Charming and I went back to his place and-"

"And you !@#$ed him until his Public Schoolboy butthole fell out and rolled across the damn floor," SPYGOD says, turning the tape off in disgust: "Good for you, old me. I'm so !@#$ing happy for you.

"But what about this, huh?" he asks, pointing to his sightless eyes: "What do you !@#$ing have for me there? What do you do when some supergod horse!@#$ technology turns your brains into a no-eyeball zone, and no one can !@#$ing fix you?

"What do you do when the guy who !@#$ing says he loves you can't even find a cure in a world like this, huh?"

He grouses for a moment, and then sighs and leans back in his chair. Outside, down the hallway, he can hear people singing Christmas carols.

"So what you think, Santa Claus?" he asks, looking up at the ceiling: "Have I been a good boy the last year, sitting here in a damn coma after I saved the !@#$ing world? Does that get me new goddamn eyes? Or do I have to do something really special for that?"

There's no answer, of course. So he smiles, quoting a movie he overheard someone watching for what felt like the first time the other day: "'You can't have that gun, kid. You'll shoot your eye out.'"

And the carolers down the hall wonder who the hell is laughing so loudly, up the ways, that they can barely hear themselves sing.

Wednesday: 12/23/15

"We're here, brother!" the scary-eyed person who's been in front of Director Straffer for a day and a night says, almost on the verge of tears: "We're finally here!"

"You can say that again," the cyborg says, looking up at the sky above his head -- a sky he was not standing under before he walked into the White City.

It was like night and day: a moment before he was standing on the soil of Mexicali, looking up at the sun and large, brooding clouds, and now he's seeing a sky of a different blue, with no clouds at all. What was a single, white column with interlocking triangles, rising up from the great wall, has been revealed to be great, white pyramids surrounding a smooth cone the size of a mountain, going up further than even he can see.

The streets are silver. The archways are gold. And the sun has a stern face, surrounded by a perfect sphere of burning hair.

The air seems electric, here -- filled with strange scents from the unearthly flowers that line the marble sidewalks. There are weird noises from just beyond the intake center, up ahead, which could be drums and other percussion, or perhaps machines. And above it all a constant, frenzied cheering that could be endless chants of praise and joy, or just the hum of the White City as it goes about its worshipful business.

Straffer takes a deep breath, steadying himself lest he lose his nerve, or his mind.

"I'm doing this," he tells himself as he takes another step forward into this crazy new world: "I'm seeing this through."

"We all are, mister," the bald boy in the wheelchair behind him says, smiling with the glee only a child can have: "We all are."

* * *

It has been a slog, all things considered. 

The line stretched for ten miles, winding through the outskirts, the innards, and then the desolated areas of the sprawling, Mexican town. It moved rather quickly, all things considered, but it was still a line, which meant there were times when they sat down for an hour or more before they got to move, and times when it seemed like they shuffled forward every other minute, for three feet at a time.

In some places the pilgrims were made to feel welcome. Volunteers moved down the way, providing clean water and good, hot food. They stood in your place so you could run to use a handy clutch of porta-a-johns, and made sure no one was suffering from the elements, or in need of medical attention. 

In other places, they got to bear the brunt of the city's anger at having over half of its territory absorbed by the White City. Protesters stood at barely-policed barricades and hurled abuse, waste, and rotten food at them. Well-meaning missionaries tried to convince them that the Devil was waiting in that White City, and promised aid and support to anyone who wanted to leave the cult they believed they were all bound up within. 

There were also less kindly visitors: scam artists who claimed they could get someone a quicker way in, but then took the rubes on a ride and dumped them elsewhere; pickpockets who took advantage of the less aware and asleep on their feet; kidnappers who preyed on the weak and feeble-minded. 

(And a very scary run-in with some of the less-criminal aspects of Human Destiny, who tried to cajole people into leaving for the good of the planet, and got downright offensive when told "no.")

It was an ordeal, to be sure -- one made just a little more dangerous (and final) by the requirement that no one carry any phones, tablets, pads, or other electronic communication devices with them. As soon as one entered the White City, all contact with the outside world was to cease. And it was required of anyone who wanted to enter, whether they were applying for permanent entry, just visiting, or -- like Straffer -- simply there on official business. 

No one was any different in the eyes of the White City, and the gods who dwelled within. 

* * *

Another burst of movement, and they're all in the intake center, and being shuffled off to different lines. 

It's a strange sort of farewell for them. The three of them have been near-constant partners in this venture, since Straffer was dropped off by the Space Service a day or so ago. In that time, they've seen off other fellow passengers, who either couldn't stand the drama of the pilgrimage, or the conditions, or fallen prey to the many pitfalls along the way. 

The boy's name is Paul -- an orphan with severe leukemia. A month ago he was told he wouldn't survive to see the new year without a specialized treatment the people running his children's home wouldn't see to. So one of the younger workers at the establishment essentially kidnapped him, and dropped him off with another group of terminal cases who were headed here. 

Paul was the only one of the group left. Straffer didn't dare ask him what happened to the others. The look in his eyes was so fragile he was afraid a tough question would break him. 

The scary-eyed man is Jerry, though he tends to go by Dr. Rose. He's a 40-something businessman from San Diego who'd had a severe midlife crisis, right around the time the Olympians burst back onto the scene. He'd been big into "synchronicity" back in the 80's, and decided this was the world's way of telling him he needed to check this scene out. 

Since then he'd dropped out completely, left the world behind, and gone from Singlove to Singlove in search of Rosi's favor. At one of the last ones he went to, he swore the God/dess actually kissed him in the height of the frenzy, and that made him decide he needed to come here and devote himself to Hir. 

Straffer wasn't sure whether to take him seriously or not. He was never a fan of utter fanaticism, but he seemed so rational and down to earth when he wasn't going on about the Kiss of Backwards Time and the Eternal O. So he just smiled and let him talk about sexhurt, cosmic conjunctions, and tectonic orgasms, somehow hoping Paul wasn't hearing any of this, but knowing he was. 

As for his part, he just told them the truth, at least as much of it as he felt comfortable doing. He was here to plead with the Gods for help, both for the man he loved, and for a whole lot of other people who needed their aid. They seemed accepting of that, and didn't ask too many questions past it -- for which he was eternally grateful. 

And now they are all saying goodbye as they go down different roads. Paul is being wheeled off to medical, Dr. Rose to pilgrims, and Straffer has been politely steered to the diplomatic area.

For his part, the kid seems brave and okay, but Dr. Rose seems a little weepy to say goodbye. 

"You take care of yourself in there, man," he whispers into Straffer's ear: "You got a lucky guy. I bet he doesn't know."

"Right now, no," Straffer says, wondering if Rose had wanted to kiss him at the last second or not. 

* * *

On his way down the line to the diplomatic booth, where a very friendly lady in a white uniform is chatting with all comers, he can't help but look past the area to the promised land beyond. 

It's beautiful, but that's too simple a word to explain what he sees. All the surfaces are smooth, white marble, chased with silver and gold, and studded with precious gems that shine in the light of that stern sun.

The pyramids are massive -- even larger than the big one in Egypt. They're surrounded by temples and buildings, which seem a smashing together of several ancient, Mediterranean civilizations. The spaces between are filled with lush, beautiful grass, and adorned with strange, brightly-blooming flowers. 

And the people all seem so happy as they go here and there, or sit around in groups, laughing and drinking. Couples make love in the shelter of trees and canopies, and everywhere are the sounds of song and dance, music and art. 

It's all so breathtaking he almost doesn't see that someone's towering over him. 

"Well hi there," the tall, muscular woman in form-fitting, red leather says -- her face a strange, almost plastic thing. Her eyes are wrapped in goggles that look like bone and glass, and her long, brown hair seems to end in sharp, tiny hooks. 

"Red Queen?" he asks, sort of recognizing her voice (which is as strange as her face). 

"That would be me," she says, extending a hand to shake. Her skin is cold and hard -- lined with grooves along the major points of articulation, as though they were plates made to conceal something.

"It's good to see you, again," he says, surprised at how strong her grip is: "We were worried about you, when you disappeared from the intensive care unit..."

"I made a deal," she says, winking what might be a lion's eye at him: "Best career move ever, if you ask me. Besides, if they had fixed me up, they'd have just court-martialed  my ass when I was up to it."

"There is that," he says, remembering some of the finer details of that convoluted matter now. 

"Anyway," she says, waving to the head of the line: "I'm here to escort you through. You've been expected."

"Really?" he says, somewhat perplexed: "They could have sent you a day ago, you know."

"Between you and me?" she asks, leaning in close to whisper: "They wanted to see if you'd tough it out."

"No danger of that not happening," he says, a little miffed at the notion. 

"You'd be surprised," she says, taking his hand and leading him on: "Just do me a favor and don't make a !@#$ing fool of yourself when you get in, okay? I'm sort of responsible for you while you're here, and Satanoth isn't a fan of being disappointed."

"I'd guess not," Straffer says, trying not to gasp in amazement as he gets out of the entry area and sees the whole of the White City for the first time... 

Thursday: 12/24/15

"Wow," Myron says, shaking his head as he combs through the stacks of papers and photographs he's just been handed: "Wow."

"I thought you might be impressed," the woman from the improvement committee says, tapping a few things of interest, here and there: "And I should tell you, it wasn't easy to keep these things hidden for this long."

"I'd say so," he replies, scratching his head at the enormity of what he's been shown.

It's the Village, but not as he's come to know it. The documents are all layouts and plans, both for Portmeirion and the interiors of The Prisoner. And the photographs are all of it being built -- strong foundations laid, winding roads constructed, Italianate walls raised, and fancy roofs set above it all.

There are no workers that he can see, and no construction equipment is visible. First there is a landscape by the sea, then it has been shaped into familiar contours, and then the buildings begin to take form.

Every so often, if you know how and where to look -- a chance reflection in a window, for example -- the man behind the camera can be seen.

And it's the late Number 42 taking the shots.

"He built the Village," Myron says, agog: "He wasn't the most valuable Prisoner, here. He was the man who set it all up."

"Yes," the woman says.

"Which means that speech he gave me about the third secret spymaster, and BOWLER..."

"He was with them," she replies, nodding: "This was his creation. He came over here to make this a reality."

"Which means he... what?" Myron asks, shaking his head: "Had a change of heart? Midlife crisis? Decided he was working for the wrong side after all?"

"That I don't know," she admits: "I didn't know any of this until after he died. He gave me all of this in a specially locked case. It was keyed to the beating of his heart. So long as he was alive, it wouldn't be opened."

"And then, when he died, you found out he was the man behind the curtain all along."

"Yes, but no," she says: "Not the real man behind the curtain. More like the one who bought the curtains, and then stood in front of them for a time."

Myron thinks for a moment, and then shudders: "So that was it, then. He was the original Number Two."

"Yes," she nods, slowly: "I think you're right."

"And that's why Number Two hated him. He left him the job, but wouldn't tell him everything."

"And once he was here, he couldn't leave, any more than the rest of us could."

"Now see, that's the !@#$ that doesn't make any sense," Myron says, pounding his fist on the table so that all the pictures and documents jump: "Why in the hell would they come over here, to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P., if they didn't have an exit? There's got to be a thousand other places they could make a damn Village, none of which involve one-way trips to miniaturized alternate Earths."

"I don't know," she says, shaking her head: "There's something we're not seeing, here. And I think this Number One has the answers."

"And the only way to get to Number One is to have Number Two lead us there," Myron sighs: "Or actually find where he's !@#$ing hiding. Which could be anywhere in the Green Dome."

"Anywhere in the Village, really," she sighs.

"Or even outside of it," Myron shudders: "Worse, he could be back on Earth, sitting in some damn ball chair and stroking a white cat."

"Like Dr. Claw," the woman says, smiling.

"Inspector Gadget," Myron replies, smiling back a little: "I'd forgotten about that show. I used to run around shouting 'go go gadget legs' or whatever when I was a kid. I thought it was the coolest thing ever."

"I was more into Thunderbirds, myself," she shrugs: "I liked the idea of a family that could build such amazing things to rescue people."

"The puppets creeped me out," he admits, and for a while there's silence in the room -- both of them just looking at the evidence that the man they knew so little about had even more secrets than they could have guessed.

"Did Dr. Claw even have a ball chair?" Myron asks: "All we ever saw was his hand and that submarine car."

"I always assumed he had standard evil genius furniture," she replies, getting up from her chair: "It seems they always have similar tastes in home decor."

"Maybe there's something to being the man who picks out Number One's curtains after all," Myron chuckles, wondering how he's going to keep all this a secret from the Chess Master.

Because there's no way she couldn't have known about this, and no reason she shouldn't have told him, before.

Because, frankly, this was really !@#$ing important news...

Friday: 12/25/15

"And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them," The Raven says to his candlelit flock as they pray in his home, his hands stretched wide to take in their hopeful multitude: "And the glory of the Lord shone round about them. And they were sore afraid.

"And the angel said unto them 'fear not, for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a savior, which is Christ the Lord.

"And this shall be a sign unto you," he continues, smiling at the newly-born babe one of his people delivered just last night -- sleeping like an angel in her arms: "Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger..."

* * *

In Syria, the heroes who care to celebrate the day gather around a table in the forward fire camp, and toast one another with wine and good cheer.

It's been a long road, these last few weeks -- some days longer than others. There's been misunderstandings and miscommunications, and some downright ugly scenes.

But after the last few days, something seems to have changed. Now they're all on the same page, at last.

Now they understand who the enemy really is, and how to deal with them...

Outside, in the cold of the night, New Man stands alone, watching the horizon burn. He's aware that he's being laughed at, back in the tent -- he and the new people from the Gulf alike.

He realizes he's lost control of this situation, and has no chance to take it back. Insubordination has become the order of the day, here. All he can do is try to keep things from getting any worse than they already are.

That and pray to a seemingly-absent God for a miracle -- on this day of all days -- that deliverance will come, and soon.

* * *

In the Toon enclave of San Francisco, Randolph Scott watches the Candidate as he parades around the Mar-a-Lago in Florida, pretending to be just another family man out with his family on Christmas day. 

The vacuity of their smiles scares him. There's no fear in their eyes as they march around before the cameras, waving and smiling. Nothing to indicate that they understand they're in the presence of an evil man, and that they are behaving in a manner that will afford them safety from his wrath. 

Are they all in on the gag, then? Or do they really not understand who they're calling father, or husband?

Do they not realize the devil walks beside them?

He can't say for certain. He's got every reporter, dirt-digger, and hacker he can lord it over scrambling for clues to help him solve this puzzle. 

And he's all too aware that, though he should be spending the day with the woman he loves, and all his friends and family, there's no time. 

Iowa is too soon. The chances this man might take the nomination are too high. 

He has to get a handle on this story while he can, before it turns around and bites everyone in the ass. 

And if that's the only gift he can give anyone, this year, so be it. 

* * *

"Hey," a woman says, poking her head into her new neighbor's open door: "Are you actually moving in on Christmas?"

"Yeah," the skinny, bald kid says, adjusting his sweater as he puts down a box that looks too big to be carried by just one person: "Lousy timing, I know."

"Tell me about it," she rolls her eyes: "I had to get out of my apartment on the Fourth of July, once. You never know how many things just aren't open until you really need them to be."

They both laugh at that, and then she smiles: "Well, there's a party up in the rec room on the top floor. When you get done, come on up?"

"Really?" he says.

"Well, you live here now."

"I don't know anyone."

"I'm Elizabeth," she says, waving: "So there, you know someone. We'll be at it until two or so, and you don't want to miss the Cards Against Humanity game we do when the kids are gone."

"Sounds like fun."

"Oh, trust me, new neighbor. It's legendary."

She winks and runs off before he can give her his own name, and for a moment Shining Guardsman wonders if maybe, just maybe, this is actually going to work out.  

* * *

In little enclaves throughout Europe -- squalid basements, upright halls, shining parapets, and well-heeled soirees -- Odal celebrates the day. 

To them, Christ is a white man, come to lay down the law of the God whose will has shaped Northern European civilization. A holy warrior come to separate the decent from the impure, the light from the dark, the Christian from the heathen. 

The burning sword of Heaven, blocking the unworthy from entering their new Eden. 

That he was from the Middle East means nothing to these people. He is only ever Caucasian in their eyes. 

That he was born a Jew is an afterthought. Flowers are often grown in manure, but no one cares to smell it.

That he supped with sinners and the castaways is likewise meaningless. You take care of your own -- first, last, and always. 

Christ did not die for the ugly, the different, and the impure. He did not suffer for Muslims or Buddhists or Hindus. He did not give his blood for the brown or the yellow, or those unfortunate enough to have their whiteness diluted by genetic filth. 

Christ died for white men, knowing there one would day be a war against the darkness that infested all the strange corners of this fallen world, and that they would, though his grace, be victorious.

So they hold their loved ones near and dear. They drink with their friends and laugh with their children. They sing rousing carols and salute stark flags. They give what joy and cheer they can in a cold, dark world lit only by twinkling lights.

And when they dream of a better world, it's missing a lot of depth and shade. 

Which is exactly how they believe Christ would like it. 

* * *

Mr. USA smiles through tears, watching the poor and underprivileged kids he and Red Wrecker have been giving gifts to all day as they unwrap their toys and games and enjoy the moment. 

It feels good to do this. To put the costumes and crooks away for a day and just be helpful and kind to others. To show the world that hope is real, and strangers can be kind.

That hands that can smash buildings can be gentle and loving, too. 

He should be dead, right now. He knows this. He's had yet another second chance, though there's a very real time limit on this.

He knows this is his last Christmas, ever. 

And while it will never be the best he's ever had, he wants it to be as good as possible. Which, to him, means helping as many children as he can have the best Christmas they can. 

Someone sings "deck the halls." He joins in -- gloriously off-key. Everyone laughs.

And for a moment, all is right with the world. 

* * *

"You'll feel better, really," one of the orderlies tries to convince the blind man in room 347: "You'll go crazy being locked up in this room, listening to those tapes."

What SPYGOD tells her in return is probably the last thing anyone should ever hear on Christmas day, but, to her credit, she listens to every single word -- rude, bad, or indifferent.

And then, taking a deep breath, makes a suggestion: "Can I at least bring you some food, sir? Maybe some turkey? It's the real thing, not that food service crap you get every tuesday for dinner and every thursday for lunch."

He sighs, trying to find some last vestige of self-pitying nastiness left within him after that epic tirade. But he fails.

And he gets up, takes the cane he's sworn not to use, and starts heading for the door. 

"I am not !@#$ing singing, lady," he says, letting her lead him down the hall to where the more ambulatory patients are having their Christmas party: "I'll do turkey and stuffing and eggnog, even if it's !@#$ing sober. But I'm not singing."

"Wouldn't dream of making you do it," she says: "But Merry Christmas, sir."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever..." he sighs, thinking of the spread his psychotic grandmother always made, and how everyone was terrified to sneak so much as a morsel before she said grace for five whole minutes, and then remained silent for one more before saying "Amen."

Good times, all in all. He just never knew how good until they were too far behind him to see clearly, anymore.

Just like every Christmas, really. Some are better than others. Some are definitely worse. But in the end they're what you make of them -- no more, no less. 

And sometimes, if you're lucky, you even get what you deserve.

* * *

In his room, overlooking the Pyramid of Noyx -- the Moon, of course -- Straffer looks down at the massive dance party going on around his building. He wonders if he should go down and join it or just drink the strange wine they brought up with the basket of unearthly fruit and prepare for tomorrow. 

There is no Christmas, here, in the White City. Observance of any non-polytheistic faith is forbidden. The penalty is the same for pretty much all offenses -- eternal banishment. 

And who would want that? 

Yesterday, he went into the Pyramid and walked the surface of the Moon. It was strange to be breathing the cold, bracing air of what should be a barren, grey rock, and to walk in the fungal gardens, fed by eternal, cool streams of milky, grey water. 

Stranger still to see the weird beasts that lived there, tended by pale, skinny, almost-insectile beings with no faces. They reminded him of the Selenites, to a degree, but a strange reflection of the essential truth from that novel -- that even on a cold, floating ball of dust in space, the idea of life could create it.

In each Pyramid, another wonder. In each corner, another miracle. 

He saw Paul, almost by accident. He was in a room with many other boys and girls, all playing what appeared to be high-tech videogames. It wasn't until he'd been watching for a while that Straffer realized his young companion was actually zapping the cancer cells in his own body in realtime on the screen.

And the look on his face was so beatific it almost made Straffer cry. 

What use is a god in a world of gods, he wonders? What use a remote and silent creator when so many other beings will answer the call of his wayward children?

Surely he can act like a child again, and be glad that those older and wiser will hear his plea, and acquiesce. 

Surely this world can grant him a miracle, if only he'll be open to it.


Saturday: 12/26/15

"... and so I regret to say that, no, we will not be reconsidering the matter of your lover's condition," Seranu says, holding his kingly scepter in both hands: "There are certain rules that we cannot bend, and the rule of interventions is one of them. Each miracle can be used only once, and if its use is mishandled in the hands of mortals, then the outcome cannot be altered."

Director Straffer looks down at his feet -- embarrassed, angry, and sick.

He's standing in the highest spot of Olympos proper: the great, white chamber where all the Olympians sit in massive thrones, floating above the floor in a circle. Those who would address them enter to the center of that circle, and are carried up to just below their level on a floating dais of red gold and white marble.

They're large, in this room -- maybe twice the size of a normal human. They're also imposing and terrifying, yet graceful and transcendent. He doesn't know whether to be in awe or terrified, which is probably how they like it.

All he feels now is like smashing something for having wasted his time.

* * *

He tried. He really did. He came here prepared to argue decency, and for clemency, and to explain all the ways that their well-meaning plans fell apart on them. Some of which was, admittedly, his fault, but other was just bad luck and worse intentions on another's behalf.

(One who was under their care, after a fashion)

He tried, but it came up to nothing. His words fell on deaf ears and bored eyes. They seemed uncaring and aloof to his concerns, as if they wanted to anywhere but here, listening to him go on.

And Hoosk, when it was his turn to address the situation, was the most scornful and spiteful person he could have imagined -- rude and indignant, insisting that human stupidity had perverted the use of his glorious machine, and that while he couldn't punish Straffer for the mistakes of another, he wouldn't reward his error, either.

That just left the others, who could have spoken up in Straffer's defense -- or at least against Hoosk -- but chose to remain silent. Even Restriit -- sometimes known as Mister Freedom -- just sat there, watching, in spite of all their association and work together.

Even Shift, who'd called SPYGOD friend, remained silent and unmoved.

And then there was Seranu, who could have overruled Hoosk, but chose to back him, instead.

And that meant there was no more to be said.

* * *

"There is one other matter he would like to bring up," Kanaan says, looking up from the weave she's endlessly working on: "Isn't there, mortal man?"

"Well, yes," Straffer says, looking up at the Queen who addressed him, and then the other gods here in turn: "I've... well, I've also come to speak on behalf of our Martian refugees, here on Earth. I am petitioning that they be brought here to your city to be housed and cared for, until such time as this crisis is over."

There's silence, for a moment, and them some of the supergods actually laugh. 

"I beg your pardon," Seranu says, holding up a hand -- at which point all laughter stops cold: "I assume the amusement was from shock, and not from scorn."

"Right now, I'm not certain there's a damn difference," Straffer says, raising himself up as high as he can and staring at the face of the King of the Gods, and then the others: "Who the hell thought that was so funny, then? You, with the glasses and the afro? The parrot lady? Skullface?"

"Caution, little metal man," Satanoth says, clearly not happy to have been called that: "You have stood at my door enough times in your life, and yet I have not pulled you inside of it."

"Yeah, well, I got a bunch of Martians tumbling through into your foyer, pal," Straffer insists: "And do you want to know why?"

"Not really, no," Soubre snorts, and there is some more laughter.

"Because they came here expecting our help after they helped us," the cyborg says, pointing a finger at the dark-skinned god of night: "They didn't have to aid us when the Decreator came for us. They could have just stayed in their world and let us fall, and prayed to their gods that it didn't stop off at their planet on the way there or back to finish the damn job.

"But they didn't," he goes on, turning to look each God and Goddess in the face as he does: "They helped. Boy did they help. They made the attack fleet possible. They told us everything they knew from the time before, when it came for them.

"And when the attack happened, and the Decreator was destroyed, their world was tainted by it-"

"All this is known to us, my servant," Noyx says, pushing his sunglasses down so Straffer can see the shining white of his eyes.

"Then you know that without their help we'd be dead right now," Straffer says, looking the god in those shining eyes (and ignoring the line about "servant," which he finds very disturbing): "And if we were all dead, well... I guess you all might go on living, but most of you wouldn't be doing very well. Just Skull-face over there-"

"Little man..."

"And you, maybe," Straffer says, pointing to Restriit, who actually smiles: "And I guess the Sun and the Moon would continue to shine. And there would be darkness and there would be light.

"But the rest of you? Who would sing your praises? Who would give you a name? Who would dance and sing and venerate your holy temples for you if the world was nothing but a toxic stew? Cockroaches? Ants? Bacteria?

"Because that's what happened all those ages ago, folks. The world was wiped clean of what came before it. Maybe you don't know because it came before you, but-

"Enough," Seranu says, and Straffer can't help but comply: "You overstate your case. You forget you speak to beings of a power you cannot even hope to comprehend."

"We could have stopped the monster, had it actually arrived here," Pontus snorts, waving a dismissive hand: "The elements would have been as one! The forces combined to bring it down, and send it to the crushing depths!"

"Really?" Straffer says, no longer feeling like being silent, anymore: "Well, let me ask you something, Pontus. All those other worlds the Decreator ate, all those aeons? Don't you think they had gods, too?"

And there is silence, for a moment -- silence broken as Restriit laughs, clearly in approval.

"Do you have a comment, brother Restriit?"

"Only that the mortal has expressed the truth that none here dare face, save for myself," the god of endings reveals, now appearing more as the old man than Abdullah Ismail: "Even we have our limits. Even we have our endings. There are some things even we cannot stand against, and in such times, if we would continue, we must gratefully take what hands are offered to us.

"And if successful, we must be grateful enough to thank them properly."

"Have they no gods of their own to take up their calls for aid?" Soubre grouses: "I see no reason to be concerned on the behalf of one whose soul is already spoken for."

"That is an excellent question, brother," Seranu says: "Rahmaa, you are the Sun and the Star. You shine upon all worlds. And in that sense, you are Goddess to all of them. Would you recognize these beings as your own, and grant them shelter within Olympos?"

"I would," the fire-haired woman says, her voice as loud and thunderous as a solar flare: "So long as they pay fealty to me, I will allow them to dwell here."

"I don't know if they'll bend at the knees to you," Straffer says.

"All who come here to live must do so," Kanaan says, going back to her knitting: "You should have known that when you made the suggestion, dear."

He blinks, once or twice, just looking at her. And then he looks around the room, suddenly very worried and afraid.

And then it all goes dark, and he's not at the top of the tower, anymore.

Sunday: 12/27/15

"Jesus, son," SPYGOD says, sniffing the air as the door to his room opens and closes a little too quickly for his liking: "I can barely smell the subs over the cologne. You sure you got the right room?"

"Buenas tardes, senor," the Spanish assassin says, spraying a contact adhesive into the door's lock so they won't  be disturbed: "Mi nombre es Gunblade. You estoy aqui para matarte."

"Oh," SPYGOD says, turning around from his desk to face the direction the voice is coming from. He's wearing a tight t-shirt and boxer shorts under the hospital robe, and has decided to shuck the blind man's glasses for the afternoon.

"That seems a strange reaction, senor," Gunblade says.

"Well, it's been a while since anyone tried to !@#$ing kill me in my own hospital room," his target answers, putting the braille books away: "I think."

"You think?" the man asks, raising a florid eyebrow as he pulls out his eponymous weapon, and makes certain it's ready to go: "Is your memory truly that poor?"

"My memory isn't what it used to be," the superspy says, smiling: "Like you. Why don't I know you?"

"I cannot imagine, senor. I am rather notorious, even within the circles I inhabit."

"Gunblade, you said?"

"Si, senor."

SPYGOD shrugs: "No, not really !@#$ing coming to me."

"Now that is something of a disappointment," the assassin says, grousing a little as he takes a step closer, ever so slowly and carefully: "The most handsome of all international assassins? The one who only takes the most interesting and exclusive of contracts? The man who can kill anyone, anywhere, no matter how well-hidden, how well-guarded? And the man who always leaves a Spanish rose for his fallen prey?"

"Oh, wait," SPYGOD says, snapping his fingers and pointing one in the direction he thinks the man's in: "Prince Charming, right?"

"No, senor," the assassin grouses, again: "Though I could see someone making that mistake."

"Same fashion sense, though?"

"Yes, but not anymore," Gunblade says, smiling brightly: "In fact, just last Christmas, I gave myself the best present an assassin can ever have by allowing myself the luxury of his death."

"The luxury of his death, huh?" SPYGOD asks, getting to his feet -- somewhat tentatively.

"Normally, we have much more cordial relations, you understand," the assassin explains, swinging his blade about: "A certain code, made by those worthy to be predators in a world of prey. We do not interfere with one another, or our contracts. We seek no retribution against one another. We largely leave one another alone."

"Except when it's !@#$ing Christmas in Gunblade-town, from the !@#$ing sound of it," the blind superspy snorts: "What's the matter, mother!@#$er? Did he steal your cologne?"

"We were too alike," Gunblade admitted, shrugging: "A sense of style is essential for this kind of work. A certain elan, if you take my meaning? Otherwise, no one can tell you from any other, and then you are doomed to be third or fourth on everyone's list to call."

"And then you're eating cheap crap from a Styrofoam cup instead of partying at the bar over red wine and fancy damn croutons," SPYGOD says, taking a careful step forward, a hand extended: "I gotcha. But you know, I remember Prince Charming."

"You do?"

"Well, maybe. Or maybe I'm remembering his dad? I'm still going through all these damn audio tapes I kept, trying to !@#$ing remember."

"He was quite memorable," Gunblade admits, twirling his gun some more: "Quite honorable, in his own, ridiculous way."

"I think I liked him, from the sound of things," SPYGOD says: "Unless it was his dad."

"No, senor," Gunblade says: "He never had any children. He embarked upon his calling at least fifty years ago, as a young man. He aged, as one does, but never lost his sense of style, or his guiding light."

"Well, good for him," SPYGOD says, wishing he could remember that night he spent with him, or anything else.

"But he was losing his edge, so to say."

"So you gave him one last sharpening," the target says, just staring -- thinking maybe he can remember kissing the man in the heat of battle, and then passion.

"I did indeed," the assassin smiles, putting his gun up to his face so that the blade is right before his nose: "A mercy, I think. He almost didn't remember who I was when I split his heart in two.  

"Almost."

"Well, you get points for style, then," SPYGOD says, frowning at the thought of that uptight and crazily well-dressed man dying under this peacock's blade: "But is this your style, now?"

"What do you mean?" Gunblade asks, running a free hand over his shining white suit: "These fine clothes, you mean?"

"No, I mean creeping into crippletown and cutting down a blind man who can't !@#$ing remember half of his life, anymore. And just after Christmas..."

"Oh, senor," Gunblade says, grinning: "It is no use to speak to me so. I have taken the contract. It matters not whether you are young or old, well or infirm. I do not even care if you have committed the crimes you stand accused of, or truly deserve the death I bring.

"A job is a job, and a job is either done well, or not done at all."

"Fair enough," SPYGOD says, frowning: "Who sent you?"

"I couldn't tell you, even if I knew," the assassin chuckles: "All I will tell you is that it was as singular a hiring as you are a target. Perhaps that will make you feel better."

"Alright," the spy says, changing tactics as he hears the man's footsteps get closer: "Can you at least tell me how long ago you were contracted?"

"Does it mean anything, truly?"

"Hey, indulge me," SPYGOD says, taking a step back, playing for time: "This has got to be the easiest job you'll ever have."

"This is true," Gunblade says: "The security here is terrible, senor. And your guards are too easily distracted and incapacitated. And you, well... I must say I expected more. But all you seem to be capable of doing is talking me to death."

"Well, there was a time," SPYGOD says, sighing as he realizes he's literally up against the wall.

(But glad to hear his guards were merely incapacitated, unless this !@#$er likes using fancy words when he means "killed.")

"And time is never, ever our friend," Gunblade says, cocking the gun and twirling it around his head and shoulders with one hand, and then the other: "I am time's arrow, senor. And your time... is... up!"

The Spanish assassin makes one last twirl with his left hand, and then switches to his right. With both hands on the gun, he then steps forward to drive it into his target's sternum -- preparing to cleave through the bone, and the heart, and then pull both triggers to finish the job.

And he would, except that the blade is immediately parried by the sword that erupts from SPYGOD's right hand.

The assassin steps back, surprised. SPYGOD does the same, as he's just as surprised to see it.

And doubly surprised that, this time, there's no pain in his head.

And even more surprised because, now that the sword is out, he can actually see again.

It's not proper vision -- more of a strange sense of where things are, reflected in the blade. But it's more than enough to parry Gunblade's next thrust, and then another, and then actually get into a proper, swashbuckling swordfight with the fancy-dressed killer.

And enough for him to realize that the gun looks awfully familiar...

"Where the !@#$ did you get that weapon, you Adam Adamant ripoff?" SPYGOD shouts as they whirl and twirl around the room -- careful not to let the man get too far away, lest he take aim and shoot.

"That secret I shall take to the grave, senor!" Gunblade promises, smiling like the devil lives in his damn mustache: "I shall enjoy sending you there ahead of me!"

"Yeah, well, ladies first," SPYGOD snorts, quickly materializing another blade in his free hand and jamming it right up into Gunblade's adam's apple, and then straight up into -- and out of -- his head.

The Spaniard staggers back, dropping his gun. He can't talk, and breathing is difficult. And the more he moves, the less able he is to think.

"Oh, sorry," SPYGOD says, taking the Shot-sword from the ground and looking at it, reflected in the sword: "I thought this belonged to someone I knew, once, even if I don't really !@#$ing remember him, now. But I guess I was damn wrong."

"Madre de dios," Gunblade manages to gasp out, bloody splittle falling down around him like gruesome confetti: "Padre nuestro... que estas en los cielos..."

"Yeah, yeah," SPYGOD sneers: "So much for being all fancy pants and quick comebacks, huh? You got a prayer for that, mother!@#$er? Huh?"

"Please... senor," the man begs, falling to his knees, suddenly unable to walk, much less move his arms to beg: "End this... cleanly..."

"You know, I really shouldn't," SPYGOD says, turning one sword into two short blades, one in either hand: "But you did show me a new trick, and saved me a lot of !@#$ing bother. So for that... well, maybe I do owe you one."

Gunblade smiles, though it's more from a sense of oncoming relief than anything else.

But then SPYGOD looks down at the dying assassin, and thinks of the man they both have in common. He imagines the older, still proud swordfighter, surprised at home and bested in his dotage by an upstart scumbag in a fancy suit who killed him just for laughs.

He imagines Prince Charming dying alone and defeated for no reason at all...

So he just kicks Gunblade where his head meets his neck -- causing one to go flying away from the other, bounce around the room a few times, and then land in the damn trashcan.

"Maybe," SPYGOD repeats, watching the body hose down the ceiling, and then the door, as it falls onto its back, twitches a few times, and is then very still.

He bends down to find the spanish rose among the assassin's things. He puts it up to his nose, smells it, and then puts it into a water jug, over by the assemblage of flowers his fiancee keeps sending him. 

"Lock up the toys and warn all the boys," SPYGOD says, grinning even wider than he should be able to: "Mama's little angelito is back in town."

And then he puts his blades away, and lets himself enjoy the darkness -- now that he knows he has a way back out of it again.

(SPYGOD is listening to Amanaemonesia (Chairlift) and having a White Christmas)

Monday, December 21, 2015

TechnOlympos: 12/14/15 - 12/20/15

"City and desert coexist / Depending on the things you're wearing."

Chinmoku, Russian Steel, New Man, Epee Rouge
Bouclier Blanc, Yanabah, Tonnerre Bleu

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *
37
* * *


Monday: 12/14/42

"Grossbartig" Der Fuhrer says as he watches the Ubermenschen drill, spar, and fly -- totally in awe of what he's seeing: "Herrlich."

He's standing on a balcony with his closest advisers, observing the choicest fruits of Nazi science as they exercise their powers -- some for the first time. Older, more seasoned U-Men are on hand to guide these beginners, and ensure they don't go too far with their new abilities.

(There were some unfortunate accidents, early on, which no one likes to talk about.)

"It does me great honor to hear that you approve, Mein Fuhrer," says a man in a black mask -- his eyes white, burning stars in that darkness -- with an officer's cap upon his head: "We strive to make your wishes a reality, here, and to bring them to bear upon the battlefield in the name of the Fatherland."

"And the name of Der Fuhrer, of course," a slimy, short, dark-haired toad of a man insists.

"Of course, Reichsleiter Goebbels," Nacht-Maske says, deferring to the man as politely as possible.

"How soon can these Ubermenschen be sent out into the field?" their leader asks, his brow gone sweaty with excitement: "How soon can we have them in Russia? North Africa? Britain?"

"Not long, Mein Fuhrer," the officer in the black mask says: "Some more testing is needed to ensure we have weeded out any imperfections. Some more political indoctrination as well, to ensure that only the best are sent forth-"

"As soon as possible, my friend," Hitler says, putting his hand on the U-Man's arm: "What you have done here will make this war as short as it will be glorious. With a hundred more such Ubermenchen we could have the world at our feet within months!"

He says more, and his advisers smile and listen. But not all of them are as enthusiastic as their leader.

Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Kietel, for one, is especially reticent.

This isn't the first time he's seen his leader go clearly off the deep end -- ultra-enthusiastic about some new device, tactic, or the like -- and gamble the entirety of the war effort on that thing paying out in full. And sometimes he's been right, and the results have proven him out. But most often he's merely been wrong, and only obscene luck has carried the day for the armed forces he controls.

He wishes he could say something, right now. He wishes he could tell the Fuhrer that these Ubermenschen are like any other weapon in his arsenal -- merely a part of a much larger scheme, and not anything to build an entire campaign around.

After all, what if the weapon fails...?

But Keitel cannot say anything, now. He is too damaged -- too undercut. The Fuhrer has lost his confidence in his ability to make sound decisions, due to his reluctance to approve the war against the Russians, among other decisions that were tactically sound, but not to his liking.

And now, after this latest thing with List? Well, it's a miracle he's still in uniform. It's all he can do to exercise authority over his own people, and loudly and publicly defer to Hitler in all things, in all cases.

That and try not to hear his comrades when they call him "Lackietel" -- supposedly behind his back, but not so far that he can't hear...

As the day drags on, and the exhibition turns to self-congratulation for the Fuhrer -- and numerous chances for his advisers to build his ego, and curry his favor -- he eventually can take no more. He excuses himself to use the toilet, and while there alternates between being sick and weeping.

"From now on, when I speak, people will listen," he vows when he's finished, staring at his red, puffy eyes in the mirror. Imagining crowds of people cheering on his every word, rabid in their love and adoration.

Saluting him, for once...

Tuesday: 12/15/15

So, about that speech the Candidate gave in Las Vegas, at the Westgate...

I got in, of course. Someone owed me a favor. I won't say who, or why, but it was enough to make sure I got my gear in past the gorillas the fat-faced !@#$er had at the doors, making sure no one brought anything dangerous in. 

Of course, this is the man who thinks refugees fleeing a goddamn war zone in Syria are dangerous because they share a religion with the worthless !@#$roaches who attacked that concert in Paris. 

This is also the man who thinks the Martians -- who've been screwed six and a half ways to !@#$ing Sunday since they helped us kill that damned spacemonster just over a year ago -- are also dangerous, but only because the radicals and fearmongers are attacking them, and not the other way around. 

In the Candidate's America, you can't be feared or an object of fear to come here and live free from it. 

So what does this big-haired, often-bankrupt smirk machine consider dangerous? Protesters, apparently. But we'll get to that.

He started to his speech. It wasn't anything new or amazing, except that he struck a somewhat conciliatory tone with his big rivals in tonight's debate. He could have gone for some more of his increasingly-cheap attacks, but he didn't. 

Maybe he didn't want to have the words come back and haunt him, tonight? I don't know. 

What I do know is that, by all accounts, this was a far cry from the one he delivered at the VFW on Sunday. He talked smack about Mexicans, Muslims and Martians, but didn't go too far. He appealed to baser instincts, but didn't drag his audience too deeply through the mud. 

And he played with fear, as usual, even bringing a well-meaning black man to come up and talk about his dead son, killed by an illegal alien gangster. Which is when the Black Lives Matter people started to bring the noise, leading to their enthusiastic ejection from the hall. 

But it was another protest, about five minutes later, that brought it all into sharp focus. 

I wasn't too far away from the scrum when it started happening. A black man shouted. The gorillas moved in. It took them a while to get him off the floor, though. 

And as their Candidate said "get him out of here," and the crowd cheered, someone nearby said "Light the mother!@#$er on fire" to much cheering. 

And someone else said "Sieg Heil," also to cheering. 


I looked around, stunned. Did I actually hear all of that? Murderous threats and a Nazi slogan, all within a minute of each other? 

I searched the faces of those nearby, cheering. Their eyes were blackened and blank, as though they were possessed by something hideous. 

Something unspeakable that could only shine through the darkness of the human soul. 

I really should have intervened. I should have followed after the gorillas, beaten their sorry asses, gotten that guy out of the hall, and granted him an interview. It would have been a lot more interesting than the speech that followed, which was essentially paint-by-number Candidate.

But I kept looking around at the eyes of the people there as they cheered, and cried, and stomped their feet, and waved their cardboard signs with his name on it. And I kept seeing that vacuousness there, in them.

An emptiness begging to be filled with hate and fear. 

I'm not much of a praying man, even with a city full of gods just south of the border. But as I'm sitting here, waiting for this !@#$ing debate to start, and anticipating that slimy, fat-faced moneybag of a man trying to act like his followers are actually sane, I find myself begging any higher power that will listen that someone on that stage -- !@#$ing anyone -- will just verbally stake this hate vampire out on prime time TV for once and for all. 

To quote a certain whiny britpop star -- just this once, please, please, please let me get what I want. 

-- Randolph Scott.

Wednesday: 12/16/15

"Hey boss man," Yanabah says, walking over to the edge of the encampment, where New Man has been sitting for some time: "Josie's on the phone for you."

"Oh boy," he says, rolling his eyes: "I can guess what that's about."

"Yeah," she snorts, not even ducking as a very loud explosion happens, not too far away: "Shining Guardsman. You think she's going to throw the book at him?"

"I sure hope not," he sighs, getting to his feet and looking over at the explosion, off beyond some jagged mountains: "I'm going to try and talk her into cutting him a break."

"What the @#$ for?" she asks, honestly perplexed.

"Well, for starters, he's a teammate, in case you've forgotten," New Man says, somewhat puzzled by her unsympathetic reaction: "He's had your back a dozen times that I've seen."

"Not that last time he didn't."

"And for another, he clearly broke under fire. Wouldn't be the first time-"

"Um, I do need to remind you we were actually being !@#$ing attacked when he flew off and refused to fight anyone?" she says, not looking at all happy.

"Yeah, in a combat situation against non-powered combatants the rest of you turned to dog food in five minutes. We had it under control."

"Yeah, but that's still desertion, technically."

"Which is my call to make, not yours," the old hero says, turning to look her in the mirror shades: "I say he just broke, then he just broke. End of story."

"But-"

"But nothing," New Man growls, his eyes turning a crackling and poisonous purple as he takes her to task: "He didn't sign up with the Freedom Force to come over here and kill people in a war no one can understand without cue cards and cliff notes, damn it. He signed up to help people-"

"He's no !@#$ing virgin," she shouts in reply: "We were getting our hands red and dirty a lot just busting crooks and terrorists back home!"

"Yeah, and how many of them were twelve year old boys with guns they couldn't even fire properly?" he shouts back: "How many kids have we killed so far this war, Yanabah?"

"They point a gun at me, or you, or anyone on our team, they're not kids anymore," she replies, trying to keep camp: "They're the enemy. The enemy is fought. And we don't take prisoners on this kind of mission. Sir."

"No, we don't," New Man says, agreeing: "But we don't have to like it. And we sure as hell don't have to throw our own people under the damn bus wheels when they can't take it, anymore."

"I'll remember that the next time I have to save your ass," she says scowling behind her shades: "Or did you ever notice you were being sniper-bait the whole time you were stumbling around in the kill field, crying over people who wanted to kill you?"

"Not that's out of line-"

"No!" she shouts, getting right in his face: "What's out of line is you! This is a military operation, now! Just like that war you old !@#$s keep going on about! And I know for a fact you didn't get all weepy over Japs when you were mowing them down on Okinawa! Or the Koreans, or the Vietnamese, or who the !@#$ ever you went and beamed into !@#$ing oblivion when Uncle Sam told you to march your ass off to war!

"And now here we are again, old man! In another war! Different landscape, different enemy, but the same !@#$ing idea! You got a mission, you do it. You got a gun, you use it. You go out there and kill until someone higher up than you says to stop! And you don't !@#$ing cry and whine about it until you're out of the damn battlefield and back at a bar, or your tent, or the damn chapel, or whatever!

"I don't know what the !@#$ happened to you, old man," she growls, her teeth suddenly very long and sharp: "You weren't the best COMPANY Director ever, but you weren't a damn wussy, either. And then Hanami just !@#$s off to wherever and they !@#$ing put you in charge instead of Mr. USA or whoever-"

"He didn't want it, anymore," New Man says, trying to keep his composure: "And you know why, even if no one wants to say it. And Blastman would be the first to admit he wouldn't know what to do with it. And everyone else is too either too young, too inexperienced, too damn weird, or, in your case, too !@#$ing bloodthirsty to handle it!"

She recoils at that, and for a moment he thinks she might be about to rear back and take his throat out. But then she catches herself, takes a shaky step back, and looks down at the sand below their feet.

"This is hell, Yanabah," he says: "And yes, I fought in a war. Several of them. I didn't like them. I still don't. And all that I've ever done, then or now, I've done to try and keep us out of a war. To try and keep this world from flying apart at the seams. To keep soldiers at home, and off of a battlefield.

"Because this isn't an extension of what we do, Yanabah," he goes on, waving to the smoking clouds where the air strike just happened: "This is the failure of it. This is what happens when heroes fail. 

"And if Shining Guardsman was the only one who's seen it with such clarity that he couldn't do it anymore? Well, that means there isn't anything wrong with him. It means there's something wrong with the rest of us."

With that he looks at her, shakes his head, and goes to take his call.

"Got that half right," she snorts, once he's out of earshot.

"Excuse me" someone says, walking up to her side: "I was supposed to meet out commander?"

"And who the !@#$ are you?" she asks, turning to regard the swarthy fellow in desert camouflage, and the small, Arab-looking man at his side -- a long sword dangling from either side of his belt.

"We were just deployed here to join the group," he says, smiling and indicating the two of them: "My codename is Demir Ruzgar, from Turkey. And this is Al Mubaraz, from Qatar."

"Well, welcome to Fort Armpit," she says, grinning: "The commander's going to be indisposed for a while. I'll show you around."

"That would be nice," the fellow from Qatar says: "We tried to introduce ourselves to the woman in the red armor. She didn't seem very happy to see us."

"Yeah," she sighs: "But if you think she's bad? The asshole in the white armor makes her look like Mrs. Claus. You hear anyone speaking French around here, just leave them to it. They suck."

"That sounds... disturbing," Demir Ruzgar says, looking over at the woman in red in question -- a cloud of sharp swords floating around her as she glowers at them -- "I thought we were all on the same team, here?"

"Well, in theory, yes," she grunts, taking them over to meet the rest of the team: "But theory ain't on the damn map, around here."

Thursday: 12/17/15

"I don't like this," Myron says, tapping the map of the second sublevel with the marker pen he's been using to make changes -- and map where things have moved to: "74 should have come back by now."

"He might be hurt, somewhere," the woman from the improvement committee says, wincing as the lights flicker on and off, again.

"Then we should have found him by now," the Chess Master opines, smiling a little: "Or at least run across his body."

"That's a sickening viewpoint."

"Also realistic," the older woman replies, seemingly unconcerned about the other woman's viewpoint: "This place has always been a danger. Only Number Two was keeping it in check. And now that he's utterly useless-"

"Mostly utterly useless," Myron says, holding up a finger: "He still comes around every so often to tell us we're doomed."

"He never says why, though," the woman says: "And I don't think he ever will. I think he wants to see us fail."

"Not surprising," the Chess Master says. And when Myron looks at her, she raises an eyebrow -- her special way of saying 'we'll discuss that later.'

After a few days of wandering about with the lights out, thanks to Hook and Crook, they managed to get them all back on. They still flicker a bit, unfortunately, but at least they're on more than off.

Since then, they've been wondering what shoe will drop next. The few technicians they have left assure Myron that anything the duo could affect has already been affected, and all the other systems are too deep within the Green Dome's structure for their EMPs to hit.

(However, they also said that Hook and Crook couldn't even touch the lights, before this, so Myron's not holding them to that promise.)

Now that the power's back on, however, they've actually been able to look into their missing person. So far the prognosis doesn't look good, and the theories run from unsympathetic to outright terrifying.

One of the ideas is something that Myron's been very hesitant to consider, much less bring up: that there might be another entrance to the outside, and that someone -- or something -- has gotten inside the Green Dome, and started to pick them off, one by one.

Rather than say it out loud, he decides to talk around the issue: "Is there a possibility he might have gotten out of the complex without our seeing it? Another exit, somewhere, we don't know about?"

"There could be something further down," the Chess Master says, seeing where he's going with it: "There could be anything further down."

"But then we run into the same problem. How could anyone access it without Number Two?"

"Maybe you should ask him, just to be sure?" the woman from the Improvement Committee suggests.

"Provided he'll say anything at all," the Chess Master says, clearly displeased that suggestion has come around yet again: "Much less anything worth listening to."

"Well, he is nuttier than a can of Planters," Myron admits: "But yeah, I'm willing to go see if he'll cooperate, today. It beats playing 'what if' all afternoon when we've got a missing man."

"Your choice," the older woman sniffs: "But if you keep going to him when you have a problem, then sooner or later he'll use it to his advantage. And then you won't be able to rid yourself of him, if it becomes a necessity."

"Is this just a game to you?" the woman from the Improvement Committee says, shocked at how brazen she's being.

"Of course," the Chess Master says, grinning: "You were paying attention, before, were you not?"

"Ladies?" Myron says, holding up a hand: "Missing man. Possible problem. Working together is good?"

And yes, it is. And they both nod. But he can't help but notice the tension is still there, between them.

* * *

Number Two is kept in the medical wing, which is where they used to do some of their crazier, more barbaric medical experiments and procedures. It's been converted to a sick bay by the survivors who used to work at the hospital, only now doing much less sadistic procedures. 

But the irony has not been lost on anyone there -- Myron least of all. 

"How's he doing today?" he asks the tall, grayish-haired doctor who used to preside over the new intakes. She smiles grimly and leads him over to the corner of the long sick room, where a curtained-off area provides their star patient some sort of privacy. 

"Sir, you've a visitor," she says, pulling the curtain aside so Myron can see the man. And what he sees makes him recoil in disgust. 

Clearly he needs help going to the toilet. They shouldn't have left his bedpan, though. He's taken what he just left there and is sitting on his bed, using his own filth to draw upon the wall.

"He's been doing it for days, now," she confides to Myron as he tries to not throw up at the sight and the smell: "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's regressing."

"I'll say," Myron replies, deciding to just breathe through his mouth, which works (sort of): "From man to monkey in less than a month. I'll alert Devo."

"Not like that," she says, creating in him the terrifying notion that this snarky torture technician actually knows who that band is: "I mean to say that he's become a child to escape some horrifying event or truth his adult self knows."

"And what might that be?" he asks, looking at what the man's been drawing. It looks like a map of some kind: parallel lines, connected by straight and curving lines, and terminating in a dot at the very bottom. 

A dot that seems to be made of something that's been written over and over again, until it's just a nasty, brown smear.

"He used to be in control of this entire place," she says, almost like a lament: "Now he's lost it all. I would say it was stress, except that this was a very high-stress position. He was specifically picked for his resistance to such things."

"It was the loss of 42," Myron says, looking at her: "I was right there when he was eaten by that thing. Number Two just collapsed, weeping. He said he loved him."

"Loved him?" the woman almost laughs: "Oh, I fear you're wrong. He hated 42 with a passion. His betrayal was-"

She shuts up when a nasty gob of Number Two's inner chocolates slaps her right in the face, though. Thankfully, none of it spatters onto Myron, but it does make him almost lose control of his gag reflex. 

"I think I'll come back another day," Myron says, turning to go, just as the doctor starts to vomit through a mouthful of !@#$: "Have a pleasant time cleaning up his, um, number two..."

He manages to make it out of the sick bay without barfing, and the longer he doesn't, the less he has to.

But as he stands there, leaning up against the wall -- breathing slowly and deeply to fight off the nausea -- he thinks about the word the doctor used: betrayal. 

"A curious word to use to talk about a prisoner," he says, and decides that at some point he really needs to talk to the Chess Master about what was going on here, before he arrived. 
Maybe a history lesson is exactly what he needs.

Friday: 12/18/15

"Can we come in?" Josie asks the patient over the very loud audio file he's currently listening to, along with some music she thinks might be the Doors, though there's something weird and unfamiliar about it.

"You here with my damn meatball sub?" SPYGOD asks, reaching to feel out the volume control, and then turning it down just a little -- but not off. He's wearing a button-down shirt, open to his navel, and sweat pants.

He's also working on the third beer of a six pack, which probably shouldn't be allowed in a hospital. But no one wants to say no to him, as usual.

"No," she says: "My name's Josie. You probably don't remember me-"

"Sure I do," he says, turning to look at her with his sightless eyes -- thankfully covered by dark sunglasses: "You're that clone that runs the COMPANY, now."

"Yes, I am," she says, clearly not liking to be reminded of her origins.

"And... who the !@#$ is that with you?" he asks, cocking an ear: "Sounds like !@#$ing Iron Man to me."

"I'm Shining Guardsman, sir," the young, armored hero says, coming a step closer: "I'm here to... well, this is-"

"We're here so he can ask you some questions, if you'll let him," Josie interrupts.

"Oh god, he's not that !@#$ing reporter I got involved with, is he?" SPYGOD winces: "That liberal whiner on the television who's going on about bull!@#$? The one I apparently saved the life of through some big damn experimental cybernetics a couple years ago?"

"No, sir," Shining Guardsman says: "I'm not him."

"Then why do you sound like a damn machine, son?"

"I'm in armor designed by Gold Standard. He saved my life when I was a kid-"

"Oh!" the superspy says, holding up a finger: "That's right. Gotcha. Took me a !@#$ing minute to remember. But at least I'm getting somewhere."

"That's good to hear," Josie says: "Is it coming back to you, or...?"

"Hard to !@#$ing tell," SPYGOD admits, looking off into space: "I don't know if listening to this !@#$ is actually helping me remember, or if I'm just !@#$ing relearning it all."

"Not a great feeling," she agrees.

"No, but you didn't come here to listen to an old !@#$ing warhorse complain about his battle scars, did you?" he asks: "You said the metal man wanted to ask me some questions. I'm all !@#$ing ears, lady. Literally."

"Alright then," she says: "Our friend's having some issues about being a strategic talent in a time of war. It seems he really wanted to be a super hero, and not a super soldier. And the things we're asking of him are a little too much to handle."

"Well," SPYGOD says, raising an eyebrow behind his glasses and turning the audio completely off: "Sounds like you got yourself a big damn problem there, son. Didn't we tell you when you signed up for this !@#$ing gig that you might have to kill for your country while trying to protect it?"

"It might have been mentioned, yes," the metal-clad hero admits: "But not like this. I didn't sign up for a war-"

"Yes you !@#$ing did, son," SPYGOD interrupts him, pointing a finger in his direction: "You did. And let me !@#$ing tell you why.

"You know what crime is? It's war, son. It's war on the peace, and war on justice. It's someone !@#$ing thinking that because they're more powerful than you, they can !@#$ing take what you have and leave you to cry or bleed. Maybe both if you're really !@#$ing unlucky.

"You follow that so far, son?"

"Yes, sir," Shining Guardsman says, feeling very foolish.

"Now, in crime, you're working with the cops, true. And they've got their own war going on. But they deal with ordinary crime, and we deal with extraordinary crime. The !@#$ers who can fly, steal bank trucks, melt safe doors down, what the !@#$ ever.

"Those kinds of things, maybe you don't kill people. The cops don't !@#$ing like that. Due process and the rule of law and human rights and all that crazy !@#$. You know how that goes, right?"

"I have some idea, yes, sir," 

"Alright then. Now, we go to actual, capital-W war with someone?" SPYGOD goes on: "That whole thing goes right out the !@#$ing window. No due process. No rights. No law.

"We fight, we win. And if we don't win, we lose. And if we lose, well, we all wind up speaking !@#$ing German or something.

" I hear we're at war in Afghanistan and Syria, right now, so that's a whole lot of languages we're gonna have to !@#$ing learn. And I really don't feel like learning anything new if I can !@#$ing help it. You got that?"

"Yes, sir," Shining Guardsman says, looking at Josie as if to say 'please make this stop.'

And she, for her part, just stares at him, and points back to SPYGOD, indicating that he should be paying attention to the man they've come to see.

"Alright, then, son," SPYGOD says, crossing his arms: "So you agree that crime is war. And war is war. And if you're in for a penny, you're in for a pound."

"I didn't sign up to kill kids with guns, sir," Shining Guardsman says: "I didn't get into this to perform air strikes on villages where the civilians weren't evacuated yet. I didn't become a hero to walk through dead bodies I created and pretend I'm making a difference."

"Jesus !@#$ing Christ, what the hell kind of COMPANY are you running, lady?" SPYGOD snorts, shaking his head.

"The kind where we listen to our elders," Josie says, smiling.

"Alright, then," the super spy says, uncrossing his arms: "Let me see if I can explain this in a way that'll make sense. You know about the War, right?"

"I do, yes," the armor-clad man says: "If you mean World War II, that is-"

"Bull!@#$, son!" SPYGOD all but shouts: "You don't know !@#$ing nothing about it. But I do, because I was !@#$ing there. So let's talk about what I saw that you only see on !@#$ing old films if you're lucky.

"You say you don't want to !@#$ing kill kids with guns? Well, let me tell you something, son. By the time we !@#$ing got to Berlin, all the damn Germans had left was kids with guns. Scared boys and girls pressed into service, mixed in with some honest to !@#$ true believers who thought Hitler !@#$ gold and farted rainbows.

"And you can bet your tin-covered ass they shot those guns at us, son. They were !@#$ing dead if they didn't. They were !@#$ing dead either way, really, so they went down fighting. And I can respect that.

"And you say you don't want to !@#$ing blow up civilians in air strikes? Well boo !@#$ing hoo. You think those bombers wired ahead to their targets and said 'hey, Dresden? We're nailing you like a two franc hooker tonight. Best be elsewhere if you want to live'?

"Well!?" SPYGOD shouts, not liking the silence.

"No, sir," Shining Guardsman says, trying not to cry: "I don't... no, they wouldn't have. They'd have been shot out of the sky."

"Exactly," the superspy says, pointing his finger in the armored man's direction: "And you say you don't want to march through the bodies of the dead and go 'oh dear me, I think I !@#$ing killed these people,' and wonder if you made a !@#$ing difference?

"Well, suck it the !@#$ up, you tin-plated buttercup. Because that's how you make a difference in war. You kill the !@#$ out of the enemy. And by the enemy I mean not only the people who are actively shooting at you, but the people who gave them the guns and !@#$ing told them to shoot. The ordinary citizens who said 'let's have a war,' or elected leaders who !@#$ing talked them into it, or sat by and did nothing while their own damn dictator marched them off to it.

"That's how you measure progress in a war, son. Territory you !@#$ing take and hold. Things you deny to the enemy. And the price you make them pay for everything they did to actually !@#$ing get you into that war in the first place.

"The crime they committed against you , son." he says, putting his hand down on his knee: "Pearl !@#$ing Harbor. Poland, and then France. The !@#$ing Blitz. 

"Crimes, son, one and all. Crimes that a hero is supposed to stand up and stop."

He stops then, and looks over to where Josie is standing, he thinks: "So, let me ask you this, Ms. I Run The !@#$ing COMPANY, Now. You got any room for a hero who won't act like a !@#$ing hero?"

"That's what we're trying to determine, here," she says: "I have a lot of options on my plate. I just want him to understand exactly why he's screwed up."

"Jesus, no wonder the kid's confused," SPYGOD says: "You gotta contract out your ass-chewing, you might as well hang up your damn boots, lady."

She shrugs: "The head of Freedom Force is sympathetic to his situation. I'm not. I want him to understand why his CO is wrong. And no one's better at that than you."

"Well, if  you put it like that," SPYGOD sighs: "Alright then. Son, let me put it to you as straight as I can. Do you like wearing that suit of armor and calling yourself a goddamned hero?"

"Yes," Shining Guardsman says, shaking under it all.

"Then are you ready and willing to do what it takes to fight crime, son?" SPYGOD goes on: "And I mean all crime. Because being a hero ain't about cats in !@#$ing trees and idiots knocking over banks. It's making the hard !@#$ing choices. It's doing the things ordinary people !@#$ing can't.

"It's about putting your !@#$ing life on the line. And it's about being willing and able to take lives when you have to, too. Not all the goddamn time, obviously. But push comes to shove, and you're in a spot, and innocent lives are on the line?

"Well, that's how you tell a hero from just another asshole in a cape, son," the superspy says, crossing his arms again: "He does the hard thing. The terrible thing. The !@#$ing necessary thing.

"He goes to !@#$ing war. He does what he's told, there. He makes the hard decisions, day after day after !@#$ing day!

"And when it's all over, he says 'man, that !@#$ing sucked, and I never want to do it again.' And then he does his best to keep the !@#$ing peace so it doesn't !@#$ing happen again. And that's a good thing.

"But that isn't the !@#$ing time for that, now, son. Now's the war. Now's the time to end that war by winning it. And you ain't gonna win it by being a !@#$ing wimp who won't act like a hero.

"And if you won't act like a hero, then I say you got no !@#$ing business wearing that damn suit and calling yourself one. I say you're an asshole in a cape who wants people to call him a hero, is all.

"And that ain't the same damn thing, son," SPYGOD says, leaning back in the chair: "Not at all. Not at all."

There's silence, then. SPYGOD thinks he can hear the kid weeping in his suit.

He doesn't give a !@#$.

"Get him the !@#$ out of my room, Ms. COMPANY Director," he says to her, turning away: "Go take him to see that new Star Wars movie everyone's !@#$ing talking about. Buy him a damn beer, if he's old enough to !@#$ing drink. Hell, even if he isn't. 

"Especially if he isn't," he chuckles.

"I might just do that," she says, distinctly uncomfortable by all this, now: "And then?"

"And then, tomorrow? After he's had a night to sleep on it? You drag him back into that !@#$ing office and ask him what he wants to !@#$ing do. And you make him stand by that decision.

"You hearing me?"

"Yes, I am," she says, putting a hand on Shining Guardsman's shoulder and leading him out of the room, docile as a lamb: "Thank you for your time."

"Anytime, Ms. COMPANY Director," he says, turning back a little to shout after her: "But the next time you need someone to talk some !@#$ing sense into someone? You just tell them what I !@#$ing told him, word for !@#$ing word. And leave me the !@#$ out of it, okay?"

She doesn't reply to that. She's already left the room and headed down the hallway.

"And my meatball sub's still !@#$ing late," SPYGOD sighs, turning the audio back up and wondering when it will arrive.

And wondering if the man who claims he loves him is going to bring him back good news or not.

Saturday: 12/19/15

Director Straffer sighs as he exits the Martian shelter -- disappointed yet again, only doubly-so today.

Normally he relishes the strange feeling as Earth's stronger gravity overtakes the artificial, lower one the shelters maintain for their inhabitants. Normally he loves every aspect of visiting the spacious, high-tech environmental domes the Space Service has constructed, both here in Kalimantan, and elsewhere around the world.

It's when he goes outside into the slum that surrounds those domes that his heart sinks, and he realizes the full weight of the situation.

These weren't meant to be long-term accommodations. Refugee camps never are. But as time has gone by, and what was supposed to be a short stay become months, and then a year for some of these people, despair and boredom set in. Supplies became erratic, the Martians became stir crazy, and now his guards spend as much time keeping their guests under control as they do keeping outsiders from causing problems.

Not that they've been very successful at keeping the locals at bay: just the other day Straffer found out that one of his guards was running a tour service for high-paying gawkers, who gladly paid $500 a head to be led around the camp at night, pretending to be dignitaries from a nonexistent international refugee welfare organization. And the only reason he got caught was because the Martians paraded in front of them -- made to do calisthenics and answer uncomfortable questions -- finally asked when those nice people from that group were going to do something about all this.

(That guard is now doing some very degrading and dangerous work, somewhere with a much less pleasant view.)

Straffer keeps thinking he could have done something different, but he doesn't know what. He knew the kind of mess that refugee camps turn into over time. He knew the problems they create, the despair they breed, and the indifference they create in the countries they sit within.

He thinks he could have found another, better way to help these brave and noble people. He can't. And that makes him ashamed.

Today, however, he feels even worse. 

Today, he had to go to the oldest, most respected archivist the Martians ever had -- Remembers the Times Long Gone -- and ask him if they'd ever performed in-depth medical experiments on humans, and, if so, if they had any ideas on how to repair damaged brains.

At first, he thought the old Martian was laughing at him. He didn't realize until the wizened being's assistants suggested he may wish to leave as quickly as possible that he was actually crying at the suggestion.

But no. As the eldest living archivist assured him -- in the noble and stilted way they speak -- the Martians had visited Earth, time and again, but they had not ever behaved in the manner ascribed to them by so many of this world's ugly -- frankly racist -- portrayals of their people. They had not sought to interbreed, nor kidnapped its people, nor interfered with their lives or livelihoods in any way.

They just watched, these Martians -- watched and learned from a respectable distance, hoping that one day we would be mature enough to have a real relationship with.

And, as the hoary Remembers the Times Long Gone acidly put it, whatever progress had been made so far showed only that there was a long, long way to go before that day. 

And he's not wrong. 

Straffer knows he should have known better than to have asked him. Yes, he was desperate -- and he still is. But even in that utter desperation, he should have found another way to phrase the question, or gone through a different channel.

Ever if he did suspect this had happened, he should have been better to his guests, given the overall situation.

Has he been so blinded by love, and the hopes of getting that love back, that he'd do the unthinkable to get the impossible?

And if so, how far will he go...?

He doesn't know the answer to that question. He never does -- at least until he's crossed another line he drew for himself, however long ago.

But as he stands there, looking at the shambles this supposedly-humane refugee camp has turned into under his organization's watch, he can't help but think of the long lines outside the White City, down in Mexicali. The way they stretch to every horizon, and yet move fairly swiftly.

The way the Olympians seem to have no problems handling that many refugees, immigrants, and would-be citizens.

"!@#$ it," he says, deciding it's time he went back there and started demanding instead of asking.

Even if it means there will be the devil to pay. 

Sunday: 12/20/15

"So," Josie says, looking at the hero in her office...

"Here we are," the Spanish assassin says, looking in the mirror. 

"Have you made a decision?" she asks, hoping she's wrong.

"Are we ready for this?" Gunblade smiles, snapping his fingers. 

"Yes," Shining Guardsman says, hands behind his back: "I have."

"How could we not?" he grins, taking a medallion from a box.

"What's it going to be?" she asks: "Hero, or no hero?"

"Life or death?" Gunblade muses as he puts it on: "Life in death, more like."

As if to answer, he reaches to his chest, and presses something at his heart.

One touch of the medallion, and it all starts to happen.

The armor hisses and clanks, and begins to retract.

The golden disc shines, and clothing begins to appear.

Hands and feet, ankles and elbows, exposed for the first time in ages.

Fine, white and gold clothing that bends blades and breaks bullets.

Up and in the armor slides, until it's just a band around his ribcage.

Out and away the layers form, until he's well-padded, but moves like he's nude. 

He hands her a box from inside: "My firing controls."

He grabs his gun-sword: "My darling."

"You understand this is binding?" she asks: "No sneaking around?"

"You know we have to kill," he says: "And won't it be fabulous?"

"Not so much as a purse snatcher," Shining Guardsman replies.

"And not a word of explanation," Gunblade grins.

"If you change your mind..." she says, but he's already leaving.

"Our target's already dead," the assassin chuckles, heading out.

"Thank you for the movie," he says on the way out, but no more. 

"Thank you for not looking," he says to the crucifix he's left behind, as an afterthought. 

The now ex-hero hears ridicule as he goes, but it's nothing to be scared of, anymore.

"Tu nunca, tu nunca," Gunblade sings: "Deja de ser un dandi, mostrandome que tu eres un guapo"

(SPYGOD is listening to Trying to Be Cool (Phoenix) and having an Anti -Hero IPA )