10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 9

If asked, Kinnokagi Hanami will tell you she was born in the Spring, and what's why she was named after the cherry blossoms that bloom at that time of year.

She will say that, when she smiled, her mother was reminded of the fragrant, pink-and-white explosions of beauty that hung from the black trees. She will also say that her mother always called her "her little cherry blossom," even when she was fully-grown. And she will admit that she now feels ashamed for having been so embarrassed by this, and wishes she could have one more day with her mother, just to tell her how much she loved her, and how much she misses her.

She would tell you these things, but these things are not true. They are falsehoods she has adopted, both as part of her disguise, and part of her mental therapy. She tells herself these lies, and many more, each night before bed, in the hopes that one day they will no longer feel like lies.

She hopes, as her guardian once did, that she will come to believe she is human.

The truth is that Hanami was not born in the Spring -- that is simply when she was discovered. The police found her stumbling outside of Kyoto, dazed and confused. She was incapable of speech, wearing strange clothing, and bearing nothing that could tie her to this country, other than her appearance.

And when an overzealous policewoman tried to wrestle her to the ground, thinking she was some drunk college student, Hanami accidentally knocked her head into low earth orbit.

The best that her handler in the Organization -- the stately Doctor Kinnokagi -- could get from her was that she had come from the future. Why, how, and from when were questions no one could get from her, given how badly her mind had been damaged by the journey. It was enough to know that she was here, she was very powerful, and that while she could not tell them any concrete facts, her personality was that of a well-mannered and well-meaning child just starting on the road to maturity.

Left to her own devices, anything could happen. So Doctor Kinnokagi took her in, and treated her as he would his own daughter. He taught her to be a good and dutiful young lady, and to be cautious of her own strength, but to do anything she could to help others in their time of need.

And when she was needed by the Organization, Hanami would do such amazing things...

Even now, as she runs down a long, white and silver corridor, heading for an exit that she knows The Dignitary will make for her, she feels no fear, and no worries. She knows what is about to happen, and knows what she can and must do, and that is all that concerns her.

Indeed, while she can register the emotion behind Mister Ten's cries for her to stop, and come back to him, she cannot share his concern for her safety, or the true reasons behind it. She knows that he loves her, but she cannot truly love him back, though she tries. Even a full year after she has added "I love Ju San" to her nightly list of affirmations, she feels nothing towards him at all.

It is simply not something she is programmed for.

The door to the outside opens. Her muted business suit becomes garish, brightly-colored plastic-weave. Supple, lovely flesh becomes hard, angular plastic. Flowing black hair becomes a dark, cubist swoosh of motion.

And she flies out the back of the massive, white robot's head, ready to protect the country that has adopted her, by protecting the machine that will save them from doom.

* * *

The Earth is truly a beautiful thing, when you see it from the right height.

From space, it seems to be a shining green and blue treasure, stark and bright against the endless, star-spotted darkness that surrounds it. The further one goes from it, the more precious it becomes -- acting as an anchor in the eternal void. And it remains so, up until the point when one is so far away from it that it's colors and contours are lost, and it becomes just another dot of light amongst so many.

The first time Director Straffer saw it from high up, he was going to Icarus Station for the first time. When the G-forces that had smooshed him back into his seat finally let up, and he could at last look out the nearest window at the world they'd just departed, his heart leaped out of his chest. He had to sit there, a hand on the window, tears floating from his eyes as he saw how truly beautiful it was.

From then on, no matter where his career took him, he always started and ended his day with a hand on a window, looking down at the world. He stopped crying about it a long time ago, but he still got a wistful smile, thinking of it.

He can't cry now, even if he wanted to.

His body has proofed itself against the void, which means that his skin has completely sealed itself up. What few biological components he still has are being kept from dehydrating, expanding in vacuum, and boiling out into the incredible cold. He can only see the world, now -- not even feel it -- and then only through a hazy, filmy lens over his eyes.

And he is incredibly grateful for that, right now.

He can barely see as the Imago in charge of his weapons platform fire volley after volley at the planet that used to make him weep. He cannot see the atmosphere pucker and part as the particle cannon beams enter it. He cannot see the land burn and the oceans boil. He cannot see the cities fall and the people die.

He cannot fully see the consequences of his failure, and for that he is thankful. Full sight would lead to full knowledge, and that might drive him to his knees, screaming and insane. 

Instead, he puts one stumbling, stick-like, metal leg in front of the other, over and over, heading for the still-superheated ruins of Alpha Base Seven. He wills himself to do this, in spite of the pain and the anger and the horror. If anything, they are fueling his motion, right now.

Especially the anger.

There's something he needs in the wreckage. Hopefully it is still there. Hopefully it will still work.

And it he can get it up and working, he will repay the Imago for what they are doing to the wonderful, beautiful world he has dedicated himself to keeping safe -- day after day, year after year.

Not on my watch, he thinks with each step: Not on my watch. Not today. Not ever. 

Never.

It's a long way to where he needs to go. The anger keeps him moving. He'll cry later, hopefully with someone he loves to hold him and listen. But right now he doesn't have time to be anything but angry.

Angry and resourceful, at that.

* * *

"So, Myron, they say you're a genius," Mr. USA says, handing Myron a weird, small, bronze cube that's lit up from within: "How about you show me what you can do with this?

"Is that it?"  Myron asks, looking at the little thing: "That's what Moloch was using to transmit his signal?"

"Near as I can tell, son," the ancient man says, sitting down on a nearby chair as soon as he's handed it over: "It's got a transdimensional energy signature on it, anyway."

"How do you... oh, nevermind," Myron says, remembering who he's dealing with. He grabs some tools and gets to work, trying to see if he can reverse-engineer the thing.

"I just followed the rattling pieces upstairs," the man says, gesturing back the way he came: "There was another body up there. I think he was putting it together, using old pieces and new ones. I melted it down pretty good, so I think we're safe for now."

"Persistent guy," Mark Clutch comments as some SPYGOD SCOUTS see to his many wounds: "So if the machine's gone on their side of things, what will happen if we get this going again?" 

"We'll just have to aim it somewhere," Winifred answers, getting another box of tools and heading up to assist Myron, who's very grateful for the help: "We can cannibalize the parts from the machine and do it. Pretty !@#$ simple, I think."

"I agree," Myron says, smiling at her. When she smiles back it makes him feel ten times lighter.

"How's Thomas doing?" Mr. USA asks Mark, who looks over at the barely-breathing lump of burned flesh under the blankets, being attended by a half-dozen other Scouts.

"He's touch and go," Mark says, trying to keep his voice down: "I think he'll pull through, but we need to get him back and get him into some real care. It's a miracle he's lasted this long."

"How about I try and aim us at a good hospital?" Myron asks: "I think we could all use some patching up at this point."

Mr. USA's about to agree, but then there's a very familiar -- however strange -- noise, and Skyspear has appeared amongst them, again. Her eyes are red and wet, and she kneels down on the ground, clearly tired from her journey.

"Did you find him...?" Mark asks, reaching out to take hold of her shoulder. He thinks, a second later, that maybe that was too forward, but she doesn't seem to mind it. 

"I did, yes," she says, nodding, her eyes screwed shut: "At the base of the tree, there is wreckage. The brass creature is there, in pieces. And the Lion... he is..."

Her mouth screws up and she begins to weep, and ultimately leans over onto Mark, who comforts her as best as he can.

"He should be buried," she says: "But there is nothing left. His bones... the dust on my hands, it's all that is left when I picked him up. He fell apart between my fingers, like sand..."

"I think God will understand if he doesn't get a proper burial," Mr. USA says, trying to get up and go to her, but failing to do so. Mark notices this and is concerned, but doesn't say anything just then.

"Has anyone seen the !@#$hole?" Myron asks, trying to change the subject.

"Who?" Mark asks.

"The Green Man. Anyone seen him?"

"No, come to think of it," Mr. USA says: "Where was he last?"

"In the infirmary, fighting to save his son," Skyspear says, wiping her eyes: "I do not know what has happened to him."

"Someone might want to go and look," Mark says: "I don't think I like the idea of him wandering around with nothing good to do."

"You know, his son is right over there," Winifred points out in a harsh whisper: "He could just hear you."

"You're right," Mr. USA says, looking at the boy: "We probably shouldn't disparage his father. The man did risk his life to save the boy."

Mark nods, but doesn't really feel it: "I'll go look," he says, giving Skyspear another, re-assuring squeeze and then getting to his feet.

"I'll come with you," Mr. USA says, getting up and walking along with him, limping as he goes: "I figure we have a few other things to talk about."

"Agreed," Mark says, taking the old man's arm in his, and wondering why he's so !@#$ frail, all of a sudden.

Wondering about a lot of other things, too, come to think of it. But those sorts of things aren't for everyone's ears. They are, instead, the sorts of things that should be shared between soldiers in private -- somewhere far from the prying and the curious. 

Somewhere that veteran heroes and their admirers can talk in confidence, away from the crowd.

 * * *

Tokyo is the largest and densest megalopolis on Earth. A little over 13 million people are pushed against and stacked upon one another in an area of only 845 square miles. Its glittering towers reach for the sky, its suburbs sprawl as far as the eyes can see, and the thrum and hum of its industry never ever sleeps.

Much like the country it is emblematic of, the city has endured much over the last century. It seems that, no sooner is it just a little larger than the time before, than something else comes to try and knock it down. Atomic war gave way to atomic beasts. Foes from the future and dangerous types from the present. Alien invasions and strange occurrences. 

Tokyo has been shaken apart, burned to the ground, swamped by tidal waves, and eaten by monsters. But somehow, Tokyo always survives. Tokyo always rebuilds. And whatever hazards and threats the next day may bring, Tokyo's people know that it will endure. Anything could happen, here, but nothing could ever destroy it.

Tokyo is eternal. 

Maybe that's why, when the people of the city see the Heaven House Tokyo building turn into a massive, white robot, and stride through the city streets towards the Pacific, they take its picture instead of screaming and running. They somehow know that this is not something to be feared, but to be remembered, just like all the other strange and mighty things that have walked through, around, or over the city in the last century.

And maybe that's why, when they see a great, white flash in the sky, and hear the heavens splitting open overhead, just like they did seven short months ago, its people treat it as a hazard to be avoided, rather than the end of their world. 

They are just now coming to the conclusion that the Imago have been lying to them. They know that a mighty force of heroes and armies is fighting them. And they know, having suffered such would-be conquerors in the past, that departing deposed rulers tend to punish their almost-subjects on their way back to whatever realm they came from. 

So the citizens scurry underground and into their basements, barricading themselves behind heavy walls and closed curtains. They pray and they cry, and hope that whatever saviors are active this day, they hear their calls for aid. And soon.

They do not have long to wait.

Witnesses will later say that they saw a young woman, flying. She had long, black hair and wore strange, brightly-colored clothes, and those who were close enough thought there was something strange about her face, and her skin.

They will say that she flew right up to where the bright light was coming from, and then hovered there for a moment, her arms stretched out longer than should be possible.

And then, when the bright, white column of fire came down from space -- threatening to atomize the robot, and take a good amount of the city with it -- she did... something.

What was it? No one on the ground can say, mostly because they could not actually watch what took place without going blind.


But facts are facts. The particle cannon's beam had the power to destroy anything that stood in its path, leaving nothing but a smoking crater in its path. And yet it touched nothing in that city.

In fact, it went right back where it came from. 

And when it was done and gone, and the people could see again, the flying girl was still up there, keeping time with the massive, white robot she'd flown out of. It was as if she was guarding it from attack, along with the city it was striding away from.

Was it a miracle? Or was it just crazy science, come to the rescue yet again? No one could say. But once again, the people cheered and thanked their Gods, ever so grateful to be saved by whatever guardian spirits were looking out for them, that day.

And hoping -- for the first time since they'd come out of their confusion -- that this war might be won.

* * *

"Yes!" SPYGOD shouts, dancing in Lady Gilda to a song only he can hear: "That's where that android had been hiding. Mister Ten, you sneaky !@#$-"

"She should not be out there!" Mister Ten shouts over the viewscreen, not caring that he's speaking in English without Hanami there to translate: "She could be destroyed!"

"We could all be !@#$ing destroyed, Ju San," he says, pointing a finger at his screen, and then at the others: "And that's the !@#$ing point I've been trying to !@#$ing get through all your !@#$ing heads, today! Are you going to let your armies by shown up by a !@#$ robot with amnesia in an orange, plastic skirt? Or are you going to take some !@#$ing chances?"

The leaders of the various strange armies of the world look at him, and then at each other. One by one, they nod, sighing. And then they sign off to give their orders.

"Don't worry, Ju San," SPYGOD says, still boogieing: "That !@#$ kid can take a !@#$load of punishment. I've !@#$ing seen her in action-"

"I am very well aware of what she can do," the man says, seething: "But no one can keep deflecting that kind of energy for that long."

"Well, hopefully she won't !@#$ing have to," he says, wondering if that's true or not.

"Do you have a plan to take out those cannons, yet?"

SPYGOD looks at him and smiles: "Ju San, when have you known me to never have a !@#$ plan?"

* * *

My love? the leader asks, sensing concern from The Fist: What has happened, my love? Are you alright?

"No," the ersatz Director Straffer says, holding his hands over his ears to protect them from the numerous alarms going off: "I don't know how this happened, but somehow the beam we aimed at Tokyo was deflected right back at us."

Was the robot too tough to destroy? The Dragon asks, perhaps just a little mirth in his voice.

"No, but something got in our way. It deflected the beam-"

I've got it on my view, The Motion says: We've got some spies in Tokyo... okay, oh.

What is it? The leader asks, not liking the sound of his voice.

So that's where that girl's been hiding all these years, the Motion says

Is it the android? The Dragon asks.

It is, and this is bad news, The Motion says: She's immensely powerful. You could fire every particle cannon you have at her, and she'd still be able to deflect them all. 

She is but one person, though, The Dragon points out: If you continue to target the city, and target the robot at the same time, she must make a choice. I do not think she will make that choice easily.

"Well, that's a nasty idea," the Fist says, smiling: "I like it. As soon as I deal with the fact that there's a big !@#$ing hole in my station, right where that cannon used to be, I'll start making her make the tough choice."

Speaking of tough choices, The Motion says: I've had an idea about how to bring this whole rebellion to a close without losing more of the population.

What would accomplish such a thing? The Leader asks, sounding hopeful.

And The Motion tells them, and there is agreement, and then laughter -- all of it dark. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to Behind the Wheel (Depeche Mode) and drinking a couple old cans of Astro Beer)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 8

A half-century ago, when things were a lot crazier than they are now, Japan had the honor of hosting a trio of ambassadors from another plane of existence.

They first arrived in the 1960s, when the island nation was under extra-planar attack, yet again -- some strange hybrid jelly-monster from a dying, nightmare dimension, come to breed. When the best and brightest of Japan's Self Defense Force was destroyed or too damaged to fight on, hope arrived in the form of a massive, shape-shifting machine of unquestionable power. It utterly annihilated the otherworldly threat, and sent what remained of its slimy carcass back into the hole between worlds from whence it came.

When the battle was done, and there was nothing left to do but tend to the wounded and tally the dead, the immense thing underwent an amazing transformation. It shrunk down to human size, and split into three distinct persons: a man, a woman, and a child.

Their language skills were halting, but their intentions were clear. They called themselves The Dignitary, and sought to create and maintain diplomatic relations with Japan. They claimed to want nothing more than friendship, and could offer little more than that. But after seeing firsthand what it meant to have such a friend, the Japanese Government was very pleased to open relations with the odd trio.

For the next couple decades, the trio joined with the many extranormal and hyper-developed guardians of Japan in its defense. They came to learn much of their new world, and fit in quite well with the spirit and people of their adopted nation. They didn't enter hostilities all that often, given their colossal levels of power -- and diplomatic ties -- but when they did, the outcome of the fight was never in question.

All was well, and would have remained so, except for what happened in America in 1980.

For some strange reason, as soon as the contract with the Backers was signed by the White House, The Dignitary found it impossible to live as three distinct beings. They had to permanently form into the larger, gestalt creature to survive, necessitating their move from the cities out into the Ocean. And, after a short time, their hosts discovered that the massive thing The Dignitary became could only remain active for so long before running out of power, and having to shut down for long periods of time to recharge.

Worse, when the creature did rouse from slumber to help defend Japan, it seemed different in temperament. Before, the being shared the kindness, intelligence, and humanitarian credo of the three beings that comprised it, but now, it acted like an uncaring thug -- smashing through buildings full of people to charge at otherworldly invaders, and using its mighty weapons without any care as to the civilian or collateral damage.

After one repelled invasion led to the death of hundreds of innocents, a team of powerful beings confronted The Dignitary in their underwater shrine, and tried to shame it into answering what had happened. The answer was terrible: when the shift happened, back in 1980, The Dignitary had been cut off from their own dimension. Without that link, they were not only deprived of their primary source of power, but also of the true mental impulses that had been controlling their actions, all along.

The real trio that made up The Dignitary were back in their home dimension, cut off from the machine they'd been operating. And while their mental imprints remained within the group mind of the machine, they had degraded over time, leaving only a single, stunted mind, with only the most basic of its many, complex impulses intact -- to defend its host, no matter the cost.

It was hypothesized that, without aid, The Dignitary would eventually be nothing more than a mindless, uncaring machine, and might one day destroy Japan while trying to save it. Faced with that nightmare scenario, a number of extranormal talents came together to come up with a solution to the problem, along with a few other concerns that had come about since America had begun being cagey with its strategic talents.

From that crucible of crisis came a body that would safeguard Japan's many strange and unusual hyperpowered people and items: The Organization. And one of the first things they did was to convince The Dignitary that it would be better off if it went to sleep until the group could find a way to either re-open the portal to its home dimension, or send it back there.

Thankfully. The Dignitary agreed. And one night, when no one saw, it walked ashore, settled down onto a large, vacant lot in Tokyo, and changed its shape one last time.

Since then, a massive glass and steel building with white exteriors has been the headquarters of The Organization. None have dared attack "Heaven House Tokyo" for fear of what it might do, or what horrors they might unleash if they damage it too much. Even the Imago have given it a wide berth, perhaps hoping that the group that meets there is smart enough to stay within, and not attack them.

And they did, for a time.

But today, that understanding is dust.

The people of Tokyo look out their windows, and up into the heights of their massive cityscape, as a strange sound that has not been heard in decades roars between the buildings. The ground shakes, and the towers vibrate, and the power flickers on and off, as though something were playing havoc with the power grid.

Those closest to the epicenter of the event see something they will never forget. The great, white building they had come to associate with that part of the city shudders, vibrates, and then begins to shift its geometry like a child's toy robot. It forms massive arms and powerful shoulders from its highest floors, its first levels split apart to become huge legs, and as they lengthen its entrance climbs to its chest.

Glass and steel are absorbed back into the building, leaving only a white and silver creature some 100 stories tall. It arches its back as it forms large, silver plates over its body -- like armor covering the important, major muscles and numerous weak spots.

And then, at last, a cyclopean head appears above a thick neck: a noble, white face with glowing, yellow eyes and a massive, flowing mane of silver hair.

As its eyes burn, so do the areas between its armor patches. Weird lights play in the air before it, like free-floating holographic read-outs and controls. It leans forward, holding up its hands for silent inspection, and watching as energy crackles between its fingers.

Inside its chest, in what used to be his office, Mister Ten sits in his chair and watches. It's all he can do. He's not in control of this, by any stretch of the imagination -- all he can do is ask the Dignitary to do what's needed, and hope the immense machine complies.

Hanami stands by his side as he talks to the robot, her gentle hand placed upon his shoulder. He tries not to show how much he needs to have it there, but it's obvious to anyone that without it he would be terrified.

Query: the machine asks, the massive voice -- a sound Mister Ten has never actually heard, before -- booming from the head, itself: Is host country in danger?

"It is, yes," Mister Ten says, awed by the sound: "It is in terrible danger. And so is the entire world. We must destroy the Imago. We must help our allies."

There's nothing, for a moment. And then, ever so carefully, the Dignitary strides towards the Pacific -- awake after these many years, and prepared to do its part in this war.

"I feel like a child, again," Mister Ten says, leaning back in the chair and putting his hand atop Hanami's.

"So do I," she says, but not quite for the same reason. 

* * *

When Moloch was young, and still learning of the ways of the meat that it had to call its family, it learned of American superheroes, and was not impressed. 

Moloch learned of the group of beings known as the Liberty Patrol, and how they had once sought to impress their will on the planet, after the Second World War. Moloch learned how they made terrible mistakes, in that next war, and how those errors led to America changing how it handled its superheroes. Moloch learned of the Freedom Force, and Strategic Talents, and the COMPANY that oversaw them all.

(And, of course, Moloch learned of SPYGOD, whom it vowed to one day destroy for his blasphemy.)

While learning of these things, Moloch learned of a man called Mr. USA: a powerful brute wrapped in an American flag, whose actions seemed to be hand-in-hand with the will and ideals of whomever was in charge of his country at any given time. He was a soldier in times of war, an idealist in times of peace, and, in the times of the Cold War, a walking deterrent whose very presence could stop the two major powers from rattling their swords so loudly.

The meat world got older, but he never seemed to. He remained an eternal reminder of a better, simpler time, when there was good and evil in the world, and America was on the good side. He smiled and the world smiled with him. And when he frowned, they got out of his way.

Moloch does not know who this ancient-seeming man in front of it is. He is wearing the costume that Mr. USA once wore, even though it doesn't fit him as well as it should. His hair is white and falling out. His eyes are rheumy and his teeth are missing. 

But the look in those eyes is unmistakable -- the same look that Moloch saw many times, as the meat news told stories of how the Israeli-loving Americans had employed their signature superhero to some battleground, somewhere, to fight crime or evil or terrorism, or whatever his Jewish masters were saying this week. 

Moloch saw that look in the man's eyes, back then, and recognized it as steel. 

And now that steel was coming for Moloch -- fists raised and crackling, mouth open in a battle roar, and eyes ready for the fight to come. 

The brass beast raises its sword-arms and attempts to block what's coming, but it is too late to do anything but shout. And, in the space of the next three seconds -- as its body is punched, kicked, crushed, electrocuted, shattered, and melted -- Moloch begins to understand a great many things. 

Too late, of course. 

After that rush of explosive force and pain, as the pieces of its body fall to the cracked, wooden floor of the great hall, Moloch does its best to regain its composure. But no sooner can it try and reassemble the twitching, brass flinders of its body than the old man is melting them into slag.

"Trying to find more metal?" Mr. USA says, following the pieces as they rattle back down the hall, scurrying away like cockroaches: "Or do you have another body, hiding somewhere?" 

"... destroy you..." Moloch hisses through a temporary mouth, seconds before the old man stamps it flat.

"Good luck with that," he says, standing still and watching the parts clatter away: "I'm going to give you some time to remake yourself, and then I'm coming after you. And you'd better be ready."

With that, the old man turns around and floats back towards the room, keeping an ear out for any loud, metallic bangs or scrapes.

"It's good to see you, sir," Mark Clutch says, extending a weak hand. Mr. USA grabs it with one hand and claps him on the shoulder with the other, and then gives him a gentle but powerful hug.

"It's good to be seen, Mark," he says: "It's so good to be here, again."

"What happened to you?" Myron asks, stepping closer: "I mean, I'm sorry to be blunt, but the last time I saw you, you were... well, you weren't..."

"This old?" Mr. USA replies, smiling, as he disengages from the hug and walks over to Myron: "Let's just say I've had a long time to plan my next moves, Myron. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of time, now."

"What is happening over there?" Skyspear asks, too weak to get up off the floor.

"When I came here, they had just destroyed all the satellites we sent up," the old man says, looking at her with sadness: "They were also about to train their particle cannons on the Toon colony, which means anything that wasn't turned into a cartoon was also destroyed."

"Which means we're stuck here," Winifred sighs, plopping down and letting her empty gun clatter to the floor: "Great. !@#$ing great."

"No need for that kind of talk, young lady," Mr. USA says, extending a hand out to her: "I think we can get home from here. But we're going to have to act fast."

"What do we need to do?" Mark asks.

"Well, a little-known fact about Moloch is that he's a human being," the old man replies, lifting Winifred off the floor without any effort at all: "He's capable of putting his mind into metal and controlling it like a second body. But he needs to be inside that metal in order to control it, and he also needs a clear connection back to his body in case things go wrong."

"Then how is he controlling that body?" Myron asks: "Does he have his real body here, somewhere?"

"He must have an amplifier of some kind," Winifred conjectures: "Maybe one powerful enough to punch through the dimensional barrier?"

"You got it!" Mr. USA says, giving her two-thumbs up: "Now, that lets him go from there to here. Do you think you might be able to use it to get us back?"

"I could..." Mark says, looking at the machine: "It might take some doing, but-"

"I'm on it," Myron says, going to get tools.

"Where would he have it, though?" Winifred asks: "I mean, it'd probably be pretty !@... er, pretty darn big."

"When we packed up to come here, he did have a large case with him," Skyspear offers: "It was large and square. He said it was spare parts, and I did not wish to pray any further than that."

"Probably full of brass, as well as the device," Mr. USA says: "So, you all keep Thomas alive and get that machine ready to be jury-rigged, and I'll go find where that monster hid itself, and bring it down here."

"That sounds like the best plan I've heard all day," Mark says, nodding and clapping the old man on the back. Something about how he almost steps forward unnerves Mark, but he doesn't say anything about it.

He has a hard time believing he just knocked America's most powerful superhero off-balance, even for a split-second. The implications of that are too scary to consider -- especially if he's all they've got to rely on to get them back to where they need to be, right now.

And God only knows what's happening there. 

* * *

 "Are we... are we dead?" the Talon asks the Owl, as they stand in a bright, blinding sea of white energy and are not harmed (nor blinded, for that matter).

"I don't know, honey," Martha replies, walking over to her niece and putting her hands on her shoulders: "One second we were fighting and then.... this. I don't know what's going on."

"It's like that time in LA, only we're inside it..."

Martha shudders, remembering that fiasco all too well: "We can't be alive and inside that beam, Kaitlyn. There's got to be another explanation-"

"Energy dispersal packs," the new New Man says, walking up behind them: "Those boxes I gave you before we started punching Specials, the last cube? They're keeping us from being incinerated by a particle beam."

"What, these little things?" the Talon says, suddenly afraid to touch the white thing clipped to her belt.

"Yes, those little things," he says, smiling and adjusting his sunglasses: "They're gaining their energy from the beam, itself."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it's a nice system, once you've got it going. But I'm not sure if they'll last through a second blast."

"Did you know they'd do this?" the Owl asks.

"Given what they've done before, and what happened to you, I figured it was a sensible precaution."

"You really know how to impress people, don't you?" Martha says, laughing.

"I try," New Man says, sadly. Not for them, but for all the others who may not be as lucky, right now.

He can only hope their sacrifices are not in vain.

* * *

"You have to be joking, my friend," Mikhail says, resting his weary head in his hands: "I could not order these soldiers into a bakery for fresh bread, right now. Not while death is raining down from the skies-"

"We need those !@#$ing cubes !@#$ing taken out!" SPYGOD shouts at him, along with all the other foreign contacts and commanders he's been berating for the last few minutes: "If they don't !@#$ing have them, they don't have any !@#$ing power. They will !@#$ing starve to death and drop like !@#$ing flies when they don't get enough !@#$. We just need-"

"I will not order my soldiers into a suicide run," the head of the Pakistani Army in exile announces: "It is that simple. You must change the game board, SPYGOD. You must knock out those cannons."

"We don't have anything !@#$ing ready for that."

"Then I'm sorry, but it is just not on-"

"You !@#$ing coward!" SPYGOD shouts, pointing his finger at the screen: "We're out here risking our !@#$ lives, right now. My allies are !@#$ing dying. My friends are dying. And you're wanting to hide until you're assured of victory?"

There's silence in reply -- sharp and stone-like. 

"You said you wanted an equal piece of things," he says: "Well, this is how you !@#$ing get it. You go out and you fight for it. And maybe you die. And maybe you lose. But if you sit back and do nothing, today of all days, because you're !@#$ing terrified of dying, then you will spend the rest of your days regretting it-"

"You dare to threaten us?" a cybernetic Samurai chastises him: "You spoke to us of leadership! Where is your leadership, now?"

"You're !@#$ing looking at it," SPYGOD hisses: "And I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you. Because what do you think the Imago are going to do when they !@#$ing win this battle? Say 'O people of the Earth, we love you, we forgive you, all is good?' Oh !@#$ no. They're going to !@#$ing burn us out like rats and leave us baking in the Sun for that !@#$ing thing that's on its way to find. 

"It's now or never, ladies and gentlemen. Get out there and hit those !@#$ cubes. Because if you don't, there is nothing else left."

The screens turn off, one by one. SPYGOD glowers, and then sighs.

"I think we !@#$ed up, Bee-Bee," he says to his cat. He's not quite sure what the fuzzball says in return, though, as he can hear something else happening, up above them.

"Oh !@#$," he says, looking behind at the towering, white robot that's following them into the Ocean. And he knows what's about to happen.

And that there's nothing he can do to stop it, or warn them.

* * *

"Well, there's something you don't see every day," the ersatz Director Straffer -- now calling himself The Fist -- says as he sips his martini and looks down at Tokyo.

How dangerous a development is this? Their leader asks, sounding very concerned.

Very dangerous, the Dragon says: That robot's defensive and offensive capabilities are legendary. It can throw islands into space and smash cities flat with a wave of its arms. 

"Not good,"  The Fist says: "If it gets to the city..."

Well, what are we going to do about it? The Motion asks: I'm stretched too thin with teleporting our Specials out of your field of fire to attack it directly-

"Relax," The Fist says, gesturing to one of his servitor robots: "I've got it covered. I'm adjusting the firing program now."

You're not going to destroy Tokyo just to get to it, are you? 

"No," The Fist says: "I'm going to destroy Tokyo because I want to destroy Tokyo. The fact that it's going to annihilate that robot before it gets to our leader is just the icing on the cake."

You can't be serious- the Motion says.

Do it, the leader commands: They will suffer the consequences for becoming involved. This will further break the morale of the armies that are massed against us. With one city's death, our plan will live. 

"Amen to that," The Fist says, and gives the signal to fire.

(SPYGOD is listening to Never Let Me Down Again (Depeche Mode) and having a really nasty feeling)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 6

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a great city, recently risen above the waves.

It is a strange thing, that city: a single structure containing echoes from the architectures of all the world's great and long-lost civilizations. Aztec pyramids are surrounded by Greek columns, and rows of creatures akin to the Sphinx of Ancient Egypt stand guard over hanging gardens richly laden with strange fruit. The overlapping walls of Great Zimbabwe form a seamless, seemingly-endless labyrinth in the spaces between structures, their halls endlessly patrolled by the deadliest of sentries.

By day, the city shines strangely in the Sun, as though it were front-lit before a raging, black storm. By night it glows from within, its colors cycling in time with the many giant, white cubes around the world.

And sometimes, in those twilight moments when no human is anywhere near its eerily familiar pyramids and walls, glowing and misshapen things go in and out of its interior -- slipping through the air from the city to the massive, metal dragonfly that hovers above it, and then back again.

Inside that city dwells the great mystery of the Imago, themselves. It houses the massive enigma they have enslaved an entire world to protect. And it is also their weakness, for the secret is the answer.

And whomsoever answers it correctly will destroy them all.

Above that city, in the metal dragonfly that was once the COMPANY's Flier, the faces of most of the beings that have controlled the world for the last seven months are in deep consultation. One of their number -- the one they called The Sight -- is missing, as his incoherent screaming was too much for them to bear.

But even without him, and the powerful service he provided, they are still a force to be reckoned with.

How have they done this to The Sight? their hidden Leader asks, her voice sibilant and wet: What has happened to our eyes and ears on the world?

I think I know, leader, The Motion interrupts, his voice betraying how busy he currently is: Some time ago, there was talk of having a way of turning the entire Internet off. The so called "kill switch." Having an actual switch wasn't feasible, except maybe in the United States, so we, and by we I mean me, put together a package of very powerful viruses that would go all over the world wide web in seconds and destroy the networks. 

So why did you not make certain our networks were safeguarded against this threat? the Dragon asks, burbling up from the pit of neural circuitry he lounges within, deep inside the Flier.

I did. That was one of the first things I did. 

And yet the Internet is dead, and our friend blinded, The Dragon chides him.

Look, I did what I could. But this code is amazingly more complex than what I created-

Can you fix what has been done? The Leader asks.

Maybe not until we're ready to leave the planet, quite frankly, the Motion sighs: This is a mess. And I don't have time to deal with that mess right now-

Speaking of time, the one they call The Fist says, looking down from Deep Ten: I have the projectiles they've launched locked on to. They aren't warheads, and they aren't aimed at the platform. I think they're meant to launch satellites into geostationary orbit-

And there can be only two reasons for them to do that, The Motion interrupts: They're either going to set up a new, secured form of communications we won't have immediate access to, or they're going to send some kind of a jamming signal.

Can they do that? the Leader asks, sounding concerned: Do they have the know-how to do this?

We know that they do, my leader, the Dragon says: The one known as Underman used it on 3/15 to temporarily disable our technology. He has been missing for the last few months, but I doubt he has been idle.  And it would be a logical thing for him to improve upon his previous works.

And if don't have the ability to send a counter-signal through the Internet, anymore, they could knock us down like tin soldiers, The Motion says.

We could still send a counter-signal through Deep Ten, The Fist says: We could send it the same way we're sending our teleporter signals. But by the time we got it working, who knows how many of our power stations they might disrupt? And we'd need that power to send the signal.

Then we'd better shoot those things down quickly? The Motion says: And we'd better get our spy cameras up and running. There's thousands of people all over the world who have our eyes in their head. It's time to use them.

Agreed, The Dragon says: And perhaps we should also target the area around the power stations, while we are destroying the missiles. Their shields can be changed to match the harmonics of the particle cannons, and the deflection would cause a greater amount of destruction on the ground.

I'd be all for that, The Fist says: In fact, I've had a targeting solution planned for such an eventuality.

And speaking of that, the Motion says: While I'm sending out more Specials to mop up what survives the blasts, should we just activate the Extermination Order?

There is no need for that, yet, the leader says: We will need their energy and power in the months ahead. We must rebuild our elevator, and redouble their efforts to build our escape vehicle. 

We could do that with only a tenth of the population, The Fist says: And they'd be a lot easier to control-

It is never wise to throw a valuable resource away simply because it has proven a bit more cumbersome than anticipated, The Dragon opines: One can always find another to help carry the burden. But once the heavy load is gone, it is gone, and there will be no getting it back.

Plus, to be honest, we've still got a lot of converting to do, The Motion admits: Consider my idea withdrawn, at least for now.

Very well, the Leader says: Fist, you may begin. But you must also utilize the spy network, and be prepared to fire upon any sign of resistance. If they were planning on sending up a network to jam our technology, then they must also have forces ready to mobilize. They must be destroyed.

It will be done, The Fist says: And I could be wrong, but I just saw an explosion on the Moon, close to where their base was. May I fire at it a few more times, just to be certain?

That seems a wasteful expenditure at a time like this, The Motion sighs: What are they going to do? Throw moon rocks at us?

I leave that decision in your hands, the Leader says: You all know what you must do now. Do it with the knowledge that I love you all, and that we shall soon be through this crisis, and then back on our way to The Day. All you need is love.

All you need is love, The Motion repeats, preparing to adjust where he teleports his soldiers, and making ready to get them out of the way of their big guns.

All you need is love The Dragon says, sliding his consciousness back into the endless, contemplative loops of thought and memory he spends his time exploring.

All you need is love, The Fist says, targeting all six rockets and the Moon in his first volley, just to be certain. 

All you need is love, The Leader breathes, confident her beloved servants will yet save this day.

And then there is silence in the Flier, yet again, occasionally broken by The Sight trying to come up from his current state of blind panic. As he cries and screams for help, he wonders why no one answers him. Where is the Dragon, who is all-present? Where is the Leader, who says she loves him?

Will no one save him in his time of need?

* * *

"Oh you have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD says, looking up at the roof of Lady Gilda, and listening though it.

He didn't need the Toons to tell him the rockets were away. He could hear them, even all the way across the Pacific Ocean. He could hear them taking off, and could sense when they entered the upper atmosphere. He even felt the world shudder just a little bit as they raced out of it, and prepared to do what they'd been sent up to do.

And that's how he knows something is wrong on the Moon.

There should be a jamming signal coming from there. There should be a harsh, whining vibration, sluicing through the void and being picked up by Deep Ten's communications arrays. There should be a quiet but inescapable voice speaking to its computers at their deepest levels, saying "lay down your arms and surrender."

There is not.

He did, however, hear a loud thump from up there, right around the time he was trying to hear the signal. He felt the bass drum in his chest, and knows that wasn't just an overloaded device frying its circuits, or a blown fuse.

He knows the feel of an explosion. He knows the tactile sensation of a metal object stuffed with explosives one might make in secret, out of leftover scraps of material and chemicals stolen from a disused lab. He knows the taste it leaves in his mouth when they ignite and expand.

And he knows what happens when they're used to take out a pressurized environment...

"We've lost the !@#$ signal," he announces to his forces, wondering who that brave, doubtlessly-dead soul he just lost on the Moon could have been: "Deep Ten is still !@#$ing live. I repeat, Deep Ten is still live."

"What does that mean?" American Shield asks, doing his best to hold off the Specials that are all but overrunning his position.

"It means we're a few !@#$ seconds from !@#$ing needing plan B," SPYGOD says, quickly looking over his cheat cards: "Doctor Power, I need you mobile as of ten seconds ago. Mister Ten, stand by with the Dignitary. All allied forces, get ready to move. And all Supers..."

"Yes?" Mrs. America asks: "Do we have the go-ahead?"

"Converge on secondary targets," SPYGOD says, reaching for the bottle of the stronger stuff his cat has knowingly hidden until this very moment: "Total destruction."

There's cheering by some of his Strategic Talents at that order, but they don't know what he does. He can only hope that, once they learn what he's having them do, they can forgive him.

And maybe they can one day learn to live with that much death.

* * *

At that very moment, all around the world, thousands upon thousands of people begin to die.

Given that the world is raging against its captors, their deaths go mostly unnoticed, except perhaps by those who know them well. Even then, all those observers know for certain is that, for some reason, the dead stopped doing whatever they were doing, and stood or sat perfectly still for exactly ten seconds.

And, after that those ten seconds were done, the dead turned and walked away, heading somewhere else both silently and without emotion. They stopped rioting and looting, and came out of hiding. They walked from their homes or offices, abandoning their families and loved ones.

They got out into the streets to observe what was going on there. They walked behind the angry and idealistic crowds as they charged into Specials, and observed the less noble as they used the confusion to smash store windows and take what they wanted. They spied on hidden forces as they occasionally tipped their hand and came out to see what was going on, themselves.

They watched and listened, still as statues. They did not speak, or respond when spoken to. They could not be deterred or shooed away.

And they stood there until they either collapsed from exhaustion, or were knocked down or killed by stray bullets or sudden dangers.

Later, as the human cost of global revolution would be tabulated, it would be remarked that all these walking dead were people who lost their sight on 3/15, and had had their eyes replaced by the Imago as an apology. But by then, the damage was done. 

And there was simply no way to stop what was coming.

* * *

"Oh God, please help us," Mark says, trying to get up as the devil crashes into the buffet room, fire gouting from its eyes and mouth, its pathetic passenger's eyes still alive even though its body is wrapped in flames.

"Pathetic," Moloch hisses as it strides through the smoking ruin that used to be doors, shrugging off the numerous bullets and blasts from all the guns being pointed in its direction: "Would you kill a metal god with iron and steel?"

"We'll !@#$ well try, you !@#$," Myron shouts, jumping behind some crates of unpacked equipment and aiming for the thing's burning eyes: "No further! You !@#$ing hear me? No further!"

Moloch laughs, rears back, and launches a fireball at the crate Myron's hiding behind. He leaps out of its way just in time to avoid being disintegrated along with it, dropping the gun as he does.

"Let's get it!" one of the SPYGOD SCOUTS shouts, and leads a desperate charge, hoping to cover Myron and their wounded. They run and scream and fire, trying to find the weak spots in the creature.

But if it has any, they do not find it.

Somewhere in the doomed firefight -- as Moloch finds their weak spots all too well -- Winifred realizes that the machine is ready to operate, again. They could evacuate the room, and get poor Thomas back to the real world, if only they could keep the monster at bay long enough to let it warm up and activate. 

If only...

"Skyspear," she says, looking at the African woman, who's clearly wiped out: "How much control do you have over your teleporting ability?"

"I could carry the monster with me, yes," she says, trying to get up from the floor: "But I might not have the strength to return. It's too heavy-"

"I was thinking about the floor," Winifred says, pointing at Moloch's feet.

"Oh," Skyspear says, and, taking the teen's meaning, begins to jog over to the raging, brass beast hoping it doesn't notice her as it tosses fireball after fireball at its attackers, and slaps their burning, melting bodies across the great hall with unbidden glee.

"This slaugher is pointless," the brass beast snorts, turning its sights on the broken form, wrapped in a blanket, over by Mark: "Bring Moloch the boy, Thomas. Operate the machine to send a signal to SPYGOD. Do these things and Moloch shall spare your lives."

"No chance," Mark says, reaching over to shield Thomas with his own body: "You won't be getting any help from us."

"We shall see," Moloch says, getting ready to snort out another fireball. But, just before it does, it realizes that the woman who could appear and disappear is at its feet.

"Hello," she says, jabbing her hands into the wooden floor -- splintering it like matchsticks, and grabbing hold of what's left.

"You dare?" Moloch says, his breath singeing her eyebrows.

"Goodbye!" she shouts, and vanishes, taking a good chunk of the floor it was standing on with her.

Moloch shouts and reaches out, trying to regain its balance. It fails spectacularly, and tumbles down through the hole, breathing fire all the way. There is a spectacular crash, followed by another, and then another, and then...

"Oh wow," Myron says, getting up to the smoking hole and looking down: "How high up is this treehouse?"

"About a half mile," Mark says, making sure Thomas is okay: "But that thing's fast, Myron. Get that machine ready to go."

"You got it," the man says, taking off his bloody, broken sunglasses and going over to get the machine going: "Everyone who's hurt? Grab someone who's knocked out and get onto the platform. We're getting out of here, now."

He doesn't have to tell them twice. The survivors get onto the platform, dragging the badly wounded and knocked out behind them. A few of them have the good sense to organize a proper stretcher for Thomas, and one of the Scouts makes he's getting enough oxygen. 

Skyspear appears a second later, holding a large, medical-looking thing in her arms. She's able to take two steps before falling to her knees, bleeding from her nose. Mark hobbles over to her, taking the machine from her and handing it off to someone else.

"Thank you," he says, wrapping his arms around her: "What can I do to help you?"

"I will be fine, soon," she sighs, smiling at him with bloodshot eyes: "God willing."

"I think we're gonna be okay," Mark says, looking around and wincing at having just said that. All around are the dead and dying, their bodies burned and broken on the floor like wreckage from a bomb. 

Mark closes his eyes and prays for them, wishing this victory could have come at less of a human cost. As he does, strange, thumping noises can be heard. 

"What was that?" Winifred asks, holding up a hand.

"Not the machine," Myron says, looking around as the device in question begins clicking and clacking, preparing to go.

"Was that Moloch hitting the ground?" Mark asks, but then realizes the sound is coming from the hallway. 

And it's footfalls -- heavy, thumping. 

Metallic.

"Fools!' Moloch shouts, its voice echoing down the hallways: "What is a body to a god? So long as there is metal, Moloch is immortal."

"I need another three minutes," Myron sighs as the machine slowly thrums into life: "Please just keep him back that long!"

Winifred grabs the gun Myron put down and aims it down the hallway, for all the good it might do. In that moment, Myron couldn't love her any more. In that moment, she wishes she could tell him the same. 

"Oh !@#$," Mark says, holding Skyspear close as she starts to cry in frustration and fear: "Oh dear Lord, please help us..."

But the only god that chooses to act in that moment is Moloch, and it chooses to laugh.

* * *

All around the massive, trans-Lunar weapons platform known as Deep Ten, hatches slide open, and scores of large cannons protrude. Their movement gives the ring the appearance of a spiky leather cuff -- the sort of thing a rock and roll god might wear on stage to avoid looking wimpy under the lights.

And then, one by one, they swivel around on their mounts, so that they are no longer pointing outwards, as they were intended to do, but inwards, at the Earth.

The Fist -- the being masquerading as Director Straffer, however imperfectly -- sits in his grand control room, looking through a massive, glass and steel window, down at the blue and green gem that this truly amazing place once guarded.

And as his robots move around him, going from station to station and preparing to fire, he cracks his knuckles and ponders the best place to write his name -- his true name -- across the face of this world, just before they abandon it to its fate.

"Activate program B-4," he orders, sipping at the martini one of his robots has brought him: "Start with the lunar surface. Might as well get that out of the way, first."

The entire station vibrates and hums as the cannons build up to charge. It's a wonderful feeling -- almost sexual, as if he was about to come.

"I wish I could just vaporize it all," he muses, hoping that the Leader didn't hear him, but knowing that it means nothing to her, anymore.

And with a wave of his hand as he sips on a Martini, he condemns the world he hates to slavery, followed by oblivion. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Agent Orange (Depeche Mode) and having a !@#$ing !@#$ beer)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 5

As weightless as a thought, and as peaceful as the sea, Mark Clutch follows the white, cold light down, further and further into the holy silence.

He falls for what seems like a hundred years -- maybe even a thousand -- and remembers being told that the Kingdom of Heaven is beyond the conception of time and space. He is inside the Great Mystery, here in this tunnel of shimmering white. And he can only wonder, between flashes of life and memory, when he's going to touch ground, or at least hear a voice welcoming him home.

When he finally does, it's not God, but man.

"Mark?" he hears a woman say. It's a familiar voice, accompanied by a strange feeling.

Pain -- sharp and stinging.

"Mark, please," the voice continues as the white goes away: "You gotta open your eyes. Please !@#$ing open your eyes..."

There's more pain, now. It's to his face. His cheeks. It feels like someone's slapping him.

Someone is slapping him. And he can smell things. Metal and sweat. Wood and electricity. Burning things.

Blood.

There's one more slap, and then he opens his eyes, gasping for air as though he'd just breached the water's surface. He clutches at the air and wonders where he is, and how he got here.

And then he remembers what happened back at the infirmary, and what was going to happen. But he also realizes he's not burned, and not dying.

He's in the main buffet room, up against the far wall. The giant, television-like machine that they use to travel back and forth from the real world to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 is warming up. Myron is standing by the controls, holding a very large gun and pointing it at the door. His sunglasses are gone and his face is bloody, and the look in his eyes is terrifying to see.

Winifred is in front of him, looking extremely relieved. There's a number of SPYGOD SCOUTS near her, all holding guns at the door or tending to each others' injuries. He can't see The Wall or The Fist, anywhere. And Skyspear...

There's a strange noise, like the world being ripped open. For a moment he thinks that big, brass, fire-breathing monster he was trying to fight is coming here, crashing the treehouse to pieces as he goes. But then a hole in the air opens up, close to him, and Skyspear leaps through it.

She's holding something wrapped up in a blanket. A badly-burned stump that was once a teenager's arm is poking out from under it.

"He's awake!" Winifred shouts to the woman, who places the blanket-wrapped-boy on the ground and falls to her knees, panting.

"Thanks God," she says, between breaths: "I got Thomas out of there, but I could not get his machines. Do we have anything here that can help him?"

"I'll keep him breathing," one of the Scouts says, and hustles over: "But we'll need the machines. Can you go back?"

She looks at him, and then, bowing her head, nods weakly: "Give me time. Too many short jaunts weaken me. If I go too soon I may be lost..."

"You saved me," Mark says, holding his hand towards her: "You... I thought I was dead..."

She just smiles at him, and takes his hand in hers: "Alhamdulillah"

"Alhamdulillah," he repeats, noticing for the first time how truly lovely her eyes are: "Thanks be to God."

"Where are the others?" Myron asks, taking a step away from the controls (but keeping his eyes, and the gun, aimed right at the door): "Are they still fighting it?"

"They are," Skyspear says: "The Fist and Green Man are trying to distract him. I do not know where the Wall is, but I suspect he is near."

"Are the satellites...?" Mark asks, trying to get to his feet.

"That's what's going back now," Myron says, gesturing to the six large, metal spheres in front of the machine, caught up in the flickering, bright field that's starting to dominate all the light and sound in the room: "The thing's gotta rest for five minutes after that. Then we send back Thomas and whoever's badly hurt."

"What about the monster?" Winifred asks: "Can we hold it off?"

"We'd !@#$ing better," Myron shouts to be heard over the machine's noises: "If it gets past us, and figures out how to get this thing working..."

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. In fact, Mark remembers teaching the hero that monster was masquerading as how to operate it just the other week, before the metal man lost his temper and vanished.

If Moloch gets past them, he'll have no problems operating the machine. He'll go to the Toon colony and cause mayhem, there -- maybe even stop the rockets from launching. He'll destroy their entire war effort in one blow.

He'll doom the entire world just to win.

* * *

Prentice walks up the corridor to the main communications hub, doing his best to conceal the cylinder he's brought along as a surprise.

The plan is pretty simple. He'll apologize for interrupting, of course, and then he'll explain why he's actually here. It seems there's some energy variances that they detected not too long ago (true), and they're bound to play havoc with the signal that Director Straffer's machine is going to cause (maybe). 

The cyborg will probably want to look the papers over, but he'll want to do it by the machine. While he's doing that, he'll be far enough away that Prentice can pull out the explosive and arm it, and then show that grumpy, dictatorial narcissist the true reason for his visit. 

And then, while the shock's still setting in -- and before the clanking, stumbling, metal stick man can think of something to do -- Prentice will calmly and coolly tell him why this is happening.

And, most importantly of all, why Prentice is the one doing this.

He didn't get that short straw entirely by chance. He was meant to do this. And the reasons for that meaning -- that very legitimate and pointed meaning -- have been a long time coming.

It's the stuff of epic legends, that reason. And Prentice is going to tell Straffer all about it, just before he lets the trigger go and ends himself, the cyborg, the machine the !@#$er was working on, and the whole !@#$ room. 

As he walks closer to the door, Prentice can feel the weight of destiny alighting on his shoulders. He can feel the wheels of karma turning under his feet, and the brilliant shine of justice upon his brow. 

Everything that has happened, up until now, has brought him here, to this moment, on this day. He will do what must be done, and perhaps be remembered for what others would see as a noble sacrifice, or a logical decision.

But that doesn't matter to him. It doesn't matter if no one ever remembers this, or hears of it. He doesn't mind if his name is expunged from the history books the children of Alpha Base Seven will one day write.

All that matters is that Straffer will hear the reasons for his demise at Prentice's hands. That will be obituary enough for him, and a monument to rival the Pyramids.

That will be all he's ever wanted; who would go on living after such a perfect moment?

* * *

"Oh, thank God," one of the Toons says as the satellites begin to materialize in front of the giant television.

"They're coming through!" Fred shouts into the communicator to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4: "Well done, guys! Is everything okay, over there?"

There's nothing but static as a reply. Fred looks at the Masked Leader of the Resistance for assurance or instructions, but the man shakes his head and points to the six machines coming through.

"Get them on board the rockets as soon as they're fully here," he says: "And then get the machine pad cleared, and send for a medical team. I have the feeling we may be getting casualties."

"Casualties?"

"That's what I said, son," he barks: "Do you need to be reminded of what that means?"

"No, not at all," Fred starts, never having been shouted at by this man before: "I'll call them right now."

"You do that," the man says, watching the machines wax full and solid as the Toon technicians prepare to zap them with tooninator guns -- the better to smack them into Toon rockets, which will then be turned back into real rockets just before launch.

And then, once launched, begin a wave of counter-Imago signals that will end this horrible war before it even really gets a chance to start. 

But as the technicians begin working, and the medics run down to their ready stations, the man realizes that there's something else that needs to be done, here, if they're not only going to win, but be worthy of that victory.

Something horrible that he clearly can no longer avoid.

* * *

Moloch strides from the bloody, red ruins of the infirmary, watching as blood droplets quiver in the air, trying to reform themselves into something capable of giving into gravity.

It thought it had seen everything, more or less, but what just happened in that room defied all explanation. If it were not what and who it were, it might be toppled over, laughing itself to pieces at the thought. But it has no time for such things.

Not now that the end of the game is so tantalizingly near.

What happened was no less than the answer to an age-old question: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? It never had a good reply to that conundrum, but now it does.

Those two things explode -- taking out the rest of one's adversaries if one is very lucky, or a god. 

Moloch could not have coordinated the events any better. No sooner had it been denied the right to burn Mark Clutch from the face of this world, thanks to that Skyspear woman and her abilities, than it was attacked by the Fist. And while a single punch from her might not have been enough to destroy Moloch's mighty body, it was enough to cause some significant structural damage, and send it sprawling across the floor.

But it was not a clean hit. Moloch's body was incredibly hot, and whatever gifts the Fist may have been given at birth, withstanding high temperatures was clearly not amongst them. She got in three good hits, and then backed away from the fight, screaming at the smoking, melted ruin that were her hands.

Green Man had said some angry things at her, then, but his own attacks -- however embarrassingly precise -- were nowhere near as effective as hers. Moloch got to its feet quickly, hurling fireballs at the two of them, and the Green Man had entered into combat with it, again -- parrying all its blows and leaping out of the way from its fire, but unable to actually hurt its metal skin, or kill the human hero who'd been providing it with fire. 

But the human's attacks had not been entirely ineffective. In fact, they kept Moloch from seeing that its objective -- that broken boy, Thomas -- was being snatched from its clutches by the same hero who had gotten Mark out of the way of its fire. And by the time it noticed what had happened, it was too late to stop Skyspear from taking him.

It was not, however, too late to lash out in rage, and knock the maimed Fist off her feet, and towards the door.

Which is where she ran right into the Wall, who was coming in to aid his friends.

The Wall's power was well-known: he simply could not be moved, and any who tried to move him would have their energy rebounded upon them. The Fist, on the other hand, could not be stood against, as even the slightest flick of her finger could send someone flying across the room.

In idle moments, the two would often joke about what might happen if she punched him, or he bumped into her. They often liked to say that their abilities would just cancel each others' out, but they never dared to test it.

A wise decision, as it turned out. When they hit each other, in that way, their powers multiplied and broke against one another. And the force of the resulting explosion all but leveled the infirmary -- blowing out its walls and windows, and causing that part of the building to crack, break, and warp.

When Moloch got back to its feet, there was nothing left of the Wall and the Fist but blood, and a strange, quavering, red mist that could not fully resolve itself into being liquid. There was no sight of the Green Man, either, so Moloch assumed that its boastful harrier must have been destroyed by the blast as well.

And so did Moloch -- now wiser, and facing fewer adversaries than before -- begin to make its way to the room where the machine stood. No doubt Skyspear took the broken boy there, and it would need the great machine to communicate with the real world, and SPYGOD.

The plan would work. Moloch would push through and persevere. And if the pieces weren't coming together the way Moloch had intended, that was merely a complication, and not a barrier.

For what right did errant circumstances have to tell a just god "no"?

* * *

"Well, I do appreciate your bringing these things to my attention, Prentice," Director Straffer says, looking at the readouts the man's handed him and scratching the back of his maimed neck: "Lousy timing, though. I just got the signal from Earth. The satellites are on the rockets and we're just about to launch."

"Well, I got them here as quick as I could, sir," Prentice says: "I'm sorry if it wasn't fast enough."

"I'll fix it," Straffer says, hobbling his spindly, metal legs towards his machine: "And under the circumstances, I'll even overlook the fact that you didn't care to knock."

"Well, I had to press the issue at the door, sir," he replies, smiling just a little at the thought: "You instructed Carlson a little too well."

"Well, I'm told I have that effect on people," the cyborg says, winking, and then turning to fiddle with the massive device he's slapped onto the side of the main communications hub: "So, if the Van Allen belts are up, it might distort the signal enough to be worthless. So should I boost the signal, or try to widen it out to compensate for that?"

"I'm afraid that radio engineering isn't my specialty, sir," Prentice says, getting ready to pull out the weapon and have his say.

"Ah. Well, why don't you see if you can get Carlson in here?" Straffer says, turning his back on the assassin: "This was his baby, after all. He should have a better idea."

Prentice blinks, flabbergasted. Does this man really have no idea that he's come to kill him? Is he that dense?

"I'll go and ask," he says, turning to head back to the airlock, the plan changing with each step. 

"You could, but I think that'd be kind of difficult." 

"What do you mean, sir?" Prentice asks, turning around.

"I mean that I can smell his blood on you," Straffer says, most pointedly not turning around.

"I don't know what you mean, sir-"

"I can also see the cylinder you've been trying to hide under your arm this whole time."

"Sir?"

"You're not very good at this, are you?" the Director says, finally turning around and looking at him: "If you were, you'd have just detonated that thing the moment you got close enough to hand me the papers."

"Maybe not," Prentice says, no longer caring to hide the object in question. Instead he brings it out and holds it up, his other hand on the trigger: "I think I wanted to tell you why, first."

"I really don't think I care," Straffer says, stepping between the bomb and the machine he's been working on: "But you need to understand, and you need to get this !@#$ quick, Prentice, because we don't have time."

"No, it's you who need to listen-"

"If you destroy this, Earth is doomed. The Imago are-"

"Oh I am so sick and !@#$ing tired of hearing about the Imago!" Prentice shouts, holding the bomb aloft like it was a rock, or a knife: "Who cares about them? We are alive, here! We live! And you're trying to get us all killed!"

"I'm trying to save you, you !@#$ idiot!" Straffer shouts: "I'm trying to save the world!"

"By killing us!"

"Do you even know what's coming? Do you know why the Imago are building a spaceship in Earth's orbit? There's something worse than them on the way, Prentice."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not lying. It's coming-"

"Shut up!"

"It's coming here, Prentice. It's a million times worse-"

"Shut up!" 

"And if we don't stop them, we won't be able to defend ourselves, and that thing will walk all over us-"

"Shut up shut up I was going to tell you everything-

"And when it's done with Earth what do you think it'll do to the Moon? You will not survive it, Prentice-"

"I was going to tell you why I was going to do this and you ruined it! You ruined it!"

"Your only hope is that machine! Put the bomb down-"

"You ruined it!" Prentice shouts, letting go of the switch: "You ruined it..."

Straffer shouts and tries to knock the cylinder from Prentice's hands. Prentice narrowly avoids the attack by the stumbling, stick-figure of a man, but trips over a pile of scrap parts and goes sprawling. The bomb bounces out of his hands and across the floor, over by the wall with a brilliant view of the Earth.

And when the device goes off, it's all Prentice can do to not scream in rage and frustration. 

So close. So close and yet so far.

* * *

Without warning, six holes open up in the surface of the desert sands. Within seconds, six large rockets fly out of them, streaking towards the clouds, and then the dark blue sky beyond, and then the black beyond that. 

And victory, hopefully.

In a fantastic treehouse on a parallel world, a young man who's too smart for his own good, and too aware of the timing involved, assumes a proper firing stance. He raises a gun that's just a little large for him, and starts firing down the dark, wooden corridors at a flaming, metal monster that's heading his way. He knows he can't really hurt it, with this gun, but he hopes to slow it down, any way he can.

And lord knows -- hope's gotten him this far. 

In the secret underground of a colony of living cartoons, an old man switches one disguise for another. He does this knowing that this may well be the moment he's been left here to attend. If so, he's going to go out fighting the way he began, all those decades ago.

And he can only hope the fight will succeed, and that he'll be able to come back to see if the plan worked.

And on the Moon, in a chamber that had been securely filled with air, warmth, and gravity just a few seconds ago, a severely-damaged man-machine hybrid hangs on for what's left of his life, and knows that his part in the plan is finished. The device he'd been lovingly tending for the past few months is gone -- a pile of broken wreckage -- and with its passing also dies any hopes of ending this invasion with less bloodshed than it started with. 

He'd curse if he could hear himself do it. He'd pray if he believed. And he'd kick the spattered pieces of the pathetic man who tried to kill him if his legs were just a little longer.

But all he can really do is feel shame and anger at how stupidly this all came apart, and, hopefully, use that anger to fuel his next, critical moves. 

And force himself to do the one thing he really did not want to do, ever, but now may have no choice left.

(SPYGOD is listening to It Doesn't Matter Two (Depeche Mode) and having a Blue Moon Blackberry Tart Ale)