7/3-7/12 - The Gate Is Straight, Deep, and Wide - pt. 2

Ghosts, son? You're asking me if SPYGOD actually believes in ghosts?

Well of course I !@#$ing believe in ghosts, son. What kind of a dumb!@#$ question is that? Don't you remember when I was running with Chinmoku? They don't call him the only living master of Hungry Ghost Path of Kung Fu for nothing.

(The others failed, and became -- you guessed it -- ghosts.)

Now, yes, we can be objective about this. It's true that, sitting at that fire, I'm not really in my right !@#$ing mind. I'm fighting a black hole of depression, suicidal urges, and god knows what other long-repressed mental problems. I'm crying like I won an Oscar, thinking I could just die right about then and no one would give a !@#$, and !@#$sing myself just after I realized I really needed to go water the beer garden.

That and the radioactive !@#$ I'm drinking could probably kill a !@#$ing atom-powered cyborg tyrannosaurus rex if you shoved it down the wrong !@#$ hole.

So, yes, given that by the time those yellow-hatted mystics show up, I'm so !@#$ing drunk that I've lost all sense of time, distance, proportion, and dignity, it's just possible that I imagine everything that comes next. But I don't believe that, son.

Not for a !@#$ing minute.

How does it go? Well, talking with the dead ain't like Charles !@#$ing Dickens, son. You don't get a herald, you don't get told how the ride's going to go, and you sure don't get away !@#$ing clean. Sometimes you don't even !@#$ing get away at all.

There's reasons that Shamen are both revered and feared for what they do, son. Any sensible person would run away from a job like that, but some people just have to be the ones to peek behind the veil and see what's there.

And you know what curiosity got that poor, dead cat.

So when they inform me that there's people who want to talk to me, and I realize what they !@#$ing mean, I realize that I am in for a world of !@#$. Of course, I'm so !@#$ing drunk I can't even stand, much less crawl away, so they got me where they want me, these yellow-hatted, grinning freaks.

And so do the dead.

I see that one of the Shamans isn't there, anymore, and Second is there instead, smiling at me with that special, little smile of his. The kind that always said that he knew, deep down, what a goofy, drunk !@#$-up I could be, but that he admired me, anyway, and wouldn't have wanted to work for anyone else.

And there's a second when I just chalk it up to the !@#$ I've been pounding, and wishful thinking, and regrets? But then he starts !@#$ing talking, and I know it's him. 

I'm sorry to report I kind of !@#$ed up, sir, he says: I did my best while you were gone, but they had us beaten at every turn. Dragon played us all against each other, they snuck in a bunch of GORGON troopers, and... well, they had it well in hand, sir. I can only apologize.

"You shouldn't have to apologize," I tell him (well, blubber out, really): "I was your C.O, (REDACTED). I should have been the one giving the good orders, not you. And if I hadn't made those dumb !@#$ing mistakes... if I hadn't gone South instead of to DC... if I hadn't..."

If you had, you'd be dead, too, sir, he tells me: They had us cold, sir. Dead !@#$ing bang to rights. They had a plan for everything, including you.


"Well, it should have !@#$ing been me, not you," I blubber: "It should have been me..." 

No sir, he says: It was always supposed to be me. You said it, yourself. Soldiers are there to die. The fact that you get another day is a blessing, and I had a lot of them. All of them good... well, most of them. 

I have no regrets, sir. I had a good run, and I died fighting. I went down hard and I tried to take as many of them down with me as I could. !@#$, I even pulled the wool over the Dragon's eyes for a little bit, and that's not something you can say all that often.

"That's... that's good..." I say, not knowing what else to say. If I wasn't so !@#$ing drunk I'd have actually given him a real complement for that one. 

Well, I learned form the best. And that's why you need to get back on your feet, sir. I did my best to save as many strategic talents from what was coming as I could, and they're going to need a leader. 

And that's you, sir. And you know that.

Of course, I can't say anything to that but to make excuses, wallow in self-pity, and continue blubbing. I can't even !@#$ing look at him, son. He's looking at me like a proud parent, and all I want to do is crawl under a rock and die.

So it's a while before I look up, and when I do he's gone, and the Shaman he was inhabiting is looking at me with a nasty, red-toothed grin.

I never thought I'd see the day when SPYGOD got all maudlin and self-pitying, says another one of them. I turn and look, and it's Joe Samuels, who was the Owl, up until just recently. And seeing him there, dead, kicks me even harder.

"What... what the !@#$ happened?"

Well, I'm dead, he says, matter of fact as always: GORGON hit the Owl's Nest hard. They teleported in in droves and shot us to pieces. Your man, Second, tried to warn us, but we missed the message until it was too late. I had to atomize the Owls Nest in the end, just to deny it to the enemy. 

"Oh gods... I'm sorry..."

He smiles: I took them all out with me, (REDACTED). You should have seen it. I showed them what it meant to try and take us on our own turf. 

And next time they tangle with my family, they'll be in real trouble.

"What about Martha? Thomas? Kaitlyn?"

Martha's fine, and she's with your friends, getting a resistance together. Thomas was hurt very badly, but he'll be alright. We're seeing to that. 

And Kaitlyn... he smiles: She's going to be the best Owl that ever was, my friend, but she'll need your help do to it, just like you helped Martha and Thomas. Can I count on you?

Of course, this leads to me trying to blub some more, but he's not having it: Oh, stop it, (REDACTED). We don't have time for tears. Too many people have died, and too many people are going to die, for you to sit around a fire crying your magic eye out. 

"Easy for you to say... you're dead. You don't have to face this failure-"

I didn't say it, my friend, he says, smiling and pointing at me: You said it. You said it to me. And if you think really hard, you might just remember when, and why. 

And I never told you this, because I was so embarrassed, later? But thank you for that. 

So, this is me returning the favor. Tears later, soldier. Action now. You fall apart you're no use to anyone.


"I'm already broken..." I try to say, but it comes across as a tangle of words. By the time I get my tongue unglued, Joe's gone, and in his place is that tall, black Colonel that'd been hounding my !@#$ since the assassination. Colonel Richter.

And he's not looking so !@#$ing good, either. His bald head's a misshapen mess, and one of his yellowed eyes has bugged out of its socket. It almost looks like someone smashed his brains in.

Well well, he says, smiling: Here we finally are. You know how long I've been looking for your sorry !@#$?

"I know... I'm sorry..."

Oh, don't you dare !@#$ing apologize, SPYGOD. Don't you !@#$ing dare! You don't have the right! !@#$, you don't even have the right to speak to me right now, you sloppy !@#$hole.

Now, for some !@#$ dumb reason, this takes me aback. Everyone else so far's been trying to shove complements up my !@#$, in spite of my getting them killed. But he's actually !@#$ing angry.

And, for some reason, that actually brings me up from the slippery, dark hole I've drunk myself down, just a little bit.

"What the !@#$ are you talking about?" I ask, rearing up a bit: "I didn't kill you-"

Oh, but you did, he says, sitting straight up and leaning towards me: That crazy-!@#$ vendetta of yours? Well, while you were !@#$ing liberating Cuba, you sent us off in ten directions at once, trying to catch your !@#$. You had the COMPANY so !@#$ busy chasing its tail that GORGON was able to walk in and !@#$ us without us even noticing. 

If you'd just done the right thing and given yourself up, we could have been united. We could have stopped them. All those people would still be alive. 

I'd still be alive-

"!@#$ you, Richter." I spit at him: "I didn't !@#$ up the COMPANY. You did."

What... he says, the anger bleeding away as confusion sets in: What the !@#$ do you mean?

"Why... why do you think they put you onto me?" I ask him, still too groggy to talk too fast: "What were you doing... before the President was assassinated?"

He tries to open his mouth, and then he closes it.

I... I don't remember...

"No. Of course you don't. Not your last birthday. Not your first kiss. And why do you suppose that is?"

I knew... I used to know...

"Yeah, when you were !@#$ing breathing. But now you aren't, anymore, and when you died all those memories just went away, didn't they?"

I... what are you-

"Because you weren't doing anything, Richter. They activated you. And then, when they didn't need you anymore..."

I point to my head, right about where his has been clearly bashed in, and then roughly pat it a few times.

He opens and closes his mouth a few more times. Then he screws his eyes shut and screams so loud my eardrums almost blow out of my !@#$ing head.

And then he's gone, leaving a hoarse shaman who's trying to hog the kumis bottle he and his two friends are passing back and forth.

How long did you know about him? asks a mellifluous voice I know all too well.

"About as long as... well, about as long as I suspected about you," I say, turning to look to my left. The Dragon is sitting there, smiling that slight, inscrutable smile of his.

And he doesn't even need a shaman to talk to me.

(SPYGOD is listening to Soul Kitchen (The Doors) and drinking... well, yeah. Don't ask.)

The Age of Imago - June - Pt. 3

It has been an excellent dark for Emperor Thurl, up until the time he receives the news that all but destroys his world.

He rose from a fine dreamsleep, and was roused, enticed, and dressed by a specially-trained pleasure school. He devoured a truly excellent meal, regurgitated from the belly of the best food preparer in the entire Kingdom. He watched his numerous spawn scuttle through their creche, wondering which of them would be the one to wear the crown jewels, one day.

Later, he met a delegation from the Lower Cold, eager to trade their strange science for things that were commonplace in Thurl's domain, but quite rare in theirs. Of course, he said he would truly consider it, but he'd already made up his mind to give them half again of what they asked for, as a sign of good faith. To do otherwise would be stingy, and do shame to his Kingdom.

While he "thought," he strode the length of his castle, scuttling along walkways of stonebone and peering over the parapets at his people, who toiled and swam below. He allowed himself a small, satisfied moment of happiness -- allowing himself to think, for one moment, that maybe things had truly changed.

And then came that thought's sorry ruination.

"My Emperor, accept my submission, and forgive my intrusion," his most trusted adviser says to him, scuttling low and in submission.

"It is always accepted, and always forgiven," Thurl says: "What do you come to tell me? Have the delegation from the Cold come back to ask after my decision?"

"No, Emperor. They are still being shown the Grotto of the Great One, and the many wonders that live and die within it. This is not a diplomatic matter. This is... this is..."

The Emperor scuttles around, concerned. In all the Lightchanges he's been served by this one, he has never been at a loss for words.

"What has happened? I bid you speak truly and without fear."

"I would never speak untruly, my Emperor. But now I cannot help but feel fear. A messenger from the Other Kingdom has come, and this Lowest brings terrible news."

"What news is this?"

"The... the City of Darkness. I tell you truly that the messengers reports that it has been risen from below the Wet, and brought up to the Overland."

Thurl feels his hearts stop beating for a moment: "Do you mean the Black Island? Is the Beast awake?"

"No, my Emperor. So far as I know, that being still deathsleeps, praise be the Mother. I speak of the City of Darkness. That which was old while we were young. That which was hidden after the last Overapocalypse. That which was not to be disturbed, ever."

"I... I truly speak that I am shocked," the Emperor says: "I had only thought that to be a story. I knew that the structure was there, but thought that the legend was meant to keep the curious away from what cannot be understood."

"I also speak truly that I thought the same. But the legend appears to be real. It has been risen. Their entire Kingdom has been thrown into cataclysm by its violent surfacing, which is why it has taken them so long to reach us."

"Who could have done this?" the Emperor demands: "Who could have made this legend come true? The Overlanders do not have the knowledge. They may have had the key, all this time, but they did not know what it unlocked. There could be no way for them to know!"

"My Emperor, I do not know the answer to how they knew. But according to what little remains of their Highest, the Imago have made the City of Darkness their home."

Thurl stops all motion. He puts out all his arms to brace himself against the parapet, but then succumbs to the despair in his soul and sits down upon the stonebone. And he is still and quiet for quite some time.

"You spoke of your fears that they were of two faces, my adviser," he says at last: "I see now you spoke more truly than you knew."

"What shall we do?" the adviser asks.

"We shall..." the Emperor begins to say, and then falls silent. He looks up above, now all too conscious, once again, of the threat it holds for he and his people.

"We shall do nothing, for now," Thurl continues: "Have the messengers devoured. Silence any who saw or spoke with them. And bring me all legends regarding the City of Darkness. We must arm ourselves with knowledge."

"At once," the adviser says, and scuttles away to perform these unpleasant but unavoidable tasks.

And it is only once that most high and trusted servant is well out of hearing range that Thurl allows himself to weep in utter despair.

* * *

6/18/12

Hey Dagworth!

Listen, man, I got your reply to my last letter, and I have to say that I'm pretty !@#$ing ashamed to admit that I couldn't crack the code, this time. Is this something you came up with on your own? I am kind of outclassed here, my friend. Please give me a !@#$ing hint?

Anyways, things around here have gone boobs up in a sea of !@#$, as my mother would say. You remember the night we got told things weren't real, on the Fifteenth? Well, I could have !@#$ing told them that, but you should have seen the people around here. For a whole day you never heard so many jokes or really !@#$ing !@#$ed off people in your life.

Of course, next day the internet was back up and everyone went back to being dumb as !@#$. But it's good to know that, whatever got done to these people, it ain't permanent, and there's a !@#$ing cure.  

Speaking of which, I've started writing to some  other SPYGOD SCOUTS (In code, of course. I'm no !@#$ing dummy) to see if they can find out what !@#$ing happened to the special ed kids in their state. I figure if we can work together, we might be able to get a better idea of what the !@#$ happened, here. 

Anyway, you take care, man. Hopefully I'll crack your new !@#$ing code before too long, here.

yours

Winifred.

ps: Which Star Trek's your favorite? I'll show you my Enterprise if you show me yours ;)

* * *

"So, you ready to talk about it?" 

Myron looks at his interviewer, leans forward in his chair, and lights up a cigarette: "No. I don't think I'll ever really be !@#$ing ready. But..."

"But here you are," Randolph says, holding out a cigarette of his own for his subject to light, which he does.

"Here I am. Yeah."

Normally, they wouldn't be able to smoke, here, in this fine, Toronto restaurant. But tonight no one knows they're there: Randolph, his many friends, helpers, and guards, and Myron are all invisible, today. 

And they have Myron to thank for it. Sort of.

"So, they walked into your cell," Randolph, tapping his notepad with his pen: "They took hold of you, and began to try and Embrace you. What went wrong?"

"I don't really know," Myron says: "One second I'm in incredible pain, and then I'm on the ground, covered in what's left of the !@#$er that was supposed to become me. The Imago dragged his sorry !@#$ out of the room, and they looked... well, they looked scared." 


"And how did that make you feel?"

He thinks for a moment: "!@#$ing weird. I got up and cleaned myself off, and everyone was cheering me on. And then it hit me that I was really still alive, and I started laughing. Then crying. And then I had the best sleep I'd had since the whole thing started."

"And the next day, they tried again?"

"Yep. Brought a whole new Falseface into the room. Held me down. Gave me the speech. I screamed and tried to resist but I couldn't, and then I blacked out, and then, BOOM - dead Falseface. Skull and circuitry all over me. And then they're running away, again, and this time they look even more scared."

"What did you do?"

"Well, I figured the first time might have been a lucky fluke. The second time might have been more luck. But the third time would have been a pattern, and I think after that they'd probably just !@#$ing kill me and take me apart to see what the !@#$ happened. So I decided I wasn't going to give them a third time."

"How did you do it?"

"Well," Myron says, gesturing with his fingers and putting the cigarette in his mouth: "I did two things. The first thing I did was collect all the circuits I could. The first falseface's were a total wash, because I was stupid and in shock and got them off me with water from the sink. But this time, I had more."

"And you thought you could just make a weapon...?"

"Hey, I got the original Underman's sorry-!@#$ drilltank up and running, Randolph. I built an anti-GORGON device from spare parts and junk from my bits box. And we're having dinner here right under their !@#$ noses thanks to something I made when I had a lot more time. I'm not exactly a slouch when it comes to electrical engineering on the fly."

"So did you make that weapon, then?"

"Eh, sort of," Myron admits: "I realized, maybe halfway through trying to make another off switch for them, that I didn't have good parts. And I also realized that I wasn't sure if an off switch would work on the Imago. They are the same, but I don't think they share the same exact technology. There's something more advanced at work, here."

"Similar, but not the same."

"Exactly. So I decided that the best weapon I could make, under the circumstances, was a horn to call in the !@#$ cavalry. I made a clicker for a certain someone, before, so I just made a small version of it and kept it on-"

"Clicker?"

"Blind communicator. You make a pair of buttons, and have them fixed so that when one is depressed, the other clicks. That way you can tell someone you're ready for help without having to actually call and say the words. And if someone finds it in your pocket, it just looks like a doo-dad until they pry it open. Handy little things."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, I made one, fine-tuned it to the right frequency, and then hooked it up to the light socket in my cell. It sent out a steady click for three hours before it finally burned out."

"And then?"

Myron smiles: "And then the !@#$ing cavalry arrived."

"It must be nice having friends who can teleport."

"Oh, you have no !@#$ing idea," Myron says, stubbing out his cigarette and getting another: "They came in, got me out. I tried to get them to get everyone else down there out, too, but the !@#$ing Imago teleported in not long after they did. We were lucky to get out as it was."

"Did you leave anyone behind?"

Myron sighs, looks askance, and shakes his head: "No. One of my friends was there, with me, for a while. But..."

He doesn't finish the thought. Randolph respects his silence.

"So they got me out," Myron continues after a long pause (and a tear or two): "And they hid me for a few days. I got shuttled around from safehouse to safehouse. Lots of people wanted to talk to me about what happened, what I'd seen, what I knew. What happened in the White House on 3/15. They told me about the trials and... !@#$. It just makes me sick. I was this close to saving him. This !@#$ing close..."

He stops talking, puts his head in his hands, and sobs. Randolph lets him, and turns off the tape recorder.

"I got the last interview with the President, the night before they executed him," Randolph says: "I couldn't rescue him. If I did, they'd have killed his entire family, and the families of every other person they'd killed up to that point. That's how they got them to lie and act along. They were saving their own children and loved ones."

"I heard," Myron says, wiping some of the tears away: "I know. But !@#$ it, I should have been smarter. I should have been faster..."

"He spoke very highly of you and Colonel Richter," Randolph responds, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eye: "He knew that you did everything you could to try and save him. But the game was up the moment they got to his wife, Myron. You'd have tried to rescue his wife, too, and they'd have tracked you everywhere you went. There was nothing you could have done but tried. And you did."

"I still feel like a failure," Myron says: "I sat in a !@#$ing cell and tried to dream myself to death. I still don't know why the !@#$ they couldn't make me one of them. I keep feeling like someone cut me a break that I don't !@#$ing deserve."

"Because that never !@#$ing happens in this business, ever," Randolph says, patting the misshapen back of his head: "Don't look at it as a break, Myron. Look at it as an opportunity. You've been spared one death to go have another, and maybe, just maybe, between then and now you can kick !@#$ you don't even know about yet."

Myron looks askance: "That's... not very comforting."

"No, but it's how I get through my days," Randolph says: "Shall we continue?"

"Oh, yes," Myron says: "But can I get a !@#$ing beer, first? I've forgotten what they taste like, and !@#$ do I need a drink."

"Totally," Randolph says, waving to one of his cohorts: "We shouldn't have done this dry in the first place..."

"I agree," Myron replies: "And when you're out of tape in that recorder, I want to know what you have been up to, Mr. Outlaw Journalist. And where the !@#$ is SPYGOD?"

Randolph sighs: "I keep wishing someone would !@#$ing tell me." 

(SPYGOD is listening to A Falling Star (John Foxx) and having an Expedition Stout)

The Age of Imago - April

April brought with it two strange realizations, at least to most people in the so-called "first world." The first was that almost everything had changed by what people had taken to calling 3/15.

The second was that they didn't really miss it. (Mostly.)

Why? Perhaps because their economies did not crash or implode. There were no riots, no panicking in the streets. Some hoarding of food and supplies was reported, but after a while it became clear that no one really needed to.

Gas prices even went down, for crying out loud.

The Imago exhorted people to lick their wounds, pick themselves up, and go back to work. And so they did. And, for most people, nothing had really changed there, either. Supplies still came into factories and went out the other end as finished products. Items still showed up in the stores to be bought and sold. Banks held and loaned money, newspapers and magazines were printed, the mail was delivered and read, and the police and emergency services were still there.

Only now with the presence of the Imago, floating overhead with smiles on their faces.

True, the internet was down for a few days, but the phone lines weren't. So businesses dusted off their old FAX machines or made more calls, and things were worked around until the net came back up. And when it did, the new speeds were incredible -- courtesy of some special help the Imago gave, behind the scenes.

People whose lives had been highly disrupted were almost-immediately cared for, so as to avoid the market-destroying specter of bread lines, beggars, and angry mobs demanding food and justice. The Imago came to them with food, aid, and lines on jobs that needed doing -- all well within their areas of expertise.

Those blinded by the space weapons were taken by the Imago to be treated in special, high-tech hospitals that actually replaced the eyes of the stricken. And those who worked for the armed forces, or airports, or any other profession rendered inoperable due to 3/15, or obsolete by the Imago, themselves, were given other, meaningful work, or awarded grant money to try their hand at more creative occupations.

And, once people saw that the weakest amongst them had been taken in hand, the good feelings this created gave them the impetus to pay these kinds deeds forward. 

There were some things that were not coming back, though. Television and satellite radio were both gone -- victims of the orbital weapons. But, once the internet got back up and running, again, people started watching shows online, instead. Families gathered around televisions that were hooked up to their laptops, and listened to AM/FM. And while the movies were temporarily disrupted by the event, the studios quickly rebounded and started sending old favorites back to the theaters, or pushing ahead the scheduled DVD release dates of certain highly-anticipated films.

The Imago did not get in the way of anyone having a good time -- in fact, they seemed to be happy that people were happy. And so they were.

Yes, the news wasn't quite what it was, anymore. Online broadcasts seemed smiley and samey, and the people who told the world what was going on seemed to lack any fire or conviction -- expect when praising the Imago for what they were doing. Even the fractious talking heads found other things to complain about, rather than their leaders or governments.

Such as the upcoming trials in America, and the presumed guilt of the defendants. 

Some viewers missed the old days, when hot-headed opinion leaders -- or outright demagogues -- would rail at them from the television and tell them that they were in danger. But these persons could now only be found on the internet, in greatly reduced circumstances, and seemed only one or two massive broadsides away from "taking an extended break," and coming back much calmer, or not at all.

(Some wondered what happened to change their mind. Others wondered why this didn't bother them as much as it should.)

Case in point: when America was told to give up its handguns, one would have expected massive protests. The internet news should have been on fire with reports of pro-gun demonstrations, or passionate calls for armed citizens to hold onto their rights and not let them be taken away by as-yet-untested "allies."

But when the final day came and went, the news reported only that, except for a few, minor pockets of resistance, the American people were happy and willing to comply. The police were relieved to no longer need to carry death-dealing weapons on their person. And from now on, when things got out of hand, the Imago would be there to protect the people.

Too pat? Too corny? Too good to be true? Perhaps. But the internet news didn't care to dwell on it, and the chatrooms and political pages were deleting threads on the subject too quickly to really count.

It's almost as if someone had put a big band-aid on the issue -- one too big to peel away.

* * *

4/12/12

Dear Dagworth:

Hey, fellow Spygod Scout! This is Winifred Reed from Dublin (Kentucky, that is) Unit 54, and if you're reading this instead of a second paragraph full of 'remember when' about things you and I never did at Saturnalia, then you must have figured out the code. If so, awesome! 

(If not, well, I guess you're not !@#$ing reading this, and are probably wondering who this person is.) ;)

The reason I'm writing to you is that I read your SPYGODMAIL Letter in last June's issue of FC, and you sounded pretty !@#$ing smart. So I wanted to run something by you, just to see if maybe I'm going crazy or something. 

(I'd ask my fellow Scouts, but after the Incident we've all been told not to talk to each other. We don't really obey that, of course, but we have to be really !@#$ing careful. If they get two or more of us together they try to ask us if we got molested or something, again, and it turns into one big bad !@#$ing scene. Hopefully you haven't had to go through that. It !@#$es me the !@#$ off.)

That something is this. Do you think they did something to the internet when they turned it back on?

Reason being, my dad's one of those !@#$ing idiots who actually trusts the !@#$ government when it tells him things. I mean, he's not a complete dope. It's not like he !@#$ing loves the IRS, or anything like that. But generally if they wheel some !@#$ secretary out to tell us !@#$ like the sky is green, the grass is blue, and fluoride in the water is actually good for you, he just nods along and wonders why I turn red and threaten to throw the !@#$ fishbowl at the TV.

(We don't keep fish in it, anymore. They're in the water tank of the basement toilet. Long story.)

So when the Imago show up, and tell everyone that America was responsible for what happened on 3/15, he's more than a little !@#$ing skeptical. We both are, actually. Me because those Imago people give me a !@#$ing bad feeling, and him because, well, he doesn't believe the American government would ever do something like that. 

(Obviously he was asleep during Iran !@#$ing Contra. How is it I wasn't even !@#$ing born yet and I know more about it than he does?)

Well, the TV stays off, obviously, but the internet comes back on. Me, I'm busy trying to play catchup at school now that those creepy Imago people are floating all over the !@#$ing place and inspiring us to higher standards and all that !@#$, so I can't watch TV on the internet until my grades are up. 

But in the meantime, my dad goes from thinking the Imago are lying to thinking they're telling the !@#$ing truth. All he can do is sit there and watch the trials, and wonder when they're going to put the President on the stand so he can testify as to his guilt. Because he's sure he's !@#$ing guilty, and can't wait for him to pay for his crimes. (His words.)

And he's not the only one. And all the people who changed their minds have been watching TV on the internet. 

Every. !@#$ing. One.

So, of course, I figure there's something weird going on. That's why I'm contacting you. Because you sound like someone who knows things. 

Please, please tell me if you've noticed. It would be good to hear that I'm not going !@#$ing crazy. Ever since SPYGOD supposedly shot the President (and, yes, I said 'supposedly') the world's just gone !@#$ over heels in a bucket of heads. It would be nice to know that someone else noticed to.

Your fellow SPYGOD SCOUT

Winifred

ps: about that big boned thing? My father's wife (again, not my mother) was freaked out that I put on a bunch of pounds, a couple summers ago, and made me eat nothing but rabbit food. I hated salads every day, but it actually did work. So if you're worried about that, try that. If not, don't. ;)

* * *

"You know, my mother, rest her soul, always told me to be polite to ladies," the long-bearded militia boss says to the woman, perhaps more for the benefit of the other men in the long, log-cabin style hall that the group's meeting in: "But you are really pushing my patience, miss."

"Look, I'm sorry if I'm coming off a bit manic, here," the young woman in the heavy coat replies, putting both her hands down on the folding table the man's been using as a desk. The fellow doesn't seem to appreciate her doing that, any more than he's appreciated her taking up this much of his no-doubt valuable time, but he keeps his tongue in check for the moment.

"That's putting it kind of mildly, miss," he says, leaning back in his folding chair and stroking his beard: "Not to discount your concerns, or anything. But us Liberty Boys have been staying a few miles ahead of the authorities since before Ruby Ridge. I think we know how to deal with these Imago faggots, too."

Martha Samuels does her best not to roll her eyes straight back into her skull. As she takes a deep breath and gets ready to begin again, she can tell her brother-in-law, Mark, is doing his best to refrain from saying he told her so.

But did he ever.

The idea was sound, at any rate. If the Imago -- that is, GORGON -- were looking to take away America's guns, then cultivating potential allies in the rabidly pro-gun population just made sense. And while most of the militia movement was horribly wrapped up with racist, or at least xenophobic elements, the Liberty Boys of northern Wisconsin were one of the most inclusive groups to be found on the FBI's database.

Unfortunately, what the Liberty Boys made up in racial inclusiveness they lacked in smarts. The FBI had remarked upon this several times, and Mark, who was more cautious than ever these days, had pointed this out several times on their journey to scenic Land O Lakes.

But Martha had hoped he was wrong, or at least overstating things. Not so lucky, this time.

"This is a whole different ballgame," Martha began again, looking around the room and trying to take in each pair of eyes: "This isn't the feds, anymore. This isn't some BATF guy who wants your guns, or dumps flammable tear gas into your compound by accident and calls it a tragedy when you all burn to the ground. This is an invasion force. We have been invaded."

"We've always been under occupation, ma'am," a large, black man says from next to the overflowing beer cooler.

"That's right," the leader's stringy, horsefaced wife/co-leader/spiritual guide says, walking up behind her man: "And we know how to handle it. In fact, I think we've been handling it since before you were born?"

"So, again, what do you want from us?" the leader asks.

"You have the largest group by the U.P. border," Martha says: "You're in contact with other large patriot groups through clandestine means. And you're all savvy enough to know that the internet's not to be trusted, anymore. When the day comes, and we need to fight back-"

"What's with the 'we,' missy?" one of the other militia types asks, his squirrely face painted green and black: "You gonna put on camo and patrol with us? I bet you never took a fifty mile hike in your life."

Mark tenses up, but Martha holds in back with a hand: "You can test my experience any time you care to. But, unlike you, I've had firsthand experience dealing with these thing, and I've got the scars and the dead family members to prove it."

"So you said," the leader says as he leans back and his wife puts her hands on his shoulders: "But talk is pretty cheap, miss."

"Oh really?" Mark snorts, unable to hold back any longer: "I lost my wife to these things. She lost her father, the finest man I ever met. Her son still hasn't recovered from the attack-"

"Mark, please," Martha says, trying to calm him down before he loses it.

"And maybe you and Deer Hunter over there think we've got time to see who can !@#$ the longest after a few Pabst Blue Ribbons, or throw the most darts at a photo of a dead man..."

He points over to the wall, and a picture of the President duct taped to the dartboard, his smile pocked by a million little holes. 

"He ain't complaining none," the black man who spoke up earlier says, and half the room laughs.

"No!" Mark shouts: "This isn't !@#$ funny! We don't have time for this nonsense! America's going to need heroes, and soon! So are you going to stand up and be counted, or are you just going to drink bad beer and-"

"Your friend ain't helping you none," the militia leader says.

"Mark," the woman says, putting her hands on her shoulders and smiling at him: "I think I've got this one."

"I think we got bumpkiss, Martha," Mark replies, calming down in the face of her smile.

"Go outside," she says, kissing him on the cheek: "Let me handle this."

"Yeah, might as well," he says: "I've still got some dignity remaining."

"Hey, don't go away mad," the black guy says, tossing a beer at the back of Mark's skull as he turns to leave. He reaches behind him and catches it like he had eyes in the back of his head, without even breaking stride, and exits the room.

Outside, he sits down on the front steps of the tourist attraction the Liberty Boys took over, cracks open the beer, and sips at it. He really doesn't like this brand of beer at all, but at least it calms him down -- gets him to think about something other than how much he'd like to run back in there and beat them all down.

(Or how much he's come to like it when Martha kisses him to calm him down, which is something he's not wanting to think too much about, right now...)

There's talk for about two more minutes, followed by a tell-tale hush that lets him know that !@#$ just got real. He sighs, says a small prayer, and starts to take actual gulps of his beer. By the time he's finished with it, the crashing, cracking, and moaning is all over, and Martha walks out with bloody knuckles, and a sad look.

"Don't tell me," Mark says, tossing the empty can at the nearest trashcan, and missing: "He told you Jesus wanted you to fry up his fish, get him a beer, and shut the !@#$ up?"

"No," Martha says, sitting down by Mark and rubbing her hands, perhaps trying to remove some of the blood: "His wife did. And then they laughed."

"You didn't leave any Bibles tucked under their chins, did you?"

"Left my last one with that mugger in Pembine. I'm starting to think you're right, Mark. I think these people are useless. If we're going to raise an army, we're going to have to look elsewhere."

"Halleluiah," Mark says, putting an arm around her shoulder: "So what do we do, then? Concentrate on getting Thomas some better care? See about finding someplace safe for Kaitlyn?"

"Thomas won't get better care than in Owl 10's medical bay," Martha says: "And as for your daughter, well, I don't think there's anyplace safer than with her dad and her aunt, do you?"

"Probably not," he says, wondering if having his arm there's a good idea or not.

"So we go back to what we started with," she says: "We try to find any Supersoldiers who weren't vaporized on 3/15. Strategic Talents who haven't gone underground or walked in to testify. Anything wild, weird, or wonderful we can use."

"Sidekicks, robots, and animal companions might be all that's left, now, Martha."

"I'll take them right now," she says, leaning forward, away from the arm, which he tactfully withdraws: "I've prayed every day... heck, every hour. And I know God will help us, Mark, but we have to be open to what he sends. We don't have the luxury of picking and choosing."

"I hear you there," he says, wondering if he could go in for another beer. He looks back at the doors of the cabin, decides against it, and looks forward again. 

And when he does, he sees there's a strange, hooded figure less than five feet away from them.

Mark leaps to his feet immediately, assuming a self-defense stance and trying to protect Martha. Of course, she's already up before he is and trying to protect him. They make quite a pair, tripping all over each other, but the stranger holds up his hands and smiles disarmingly.

"I apologize for the shock," the Asian man says, taking his hood down to reveal his face: "I swear by all I hold sacred in this world, and the next, that I am not here to harm either of you."

"I have heard that before," Martha says: "And I'm not very big on trust right now-"

"Your father's spirit stands beside you, radiant and proud," the stranger says: "Your wife's, also, sir. I would not dare harm so much as your pride with such dangerous guardians to protect you."

That takes them both aback for a moment, and then, just before she can get angry that a complete stranger knows of her personal losses, she remembers something.

"I know you," she says, lowering her hands and indicating that Mark should do the same: "You're one of SPYGOD's allies, aren't you? We met once?"

"I am, and we did," he says, bowing deeply: "I am known as Chinmoku. And I am here on his behalf, after a fashion."

"You what?" Mark asks.

"I have been looking for you, as well as others, in the hopes of fighting back against what has happened."

Mark blinks and steps back: "Uh, yeah. Can we have a time out, here? I think Martha and I need to... well..."

"It's okay, Mark," Martha says: "He and I have worked together, before. Sort of. It was complicated."

"Indeed," Chinmoku says: "But if you will permit me to explain?"

"I am all ears," Mark says: "Does SPYGOD need us to hide the murder weapon?"

"Mark!"

"He has every right to be skeptical," Chinmoku says, which shocks them both: "This is an almost perfect example of quantum theory. The President is both dead and alive, and SPYGOD both did and did not shoot him."

"Well, that's unusual," Martha says: "I'm sure you have a really good explanation for this?"

"I do," Chinmoku says: "I also have someplace totally safe for us to talk."

"Well, let's go there?" Martha asks: "Please?"

Chinmoku nods and gestures. As soon as he does, alien engines can be heard, and a strange-looking UFO appears from nowhere, directly above. A cat wearing flight goggles stares out of the front observation window, partially entwined around an AK-47, and other figures stand around and behind it.

"Well, there's your animal companion," Mark sighs.

"Yeah, this is definitely SPYGOD's doing, alright," Martha says: "Mark, signal Owl 10 to engage autopilot and rendezvous? I think our army found us."

"I'm getting another beer, first," Mark insists, and turns to go back into the log cabin, wondering if this is God's way of telling Martha to lay off the frequent requests, or else be a little more specific. 

* * *

4/21/12

Dear Winifred:

I apologize for how long it took me to respond to your letter. At first, I was uncertain who you were, or why you were writing to me. But then, while looking back through my past issues of FC in order to find a piece of unrelated information, I came across your letter, and wondered if perhaps it was in the code that ran in the same issue that your letter appeared in. And indeed it was!

I hope this likewise-coded letter finds you well, safe, and still avoiding the internet, or at least the video components of the World Wide Web. You are, indeed, not crazy, my fellow Scout. You have correctly intuited that the so-called "TV on the Internet" is veritably pregnant with some kind of mind control. 

I suspect it is a synaptic soporific, making people lose their desire to question, much less rise up and fight. The fact that violence statistics have dropped considerably since the Internet came back on is possible proof of this, though the statistics could have been tampered with, courtesy of our new friends.

This has made keeping up with certain things a bit difficult, as I am loath to trust the internet for anything, now. This goes triple for the trials, which proceed at such a blinding pace that feel totally hamstrung by having to wait for print media to tell me what has occurred. Still, I find it comforting to be able to read of all the news in one, well-considered dose per day rather than the constant, fevered updates and oft-malodorous comments of other readers. 

Not so comforting are the trials, themselves. Like you, I am also a student of late-20th century American Intelligence malfeasance, and can indeed remember the importance of such things as Iran-Contra, not to mention the numerous other atrocities the other Company brought to the world in the guise of fighting Communism. 

But the sheer number of people they are calling out to try, testify, and accuse? I doubt if most of them had anything to do with 3/15, much less any other crimes that this could stand as karmic payback for. Our deceased President's immediate predecessor, for example, should have been excused from the dock for being too unintelligent to have been able to wipe his own anus with a map, four extra hands, and a video tutorial. I doubt he knew anything about this plot at all, but there he was, on trial.

And then there he was, riding the elevator. "Requiescat in pace!"


I fear for the President, himself. He sits there, day after day, watching as friends, foes, and complete strangers die or are committed to a lifetime of service for what is supposedly his ultimate responsibility. He seems on the verge of crying, but not tears of guilt. Rather tears of helplessness, or perhaps rage...

But as for other matters: my personal moment of satori came when I realized that, not long after the Imago came to our school to tell us all to "soar," the special education class was emptied of all moderately-to-seriously mentally challenged students, leaving only the slow, the spastic, and uncontrollably violent. 

I worked with the retarded quite a bit, given my family history. My older sister had Downs Syndrome, and we've always been involved in the Special Olympics. So I would always volunteer to help out in that class when I could, which was not often, but was at least somewhat appreciated by the staff.

So when I asked what had happened I was told, by the Principal, that they were taken "someplace special." And the way he said "someplace special" was the same way my parents told me that their old dog, who was too weak to go outside and relieve himself when I was six, was taken to "a farm." It's a comforting lie told so as to not have to explain the facts of life and death to a first grader. 

I never did forgive them for that. Every so often when something goes missing around the house I tell them it's at "the farm." They don't dare ask further.

So I did some searching, subsequently, and learned that this had happened in all other schools in central Ohio, at least from what I could gather when conferring with other Quizbowl teams, robot clubs, and archery leagues. 

As you might surmise, I do not dare approach other SPYGOD SCOUTS, as I have had a similar issue in my city, as well. In my case, they want to know if I was mentally and sexually meddled with, and have marched a sorry legion of regressive hypnotists past my door. I have sent them away with vivid and Lovecraftian tales of Venusian Crab Men filming my sigmoid colon for G-D while at school, which has, thankfully, taken the heat off of our dear fraternity.

If you would do me the favor, in return, of looking into the matter for me and seeing if the same disappearances took place in Kentucky, I would be eternally grateful. I fear the worst, my friend. I look at those faces smiling at me and remember the old "stranger danger" movies we watched as smaller children, and know that leer of old. 

Not an ally, these Imago, but predators -- simple and plain.

I look forward to future correspondences. But if I could ask for one favor? I am big boned, and shall always be, without shame. I appreciate the advice, but I could do without it. I would prefer to be accepted as the large fellow I am, in heart, mind, and, yes, behind. :)

I remain your servant, be I ever so non-humble.

Dagworth Harold Untley III

* * *

When they finally come for Myron, he's most probably insane. "Probably," meaning that, by that time, he doesn't even bother to jump up in bed and nervously await his end, or someone else's, because he isn't sure if he's dreaming it or not.

He lives in a waking dream, now. The past, present, and things that never happened wear each other's faces and play a game of "what happened when?" as he sits there, guest at his own surprise party, and wonders why Colonel Richter didn't try to talk to him, anymore.

(Every once in a while he remembers why, but doesn't care to, and lets the dream show him something else.)

The days and nights no longer have any meaning for him, and are punctuated only by sleep, food, and defecation -- sometimes not even in that order. Sometimes he gets up to use the toilet, sometimes not. Sometimes he thinks he ate, but realizes when new food comes and the old, untouched food is taken away, that he hasn't

So when the CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP reaches his cell and goes no further, he thinks it's the women he'd once paid to wear nothing but COMPANY boots and march around his bed, that one furlough.

When they open his cell door he imagines it's the back hatch of his drill tank, ready to take him to the center of the !@#$ing Earth at long last.

And when they yank him from bed, he thinks it's his mother from his earliest memory, picking him up to take him to the window so they can watch his father drive off to work --

"I swear you'll always be safe," she whispered to him as the man's car started and went out of the tree-lined driveway: "You'll always be my little man. You just remember that, no matter what happens. You go out and explore the world, and have big adventures, and be the best man you can, and when you need to you come right back here and I'll be waiting to tuck you in, make you warm milk, and sing you to sleep

"Always--

"Myron Volaar," the Imago says: "It is time for you to soar."

Myron blinks, suddenly back in the hear and now. He's naked and soiled and hasn't showered in weeks. His orange jumpsuit is in a corner, abandoned long ago. The cell smells like a toilet.

Two Imago are in the room. Both hold onto either of his arms. And standing in front of him is a naked man who looks exactly like him, except for a noted lack of genitals and a face like a halloween mask.

"!@#$ you," he says, realizing the dream is over: "I want that on my !@#$ing tombstone, too."

"You are a good and clever man, Myron," the other Imago says: "You will be a good addition to our ranks. You will do great things with us, and soon."

Myron tries to think of something pithy to say. Some great speech, like the one from A Tale of Two Cities. !@#$, even Kurtz's last words from Heart of Darkness. 

"You will join us," the skullfaced thing says, and extends his hands out to take hold of Myron's temples: "You will soar."

His mother. She died thinking he was working for the Peace Corps. He didn't have the words to tell her what he was really doing. But he thought he might have driven up through her front lawn, one day, in a drill tank full of treasure from a lost continent and told her to !@#$ the retirement fund -- they were off to Cancun for life, baby.

One big adventure, only this time together.

"'This is not an exit,'" he quotes, wishing he had an axe. And then the hands are at his temples, and the pain begins to pulse, and...

... when he comes to, he's wet and goopy, and the other prisoners are cheering. The one directly across from him is whooping it up and laughing like a loon.

He's sitting on the floor, !@#$ painful and bruised from where he landed. He's covered in red slop and electronics, most of which are smoking and warm.

A headless, sexless, naked cadaver is being dragged out of the cell by the two Imago, who are no longer smiling, but visibly shaken. The False Face's neck is a ragged stump, smoking and stinking up the place.

Myron sits there amidst cheers and laughter, realizing, piece by piece, what must have just happened, but not realizing how it could have possibly happened at all.

"Well..." he says, now truly and firmly back in reality: "That was !@#$ing unusual."

And realizes, as he goes to wash himself down with water from the toilet, that those words would have made the best tombstone of all.


(SPYGOD is listening to This World Must Be Destroyed (Front242) and having a Deadhead Double Red Ale)

The Age of Imago - March

At first, there was confusion, which was only to be expected. The trauma of seeing the beams coming down from the sky -- the last thing many people ever saw -- and hearing that their airports and planes had been vaporized by them was bad enough.

But then there was the additional shock of the aborted takeover to consider. Most people, when told that their governments were nearly overthrown, tend to react badly at best. So one could only imagine how they felt when they heard that every government around the world was almost overthrown, and then by whom.

The United States of America? Really?

Though many around the world always suspected that something like this might one day happen, given that country's tendencies towards enforcing global security with aircraft carriers, nuclear missiles, and The Flier, only a few of them ever believed that it really would. Such persons were often called cranks or paranoids, and not always without good reason.

But here were the new saviors of humanity, telling them that this was what had happened. Such was the power of their presence that even the most skeptical and suspicious of people, once they saw these "Imago," couldn't help but remember those days, so long ago, when the world was on fire with brightly-colored superheroes, and they all felt a lot safer for knowing they were there.

Looking at those costumes, and seeing those smiles, they felt that wave of nostalgia, and let themselves be drawn into trust.

And then, not long after the Imago spoke to the people, their own leaders came to speak to them. They confirmed what the newcomers had said: that daring and bloody attacks had taken place in their houses of government, and that, just before these deadly armies could carry out their final orders -- to kill their captives, one and all -- the Imago had come and saved them from death.

Their leaders went on to praise their new friends, and assure their people that things would be alright, now. As the Imago had said, a terrible danger was on its way, and the people of the world needed their help to stave it off. But they would receive that help, and soon.

They told their people to be calm, and be patient. They told them to return to their homes, and not give in to panic, or sow anarchy and chaos. They told them to go be with their friends and loved ones, and be assured that, in the days to come, while things might occasionally seem a little strange or fantastic, that was just the Imago's way of doing things.

They had accepted the help of the Imago, they said, and their people should be prepared to do the same.

Those were great and stirring speeches, to be sure. Many listeners would say that they'd never heard their leaders speak so eloquently, or assuredly. Some listeners were still a little uncertain, of course, but they were mostly ignored by the multitudes, who, feeling reprieved from the destruction of everything they ever knew, were willing to trust in their leaders, and their mysterious new friends.

What they couldn't know was that, except for a few minor variations from country to country, in order to give them local flavor, the speeches their leaders gave were exactly the same.

And they also couldn't know that, except for the most naive or trusting amongst them, their leaders all went home, held their families tight, and wept, knowing that they had been conquered.

And knowing that if they valued the lives of the people they had returned to, they would let no one know the truth.

* * *

That was the reality that most of the world went to bed with, that day. But, in the United States of America, things were quite different.

The people of that country heard the same worldwide speech from the Imago. But then, instead of hearing a speech from their President, they heard another speech from the Imago -- one aimed directly at them.

In that speech, they were told that, in spite of what had happened, and what their leaders had conspired to do, they would not be held accountable. How could they have really known what was going on in the White House basement, or the CIA's headquarters? To punish them would be unnecessarily cruel, and would not serve the cause of justice.

However, justice would need to be done, and America would need to regain its place in a world no longer run by money, or defined by who had the largest weapons. 

To that end, special tribunals would be convened by the Imago. The architects of the plot, and those who had been complicit in its carrying out, would be brought before the world and made to confess their crimes before it. Many of those who were found guilty would be set to work undoing their damage, but a harsh example would have to be made of the most guilty ones of all. 

Also, America would need to prove its willingness to reenter the world, and learn the value of nonviolence and trust. All private citizens who possessed firearms for purely self defense purposes, as oppose to those rural citizens who used them for hunting, would be required to hand them over to the local authorities within a few days time. The age of the privately held handgun was over.

Further, all so-called Strategic Talents were to turn themselves into the Imago for vetting and possible inclusion within the tribunals. No doubt, many of America's "super heroes" were innocent of any wrong-doing, but given the level of collusion between the country's intelligence community, the current Administration, and The COMPANY -- who no doubt knew what was going on -- these persons would need to step forward and prove their heroism at least one final time by telling the truth about what they knew.

There might be other, smaller issues that would crop up, of course. The Imago asked for patience and trust in these matters. While they appreciated that Americans were, perhaps quite rightfully, highly skeptical of their leaders and institutions, now was not a good time to be overly doubtful and suspicious. Now was a time for trust, reconciliation, and the pride of knowing that, in a few short years, Earth would be a better, finer place for their having weathered a few small inconveniences.

The world was ready to soar, and America would soon be flying right alongside them into the glorious new world to come.

* * *

The screams from down the windowless, cold prison block stopped as abruptly as they had begun. 

Myron had been awoken from his fitful sleep, a few minutes ago, to the sound of the cell block opening and closing, and two sets of heavy armor boots stomping down the concrete. Within seconds he was sitting straight up on his bunk, no longer even remotely asleep, and wondering if today was the day. 

His day.

He was in the exact middle of the block, and the Imago always came from the left, and then went back there. They came anywhere from twice to six times a day, and there were always two of them, and they almost always had a third person with them: one of those naked, sexless, skullfaced things that they used to replace people. 

And when they were done with what they'd come to do (which always involved a lot of panicky, painful screaming) and gone back to the left, the thing was wearing one of his fellow prisoners. 

And smiling wide at nothing, like an idiot. 

He'd been here a week. In that time, this scene had played out about two dozen times. After the first few times, he'd realized what was going on, and why he was here. A few more times after that, he'd looked for some way to escape, but realized that the lack of exterior windows, the high possibility that they were underground, and the electronic sophistication of the rolling, barred doors of the cell made busting out without tools or weapons something of an mugs game.  And once he'd understood that, he'd made as much peace with his God as he could, and was ready for the moment when it came.

But that still didn't stop the fear. He knew what these people were using, and if it was anything like the N-Machines SPYGOD warned him about, he knew that it was one of the most painful ways to die, ever. Worse than having your skin scraped off by cheese graters and drowned in lemon juice, he'd said.

(Of course, SPYGOD said lots. That's why Myron was here, now.)

So he'd sat still, back to the wall, and waited for the telltale sound of the boots slowing down as they approached his cell. CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP, closer and closer...

And then they'd passed on by. 

The person across from him picked that moment to start crying, again. He was someone from the other Company, so far as Myron could get out of him. He was still playing it close to the chest, even here, even after being told what happened to the person who was in his cell before him. 

There were a lot of intelligence people, here, Myron noted. NSA, CIA, DIA. Even a couple of COMPANY Agents who were transferred in after the assassination. Of course, they were all happy to insist that they didn't belong here, and had done nothing. 

(Everyone else told them to shut the !@#$ up.)

There was also Colonel Richter, though he was a couple cells down to the right and across the way, which made talking to him kind of difficult. Every so often they'd peer out of the bars as much as they could and hand-signal to one another, COMPANY-style. But Richter hadn't kept up with the classes, and it showed, which turned such attempts at communication into sorry rounds of charades after a while.

For a moment, Myron had felt panic, and wondered if today was his day, instead. But the CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP had gone on, past Richter's cell, and then stopped at its final destination.

"Oh God, no," the condemned had said as they rolled the cell doors open: "Please, not me. I didn't do anything. I wasn't involved in anything more than signals intelligence. Please!"

Then the screaming had started, and the weird thrumming noise, and the bright, pulsing light from down the cell block. And once it was done, and their weird, post-Embracing catechism said, the door had opened back up again, and now they were marching back. 

The formerly naked thing was now a man in his mid-forties, dressed in the orange jumpsuit they were all wearing, and smiling like he'd just heard the best joke in the world. 

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," Myron whispered: "Here comes a chopper to chop off your head."

* * *

"Well, it's really simple, Mr. President," the skeedy little fellow says to him, handing over a large stack of papers and putting it on the Resolute Desk: "The fact is that you may not have been entirely privy to what was going on, given the high level of secrecy that it involved. But you had to have known that something was up. These papers are that something."

The President sighs, looks at them, and pointedly refuses to even touch them: "What sort of something?"

"Dates, meetings, little hints. We tried to be thorough. You don't have remember all these things, of course. In fact it'd be better if you didn't. If it sounds like you're reading off of a laundry list then it'll look like a Soviet show trial, and that'll just throw the whole show-"

"I thought I was going to be put on trial."

"You are," the fellow says, leaning back in his chair and looking around the Oval Office. Anything of worth or value had been taken from it, as well as the entire White House. All that was left was secondhand furniture and the President's desk, as well as one of the couches, which they let the President sleep on. 

"Then why the !@#$ are you !@#$ing telling me to lie on the !@#$ing stand?" the President asks, wishing for the hundredth time in what seemed twice as many days (but had really only been about ten or so) that he could have a beer: "I never heard of any !@#$ plot. If there had been a plot, the President would have told me. And I'd have told him to stick it and I'd have !@#$ing quit right then and there."

"You know, I think you're not getting it," the fellow sighs: "I'm trying to help you out, here."

"By making me complicit in a crime that I didn't do?"

"By saving your legacy, Mr. President," he explains, leaning forward: "This is the way it goes down. We need a villain. We need someone we can pin this whole thing on. That person, for better or worse, was your predecessor. But he's dead."

"How about the !@#$hole at the CIA?" the President shouts, getting to his feet: "That's what you're saying, isn't it? The whole global takeover thing was his doing! He arranged it, he armed them, and we had no !@#$ing idea. Put him on trial!"

"Sit down, sir," the skeedy fellow says. Something about how he says it (or maybe the fact that there are Imago just outside the door) makes the President's knees buckle, and then he complies

"Now, let me back the train up for you a bit, Mr. President," the man says, leaning back and talking with his hands: "Yes, the Director of the CIA is entirely complicit in what happened. But he was just the action man, making it happen. He didn't engage in this all by his lonesome. There was a far-reaching plot to seize the world's mineral wealth, and it's been in the White House armory for some time, just waiting for someone to use it."

"That's bull!@#$-"

"No, sir, it is not. I am sorry to say that this plan existed. It was authored by one of the previous Administrations' people, as a thought exercise as to what to do if peak oil was about to come, and a viable alternative to fossil fuels had not yet been found. Depending on the global political and economic situation, this could have tipped the balance of power away from America, and possibly towards the Soviets, or whatever might have replaced them."

"So you're saying that my President..." the President says, eyes tearing up: "One of the finest men I've ever known? You're saying that he found this plan, and handed it over to that !@#$hole from Langley, and they put it into motion without telling me?"

"That's what you're going to be saying, Mr. President," the man says, patting the pile of paper: "And the good news is that, once we've dealt with and sentenced the f-hole from Langley, as you put it, your partial guilt in things, and willingness to explain everything, will probably mollify the world enough that we won't have to make a terrible example out of you. And you can go to your fate knowing that history will be relatively kind. You'll sort of be like Ford to his Nixon, only on a larger, more devious scale."

"And what if I refuse?" the President asks: "What if I say !@#$ you, here and now, and say nothing more?"

"Then you really don't understand what else I mean by legacy, Mr. President," the man says, getting up from the chair and leaning over the desk: "You have children, and they have children. Would you like those grandchildren to live long enough to have children of their own?"

The President just stares.

"We've taken your wife from you. Please let this be all we take. Let us show you this much mercy, Mr. President. Let us help you sleep."

"You're monsters," the President says, looking down at the desk he never ever wanted to sit behind.

"We are necessary," the man says, turning to leave: "Help us to help you, and in return we will see that your legacy soars, even if you will not be there to see it."

And the skeedy man leaves the President to his sobbing and regrets, knowing that he will do anything to save his loved ones when the trials begin, next month. 

(SPYGOD is listening to (S)Crapage (Front 242) and having an Applehead)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 10

 "(REDACTED), I know you can hear me," the President says into the CIA Director's voicemail: "Pick up the !@#$ing phone, okay? We're under attack, the whole world's gone to !@#$, and someone's coming into the White House basement. No flier, no COMPANY, no nothing. If you've got answers-"

The line goes dead, just then. He signs and puts Col. Richter's phone down on a nearby table: "Well, so much for that."

"Can we do anything else?" the First Lady asks.

"Wanna order pizza?" He'd asked, pointing back to the phone: "I bet it'll take more than thirty minutes. Might get it for free this time."

"Oh, that's what I love about you," the First Lady says, standing up and putting her hand on his shoulder: "All the world's falling apart, and you can still make jokes."

"Sorry, hon," he says, putting up his hands: "It's what I do."

"I know. I wasn't complaining. I was just telling you that it's a good thing."

"Well, I'd hope you'd think it was a good thing by now..." he smiles, putting a hand around her leg: "Still glad you married me?"

"Always," she says: "You are a good man, Mr. President. You will have a lot to offer the world in the days to come."

Something about how she says that bothers him, just a little. He's about to say something when the doors to the saferoom open, revealing Colonel Richter, a man in dark sunglasses who must be that Myron fellow, and a number of COMPANY Agents. There's a strong sense of urgency about them, but they seem to be somewhat relieved.

"Sir, we've got an escape plan for you and the First Lady-" Richter begins to say, but suddenly Myron shouts and draws a gun on the President.

A Secret Service Agent immediately hurls himself at the man, who starts shouting something that's hard to understand past the fists and feet launched at his face, knocking his dark sunglasses off.

More Secret Service Agents rush to either protect the President or pile on Myron.

The COMPANY Agents run into the melee to pull the other Agents off the man who saved them from the Specials back at the Heptagon.

And before Colonel Richter can tell his people to back the !@#$ off and let these men and women protect the President, he looks over at the First Couple and realizes that something is wrong.

The President looks bewildered, as usual, but the First Lady is smiling -- a smile he really does not like.

And then the air is filled with flashes of light and sudden motion, and the saferoom proves to no longer be safe at all.

Something terrible has been waiting for them, here, all along.

* * *

The insectile carrier that was once The Flier -- still changing its shape and configuration in mid-air -- hovers over a patch of the Pacific Ocean, not too far from the last battle that the COMPANY engaged in with GORGON.

There's nothing here to mark that momentous occasion, of course. The principal players both left the field not long thereafter, and their dead were swallowed up by the deep. Any lost weapons or wounded machines fell down to the punishing depths of the ocean floor, there to be crushed by the depths and picked over by what few scavengers can thrive in such extreme environments.

Hundreds of such rude cenotaphs litter the dark, hidden depths of the ocean -- cold and mute testament to the ferocious battles that happen on, above, or just under its surface. Down in the eternal, crushing black, they form the only memorials those lost to such conflagrations can ever have. 

But as the giant, metal butterfly that was the Flier hovers high above the water, a strange, circular perturbation on its surface would seem to indicate that something is being returned to the light.

The ocean surface roils and bubbles, and the circumference of the disturbance increases almost exponentially. Within minutes it is a full five miles across, and still growing. And from the vantage point of the Flier, it is possible to see the faintest hints of whatever is causing the phenomenon as it approaches the boiling surface.

Something vast and dark, and swiftly ascending. 

With the crashing of mighty waves, that something breaks through into the air. Something that has been under the surface of the Pacific for untold aeons. Something that has not been seen by unaided eyes before today.

Something alien, yet oddly familiar. 

A massive agglomeration of dark, stone towers -- built with giant, perfectly-cut bricks in the manner of the Mayan temples of old -- reaches for the heavens. It appears to be a city: one made for what may have been giants, or beings for whom cyclopean architecture was the norm. And as it rises and rises in what seems an unending train of black stone spires and platforms, the circumference widens out to ten miles, then twenty, then fifty...

At some point, its rate of ascent slows, and then stops -- just a scant ten feet from the keel of the Flier. Sea spray steams in the heat of the Sun, and strange, deep-sea creatures that had no business existing more than a single fathom beyond their normal habitat explode in the sudden change of pressure. 

For a moment or two, the city and the Flier are content to behold one another. And then something swift-moving and dangerous-looking all but erupts from the newly-risen metropolis, and hurtles towards the Flier with strange intent.

It is a Deros, clearly. And as it streaks towards the Flier, the bottom of the aircraft shudders twice, and then opens wide in order to accommodate it. Large, strange mechanisms unfold from the hole in its belly, clearly intending to provide a welcome mat for the creature.

At the sight of its landing pad, the metal beast curlicues and goes into a spiral, slowing its trajectory just enough to avoid crashing into the Flier. And then, just as it seems to have burned up all its forward momentum, it slides into the underside of the aircraft -- effectively docking with the devices that came out of it.

The Deros tightens its curves, becoming a ball, and begins a spinning motion that creates light, heat, and energy seemingly powerful enough to rival the Sun. The surrounding area is bathed with a bright, radiant light -- one that burns off whatever moisture and damp remained outside the formerly-sunken city, and then vanishes as the Flier pulls the containing machines back into itself.

Then the Flier lights up -- a brilliant, shining butterfly just above the new, dark island.

 * * *

When Second comes to, moments after the conversion is over, he is aware of three things.

The first is that he's no longer in engineering, nor anywhere near it so far as he can tell. The bulkhead he grabbed onto clearly moved several areas away. That one, he was kind of expecting.

The second is that those few Agents who survived along with him have been surrounded by even more Specials, some of which are teleporting in. They seem content to simply guard their captives for the moment, but it's anyone's guess as to when they'll start shooting, instead.

In fact, one stands right by Second's head, pointing the business end of a gauss gun between his eyes. There's no look on his face, but if there were it'd be him all but daring Second to not to drop the pistol in his hand.

(Second does, ever so slowly, but not in such a way so as to not have it back in hand within a moment.)

The third is that something new has entered the equation.

Teleporting in along with the new Specials are beings in colorful, gleaming armor and long, flowing capes. They move gracefully, compared to their heavier brethren, and where the Specials are anonymous behind their armored, blank visages, these ones bare bright and smiling faces to the world around them.

In a way, these newcomers remind Second of the over-the-top sueprheroes of the 70's. The ones who rewrote the book on how strategic talents operated. The ones who built Deep Ten -- Wonderwall, back then -- along with numerous other astounding creations.

The ones who gradually disappeared in the decades afterwards, leaving only fading echoes of themselves and the occasional, re-purposed artifact in their wake. 

Something in their mix of bright color, and the exaggerated lines of their armor, tickles the more nostalgic parts of Second's mind. And for a moment -- however brief -- he could almost believe that those lost heroes have returned, somehow. He could find himself entertaining the fleeing notion that this has all been some massive mistake, and now they're going to help clear it all up.

For a moment, anyway.

But these newcomers are not them. They can't be.

The supergods of the 70's were otherworldly but comforting, somehow filling our need to believe in benevolent higher powers. They were the kind of august entities that might save the entire world with powers beyond imagining, and then take the time to gently rescue a small kitten from a tree. 

These new beings may be similarly dressed, but there's something sinister about them. Their gleaming, colored metal costumes seem so exaggerated as to be caricatures. And their smiles are so desperate for love that they seem broken -- predatory, even.

Indeed, those smiles remind him of a photo he saw of a career pedophile: a human monster who'd abused hundreds of children. His smile was wide and disarming, but somewhere between the lips and the eyes the illusion broke down, and it became not a sign of trust, but a hunter's leer.

And when one of the newcomers' leers is focused on him, he throws caution to the wind and picks his pistol back up, aiming it at the green and yellow, female thing that's languidly walking towards him.

(He doesn't seem to care that the Special beside him's cocked the gun that's aimed at his forehead.)

"Oh, you must be confused and scared," the thing says, walking closer in spite of the pistol aimed at her: "Your world has changed around you. Things are no longer what they were. You think you need to reassert control over it, but there's really no need. From this moment forward, we will take care of you."

"Who... what are you?" he asks, realizing that the pistol has only got a couple shots in it. Maybe just one.

"We are the Imago," she says as the Specials behind her start pulling Agents to their feet and roughly immobilizing them: "And we have come to save you."

"I can see that," he says: "Tell your friend to back off or I'll shoot."

She looks to the Special, who slowly takes the gun from Second's head and moves a few respectful steps back. Not fast enough for his liking, but it's a start.

"Are you in league with GORGON?" he says, figuring he knows the answer, anyway, but might as well get what intelligence he can.

"GORGON no longer exists," she says: "The caterpillar has emerged from the cocoon. A new day has dawned, (REDACTED). And you will be a part of it."

"I don't !@#$ing think so," he says, cocking his pistol at her: "Let my people go or I'll shoot."

"You misunderstand my role in things," she explains, holding her ground: "I am not in control, here. I am merely a part of the greater whole. If you shoot me, others will come in my place. And you only have so many shots in that gun."

He's about to ask her another question when he hears a cry for help from down the hall. An Agent who was badly wounded in the fight is crawling along the floor, trying to get away from the Special who's walking behind her.

(New Agent, just shuffled in from the FBI. He's admired her bright blue eyes, but hadn't caught her name, yet.)

Before he can say or do anything, a number of teleports occur in the hallway -- all of them False Faces. One appears just behind her, not far from the Special, and kneels down to take her around the head with its long, anonymous fingers.

As soon as it's touching both temples with either index finger, the Agent screams, and the two light up in a rush of strange, pulsing energy. The pulsing is equal between the two at first, but soon favors the False Face. And as Second watches the Agent's body withers, turns grey, and collapses into flakes, powder, and fragments of bone.

The False Face stands up again, its body changing to match that of the Agent it just absorbed. The horrible, exposed skull is the last to change: flickering like a television set, and then resolving with her face.

It -- now she -- looks over at Second and smiles, and the baleful, metal eyes behind the projected skin change to a beautiful blue.

"My name is Leila Winters," she says: "COMPANY Agent, tactical section. I am ready to soar."

"Are you ready to soar, (REDACTED)?" The Imago asks Second -- her smile is the genius of languid evil.

"!@#$ you," he mutters, twisting around to shoot the Special guarding him in the crotch -- blowing him into three pieces --  and then pivoting to shoot her dead-bang in the face.

The blast hits her right in the nose, but to no avail. The energy simply slides around her like water, and doesn't so much as alter her complexion, much less her expression.

"Oh, that's excellent," she says as the last wisps of what should have just taken her head off dissipate around her: "We are looking forward to adding your passion and dedication to our new world."

"Like !@#$," he shouts, scrambling to his feet and dodging around the twitching remnants of the Special. He can hear Agents screaming behind him -- absorbed into waiting False Faces -- but there's nothing he can do for them, now. His options are as slim as his gun is empty, and as he flings it behind him he hopes the !@#$ chokes on it.

However, he doesn't get five strides into his headlong flight before the Imago teleports right in front of him. He only has a moment to realize what's happened -- and be amazed by this -- before she slaps him across the face.

It would seem to any onlooker that she gave him a gentle, effortless blow. But it hits like a sledgehammer to the skull -- all but caving in the left side of his face and knocking him up against the wall.

His head lolling on a broken neck, face shattered, eyes half-popped out of their sockets, Second collapses to the floor, gasping for breath in a mouth full of blood and broken teeth.

"I am so sorry to hear how reluctant you are to join in this effort, (REDACTED)," she says, slowly advancing on him: "But you will join us. Sooner or later, one way or the other."

It's to Second's eternal credit that, even blind and broken, he still tries to get up and run. That he fails -- unable to move anything below his navel -- is no blemish upon his effort. And when a False Face teleports in beside him, and starts to kneel down to do what it came here for, he could be excused for simply giving in.

But he still has control of his arms and hands. And he still has one last weapon to use.

"No surrender," he gurgles through blood as the sexless, skull-faced creature takes his crushed, bloody head in its hands: "Not to you."

He pulls at his belt buckle and pushes it up and to the side. A light comes on in the exposed circuitry behind it. A high, shrill beeping begins.

The Imago realizes what this means, and teleports right on top of him, knocking the False Face roughly across the room to try and stop what's about to happen.

Too late.

The white phosphorous explosion rocks that section of what used to be the Flier. The quadrant is all but obliterated, killing both False Faces and Agents in mid-Embrace with a rushing wave of white heat. Stress fractures begin to appear all over the stricken aircraft as bulkheads go molten and collapse in on themselves.

Within seconds of the explosion, it seems almost assured that the insectile aircraft will burst open and fall into the city that just erupted from the Ocean. But just then, the nanostreams that reworked the ship from top to bottom kick into action, and before too long the ship is being repaired on the molecular level. Burn damage is reversed, systems are put back together again, and whatever was put out of shape is quickly molded back into place.

Before long, all that's left to mark the passing of Second is the Imago who oversaw his last moments -- clearly undamaged by the blast -- standing right by where he detonated himself. There isn't even burned smell in the air, much less a single scorch mark on the wall.

"We have failed, leader," she says: "(REDACTED) is lost to us."

No matter, says a wet, feminine voice in her head: We have the entirety of their knowledge within us, now. What we have lost with him, we will regain with others. You have done well. Carry on.

"Thank you," she says, and teleports somewhere else, hoping to make up for what she still sees as a failure somewhere along the line.

And knowing she'll have many chances to to do so in the brilliant days to come.

* * *

"I applaud your passion, Daniel Richter," the red and blue armored man is saying as the Colonel tries to get to his feet and protect the President: "You are a good man. You have done good things for your country."

"I'll show you good..." he hisses, but can't get up. The armored hands holding him down are too strong, and come just within an ounce of breaking his shoulderblades like pretzel sticks.

"You struggle for no purpose," one of the ones holding him down says: "I assure you we have no plans to harm this man."

"Tell that to his wife, you !@#$er," Myron, also held down, retorts through a smashed-up face: "How long? Huh? How long has she been dead?"

The skull-faced abomination wearing the body of the First Lady looks at him with what might be pity or regret: "I am not dead, Myron. I have been Embraced."

"You'll pardon me if I can't see the !@#$ing difference," Myron spits, his mouth and nose dribbling blood.

"I am one with Imago in flesh, spirit, and purpose. This is not death. This is something entirely different."

The President, meanwhile, doesn't know what to say. Surrounded by smiling men and women in brightly-colored armor, all of whom have made it clear that he's free to do everything but leave this saferoom, he's realized -- all too late -- that this is the end of everything he's ever known.

"You too?" he finally says to what he thought was his wife. The way she looks back at him makes him look away. 

The Red and Blue Imago kneels down and picks up the broken sunglasses that Myron had been wearing when he came into the room: "A very ingenious design," he says.

"The specs are already going out all over the internet," Myron lies: "I hope you know that. You aren't going to take us over without a fight."

"There will be no fight," the First Lady says: "You were given no opportunity. Nothing was left to chance."

"We have taken the world in our hands," another Imago says: "From this moment onward, you will be ruled."

"Like !@#$," the President says: "You're underestimating America. You're underestimating the whole !@#$ing world. We will fight you. You will you lose."

"And how will you do that?" the Red and Blue Imago asks, crushing the glasses in his gauntlet: "We control Deep Ten. Your ability to make war on us is nonexistent. Your Strategic Talents have been neutralized. Your leaders will soon sing our praises and convince their citizens that ours is the greater good."

"They will be well fed and cared for," the First Lady insists: "Occupied and content. Safe from petty tyrannies and their accompanying tortures, protected from the worst things life could offer."

"They will have the illusion of liberty," Red and Blue says: "And with just enough freedom and enfranchisement to feel as though nothing is missing, and everything is in order."

"And within one generation, they will know nothing else but what we tell them," the First Lady says: "We have won."

"Humanity is never as magnificent as when they've got an enemy to fight," the President declares, rising to his feet and looking the Red and Blue man square in the face: "And you just elected to put yourselves in the crosshairs, you stupid son of a !@#$. Good luck holding onto it-"

"Oh, we agree," the Imago says, putting his hands on the President's shoulders: "And we have given them that enemy. You."

"What?" the President stammers.

"You, Mr. President, will be the enemy of the world," he says: "Ambition's debt shall be repaid."

"I don't.... I..." the President stammers, and then winces as Red and Blue 'gently' puts him back down in his chair -- all but breaking his clavicle as he does.

"You will soon learn what we mean," Red and Blue says, looking around the room at any non-GORGON personnel that remain. 

Myron and Richter look at one another. Now would be a great moment for one or the other to pull out some kind of last-minute save, or at least find a way to take a number of them out with them. But a look in each others' eyes reveals the sad truth.

They have !@#$ing nothing. 

"I really hated working with you," Richter says to Myron: "You talk too much."

"Likewise," Myron says to Richter: "You are suck a !@#$ing dick."

And they both half-smile, expecting to be executed at any moment. But that moment never quite comes.

They just wish, later, that it had. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Eternal (Joy Division) and having a Shakespeare Stout)