Apotheoclypse Now: 8/22/16 - 8/28/16

"Sit back and relax / How can I when I'm Going Down in Flames?"

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

10

* * *

Ishida Hiroshi didn't start out his day intending to become a god, really. He just hoped to get to high school on time.

He missed the alarm. Then he missed the bus. And every taxi he tried to flag down was either busy, going the wrong way, or wanting to ignore him.

Tired, hot, and sweaty, he cursed fate. Today of all days! There was a major test in Chemistry, this morning. And if he wasn't there for all of it, he was in trouble.

He thought of running home, but his father was already at work, and his mother could do nothing but berate him once more for being asleep too long. 

So he walked. And as he walked he dreamed of being able to fly. Wouldn't it be nice to just spread his wings and be at school in moments?

Of course, that was foolishness. Just things from the Anime his younger brother watched. The same things he watched when he was that age.

Still...

He felt the bright light upon him before he saw it. He thought he was about to be hit by a car, or something, from the onrushing of the heat and the pressure. 

But then he was floating, far above the Earth, and a man made of red and grey metal was telling him that everything he'd ever hoped for was true. That he could fly, and do so much more.

All these things would be his, if only he would agree to let the Revolutionary Men join his soul within his body...

Ishida Hiroshi hadn't intended to become a god, that day. But when the school bus that left him in the dust arrived at school to find him standing there, waiting for it, he couldn't help but smile at the mere mortals inside it -- puzzled at how he got there ahead of them.

And he wondered what else might be possible, now that he was no longer entirely himself... 

Monday: 8/22/16

I !@#$ing hate Rio, son. Always have. 

(deep drag on a cigarette. slow exhale)

Why? Well, there's lots of !@#$ing reasons. Crime and exploitation. Brutality and squalor. Millions of !@#$ing people crammed into a city that should have given up while it was way ahead of the population curve, even for mega-Catholic South America. 

And that's all !@#$ing topped off by a police force that alternates between not giving a !@#$ about the fact that you lost your wallet, but is all too damn happy to deliver a beatdown to some poor !@#$er who didn't pay their protection money this week. Either that or organizing after-hours hunts for street kids, where the winner's the one who brings the most pairs of blood-spattered shoes back to the !@#$ing precinct. 

And yeah, maybe half the !@#$ing third world hellholes I crawl through while doing this job have the same damn problems. But for !@#$s sake, son, at least they're !@#$ing honest about it. At least they're willing to admit they got all this !@#$ going on, and try to apologize for it. 

(inhale. exhale. uses cigarette as a pointer)

I mean, !@#$ -- Bangkok? Cape Town? Kabul? Mexico City? Jesus, son, you start !@#$ing pointing out the flaws and your average tourist flack will say 'oh yeah, not so good over there. We need some foreign aid. But let me take you someplace nicer..."

But Rio? Oh no. It's all big diamond smiles in the Marvelous City. Bronze buns on the !@#$ing beach and carnivale in the streets, while people get their damn heads splattered on the !@#$ing curbs less than ten feet from the sand because they looked at someone funny, and the cops just laugh and drink their caipirinha on duty.

So when I heard they were getting the Olympics, this year? I about !@#$ myself. 

Were they !@#$ing serious? Rio? Really? Wasn't that like having Iran on the !@#$ing United Nations anti-terrorism council? Saudi Arabia on the committee to improve goddamn gender equality? 

Soviet Russia talking about economic freedom,for Christ's sake? 

(And yes, son, they did host the Olympics, once, in Moscow. Let's not even !@#$ing get into that. We'll be here all damn day.)

(inhale. exhale. repeat.)

So yeah, I wasn't exactly !@#$ing thrilled this year. Not that I really give a good goddamn about the games since the Soviet Union collapsed, and I didn't have to worry about steroid junkies, chemically-altered he-women, and !@#$ing replicants trying to steal hard-earned gold medals from our brave boys and girls. These days I just pay attention to the shooting events, fencing, and men's wrestling... for obvious !@#$ing reasons. 

That and I usually catch the closing ceremonies, because they tend to be so !@#$ing over the top that they remind me of the early 80's. I often wonder how many MTV video directors, europop costume designers, and new wave artists quietly retired to go organize these !@#$ing things, and what kind of illicit prizes they offer each other to one-up the previous Olympiad. 

This time, I wasn't !@#$ing watching. I was dealing with an in-house situation with one of my heroes, and the new weird-ass friends she's made since she quit being a !@#$ing Wendigo. 

(Or, more correctly, got that Wendigo !@#$ under control. I have to admit I was !@#$ing worried for a while. Not any more.)

So I was nowhere near the scene of the crime when the damn Prime Minister of Japan, who's hosting in 2020, got his stupid ass shot on live TV -- dead bang right in the center of the show. 

(one last drag. stubs it out. lights another.)

The facts, for anyone who gives a flying !@#$, are these:

The man made a damn surprise visit. No one knew he was coming, outside of his inner retinue and one or two people who were involved in the show, itself. They're !@#$ing swearing up and down they kept it quiet as hell. So far as anyone knew, it was supposed to be someone else coming out onto the stage, then.

The Prime Minister was wheeled onto the floor in a big green plastic pipe made to look like something from that Super Mario Brothers game an entire !@#$ing generation of college kids spent their best years getting !@#$ing stoned as hell and playing. He was supposed to rise up to the top as soon as a video animation sequence, showing one of the damn brothers in question falling through the Earth from Tokyo to Rio, ended. 

And he did, too. He just wasn't supposed to get his head turned into a target the moment he raised the red ball and smiled at the !@#$ing camera. 

(inhale. slowwwwwww exhale.)

The shots in question was fired from high up in the stadium. Up on the level where all the !@#$ing fireworks were shot from. A nice perch for a sniper, provided you were !@#$ing invisible and had something that could help you really see the ground floor to evaluate and shoot the mother of all targets of !@#$ing opportunity. 

As for the bullets? They're damn special things, son. The kind that !@#$ing disintegrate the flesh they go through, rather than causing the sort of hydrostatic shock damage that bullets normally create. The kind that tunnel from one goddamn side of the body to the other, leaving a bright red hole you could drop a !@#$ing quarter down.

 The kind that can only be fired from one kind of gun. 

The same gun last seen in the !@#$ing hands of the man I fear more than anyone else in this whole damn world. The one person who's outwitted me at every !@#$ing turn, hurt me in ways that can't be measured, and come close to !@#$ing destroying me on more than one occasion. 

That would be my Alter Earth duplicate, son. My evil goddamn twin. 

The same one who pretended to me, pretended to shoot our last actual President on !@#$ing TV, and then !@#$ing pretended to be the former First Lady, kidnapped and corrupted their last living daughter, ran a damn super organ ring, filleted poor Disparaitre, stood by while his !@#$ing apprentice used Red Queen as a damn science project, terminally !@#$ed over poor Jess Friend...

And then, after giving us one hell of a !@#$ing proof of concept demonstration? Showed us all his !@#$ing cards and told us to stay the hell away from his damn side of the casino? 

He just vanished. POOF. Not a word in months. Had no !@#$ing idea what he was doing, where he was, any of that !@#$. 

And I did look, son. I did. I was busy as !@#$, as you well know, but I did try to keep an eye out for that son of a !@#$ing !@#$.

Well, son, it looks like he's !@#$ing back, now. And he just left five holes in the forehead of the Japanese Prime Minister -- arranged in the pattern of the Olympic rings, minus the !@#$ing overlap. 

(pauses. inhales. holds. when he speaks next, it's with smoke)

So here I am, in !@#$ing Rio De Janeiro, dealing with their !@#$ing incompetent police and kleptocratic government officials, trying to get a word in with the Japanese investigators, who of course are still !@#$ed off at me over how things went down with Organization Ten just before we tangled with the damn Decreator, and deciding this really isn't my monkey, my zoo, or my damn bananas. 

The Japanese are trying to take over the !@#$ing investigation. I got Hanami in there, trying to !@#$ing talk sense into them, but they don't want to !@#$ing listen to her. I guess she's not Japanese enough for them, anymore, whatever the !@#$ that means. 

Meanwhile? The Brazilians want the Japanese to step the !@#$ back, and then off. And the Olympic people are standing around not knowing what to !@#$ing do. And every time I try to tell them what's probably happened, I get !@#$ing shot down like a clay pigeon in front of a !@#$ing gatling gun. 

But then... 

(inhales. exhales) 

But then, to be totally !@#$ing honest? I'm not even sure this is him, somehow, son. This doesn't seem his !@#$ing style.

I mean,  I could see him not !@#$ing taking credit for this. I could see him just doing it and leaving us to twist in the damn wind.

I could even see him somehow !@#$ing knowing this guy was going to poke his damn head up out of that green, plastic tube, all the better to get shot. 

But this doesn't seem to have his poetry to it, somehow. There's not enough damn bodies. Not enough blood. 

Not enough broken people left on the damn floor, trying to !@#$ each other to death with knives.

I don't know, son. Maybe he's changed his damn style. Maybe this is something !@#$ing surgical. An overture of sorts.

But I gotta know, son. I have to !@#$ing know if this is him, again. 

Because if it is, then that parallel Earth son of a !@#$ picked the worst possible time to come back and try to !@#$ with me. He just doesn't know it yet.

But I will show him. Yes I !@#$ing will.

(inhale. exhale. flings it.)

(watches it smolder on the wet pavement, in front of a video billboard telling people how great it is that the Olympics are in town.)

(shoots the !@#$ing billboard. watches as pieces of glass fall down to the street.)

(lights up again...)

Tuesday: 8/23/16

... only to put it out as soon as two visitors enter the stark, white observation room, not wanting to look at all unprofessional in front of both her boss and her number one client. 

"Thomas?" the matronly woman asks the young man sitting in front of her: "Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Please tell me you were not smoking in front of my son," Martha Clutch -- aka The Owl -- says to her, glaring hard enough to break steel.

"Ma'am, I know how this looks, but-"

"You may leave, Cecilia," Syphon says, smiling at her underling with something that might be mercy, or menace. Either way the woman's out of the room very quickly, leaving only the smell of her perfume and the wispy traces of a Parliament.

"You'll have to pardon her," the Olympian says, patting her large hands together: "Part of her philosophy is that her patients awaken faster if she's completely at ease when she talks to them. Sometimes it's cigarettes, sometimes it's a drink."

"Is it ever both?" the Owl says, looking at the cold, staring shape that is supposed to be her son -- sitting in a fuzzy, white bathrobe in a plastic, form-fitting chair, and completely dead to the world.

"At times," Syphon says, going around Thomas' back and looking down as his skull: "I think if we'd left things to her, we might have gotten better results."

"He's not responding," she says, holding a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing: "He's not... I don't see the light in his eyes..."

"He's there," the large Olympian says, putting her hands on his shoulders and giving them a quick pat: "The last time, when we created him? We brought his mind around at the same time as his body, and the two didn't play together very well."

"I remember," the heroine scowls: "And I also remember you telling me to be patient and be grateful."

"Well, you should have been," Syhphon says, shaking her head but still smiling: "But let's move past all that, shall we? We're not making the same mistakes this time. We're learning."

"I sure hope so."

"And while I know he doesn't look so good right now? That's his mind coming back online. Settling into his body, again. Making sense of it all."

"So... how long?" Martha asks, reaching out to take her son's unresponsive hand in hers, and squeeze it gently.

"Hopefully not too long," the Olympian shrugs: "It's not an exact science, but with any luck it'll be a day or two."

Martha nods: "Will talking to him help?"

"It might," the large woman says, walking around her patient and putting a hand on his mother's shoulder: "It might confuse him, too. But I think that, in this case? Having your voice be the light in his tunnel would be a good thing.

"Just don't rush him. Don't be impatient. Don't force it. Let him come to you... okay?"

Martha nods, biting back the sour things she really wants to say to this woman. And before long she's alone with her son, holding his hand and looking into his vacant eyes.

He looks lost and alone, more so than she's ever seen him. And she realizes that what the Olympian told her was correct -- he is in there, somewhere. He just can't come out right now.

"Thomas?" she says, trying not to cry: "I'm here, son. Everyone told me to say hi, and that they miss you, and they're praying for you. We're all hoping you can come back to us, soon. But I understand if you need some time to yourself, in there.

"You just take all the time you need," she goes on, squeezing his hand and smiling: "I'll be here when you come out."

And she sits there, looking into eyes that can't quite focus on her, and remembers the best piece of advice her Grandfather and her father ever gave her, back when she was just the Talon.

Sometimes, the hardest fights are the ones you can't punch your way out of.

Wednesday: 8/24/16

"No, really," Director Straffer tells Odin, who's not certain whether to call his bluff or not: "Feel free to run me through with that pig-sticker of yours. But you won't like what happens next.

"Not at all."

They're all on Naglfar -- the long and massive warship made from the fingernails of millions of dead men. It was made to be used when Ragnarok came, in the final battle between the Gods and the great wolf, Fenris, whose actions would bring only doom to the world.

Now? It looks like the doom might be coming after all.

Now all the Lightships that Straffer has left have surrounded the great warship.

Now all the Space Service personnel that aren't on those ships are on the Naglfar's deck, pointing very odd-looking laser pistols at their Aesir comrades.

And now, all the Aesir are pointing their swords, spears, and bows at them. 

Odin (once Mr. USA) and Straffer stand just inches from one another. Straffer's got a very large, odd-looking laser pistol pointed up at the Lord of the Aesir's chin. And Odin, for his part, has stuck a knife -- its dark grey blade forged in the heart of a star -- in the nape of the blonde cyborg's neck.

"You dare to threaten us," Odin shouts, clearly offended: "After all we have fought together? After all we have done?"

"Damn straight, mother!@#$er!" the head of the UN Space Service shouts: "Because if that's the only way I'm gonna make you all see sense, then that's what I'll do!"

"This base treachery can merit only one response..."

"That's rich, coming from you right now-"

"I will destroy you!" the Lord of the Aesir hisses.

"Well, that's damn fine, pal," Straffer says, jamming the gun up a little higher into the man's heroic chin: "You go ahead and you do that. Because if we don't stop what we're doing, here? If we don't really work together from here on out? Then we're all dead, anyway. All of us!

"And it will be all your fault."

* * *

The turning point had come about a day ago, though its effects were a little slow to manifest -- mostly because it had taken Straffer this long to limp what was left of his battle group back to the ship, make a plan, and spread the word. 

They'd been taking the Lightships deep into the riddled, dark bowels of Mars, seeking what Straffer had come to call "the hidden fortress." He was convinced there was a place down there where some small piece of the Decreator yet remained -- cranking out monsters and mayhem, and not caring that the other 99.99999% of itself was bottled up and in the hands of Mister Freedom, somewhere. 

It was slow going, as the ships could only operate down in the utter darkness for six hours without direct sunlight. And that time limit shrank the more they had to exert the ships: careful, slow flying was one thing, but fighting and heavy dodging was quite another. 

They also had to be careful not to tell the Aesir what they were really doing. Straffer disliked the secrecy, but he had the distinct suspicion that they knew more than they were telling about what was really going on, here. 

And that possible secrecy on their part was costing him lives and lightships -- losses he could no longer excuse. 

So they dove down into Mars -- day after day, sortie after sortie -- searching for some primal dark that the monsters were still climbing out of. Some weird corner where the scouring of the red planet had failed to completely take. 

Yesterday, they found it -- that and a few other things that Straffer really could have stood to not see.

Straffer and five other pilots were deep under the Lunae Planum when they came across a large cave they hadn't mapped before. It literally came out of nowhere, and was as black as shoe polish, even with the ships' illumination on full burst. 

Straffer was about to tell them to mark it and come back with fresh ships when their instruments went utterly haywire. Time and space seemed to bark at one another like angry, rabid dogs, for a moment. Up became down became sideways and inside out. 

That's when Straffer -- possessing eyes capable of seeing a lot more than any human, to say nothing of the sophisticated array of sensors of an Olympian-built Lightship -- saw something very strange inside that darkness. 

He saw a ring of black light, akin to what one might see around the event horizon of a black hole. 

He saw a very disturbing number of those horrible, massive crab things coming from out of that ring -- their perspective distorted by the distances involved, but clearly moving closer with each second.

But no sooner could be call out to the other ships to turn and run then they were caught in a crossfire between those monsters, and the beings who were waiting for them to come out. 

It was a number of Aesir, hiding nearby and waiting for the beasts to appear -- like campers parked outside a spawn point in a first person shooter. 

They fired indiscriminately, not even seeming to see the lightships. Half the battle group died then and there. The other half limped away, taking damage from the crabs as they fled. 

Somehow, Straffer was able to make it back. Even after his lightship ran out of power, and it was just him crawling through the black, nasty tunnels the Decreator and its self-made servants had made, all the way to the surface, he somehow made it.

(Thankfully, the last time his body was completely wrecked, he had them make certain improvements to his new frame -- incorporating countermeasures against vacuum, a lack of oxygen, and pressure variations into his skin.)

And as he quietly communicated with his people -- especially his new Second, who was proving to be quite amazing -- and he realized that his most recent fears had been correct, it was all he could do to avoid telling them to just blow the hell out of the Aesir. 

He knew, somehow, that things were not as they seemed. That something was wrong in all this. 

He knew there was no reason for them to act like this. None. 

Therefore, something had to be affecting them. Something bad. 

Something alien, perhaps.  

But this was the Aesir. They were proud. They were fatalistic. They would rather die than admit fault in anything. 

And it wouldn't be until they were here, at each other's throats -- with the point pressed home that what was going on could not continue -- that they could be made to see the damn truth...

* * *

... so here they all were, waiting for that truth to be told.

Odin looks down at the man he fought all the way from Earth to Mars with. The man he shared songs and oaths and victories with.

Somewhere in his eyes, Straffer sees the conflict. He sees the hero the god is riding trying to get out, and to speak.

Finally, two words appear -- almost choked back through semi-divine lips: "Stop me." 

So Straffer nods.

And he does...

Thursday: 8/25/16

... nothing, as per usual for the last couple of days.

Randolph Scott's new schedule has solidified around him slowly, like sugar crystals in a kid's science experiment. There's minor variations, of course, but generally the major movements remain the same.

He gets up around six in the morning, like he normally would. He tries not to cry when he thinks of Velma, and why she's not there beside him. He fails.

He eventually gets out of bed. Showers. Some mornings he weakly jerks himself off in the stall, but sometimes he can't be bothered.

He sits for a time in front of the room's darkened television, drying off. He wants to watch the news. He refuses to. That would be too damn normal, and he is well past that, now.

He dresses like some !@#$faced white tourist would. Makes sure his holographics are working, so no one can tell he's that notorious outlaw reporter from THIS IS BULL!@#$.

He gets a light breakfast in the hotel lobby, and then walks the streets of Nairobi. Every day he goes to a different tourist trap, careful not to spend too much cash. He takes a lot of pictures he has no intention of looking at ever again.

And then, around Noon, he catches the tourist van out to the Carnivore, gets a table by the back, and sits there for hours -- slowly eating crocodile and sipping at Dawas -- until they either close up, or he gets the feeling he's been there long enough.

The staff doesn't seem to care that the utalii is there all day long, milking their all you can eat policy. He gets a new drink every hour, on the hour, and tips extremely well. He also doesn't talk to them more than needed, which they probably appreciate.

That and he's not the only one --  there's other people, here, who are clearly waiting for someone.

Randolph thinks he recognizes some of them from old newspaper stories. Failed politicians, disgraced civil servants, maybe an outed spy or two. Most of them seem to hail from somewhere on the continent, but he notices people from all over Europe, Asia, and the Middle East as well.

They're here to do business, of a sort. They come in, meet with someone, and talk about everything but what they've really come to discuss. Sometimes they slide briefcases under the table, sometimes they trade cell phones. And sometimes they just talk in what's clearly code, and then leave either quietly satisfied or sublimely upset.

He watches them, quietly, as he comes to slowly enjoy the daily differences in crocodile. He can tell who's behind the bar by how much honey is in his Dawa, and whether the lime wheel is standing up straight, or somewhat flaccid.

And every day, either just before closing or just after the dinner rush, he realizes that he's wasted the afternoon here, and goes back to his apartment before the last tourist bus.

Each night be looks at the burner phone he brought with him. It's only got one number on it. And if he called it, he'd be forgiven. He could leave this hotel, this country, this quest.

He could come home. 

But each night he puts the phone away, and says tomorrow is the last day he's doing this. Just one more day. One more try.

One more chance to talk to the most dangerous man in the world, and see if he'll do the insane thing that Randolph needs him to do...

And each night he turns out the light, and weeps quietly in the dark - knowing that if he goes to Hell, after this life is over, it will look very much like this room.

And the Devil will be the bleary, red-eyed man who stares at him from the mirror, every day...

Friday: 8/26/16

... laughing at what he's done, now.

It was too perfect, really, the Candidate thinks as he watches the television in his fancy hotel room. Just too damned perfect.

That stupid, horsefaced !@#$ who made her career badmouthing people? The nasty and vindictive !@#$ who'd painted herself into a corner, this election, and had nowhere to go but with him?

The one who decided to jump onto his train, just to sell another book? 

Well, he showed her. He showed them all.

He did the one thing he swore he'd never do. He went back on his immigration policy. He said maybe he'd do what the last President had wanted, and what all the other interim people had done since.

He said he'd give amnesty to illegals already here.

And oh, did that bring down the log cabin!

He sat up all the night, laughing as his supporters decried his change of heart, but remained on his side. He chuckled to see them twist and turn on the late night political shows, trying to put lipstick on his pig.

And he realized that this thing King Whip gave him truly was a wonder. Because not only did it keep his people his, no matter how outrageous he got, but it also meant they'd stay in his side even if he totally and completely betrayed them.

He drinks the champagne his people brought up. 300 dollars per bottle. He drinks it right from the neck like some kind of drunk idiot.

Hell, he is drunk. On power. On invulnerability.

On possibility. 

He is the Candidate for the Republican Party. He is electorally invincible.

And he's starting to realize that he really can do and say whatever the !@#$ he wants...

Saturday: 8/27/16

"... which is a bit of a loaded statement when you're dealing with a God, I guess. But since we were in the middle of a massive orgy at the time, well..."

Straffer smiles at the camera, and shakes his head.

"Lover, you are amazing. I will never doubt you again. I know I told you not to send the Love Guns that Rosi made, as part of your deal. But if it hadn't been for them, we'd be dead right now, and Mars would be an even bigger mess than it already is.

"You won't preemptively divorce me if I make a 'make love, not war' joke, will you?" he asks, and smiles again: "Well, hopefully not. I just got the catering arranged, damn it. And from Mars, thank you, between battles.

"So here's the deal. As near as we can tell, now that we've all calmed down after a much needed post-sex conversation? There's something down there, under the Lunae Planum, that is bending the laws of time and space as we know them. It's also giving off a lot of entropic energy, which is what was affecting the Aesir.

"I suppose it makes sense. They're fatalistic creatures, not only aware of the fact that they're all going to die at some point in the future, but unnervingly eager to get on with it. And that means they're also willing to do whatever they need to in order to bring it about.

"So, they may have new bodies, but the impulse is still there. But where they were willing to kill other people by the millions before? These days they're just wanting to kill themselves, with the occasional sacrifice of us poor sky pilots being an unfortunate consequence...

"Eh," he sighs: "Anyway, we got it all settled. They aren't going to do any more of that stupid !@#$ that's going to get them killed. And we aren't going to hold their stupidity against them. I figure we're all entitled to be spiritually hijacked by some weird thing from beyond time and space, once in a while, right?"

He smiles at the camera and raises an eyebrow. SPYGOD knows what he means by this, of course.

"But we do have a bigger problem, hon," he goes on: "Whatever's down there? I think that some of the Decreator went through it. And now it's sending reinforcements back.

"Which means the fight for Mars isn't over, yet. In some ways, it's just beginning. Especially if I'm right, and the time distortions we're seeing down there are because what's going on at the other end of that hole is a lot slower than here, and we're dealing with a well-rested and rejuvenated entity.

"So," he claps his hands together: "After I get done with you, I'm going to talk to the UN, advise them of the situation, and tell them we need ground troops, now. I'm also going to send an emissary to talk to the Martians in the White City and see if they have any idea what might have been down there, in that area.

"Obviously, this complicates things," he goes on, smiling sadly: "And not just for the war, either. It means I'll be here longer than I'd like. Longer away from you.

"But I love you," Director Straffer says, putting a hand on the camera: "Never doubt that. Never believe otherwise. This is hell for me, being away from you.

"But we've got our duty, and our jobs. And I know you understand. You wouldn't be the amazing man I love if you didn't.

"So... goodbye for now," he blows a kiss: "And I will see you soon."

The screen goes blank, and then black.

SPYGOD leans back in the chair of his Flier Office and considers what he heard. He nods a few times, and pats the screen.

"I !@#$ing love you, too," he sighs, and then leans forward and lights up another long, black cigarette with his heavy, metal lighter.

(The one that says "!@#$ COMMUNISM" on the side.)

He's lost track of how many of these things he's been puffing a day. He doesn't even remember when he started, really.

"They say these things cause !@#$ing cancer," he says to the black skull on his desk -- the one that used to belong to Helvete, but now acts as his ashtray: "But I guess there's worse !@#$ing ways to go, huh?"

And yes -- there are.

* * *

He thinks of that day, over a month ago, when all the Aesir were leaving their old bodies for new ones. How they screamed and fought every step of the way, like cats trying to avoid a bath.

He remembers how Ve, in particular, did not want to go. How he bellowed and raged -- furious at how base a fate this way. How below his station. How ignoble.

How cruel to be taken from the fight, now that Ragnarok itself was raging upon the Earth...?

But then the spirit of the would-be Lord of the Aesir was elsewhere -- being given unto another, willing volunteer to shelter and maintain -- and there was just pale Helvete, crawling on the ground.

He didn't know what was going on, at first. None of the former hosts did. The shock of being removed from their state of semi-divinity was the equivalent of being smacked by a Mack truck, flung about twenty feet into the air, and then landing on concrete -- right on their damn noggins.

But it was a lot worse for Helvete, because not only was he not quite himself, but he hadn't been so for some time.

He hadn't been taking the pills since he became Ve. He wasn't Wilhelm Kietel, wrapped in the flesh of Helvete, any longer. He was just a somewhat psychotic, very sadistic Finnish pyrokinetic who'd been tricked into becoming a member of ABWEHR.

Realization was slow. But SPYGOD likes to think that, by the time he focused his eyes enough on the superspy to know he was !@#$ing dead, that realization had finally come and gone.

He'd hate to think that he died not knowing the full gravity of his offenses -- unaware of all the chaos and destruction he'd caused.

He'd hate to think that when the poisoned bullet struck him dead bang in the guts, and his flesh started to melt from his bones, that he didn't know that he was actually getting off easy...

* * *

The black skull grins at SPYGOD. He looks down at it, and then at his fingers. There's a wispy, grey cylinder of ashes there -- about two inches long, and just a second's burn away from the filter.

"Not !@#$ing paying attention," he chastises himself, putting the ashes where they belong, and then pushing the skull away. That's enough of that for now, he thinks.

Instead, he grabs a bottle from the side of his new desk -- the one that's got the carefully controlled refrigerator unit on it -- gets out a perfectly-chilled glass, and pours himself a neat drink.

And then he gets hold of a few people he's been waiting for news from, one after the other.

One is someone in successor to Ju Kikkan -- the Organization -- who owes the superspy a marker or two after some embarrassing events, over in Seoul. He is very happy to make a full report on the autopsy of their Prime Minister, even going so far as to send an exact copy of the files to one of SPYGOD's dropboxes in country.

The other is a less quiet ally, this time from FAUST. Their Director isn't doing too well, these days, so most of the information is coming from that man's Assistant. She's hard as nails and about as friendly as an Eagle who's found a snake in her nest, swallowing her eggs whole, but she's also incredibly competent and perceptive. Which is why SPYGOD likes her, and allows her to berate him as they compare notes about their mutual problem.

That done, he makes ready to call one more person up. But then he stops, as he realizes that there's a message in his queue from someone he hasn't talked to in a long time.

And what Karl has to tell him makes his blood run cold...

Sunday: 8/28/16

... watching the tragedy unfold -- only in front of his eyes, this time, instead of his mind.

The AGENT heard all the stories about this time, courtesy of his fathers, and their friends. They weren't supposed to tell him so much, he thinks, but they had no idea he was ever going to be in a position to go back and have to relive them, either.

So he turns the surveillance packages off, leans back in the hotel room's comfy chair, and decides that he's had enough of watching and listening, waiting for the big moment to come.

He decides he needs to get out and do something else.

He looks over at the case where the gun is -- the special machine that only he has any business operating, given how advanced and strong his body is. Not a lot of people were ever able to handle the stresses and strains it put on the human form, and those that did were never quite whole afterwards.

He considers that, and goes over to the case, taking it out and letting it speak to his flesh as it does.

"Tell me," he demands of the weapon: "You remember all the times you were ever used, right?"

"I do, yes," Hǫfuð replies -- its soft voice becoming more intelligible as the AGENT's eyes grow in size: "Every shoot. Every kill. I can never forget."

"So if I showed you a body, you would know if it was your work?"

"Yes," the gun says, breathing in his hand: "Without question."

"Then let's go see a body," the AGENT says, turning his ANIL on and setting it for where he knows the corpse of the Japanese Prime Minister is lying in state.

* * *

Randolph Scott lies on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, and wondering how long he's got before they find him.

He wasn't stupid about this. He took precautions. He covered his tracks, hid all traces.

No one should know he's here, in Nairobi. No one at all.

And yet, he's being followed, somehow. He has been since last night, on the way back from the restaurant.

Just some lady on the bus back. But he didn't recognize her from inside the restaurant. And when he got off, he caught her looking at him in that special way.

The way you do when you realize the person you're looking at is wearing holographics...

It's no one to do with the person he's here to see, either. He doesn't have "people." He doesn't need them.

(Not unless something has seriously changed...)

So that means it's probably the COMPANY. Which means his kids went to SPYGOD.

Which means he's about a day or so from having that mother!@#$er come stomping up to him, at Carnivore, and demand an explanation for this bull!@#$.

Which means today really is the last damn chance he's got to talk to this person.

Which means, as much as he'd rather lay there and look at the ceiling, he has to get moving.

In another moment or two. Really. 

* * *

 The AGENT stands in the mortuary, unseen and unheard by the many technicians and investigators crowding around the body. 

The autopsy is done. The necessary damage to the body has been performed, reverently and with care. 

There's just his head to deal with, and they're in no hurry to move forward on that, given its central position in the criminal case. 

The invisible man looks at the five holes in the Prime Minister's head -- amazed at how neatly they've been placed, knowing the kind of expertise such a grouping of shots would take to pull off. 

"So tell me," he asks his weapon: "Is this something you did?"

"Yes," the gun replies, its voice betraying neither pride nor remorse: "I did."

"Can you tell me where the person who did this is?"

"Yes. My tracking mechanism can find anyone on the planet. You know this."

"Are you there, now, with him?" the AGENT asks, choosing not to take the gun's chastisement to heart.

The gun is silent for a moment: "I am not certain."

"It would be nice to know," the AGENT says, more than a little miffed: "If you're there, and I take you there, the paradox could be catastrophic."

"Then perhaps you should not go," Hǫfuð says, something approaching annoyance coming into its voice: "This is seriously off-mission. This is none of our concern."

"Maybe, maybe not," the man says, not entirely certain why he's here, now. But something told him to see this through, and he will. 

So he tells the gun to tell him where its last user was, all these years in its past. And then he fires up his teleporter, and goes right there. 

Hoping that the man they're going to see isn't nearly as frightening, and powerful, as he was always told. 

* * *

Carnivore is rather busy, today. More so than usual. Randolph almost doesn't get his usual table in the back, thanks to what appears to be two tour buses and a coupon in the paper.

At least, that's what he's supposed to think. But he knows better. 

He can see the way the people in there act. The way they talk, and then don't talk. 

The way they disguise how they're looking over at his table, every so often, when they think he's not looking at them. 

He's been made. He really should leave. He really should. 

But as he gets his first Dawa, and then they start bringing around the skewers of crocodile, he decides he's come this far -- he might as well finish this weird dance. 

It would be a shame to not give SPYGOD the chance to use the speech he's doubtlessly been rehearsing for a full day, or more. 

* * *

"Oh dear Gods," the AGENT says, kneeling down by the remnants of what was once a man, there on the cavern floor. 

He was black, that much is certain. Maybe medium height. Bearded. In decent shape, maybe in his mid thirties. 

He can tell that much by what's left of him, but not much else. 

And that's because the man has been deconstructed -- piece by piece -- and laid out on the floor in what can only be described as an anatomical illustration made from the real thing. 

(He may have also been eaten. There are bite marks in certain muscle groups. Ones prized for their tenderness...)

"Who is this person," he says, reaching out to touch a pool of blood and get a genetic sample: "Is this... no. It can't be him. He didn't die like this... did he?"

"This is not the man who fired me," Hǫfuð insists. 

"Who is it?"

"Unknown," the gun admits, leaving the AGENT's suit to tell him the rest. 

But no sooner does it tell him that this man is a former NGUVU Agent known as Khalil then someone actually sneaks up on him...

* * *

Randolph hears him before he sees him, thanks to the bugs he's placed around the restaurant on bathroom breaks and trips to the bar when service was slow. 

There's a long car, pulling up front. The sort of thing one drives around Nairobi in if one wants to make a splash, and appear to be more important than one actually is. 

Someone lets its passenger out. He hears the familiar grunt of a certain someone getting to his feet and heading for the front door. Into the foyer. 

And then into the restaurant, itself. 

* * *

The blow hits the AGENT in the back of the head -- right where his neck meets his skull, and with so much force it's a wonder he isn't internally decapitated. 

(A wonder paid for by the American taxpayer, and put into action by a legion of COMPANY bio-sculptors)

"That kind of hurt," the AGENT says, riding the blow, rolling with it, and executing a perfect leap back up to his feet a second later: "I'd appreciate if you didn't do that again..."

But there's no one there. Darkness reigns in the cavern.

Not silence, though. He can hear breathing. Excited. 

Aroused, even.

* * *

He's not going to watch SPYGOD come up to the table. He's already decided this. He won't give him the satisfaction of pretending to be surprised to see him, or even happy, or angry. 

He's just going to sit here, slowly eating the roasted crocodile tail they've brought him, and wait for the superspy to make the first move. Say the first words. Deliver the first insult. 

Throw the first punch. 

* * *

"I can see you," the sound in the cavern says: "But you cannot see me, I think..."

"I think I can," the AGENT lies -- at least for a moment, as he allows his eyes' sensors to map the temporal anomalies that are unfolding before him. 

In that moment, he realizes that he is in the presence of the Wandering Shadow, himself. 

He also realizes that the man also has Hǫfuð in his hands -- from 28 years ago, by his reckoning. 

"Yes," the tall, black man says, looking at the AGENT with eyes gone large -- both because of what the gun does to human bodies, and what is either excitement or insanity: "I have your gun, sir. And you have mine."

"You shouldn't be seeing me," the AGENT says, playing for time: "And you shouldn't have that gun, either."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," the Wandering Shadow admits, coming back into normal time to make the conversation easier -- appearing as he does: "But then, my new friend gave it to me. And how could I refuse such a damned wonderful gift?

"Especially after he explained to me how one might use it..."

He grins. His teeth are bloody.

And they have pieces of red, stringy flesh stuck between them...

* * *

"... no, really," the man approaching Randolph's table says as he comes close enough to be seen and heard: "Don't get up. Please."

"I wasn't planning on it," Randolph says, looking up and smiling.

But then the smile drops as he sees who's standing there -- dressed in a suit made from supple, brown leather, and wearing an eyepatch made from what might be human bones. 

"That's probably the most fucking sensible thing you've said in a while, Randy," the SPYGOD of Alter-Earth says, pulling a chair from another table and sitting down, across from the outlaw reporter: "And now, I'm going to explain why.

"And then..." he goes on, grinning like a sickly pale jack-o'-lantern: "We're going to have one hell of an interview, you and me..." 

(SPYGOD is listening to Animal (Zoo) (Front 242) and having a Five)

Apotheoclypse Now: 8/15/16 - 8/21/16

"Just a flame in the fire / Can hear the drums of fate / Reverberate"

(The Old Man and friends - many, many friends)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

11

* * *

There's an art to this, he thinks as he watches the people below -- wondering who to kill, and when.

One of the most heavily-guarded places in the world and he just walked on in, smiling ear to ear.

He doesn't need to hide. No one can see him. 

He doesn't need to be quiet. All the noise and they'd never hear.

They have no idea he's there. None of them. 

And all he has to do is wait for the right moment...

His new friend explained it all to him, when he gave him this incredible gift. The thing he cradles in his hands.

So small a thing to be so dangerous, he thinks. But in his long and varied experience, it's often the little things that cause the most problems. 

So he smiles, and he watches. 

And he waits for the perfect moment to present itself...  

Monday: 8/15/16

"Alright, doc," SPYGOD says, tapping his high-heeled combat boot on the floor so loud it sounds like a gunshot: "Calm the !@#$ down. Take a deep !@#$ing breath. And tell me what's so !@#$ing important you had to call me at 3 in the goddamn AM to yabber-frabber at me over the !@#$ing phone."

"But... I've been telling you-"

"Then tell me again," the super spy insists, pointing through the observation window at the autopsy going on, below, in the haz-mat area: "And this time, make some !@#$ing sense! You sound like a pet monkey that found the booze and go-powder."

"But-"

"You know, that !@#$ing happened once. Hunter S. Thompson bought some damn monkey as a joke. I don't know what the !@#$ he was thinking, but one day he comes home from shooting his guns at hippies, and finds out the whole cabin is !@#$ing trashed. You know why?"

"Why...?"

"Because the damn monkey got bored, got out of the !@#$ing cage, brachiated through his goddamn rafters, opened his bedroom door, rifled through his !@#$, and found the big black box with all the goddamn drugs."

"Oh."

"Oh is goddamn right, doc. Hunter comes home, smells monkey !@#$, and just thinks the damn thing got out of its cage. But then he stomps to the bedroom and sees this poor thing flying all over the room, trailing piss and !@#$ behind it, throwing the !@#$ up, and so stoned, cranked, high, and down at once that its eyes were like big, red spirals."

"Well-"

"Took ten rounds to bring that !@#$ing thing down. Even then it lived on for a half hour, so jacked out of its !@#$ing skull that its body refused to tell its brain it was dead."

"..."

"Yeah, a real tragedy. I think about that monkey, sometimes. Like right !@#$ing now when I see a supposedly grown !@#$ing man running around, waving !@#$ in the air like you just don't !@#$ing care, and trying to tell me something goddamn important but making chitter jibber jabber noises instead!"

The doctor looks at the man. He takes another deep breath, nods. Puts the things in question down on the nearest available surface.

"Alright," he says, holding up his hands: "Let's... let's go a different direction. What can you tell me about the woman down there?"

"About Space Commander?"

"If that's the woman you pulled out of Lake Calumet? Then yes, sir."

"Jesus," SPYGOD thinks: "You want the !@#$ing Cliff Notes version, or-"

"That will do, sir," the doctor interrupts, wishing to god he had a real drink right about now.

"Okay then. Showed up in Chicago in 1927 or so. Had a spaceship, ray guns, force fields. Basically what you'd !@#$ing call Dieselpunk these days. Not that those days didn't have enough of that already."

"What else can you tell me about her?" he asks.

"She hung out with some Chi-town heroes for quite a while," he goes on: "The Owl, the Wraith. This one creepy !@#$er known as the Jester of Justice. And that Mister Future... well, let's not talk about that !@#$er..."

"Alright. But what about her?" the doctor presses: "Do you know how old she was? Where she came from? Anything like that?"

"She said she was 27 when The Owl met her," SPYGOD shrugs: "Sure seemed that way. Pretty good shape physically. Not !@#$ing crazy or off-balance, especially compared to some heroes I've dealt with."

"Did you ever meet her?"

"No," SPYGOD says, shaking his head and having a nip from a hidden flask: "I knew The Owl during the War, and we became real allies after it. By the time that happened she was long !@#$ing gone, though. Took off after the War, in fact. The whole group of Chicago heroes was gone by then, except for the Wraith. And... well, he's a special case."

The doctor nods: "What did she say she was? I heard she was a hero, but...?"

"Just a plucky gal inventor who wanted to !@#$ing fight crime, doc," the superspy says, going over to the window and looking down at her body -- being gently torn down to its component parts by man and machine: "Built a working flying saucer out of tractor parts, if you can !@#$ing believe that. So far ahead of us that it took us !@#$ing ages to reverse engineer what little she left behind. Even then, most of the !@#$ we got out of it was barely functional."

"So... as far as you know, she was born in 1900?" the doctor asks: "Just an American farm girl who somehow figured out scientific principles so far ahead of her time she once argued Albert Einstein to a standstill?"

"HA!" SPYGOD laughs, turning from the window: "That's !@#$ing right, doc. I'd forgotten about that. She even gave Doctor Yesterday a run for the money, now and again. Always challenging him to make a better future. What a gal."

The doctor nods, takes a deep breath, and gestures to what's going on, down in the theater: "Sir, I don't know how to tell you this... but..."

"Doc," SPYGOD says, waving his hand somewhat impatiently: "Small !@#$ing words. Spell it out for me, now."

"You have to understand that this woman's body is in bad shape," the man begins again, after a second to collect his thoughts: "I don't know how far into space she went, but she was exposed to vacuum. Most likely cause of death is asphyxiation. The ship kept her warm enough to mummify instead of freeze, which is why her DNA is still in good enough shape to do some preliminary tests."

"Such as?"

"Enough to tell that her DNA has been altered through genetic surgery," the doctor says, holding up a pad -- showing a holographic representation of her chromosomes: "There's things in here that have been awakened, and others that have been shut down. A familial predisposition to diabetes was turned off, along with some other, serious aliments. Meanwhile, characteristics that would contribute to robust health, strength, and longevity have been activated, or strengthened."

"But that's..."

"Not possible, right now?" the doctor asks, glad to finally get SPYGOD at something of a disadvantage: "Yes and no. We know how to do it. We've been doing it wholescale since we started putting something in the water to suppress people's powers, if you'll recall. But that's a sloppy, one-size-fits-all solution that doesn't always work.

"But this? This was planned with foresight. Executed with surgical precision. And done seamlessly. The only reason we know it happened at all is because the genetic materials have been neatly deactivated, instead of the ragged mess we tend to leave these days."

SPYGOD blinks a few times: "What else?"

"Well, I'm not entirely certain, given the damage. But there are clearly organs inside her that don't normally belong there. Something to do with digestion, I think. Her appendix is not only missing, I think it was never there at all. Her bones are stronger than they should be... and..."

He changes the hologram on the pad to a view of her head. The layers fall away, one by one, leaving her brain.

And inside her brain...

"Those are implants," SPYGOD says, running a finger along them: "A whole !@#$ing lot of implants."

"Yes, and they're all internal," the doctor says: "No external jacks for any of it. I'm wondering if maybe programming wasn't done on a biochemical level. Or maybe they flashed information into one of her eyes. We've found the remnants of some ocular implants, there, but they're in bad shape due to vacuum exposure."

"She wasn't from our time," SPYGOD says, understanding what the doctor was on about last night: "She was from the future."

"Yes," the doctor says: "Which means that that flying saucer is most likely not merely a vehicle. It's a time machine."

"Unless..." SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "Unless she wasn't lying about going into space when she left."

"What do you mean?"

"Time travel is serious !@#$ing business, doc," the superspy says: "It's not something you do in basements or phone boxes. It requires a lot of !@#$ing energy, and a lot of computational power. Either that or a whole lot of magic, and something tells me that wasn't her damn bag."

"So... she went into space to find a time machine?"

"A time portal, yeah," SPYGOD says, looking up: "And for some damn reason, she didn't make it. Floated up there for !@#$ing ages. Crashed back down to Earth last week."

"So what happened to her, then?" the doctor asks.

"You find that out," SPYGOD says, heading out of the room as he grabs his phone: "I gotta !@#$ing talk to Mars..."

Tuesday: 8/16/16

"This should not be happening," Straffer says, looking at the smeared remains of what was once a god wearing a hero. 

"And yet it has," Freyja says, looking down at the person who was once Tyr, but is now once more becoming Home Fort -- brave hero of Andorra. He wears his bravery still in death, though his facial features are all that's immediately recognizable. 

"Return to your posts," Straffer snaps at the Lightship pilots who've come to gawk. They obey very quickly, not wanting to mess with him when he's in this kind of a mood. 

"Fear not, good ally," Ve says to him, kneeling before her fallen comrade: "They should see this death. They should know what yet awaits them. What remains to be done."

"Got that damn right," the blonde cyborg replies, biting his tongue to keep from saying anything harsher to these Aesir in human hosts.

Especially now that he knows they haven't been telling him the whole damn truth. 

* * *

It happened earlier in the day, after a group of Lightships traveled deeper into the ruined, cryptic surface of Mars than any of the liberation forces had gone before. 

They were really pushing the envelope, there. The ships only worked at 100% when they were in direct line of sight with the Sun. In darkness, they could operate on the equivalent of batteries for six hours in a normal run -- less if they had to fly faster, or fight. 

They got down a couple of miles before they needed to do both -- ambushed by something highly reminiscent of the massive turd-crabs each 8-Ball housed, only larger and nastier. Two of the five ships were lost in the attack, and the other three barely made it back to report. 

Straffer had barely had time to receive that report, and begin to formulate a strategy, than the Aesir were all hopped up on war fever and itching to go deal with the beast. He told them they should wait for another sighting run, just to see how many of those things were down there, but Odin didn't want to hear it. 

So ten Aesir jumped off Naglfar and launched themselves at the planet below, screaming oaths and praising the fates all the way down. A short while later came the sounds of fighting, and battle, and the sound of a gruesome monster dying. 

A short while after that, nine Aesir came back, bearing the melting body of the tenth. 

Tyr had delivered the death blow, and not cared to get out of the way of the caustic spray that ensued. Did he think his armor could stand being immersed in the sort of thing that could eat through steel and concrete? Or did he simply not care?

Straffer wasn't certain. All he knew is that a hero who was once able to walk through a volcano and stop an eruption was now becoming a red and pink puddle on the deck of the ship. And all the Aesir could do was cheer on his demise, and decide how best to perform a proper funeral under these conditions. 

 

(Could they put him and his things in a lightship and send it towards the sun? Would Rahmaa mind..?)

He thought to tell them that no, wasting another precious lightship would not be a good thing, but decided to just let them have their moment. They fought hard and played hard, these Aesir, and if they wanted to mourn as hard as they died, so be it. 

He was more concerned about getting to the bottom of why this supposedly liberated planet still had so many dangerous things living inside of it. 

And why even Odin -- inside a man he knew to be an honest and honorable person -- wasn't telling him all that he knew. 

And he had to know, didn't he? All seeing All-Father. Two wolves to run ahead and scout. Two ravens to learn all there was to know, and bring it back to him. 

He must have known the beast was there. He must have known someone would die. 

And if he knew, and didn't say, that made him responsible. For Tyr's death. For the death of his two pilots. And a few other casualties, besides. 

Suddenly, Straffer isn't feeling like an ally in this fight. He's feeling like a safari guide, only the tourists want to both kill and die, without a thought for the life of their staff. 

Clearly, this needs tending to, before things get worse.

And suddenly, the astounding news SPYGOD sent him yesterday seems like a minor distraction, rather than cause for concern...

Wednesday: 8/17/16

"No, sir," Hanami radios back, looking carefully across the town at the person in question: "She's not doing anything, really. Just... wandering."

"What do you mean by 'wandering?'" SPYGOD asks, very quickly: "Describe this 'wandering' you speak of, Hanami."

The android nods, and looks to her companions in monster-trailing (being Red Wrecker and Dragonfly) for some backup on this one.

They've been in Taos for four days now, keeping an eye on Yanabah for SPYGOD. So far they haven't had much to report, in terms of obvious dangers or threat assessment.

But in terms of odd behavior... well, you could say she's not acting like herself.

She shucked the black leather combat suit, either before or after she got here. She doesn't seem to have any weapons on her, though she could have secreted any number of guns, knives, grenades, or other such implements of grievous bodily harm in that tacky, flowing sunflower dress she's got on, or the huge bag she's lugging about. She's also got a floppy hat and what might be dollar store flip flops.

(Still wearing sunglasses, though -- the thin, silvery ones she wears day and night like some kind of 80's New Wave assassin.)

As for what she's doing, well, 'wandering' seems to fit. In the four days they've been quietly trailing her, she's gone to no less than ten shopping areas, spent time in at least thirty stores, and eaten at nine fast food restaurants.

She has also not gotten anything alcoholic to drink, even in the privacy of the flea-pit hotel room she's taken in the less tourist-friendly part of town.

Hanami tells SPYGOD all of that, deciding to skip no details whatsoever. It takes her exactly 31:34, and by the time she's done she's wondering if she's said too much, or not enough.

(She can tell Red Wrecker's bored as hell, though. Girl's patience and ability to control her temper seems to have vanished along with most of her hair...)

"Alright, then," SPYGOD says: "No alcohol? Not even a damn drop?"

"No, sir," the Japanese Android replies, watching through telescopic eyes as the woman in question gently haggles with someone over some very lovely jewelry.

"And she hasn't beaten the !@#$ing !@#$ out of anyone, yet?" the superspy asks.

"Not that I've seen. In fact, the other day someone ran into her, and she was actually... well, she seemed to be polite about it."

".."

"I know, sir. That's.... well, that's rather spooky-"

"Put Dragonfly on the line, Hanami," SPYGOD says. The android nods and, looking at the white-clad former assassin, hands the communicator over to her.

"What's up, boss?" she asks, looking over at the quary.

"I know you won't kill, anymore," the superspy says: "I respect that. I do. Really."

"What do you need me to do, sir?" she asks.

"I need you to figure out how to knock her the !@#$ out," SPYGOD says: "No drugs. No bullets. Just a single, quick smack to something !@#$ing sensitive enough to drop her ass on the ground and keep her gone."

"Do you think she might be compromised?"

"What I think ain't your damn concern, Dragonfly," the superspy says: "I want a strategy in ten !@#$ing minutes. Call me back when you got it."

"And then what, sir?"

"And then... go back to watching, until it's time to do what you planned."

With that he turns off the communicator, and she nods, sighing.

"I think he's gonna come talk to her," the former assassin says, looking at Hanami and Red Wrecker: "I hope that's all he's gonna do."

"Me too," the short heroine says, tousling her short hair and pursing her lips: "Be a shame after all she's !@#$ing been through, you know?"

"We've all been through something, Florence," Hanami says, continuing to watch their quarry act like someone clearly not herself: "But sometimes it changes you too much..."

Thursday: 8/18/16

Randolph Scott looks in the mirror of his upscale, Nairobi hotel room, and wonders who he's seeing there, now.

He's not pretty. Not anymore. He's got wires and tubes sticking out the back of his misshapen head instead of hair. One eye's been replaced by a camera lens, and the other's red from caffeine, jet lag, and crying. He's got more scars, divots, and weird spots than he cares to see, and can't even remember how he got them all.

A few years ago he was just another reporter, working for Alternet. The only one who cared to cry "Bull!@#$" at SPYGOD. His seeming fearlessness got him a spot by the spy's side, and that spot got him into some damn weird and dangerous situations. 

Getting out of them? That'd been him. 

And getting back into them, over and over again -- both alone, and with his family? That'd been him, too. Somehow managing to plan his way out of danger, or at least to have enough allies and friends nearby to pull his ass out of the fire when it counted. 

Day after day. Week after week. Year after year. Going where the story was. Finding out the facts. Sticking a gun down the throat of those who kept the secrets and exposing them for the world to see.

And all it had cost him was his wholeness. Then his humanity. Almost his life, a time or two. 

Now, it's cost him his family. His kids. The woman he loves. 

And in a few short minutes, if he gets the phone call he's expecting, it might just cost him everything he has left...

* * *

"Bad news for the Republican front runner today, as people in no less than five American cities got a view of him they weren't really expecting -- naked," 

Karl pauses for a laugh from his home audience, as he unveils a picture of the gross, nude statue in question.

"The anarchist organization INDECLINE has taken credit for the lifesize statues, which turned up in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, Neo York City, and Cleveland. Entitled 'the Emperor has no Balls,' they portray the Candidate as a grower, not a shower, and portray him in a rather unflattering light. 

"Unfortunately, most of the statues didn't last the full day before city sanitation crews were dispatched to remove them. At least Neo York City's parks department had a sense of humor about the situation, stating that 'NYC Parks stands firmly against any unpermitted erection in city parks, no matter how small.'

"Over to you, Jana...." he says, and his smile drops the moment the camera's off him.

He sighs and looks at Helga, who's giving him the thumbs-up. He's good to clear the floor and go do what he was going to do -- supposedly keep checking the wires for any quick-breaking news they might need for the show.

That's not what he's going to do, though. He's got an entirely different thing in mind. 

Instead, he goes back to the wire office, and uses the burner phone he got yesterday -- supposedly while getting everyone's take-out -- to call a certain number. 

"Yeah, hey," he says: "It's me. Yeah... can't talk long..."

"Oh, you did?" he says, raising an eyebrow: "That easily? That's unusual. He's usually a lot more careful..."

"Oh, well, yes. You are you, I know," he smiles: "So where is he, then?"

He listens for a while, and gets the information down in his mind: "Alright. Thank you. Yes... please keep an eye on him. If he moves, I would like to know about it."

"Not this phone, no. I'm about to go toss it. Just send me a line at the email I'm about to text to you."

"Yes. Thank you. You've made me feel a lot better. Yes. Thank you. Goodbye."

With that, he closes the phone, and then puts it down. He'll smash it later and crush the important bits. 

And then he wonders why his father went to Nairobi. What could he possibly want there...?

He thinks about that for a moment. As he does he feels his head go light, just for a second, and then shakes it off. 

It's probably nothing. Just stress. Just worry. 

No wonder he's getting gray hairs, all of a sudden...

Friday: 8/19/16

"Did he just tell the black population of Michigan they had no jobs?"

"Yes, he did," the pollster says to the Candidate's campaign manager, chugging a beer as the crowd below goes nuts: "Followed up with 'what do you have to lose.'"

The young man grits his teeth, and nervously rolls his crisp Dartmouth tie halfway up his chest: "Please, please tone it down. Just a little. Just a little..."

"Oh no," the pollster says: "Here he goes again..."

And as the beefy man goes on and on -- dropping bomb after bomb, gaffe after gaffe -- his manager wonders if the sigil King Whip made for him will explode when it overloads, or simply disappear.

He also wonders how quickly he could get out of Dimondale if his life depended on it.

* * *

"No," the FAUST prison official tells his superior over the phone: "Everything seems to be in order. The running of the prison is... well, it is perfect, for want of a better word. Our prisoners are being treated as humanely as possible, under very trying circumstances...

"Yes, even Agent 78. Especially him. He's being very well looked after...

"Well, it's... it's just a feeling I have," Mssr Andek says, doing his best to avoid clouding his thoughts with what he saw, the other day, in the Habitrail. What he saw that prisoner doing.

(What he'd like to do to that prisoner...)

"Yes," he says to the obvious question to his understated concerns: "I feel that something could change, soon. I'm not certain what. I just feel that I should be here in case the wind shifts in the direction I think it will...

"Yes, of course," the official says: "I'll stay out of Mssr. Freedom's way. He won't even know I'm there.

"I'll just find something else to do," he says, smiling in spite of it all.

And planning how it's all going to happen...

* * *

"And that's what you've !@#$ing got, huh?" SPYGOD says, looking Hanami straight in the eyes: "One quick pulse to the back of the head?"

"It'll overload her ability to respond to her surroundings," the Japanese android answers, doing her best not to act intimidated by his glowering -- or his getup: "I do that, and then all you have to do is give her a tap to the temple. She'll be unconscious in less than a second."

He looks at her, then over at Red Wrecker and Dragonfly -- sitting on and around the hotel room's bed, respectively -- and then nods.

"Alright, then," he says, sitting down in the room's one chair and nodding: "Sounds like a !@#$ing plan to me."

"So what's the plan?" Dragonfly asks.

"Based on what you've !@#$ing told me, Rakim ran the damn brain computer through some options," the superspy replies: "There's something like an 85% chance of her hitting the !@#$ing plaza on Sunday. So that's when I'll approach her."

"Is there a reason why she's more likely to be there?" Hanami asks, always fascinated by what the former Brainman's computer can predict.

"Apparently there's a big, pan-tribal thing," SPYGOD says: "Arts and crafts, stories and songs. That kind of thing.

"Dunno why she'd be overly interested in that !@#$," Red Wrecker shrugs: "She really wasn't before."

"You never knew her Grandfather, did you?" the superspy asks, looking over his glasses at the young heroine.

"No sir. I guess he died before I really !@#$ing came on board?"

"That's right," he nods, leaning forward as he goes into explanation mode: "Well, for the longest damn time she was stuck to his leathery ass like glue, kid. She was his bodyguard, his business manager, his advocate. I didn't ever want to !@#$ with him, but she made him look like a goddamn puppy. And he was really into what you so elegantly called 'tribal stuff.'"

"So you think she might be trying to reconnect with things that were important to him?" Dragonfly asks, nodding: "That makes sense."

"'It's just !@#$ing possible that after all the !@#$ she's been through, she'd want some comfort from her past," SPYGOD says: "I know I do from time to time. !@#$ goes from bad to worse to 'holy !@#$ batten down the !@#$ing hatches,' I go grab my grandma's secret book of family recipes and cook like a mother!@#$er."

Hanami raises her eyebrow at that, and Dragonfly chuckles: "You do like to cook. I remember when we-"

"We ain't !@#$ing talking about that," SPYGOD says, holding up a hand: "Ever."

Red Wrecker shrugs in the silence that follows: "Past's got !@#$ing nothing for me, now. There's just what's ahead."

"Well, that's good for you, kid," the superspy says, raising himself up from the chair and looking down at her: "Sunday we bring your teammate back, either on her feet or in a !@#$ing box. So you stop !@#$ing posing like you're too tough to get hurt, and get your damn attention ahead of that one."

With that he heads for the door: "I'll be elsewhere until the rendezvous, ladies. Don't follow me. Don't be !@#$ing late."

"What did he mean..." Red Wrecker asks as soon as he's out the door, looking at Dragonfly for some kind of reassurance -- because she does know what he meant, but doesn't want to admit it.

And Dragonfly just shrugs -- having just been shut down by him, herself -- and decides some hard, honest meditation is what's called for, here.

Anything to clear her cluttered mind of the sense of impending doom...

Saturday: 8/20/16

"So..." the dark-skinned man with the very large gun says to Randolph: "I hear you wish to speak to him."

"I do, yes," the outlaw reporter says, aiming a very large gun of his own at the man: "Are you here to help me?"

"I might be," Khalil says -- not caring to lower his weapon at all: "But first, I have to ask you the same question."

They're standing about three feet apart in a side room, apart from the sorry floor of the hotel's honest attempt at a swanky restaurant. They arranged to meet there, at separate tables, with their true appearances disguised by holographic projectors. At a predetermined signal -- someone dropping a bottle of beer on the floor, which happened fairly often -- they would both get up, take a stroll towards the men's room, and meet there. 

He didn't exactly expect the man to pull a gun on him. But he wasn't not expecting it, either. He used to be NGUVU, after all, and then a major player in the weird, super-spy circles their time with SPYGOD had pulled them both into.

"So how do you think I can help you?" Randolph asks after a moment -- not caring to lower his weapon, either.

"It turns out we both have a friend in common," the agent says: "Skyspear."

"That's right," the outlaw reporter says, nodding -- remembering how she helped him find out what was going on with those missing teleporter parts, all that time ago: "I haven't seen her since Moscow, about a month back. Things have been kind of crazy since then."

"I haven't really seen her either," Khalil says: "And that's worrying me. We were..."

He doesn't have the words, but Randolph understands.

"If she didn't leave a number, she probably doesn't want you to call her," he says, lowering his gun at last: "I hate to say this, but... things went pretty bad with Mark Clutch and her. If she went with you afterwards, it might have been a rebound."

"Rebound?"

"Yeah. You break up with someone, you need something to feel complete, so you date someone that maybe isn't right for you just to have someone in your life. I'm sure-"

"I think I understand," Khalil says, sighing and lowering his weapon: "Malaya."

"I don't think that's fair-"

"I don't think I care to know your assessment, sir," the agent says, putting his gun away and frowning: "But thank you. You have helped me. Just not exactly how I wanted."

"Truth hurts, sometimes," Randolph says, considering his own issues with it as he puts his own weapon back inside his suit: "Now, can you help me?"

The agent looks at the reporter, and nods: "You know the Carnivore?"

"That tourist trap place that serves warthog and zebra?"

"Not so much zebra, anymore. Go there tomorrow, at 3. Sit in the back. Order the crocodile."

"He'll be there?"

"He might," the agent admits: "All I ever do is leave a message in his drop box. He may not get it. He may not care to come. He may not even care to come right away. I've heard of him leaving people to wait for days, even weeks. Just to see if what they have to say it worth his time.

"But for you? I will try," Khalil says, reaching out a hand to shake: "Just... the next time you see her? Tell her something for me?"

"What?" Randolph asks, shaking the man's hand.

"Tell her..." the man starts to say, and then, ashamed of the words that might leave his lips, shakes his head and leaves.

"I'll do that," the outlaw reporter whispers once the man's out of earshot, and then decides he really doesn't care to finish his meal. 

Sunday: 8/21/16

The plaza is a !@#$ing mess, operationally-speaking.

There's too many people for this kind of a show -- all packed too densely and moving too chaotically to properly track. Booths and buyers, singers and audiences, storytellers and kids and people just !@#$ing around with their cameras and phones.

Sound and motion. Distractions galore. And noise, noise, noise. 

SPYGOD doesn't let that deter him, though. He's there, right on the button, as planned. And as soon as he's positive his people are in place -- Dragonfly nearby, Red Wrecker not too far, and Hanami overhead -- he begins to wander through the crowds, looking for the target.

She's not too hard to find, Yanabah. In fact, if he didn't know any better he'd think she was trying to be conspicuous. She's wearing things more in keeping with what he's used to seeing her in, rather than the tourist drag she's been in since she got to Taos: black sunglasses, a loose t-shirt, blue jeans, and Army surplus boots. All she'd need is a holster and some very large damn guns and it'd be just like old times.

He waits a moment, just to make sure of something. He's not entirely sure what it is.

(Too easy, he thinks. Way too !@#$ing easy.)

But he rushes forward, anyway. And when she turns to face him, revealing that her shirt says SUPERHERO, he realizes he's been played.

"Hey boss," she says, smiling over her glasses: "About !@#$ing time you got here."

"Took a wrong !@#$ing turn at Albuquerque," he shrugs: "You all need to mark your damn roads better."

"Should have had the girls give you directions," she says, indicating they should walk a certain way: "They've been here long enough, keeping tabs on me."

"Think so, huh?"

She smirks at that: "Hanami needs to !@#$ing avoid being seen. Not a lot of Asian tourists here, boss man. They usually stay on the coast."

"Fair enough," SPYGOD says: "What are you doing here, Yanabah? Really?"

"Getting some !@#$ing perspective, at least at first," the assassin shrugs: "The ground here talks to you, if you know how to walk it."

"And then what?" he presses: "I figured you'd be at your Grandfather's place, but-"

"No," she interrupts him: "I'm not ready to go there. Not yet, anyway."

"I understand that," SPYGOD nods, deciding to back off a bit: "He was a good man, Yanabah. A humane man. A friend, when he wasn't !@#$ing pissed off at me for one thing or another."

"What are friends for?" someone else asks -- suddenly too far up in their business for SPYGOD's liking.

SPYGOD turns to face the person, and is puzzled by what he sees. An older, Native American man wearing a very sharp black and grey suit, with a frankly tacky "cowboy and indian" tie.

He's about to tell him to step the !@#$ back and mind his own damn business, but something about how he looks at him makes him falter, just for a second.

(A very short second.)

"Boss man," Yanabah says before the superspy can do the obvious thing with one of his many hidden handguns: "This man is the other reason I came here. He wanted to talk to you."

SPYGOD looks at the old man -- grinning like a skeleton -- and then back at Yanabah: "We're going to have some !@#$ing words about this later."

"I'd be !@#$ing disappointed if we didn't," she chuckles, but before he can answer that in the proper manner -- a machine-gun stream of very loud, curse-strewn threats -- the old man's extended a hand to shake.

"Don't blame the girl for this, (REDACTED)," he says: "We're long overdue for a talk, you and I."

"I beg your damn pardon?" SPYGOD says, wondering if he should break the hand off at the wrist before shoving it up this guy's asshole, or afterwards.

"I see Wayfinder was right about you," the old man says, dropping his hand -- along with the smile: "There's bugs out in the desert got better manners than you do. And they strip the skin off your bones ten minutes after you're dead."

"I don't like people sticking their nose my my !@#$ing business, old man," the superspy says, taking a step further into the man's personal space: "If you knew Wayfinder, he'd have !@#$ing told you that."

"He did, yeah," the flint-faced man says: "Told me a lot more, besides. Like how you had the far-seeing look, but it didn't do you any good. That you didn't get old with the others like you. Didn't die, either, though you should have killed yourself a dozen times over. He even told me you used to eat poison for laughs-"

"You want a taste, pal?"

"Woah, hey," Yanabah says, stepping closer: "Boss man, you really shouldn't-"

"It's alright, dearie," the old man says, not taking his eyes off SPYGOD for a moment: "You go find your friends that are watching us, and let them know it's all okay. We'll be fine here."

Yanabah nods, and goes to do as she's told, leaving SPYGOD there to fume and clench his fists.

(And wonder why -- why -- he hasn't just made a fist and turned this flint-eyed !@#$er's face inside out, yet...)

"It's because you're in my place of power, son," the old man says, clearly able to read the superspy's mind: "This whole area's sacred to my people."

"What?" SPYGOD asks, feeling the world slip from under his feet, just a little.

"Why do you think Wayfinder stayed here for so long, the weather?" the old man smirks: "It sure wasn't the scenery. This place is desolate, even by my standards."

"So where's home?"

The old man smiles, and gestures that they should walk further into the crowd: "Maybe someday you'll see for yourself. Not just yet, though. You got some more walking this world to do."

"Nice to know," SPYGOD replies, looking back to see Yanabah heading off: "She's yours now, then?"

"If you mean she, as a grown woman, capable of making her own damn decisions, has decided to embrace the world I can offer her?" the old man asks, not turning around: "You'd be correct. But she also wants to stay in your world, too. She figures she owes it to you, after everything that happened."

"I don't have time for divided !@#$ing loyalties-"

"Grow up, (REDACTED)," the man says, turning around: "You think Wayfinder was your man? He worked with you, not for you. And on his terms, not yours. Now you're going to extend her the same courtesy, and be glad you've got her on your side."

"And what do you get out of it?" SPYGOD asks, trying not to shout so loud as to alert the civilians around him: "Who the !@#$ are you, anyway?"

"Well, that's an interesting question," the old man grins: "I guess you could say I'm you."

SPYGOD blinks -- once, then twice: "Bull!@#$."

"No !@#$, son. See, I'm the guy who sits at the head of the fire, like you. People come and tell me things, and I remember those things. Keep them a secret, up here in my head.

"And then I tell those people what to go and do, and to not do. What to say, and who to. Where to be, what to be, and when, and how.

"And when all these new folks come around to the fire, and want to speak? And they tell me what they think they know, and what they think we ought to do about it? Well... I'm the one who pretends to listen, nods sagely, try to avoid looking irritated.

"And then I say, in the most even tone that I can, 'I have heard your words of wisdom, and of change. I know your heart to be good, and your intentions honest. So I have considered your words, as I consider all such things. And this is what we will do.'"

"And then what?" SPYGOD asks, thinking he knows where this is !@#$ing going. 

"And then I tell them to do what I was going to tell them to do, anyway, because none of them know a fraction of what I do, or see as far, or for as long."

The old man smiles at that, and pats SPYGOD on the chest, right about his heart: "So you see? Not so different. We just deal with different battles. Different fights. Different worlds.

"But my world is about to rejoin with yours, (REDACTED)," he says: "More than it's been in a long damn time. And that's why I wanted to speak to you, today. Because we need to be on the same page, going forward.

"Or we are all in some deep, deep !@#$."

"What do you mean?" SPYGOD says: "We just kicked the Devil's ass, in case you weren't paying attention."

"Oh, we are," the old man says: "Believe me. That was kind of the kicker."

"How?"

"Well, you know, when those silly Gods came back the first time, we sat on our hands and did nothing. Because we knew what was going to happen. The White Man's god doesn't like competition, and he never has. We knew he'd find a way to ruin things for them."

"They didn't," SPYGOD says.

"Oh, sure they did," the old man chuckles: "You think that prophet of theirs can't see their own doom? She wouldn't be much of a seer if she didn't know, would she?

"But she also knew what we knew, and have always known. That the White Man's god isn't just jealous, but he's also very touchy. He's like a friend who's only willing to take so much nonsense from you, and then one day, after one last really bad fight he just leaves. And you never see him again."

"But we're stuck with you, huh?" the superspy says, thinking he's finally realized who -- or at least what -- he's talking to, now.

"Well, now that he's gone, I figure the world's a free market economy, again," the old man smiles: "Time for us to come back and walk the land, again. See what's going on with our own eyes. Do what we have to do.

"But we're not the only ones, now," he goes on: "There's going to be a lot of folks coming back. Not all of them are going to get along. Some of them have been nursing grudges for longer than recorded history. Some of them have changed in bad ways since they left.

"And some of them... well, they were never too nice to begin with. Time away's just made them cruel."

"So you're saying what !@#$ing happened with the Aesir... that's just the icing on the !@#$ cake?"

"I'm saying you need to learn from the mistake they still haven't really fixed, yet," the old man goes on, taking the time to admire a woman's woven blankets, on the tables of her stall. She smiles at him like she recognizes and respects him, and he does the same.

"What mistake is that?"

"Well... that would be telling," the old man says, turning around and winking: "But if it helps any? That one Olympian you know really well figured it out a long time ago. You might want to talk to him about that, and quick. Especially before you wind up hip deep in more spirits than you know what to do with."

"How many are we talking about, then?" the superspy asks -- a very cold feeling slipping into the pit of his stomach.

"How many stars in the sky?" the old man replies, waving a hand to the heavens: "How many leaves on the trees? How many names has man called the spirits down the years? How many spirits did man actually know about?"

"Can you give me a !@#$ing ballpark estimate?" SPYGOD asks: "Hundreds? Thousands...?"

"A lot," the old man says, his eyes glowing like there was lightning behind them.

"A whole lot," says the woman at the stall, her eyes doing the same.

"More than you could possibly imagine," says every person on the plaza -- all the vendors and singers and parents and children. All their eyes are lit up, and all of them are fixed on SPYGOD, just for a moment.

And then the moment's gone, and everyone goes back to looking normal, again.

"Well..." SPYGOD says, looking around: "I guess that's one !@#$ing way to make an entrance."

"Oh, that's just us knocking on the door, son," the old man says, extending a hand to shake: "When we're walking in? Now that will be something to see."

SPYGOD looks at the man's face, then at the hand.

He reaches out and takes it, very slowly. Shakes it firmly. Politely, even.

"Glad we could reach an understanding," the old man says, and then his eyes widen with surprise as SPYGOD pulls him in -- close enough to whisper to him. 

What he tells him doesn't take long. But when he's done, the old man isn't smiling as much, anymore. Instead he's looking at the superspy with something very much like worry.

And maybe a little like fear...

With that, SPYGOD lets go of the man's hand, nods at him, and smiles back: "I'm glad we could have this talk, sir. I feel like we really connected."

And then he turns and walks away, still smiling. The old man shouts something after him, but he doesn't care to hear it.

It isn't until he's a long damn way away from the market that he lets himself truly feel the fear that had been creeping into his bones once he realized who he was conversing with, and what that actually was.

And it isn't until he's on a transport back to DC -- with his heroes and Yanabah along for the ride -- that he can steady his hands enough to take a really deep drink from the flask he'd had next to the gun he'd been ready to use, but somehow couldn't.

And as he drinks...

* * *

... Straffer takes control of a Lightship, late into the Martian evening, and pilots down into the bowels of the red planet -- seeking the truth he's not getting from the Aesir...

... The Owl gets a call from the last person she thought would ever contact her, asking her to come and talk about "their" son...

... Karl waits for another phone call, and wonders if he should tell his brother and sisters that he's noticed they have the same problem, all of a sudden...

... the daughter of the last President looks up from her bed to see someone standing there, watching, and smiles ear to ear to have some company at last...

... Randolph Scott sits in the back of the theme restaurant, nursing a Dawa and wondering how long he can sit here and peck at flame-roasted crocodile before the staff kicks him out...

... while someone watches the outlaw reporter sitting there, and decides it's time to put a few things into motion...

... and someone else -- who really doesn't belong at the Olympic games -- waits for the closing ceremonies to begin, feverishly anticipating the horror he's going to bring to the table...

* * *

... and SPYGOD realizes Yanabah's been talking to him for the past few minutes.

"Bossman?" she asks, realizing he's finally listening: "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask," he says, staring at her -- wondering a few things.

"What did you say to him, at the end there?" she asks: "I mean, I haven't known him that long. But he looked !@#$ing spooked-"

"That's on a !@#$ing need to know basis," the superspy replies, raising an eyebrow: "And right now, if I were you? I wouldn't push your !@#$ing luck too damn far."

"Look... I know you're !@#$ing angry, but-"

"But nothing," he says, taking another hit: "You and me need to talk about what's going to happen next, Yanabah."

She nods, knowing this conversation was coming: "I'm not gonna lie and say I played this by the !@#$ing book, but-"

"No, you didn't," he says, pointing the finger of the hand he's got wrapped around the flask at her: "But I didn't bring you into this !@#$ to play things by the !@#$ing book. That's not who you are. That's not what you do. You gotta do your thing your way, and usually it !@#$ing works. I respect that. I respect you.

"But if you're going to be my liaison to the Great !@#$ing Spirit?" he says, looking up at her with all seriousness: "We're gonna have to change a few damn things."

She looks at him for a second, and then nods: "It's really better to call him the Great Mystery."

"See?" he says, taking yet another pull from the flask: "You're !@#$ing helping already."

And they both laugh at that -- at least until some panicked voice from the Flier tells them they need to be watching the Olympics right the !@#$ now.

And then no one's laughing at all. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Waste (Front 242) and having a Superstitious Stout)