1/7/13 - (Faraj) My Kingdom - pt. 1

The Alpha Base Seven Memorial is quiet and still, but then, so is everything else up here on the Moon.

It's a simple thing, really -- even rows of smooth, black, coffin-like blocks, raised up three inches from the lunar surface. Each one bears the name of one of those lost in the silent but deadly conflagration that took place on 3/15, which wiped out the entire base in one go. Over 300 souls lost in the blink of an eye, the victim of an alien invasion they could never have seen coming.

It's a great and noble memorial. Somber and eternal. A solemn reminder of the sacrifice the Space Service calls upon its members to be ready to make at any moment.

But to Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir, the new leader of the Space Service, it reminds him of something else -- the mutable nature of the truth, and how it can and must be shaped for a greater purpose.

The world will never know what really happened here, that day. It will never know that some survived the initial onslaught, and tried to live under the nose of Deep-Ten. It will never know that the weapons platform's stricken commander, former Director Straffer, sought sanctuary here, after his lengthy fall through the vacuum, and engaged in a plan to knock those big guns out of commission.

And it will never know that, thanks to the cowardice and fear of some of its senior staff, that plan was ruined -- bringing death not only to the base, itself, but to billions of people on the Earth when Deep-Ten trained its massive weapons upon them.

Faraj does not like that this must be done. When he spoke with Straffer about what he'd seen at Alpha Base Seven -- how they'd dragged themselves up from  near-death, and actually stood a chance of surviving -- he was filled with admiration and pride. Was it right to bury the truth of their brave accomplishments, just to help their new narrative?

No, it was not. But at a time like this, when all hands were needed on deck, and all minds needed focusing in one direction, it was not the time to add complexities and complications.

So it was decided that the human failings of the dead would not be allowed to ruin the outlook of the living. The world didn't need to second-guess the motives and nobility of its saviors. The world needed heroes, now -- heroes and martyrs.

And if its betrayal at the hands of its so-called protectors had to be swept under a hefty rug of lunar dust, then so be it.

Faraj adjusts his stance, ever so slightly, looking over the horizon at the Earth as it rises into the light. A glittering jewel, blue and green and ever so beautiful. He'd only ever seen the slightest bit of that beauty on his first trip into space, so now, whenever possible, he sees as much of it as he can.

Rank does, after all, have many privileges.

He comes here, to this sad place, to think. He does this at least once a week if he can, and more if he can spare the time. Here, surrounded by black cairns raised to the dead, he can get out from under the avalanche he's been tasked with skiing just ahead of.

And there's a lot of things rolling downhill, right about now...

A beeping brings him back, and he scowls a little, turning his communicator back on: "This is urgent, of course?" he asks as imperiously as possible.

"You asked to be immediately informed when the latest autopsies were performed, sir," his newest communications officer stammers: "They're done."

"I see, thank you," he says, turning his communicator back off, again. He knew this moment would come, this day, but he was hoping for a few more minutes of contemplation, and planning.

No matter. The answers are not to be found here, but back where he came from.

"Brightstarsurfergirl," he says, knowing she can hear him, even through the vacuum outside of his suit: "I'm ready for pickup, please."

"I know," he hears her reply. It's not coming over his suit's communicator.

And she was probably already on her way. 

He barely sees the red and silver streak coming before it gains fullness and form, resolving itself into a girl with silver skin and flaming red hair, riding the cosmic waves astride a red, ruby board. She expertly pilots it right before him, coming just a nose-hair's distance away from the black stone that Faraj was regarding.

"Hop on, Spaceman," she giggles into the void, as if they were sharing some kind of joke.

"I think I'll step, thank you," he replies, doing just that: "A hop might send me a little too far."

"I'd pick you up."

"I know," he says, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding on tight: "Take me to the Egress, please."

And she does, chuckling all the way, as, even after all this time, that joke's never gotten old.

* * *

The ship floats in geostationary orbit over Pontianak, Indonesia -- just outside the atmosphere, not far from where the Imago's Space Elevator once stood.

What does it look like? Faraj has asked every single person who's approached it for their own take on it, and received many conflicting answers. A skyscraper that collapsed mid-construction is popular, as is that one optical illusion where three pipes become four. Other answers are more personal, and less coherent.

Clearly, it was going to be multi-dimensional. In its early stages, it looked something like a sled, but as the Imago built it up -- and out -- it became seemingly less functional, and more baroque. It grew spines and quills, gained curls and spirals, and developed a massive, violent shudder of a mouth in the front -- strange energies crackling between its hungry, steel teeth.

This is what they fly into, careful to avoid the deadly, streaming trails of plasma that slowly move from edge to edge like some lackadaisical gate. The theory is that the field should be covering the entire opening, but, given the state of repairs they found it in, after the Reclamation War, it wasn't completed, yet.

Going through this area always makes Faraj's hair stand on end, and yet makes him feel alive, which is why he insists everyone do the same. He needs to be certain they all understand the stakes, here.

He wants them to all feel the same sense of urgency.

Past the crackling field lies a great, open space, its surface dotted with structures as odd and overly-ornate as those outside. Between those strange, beetling and cuboid areas lie great, cylindrical conglomerations of clear plastic and steel girders, looking a lot like an overly-sophisticated maze for pet hamsters. These are the tunnels, workstations, and living areas made by the humans who've come here, so they can work on this alien ship in some semblance of comfort and safety -- however deceptive.

Behind it all, floating in the rear center of the ship, lies the great, ever-shifting conglomeration of wheels and spheres they've come to call the Zero Room. The very heart of the ship, so far as they can tell -- energy source and engine, all in one.

And the thing that's killed more men under his command than he's comfortable with.

Brightstarsurfergirl aims her board over to a simple, flat docking platform in the forward center of the open space, where a number of shuttecraft sit, awaiting their call to be refueled and sent home. At the far end of that platform is the sizable main airlock, where all traffic into and out of the innards of this alien ship must go.

As soon as the two of them are down, the ruby board vanishes, becoming nothing more than a wave of glowing particles. They slip and slide around the silver woman's body as if they were a swarm of bees,  eventually depositing themselves back into her hair, and hanging there like crystal jewelry.

"I never get tired of seeing that," Faraj says, winking, as they approach the airlock.

"That's why I never stop doing that," she replies, giggling a little.

* * *

Once inside the airlock, the avalanche resumes.

He's barely inside the clanging, close-quartered lockers before any number of people need him to sign something, look at something else, or listen to a report. The fact that he's getting out of his space suit does not deter them in this, but no sooner do they surround him than he gives them one !@#$ of an evil look. And they all quickly scatter, knowing this is not the time.

"I really need to get a Second," he reminds himself, aloud.

"You don't," Brightstarsurfergirl playfully chides him: "You need to be in the front. You said so yourself."

"I did, yes," he admits, easing out of the layer of thermal longjohns and reaching into his locker for his proper uniform: "But I'd forgotten what a mess command can be at times."

"Did you not command where you were?"

"Oh yes," he says, smiling as he gets into his tight-fitting, off-white station uniform: "But it was war, pure and simple. We planned, we fought, we recovered, we celebrated. Day after day, year after year.

"And never once did anyone have me fill out a report."

"I'm sure you would have killed them with your pen."

He smiles at that, and winks, finishing up securing his grip-shoes: "It's just possible."

She giggles at that: "How many ways can you kill a person with a pen?"

"Right tool for the job, my dear," he says, reaching into the locker to get his sword.

* * *

The pair of them head from the lockers -- him walking slow and sure on the grab-pads, her sauntering along as though she were back on Earth -- and go through what used to be the central command area. It was everything to everyone when they first arrived here, but is now more of a storage area and repair bay. And, once through that, they enter a long, reinforced tunnel that leads to the rest of the complex. 

The place is a hum and hive of activity. New white-suited workers are arriving every day, it seems, all ready and willing to throw themselves into this project. And no one is leaving until the job is done. 

As Faraj's main job is to make certain the job is done -- preferably well ahead of schedule -- he considers this good. But he also realizes that too many people is sometimes much worse than not having nearly enough. 

Although, given how things are going in the Zero Room, having too many people may not be enough.

A pair of guards are tethered outside the medical wing. They nod as he approaches -- saluting might send them spinning, here -- and one of them makes ready to let him in. 

"I want you to go to the flight deck and check in with Doctor Heila," he tells Brightstarsurfergirl: "See if he's gotten anywhere on the problem I set him upon."

"He hasn't," she says.

"Oh," he says, scowling: "You're there, now, too, then?"

"I am," she giggles: "Should I hit him or kiss him?"

"I'm sure you can find some way to impress the seriousness of the situation upon our good xenotechnician that doesn't involve sex or pain," he replies, not happy to hear this: "But if you'll concentrate there, I need to be completely here."

"I'll do that," she nods, and fades away into nothingness -- doubtlessly going to join herself on the flight deck, though whether it's all the same person, or ripples on the pond of spacetime, is something Faraj realizes he'll never know. 

* * *

The medical bay is large, with strap-beds up against the walls and large amounts of equipment. One poor fellow's being treated for what looks like a compound fracture, and the nurses are having a lot of fun getting him to sit still and stop groaning. One sideways look from Faraj is all he needs, and he straightens right up.

"He's in there, sir," one of the nurses says, pointing to the suite they've started using for autopsies. Faraj nods and walks over that way, taking care to open the door as slowly as possible.

Behind that door, Doctor Fuller is floating over the two tables his subjects lay on. The middle-aged, whip-skinny fellow doesn't even look in his direction before speaking, his voice a Scots brogue so slick and thick it's a wonder he can be understood: "About !@#$in' time you got here."

"I was held up."

"You were !@#$in' paying your bloody respects is what you were doing," he says, looking down at the two men's heads.

"You have a problem with that?" Faraj asks, stepping off the grab-pads and floating up beside him.

"Only when it gets in the way of my !@#$in' timetable."

"I thought you liked that?"

"Whatever," the man says, rolling his eyes: "I got the results in. All the bloodwork, makeup, DNA scans... all that !@#$. And what that tells us is bugger all."

"Exactly the same as the others?" Faraj asks, looking at the terrible expression on the faces of the two corpses -- their eyes white and starting, their mouths open in a silent scream.

"Exactly," Fuller says, reaching down and slowly pivoting himself around, so as to be looking directly down at their skulls: "And this time I managed to take special !@#$in' care while removing the skulls for inter-cranial !@#$in' examination, so I didn't !@#$in' lose half the !@#$ brain like those first few times."

"What did you find?" Faraj asks, pivoting himself likewise, so as to get the same look.

"!@#$est thing," he says, reaching down with both hands and gently removing the skull top from one of them, revealing what looks like a blob of swirling red and coral matter: "You see that, there? That stuff that should be !@#$in' solid?"

"I didn't think brains were solid?"

"Well gold star for you, sunshine. They aren't. But this !@#$ here is a liquid. Totally watery."

"And that's unusual to say the least."

"!@#$ straight it is," Fuller says, closing the skull back up: "If we weren't in zero G it'd be sloppin' all over the !@#$in' table. And I did a check on it. Know what I found?"

"Not what you were expecting, I take it," Faraj smiles.

"The DNA? Completely !@#$in' inert. Not a single !@#$ chromosome anywhere to be found in that mess."

"That is unusual," Faraj agrees, looking closer at the horrified expression on the nearest man's face: "So whatever happened to them in the Zero Room, and no one's still sure what happened at all-"

"Because it happens so quick no one sees a !@#$in' thing, and then they're just screaming and floating away."

"Right. And all the portable surveilance cameras go blank just around them, as if they were giving off a great deal of electromagnetic interference."

"Which would not do this to a person, by the !@#$in' way," Fuller insists: "Bake your !@#$ brains? Maybe. Liquify them into !@#$in' soup and nuke your DNA from !@#$in' orbit? No."

"So whatever happens, it does... this," Faraj says: "And it only ever happens in the Zero Room, while we're testing what's in there. And never the same time, or the same way, or the same position."

"Something in that room's !@#$in' killing people, Faraj," the doctor says, leaning forward: "As your ship's doctor? I'm telling you to stop !@#$in' around with it."

"And I'm telling you that if we want to get this ship out of orbit, and off to fight the thing that's coming, we have to get it working," Faraj sighs.

"Then at least do it by !@#$in' remote or something!" Fuller shouts: "Get everyone out and turn it the !@#$ on then! Watch it on the !@#$in' cameras, have a !@#$ robot do it. !@#$, get that silver tart to do it. I bet she'll be fine-"

"We can't do that,' Faraj says, holding up a hand and looking the man in the eyes: "We cannot send signals into the Zero Room. We cannot run things by remote. They have to be done manualy, in real time. And for that, we need people."

"So not her, eh?"

"I'm hesitant to send her in there," he admits: "If something goes wrong with her, who knows what might happen?"

"Yeah, as opposed to these other poor !@#$ers, here," Fuller sighs, realizing he's not winning this one.

"I share your concern," Faraj says, floating close and putting his hands on the man's shoulders: "If there were any other way I could do this, I would. But we are so close to realizing how to work this machine, and so desperate to get it working. And running out of time."

"I know," Fuller says: "But as your ship's doctor? I have to say this is a mistake."

"I agree," Faraj sighs, turning to go: "But we must continue."

"Aye, we must," Fuller mocks him, however gently: "You'll be wanting them send into space, then?"

"Yes, please," Faraj says: "Clean them up and we'll convene a funeral at 1200 hours, tomorrow-"

"Have to make it the day after," Fuller sighs: "I checked. The ejector's on the !@#$in' blink."

"Really?" Faraj asks, smiling a little: "I'll have to talk to maintenance about that, then."

"Aye, you might," the doctor says, also smiling a little: "You busy, later?"

"I probably will be, yes," Faraj sighs, knowing what the man wants -- and what he wants too, !@#$ it -- "But I'll let you know if anything comes up?"

"Aye, do that, then," Fuller says, letting the pun slide without comment: "Oh, one other thing? You might want to keep an eye peeled. It seems we've got ghosts."

"Ghosts?' Faraj asks, turning around before he gets to the door.

"Got about a dozen reports in, last few days. People are saying they're seeing people one minute, and then they aren't !@#$in' there. Just vanishing, they are."

"What sort of people?"

"Can't get a good look at them, apparently," the doctor admits: "There and gone. Though I got one person what's sworn they !@#$in' said something."

"What?" Faraj asks, intrigued.

"'Intercourse,' if you can !@#$in' believe that," Fuller chuckles.

"Well, at least they've got healthy libidos for being dead," Faraj smiles, wondering what this means but hiding his concern: "I'll keep my eyes open."

And with that he's out and gone, thinking he knows what's going on, here.

And not liking it a single bit.

 (SPYGOD is listening to "My Kingdom" (Future Sound of London) and having an Orion Zero Life)

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.1

11/18/12

It's an early morning in Paris, right after the !@#$ hit the fan, and SPYGOD watches his man get dressed from their large hotel bed.

He's not exactly pretending to be asleep, but he's not saying anything, either. He just likes to watch Straffer as he puts his clothes on -- methodically hiding his lovely, new body with each piece of clothing. Black socks, loose plaid boxers, tightly-pressed grey pants, a shirt so dark blue it's almost black.

And then the tie -- that tie. The one that practically screams 'I'm in !@#$ing charge, here, and don't you ever !@#$ing forget it.'

His Space Service tie. The one he wore every day on Deep-Ten.

"So you are taking them up on their !@#$ offer?" SPYGOD asks, a little piece of his heart falling away like a chunk from an iceberg.

"I think so," Straffer says, carefully selecting a jacket to go with the ensemble: "That'll depend on how things go, today."

"In court?"

"No," he says, making his choice -- excellent, as always -- "Today I see what we still have to work with, out there. Who we can rely on, who's on the fence, who's completely out."

"So you have !@#$ing thrown in with them," SPYGOD sighs, sitting up.

"It makes sense, hon," Straffer says, turning and kneeling down, so they're at the same eye level: "The Space Service was an always intended to be an international effort. And right now, whether we like it or not, the big international player is the TU. They're making the connections and getting the resources-"

"Aw, !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, putting a hand over his face: "Christ on a !@#$ing rocketship-"

"Hey now, lover, you know it's true," Straffer says, poking his man in the chest: "I don't like it any more than you do. I'd rather America was in a better position to get a planetary defense system back up and running, again, all by itself, and lead the others. But right now, with everything that's going on back at home, and the problems we're having there, we might need someone else to take the lead for a while-"

"!@#$!" SPYGOD shouts, slamming his other hand into the headboard. It breaks like balsa, causing the bed to shiver and lose some of its balance.

"Is that on your card or mine?" Straffer asks, after a moment. The way he says it completely defuses the moment, and the two men laugh, however ruefully. 

There's a slight silence between them, and then SPYGOD sighs, mutters, and admits: "I don't trust these !@#$ers."

"I know."

"We've !@#$ing talked about this."

"We have, yes."

"So why do you want to !@#$ing throw in with them, knowing all that?"

"I don't," Straffer says, getting up and sitting next to his lover on the bed: "But it's the only game in town, right now."

"It's going to be a rigged game. You !@#$ing know that."

"I know that. But I also know that, sometimes, the giant has to be kicked in the !@#$ to get off its seat and lead."

"What do you-"

"You know what I mean, hon. You were there for it, remember? The Space Race? We blink and suddenly the Russians have a satellite in orbit, and then a man in a can floating around the world?"

"I was a little !@#$ing busy at the time," SPYGOD sighs: "But yeah, I !@#$ing remember that. The whole !@#$ing conversation changed, then."

"Right. And we got off our butts and surged ahead, just so we wouldn't have a red Moon and a communist-controlled NEO. And look what happened?"

"A couple decades of us versus them in !@#$ing orbit, followed by a bunch of !@#$ about Star Wars when we !@#$ing inherited Deep Ten. And then, after the Soviet Union collapsed, we got a decade or so of shaky cooperation-"

"And that's what we need, right now," Straffer insists: "Cooperation. All the nations we can get together working to make us ready for what's coming. Unless you're planning on going up there in the mother of all jetpacks and trying to shoot (Unintelligible Concept) down all by yourself?"

"It's !@#$ing tempting."

"I know," Straffer says, putting a hand on SPYGOD's chest: "But it wouldn't work, and you know it. Not everything is solved by shooting it."

"What if I get a big enough gun...?"

"God I love you," Straffer says, smiling: "You really would go and try, wouldn't you?"

"For America? For my friends and my people? The man I love?" SPYGOD asks, reaching up and running his hands through his lover's hair: "I would. Even if it !@#$ing killed me a million times over, I'd say I got the better part of the deal."

"Then let me do this," Straffer says: "This can't be any worse than that."

"It'll be !@#$ing imperfect as !@#$."

"I'm sure. But this is one of those times when you need an imperfect thing to work perfectly. That means you need the right people in the wrong places. And unless you can think of anyone better suited to make those !@#$ers do one thing right, when it matters the most?"

SPYGOD has nothing for that, so he nods: "And you're the best !@#$ right person to be in this wrong place at the right !@#$ing time, I guess."

"You better more than guess," Straffer says, bending over and kissing him for all its worth. And for a moment, there's no world, no politics, and no oncoming space monster -- just the two of them.

That moment must end, though, and it does so leaving SPYGOD wanting more. Especially today, when he really needs his man beside him with the others, and in Court, and when deciding what to do about the nasty and complicated situation in Israel.

But by the time he can think of something else to say, his lover has gotten ready, kissed him goodbye, and headed out the door.

* * *

 "You are ready, Msr?" the man in the dark blue uniform asks as Straffer walks out of the hotel. As he does, he straightens up and tosses away the balto he was smoking.

"I am," Straffer says, extending a hand to shake: "It's good to meet you, Disparaître."

"We have met before," the man says, giving the hand a careful shake: "You may not remember me."

"Well, you'll have to remind me," Straffer says: "We have a whole day to-"

"I do not like to talk too much," the man interrupts: "Nothing personal."

"No problem," Straffer says, having already figured as much: "I'm ready if you are."

"Have you traveled like this before?" Disparaître asks, putting a hand on Straffer's shoulder.

"Actually no. What's it like?"

"Confusing, at first," the man hedges, a slight smile at his lips: "A little frightening, perhaps. It takes longer than you think, and sometimes people think I have lost them. But I never do, and there is nothing to fear. Trust me."

"I think I do," Straffer says, putting his hand on the man's shoulder in turn: "Let's go recruit some astronauts?"

The man nods. There's a bright light, and then nothing. 

And so it begins.

(SPYGOD is listening to Do What You Can, For Peace on Earth (The FIXX) and having a l'amalthee)

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 3.2

At last, the body has taken full shape, minus its skin and its head.

It looks surreal, under those lights. An unearthly sculpture commissioned by some strange lover of the arts, and brought into being by the sort of person who envisions things best left unspoken. A headless nightmare in red, white, and silver.

A figment of a dream, real and gleaming outside of the sweaty fantasy that birthed it.

The screens around it seem to indicate that all its functions are working. The doctors seem confident that all is well. This means the second phase can begin, and it is the most dangerous.

For, up until now, the patient has merely watched from his table as his new body is created before him, piece by piece. Now, he must make the leap of faith from what he was into what he could be. What he must be, in order to survive.

And that leap requires sacrifice.

The holographic head that floats beside him is a perfect representation of what he looked like, before. Not the battered, beaten remnant that they salvaged when he was brought back to Earth, but a healthy, proud thing. It almost smiles, there, as though enjoying a pleasant thought with its eyes closed.

The doctors ask one more time if he's ready, and certain. He has to be both, or this stops now. They will need him fully active in what takes place next, and there is no room for uncertainty or hesitation.

We can't hear him from up here, or at least I can't. But when SPYGOD leans forward and smiles (and is that a tear in his eye) I know that he has heard what I clearly cannot.

The answer is yes. And so they obey.

* * *

There's prep, and then after-prep, and then one last check. And then it's just Straffer and the Chief of Surgery, alone in the room, looking at one another -- doctor to head.

"Ready?" the man asks, going down on his haunches to look his patient in the eye.

"More than you know, Harvey," Straffer says.

"Nervous?"

"Yeah. But it's the waiting more than anything else."

"Hear you there," he says, smiling a little: "Reminds me of the Service."

"'Go and then wait, wait and then go,'" Straffer quotes, and they both chuckle over that.

"You ever miss it?" Straffer asks.

"Sometimes," the surgeon admits, looking up at the ceiling: "Miss the rush. Going to 12 Gs in five seconds. The whole world shaking apart for three minutes that feel like three hours. Sky turning from blue to black..."

"And then that moment when you level out, and you're weightless," Straffer says, closing his eyes: "It's like being lost for days, and then finding your way home."

The surgeon smiles and nods: "Had other ways to describe it."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Straffer chuckles, looking at him: "You always were a dirty-mouthed !@#$."

"That's Major !@#$ to you, Lt," the man says, putting a finger in his patient's face.

"Not anymore. You quit, and I got promoted."

"Really want to argue with the man who's fixing you?"

"My boyfriend's going to be watching you, you know."

"I know," the man says, grinning and getting back up: "Does he know the theater's glass is bullet proof?"

"I guess he's going to find out if you !@#$ up."

"Won't !@#$ up," the surgeon says, looking at his watch: "Not here. Promised him that."

"I know," Straffer says: "I heard. And I know the risks, but I want this. And you know why."

"Then it's done," the man replies, and then there's silence between them -- a long period where neither of them know exactly what to say, or why.

Straffer finally breaks that silence: "Why did you resign, Harvey?"

"Told you when I did it, didn't I?"

"You did, but I never believed it."

"Your problem, Lt-"

"Come on, man. 'Needed new challenges'? Every day in the Service is a challenge. You told me that when I signed up, green out of the Academy, and you were more right than you knew-"

"Don't throw my words back at me-"

"Don't avoid the truth, Major. It isn't !@#$ing worth it. I know."

There more silence between them, and harsh stares. And them the surgeon's stare softens, and he sighs and nods, thinking of how to put this.

"Didn't feel dangerous, anymore," the surgeon finally says: "After the accident, the reconstruction, I felt removed. Not real, somehow. Like it was all happening to someone else. No more excitement..."

"No more rush," Straffer says, understanding at last: "I think I knew that, somehow. I could see it in your eyes when you came back from a mission. The thrill wasn't there, anymore."

The man nods: "Felt dead inside, like someone flipped a switch. Needed a change."

"I'm glad," his patient says: "This place needs someone like you, here. They need someone who knows what it's like to lose your own skin and need a new one."

"No need to brown-nose, Lt," the surgeon says: "Can't reach from there, anyway."

"That's Director to you, Major," Straffer says.

"Not anymore,"  the man says, and they laugh about it, warmly, allowing the chuckles to trail off into silence.

"Good?" the surgeon asks, extending a hand for a zen shake.

"We've always been good, Harvey," Straffer says, smiling at the hand: "I've always trusted you. I just figured... if this is it, let's get that out of the way."

"Not going to be it," he says, heading for the door: "Going to be something new."

And as the man leaves -- and Straffer remembers what it was like having him as a C.O. -- he feels as though he couldn't be in safer hands.

But still, he wants this over with. Now.

* * *

The next step is gruesome, but necessary.

A team of doctors crowd around their patient, and reach forward. As they do, holographic hands nearby echo their own movements, allowing them to touch him by remote.

The skin is peeled from the back of his skull, allowing access to the metal beneath. And then, with a series of movements (pressing sensitive spots, unlocking certain things) the skull is opened up at the back, and swung open horizontally. 

The face is distorted and misshapen as they do this. The eyes remain conscious and alert, but soon he closes them, perhaps at their direction.

The force hands move in, and then out. As they do, the patient's brain comes with them -- its folds full of wires and other structures. Some are new and glistening, some are old and sagging, cracked from the stress and strain he's put them under, recently. The old ones are gingerly removed, revealing new ones, growing right underneath, like fresh skin under peeling scabs.

The invisible hands take the brain from the now-empty head, and move it over to the hologram, over the smaller white square. Another set of force fields cradles it, just so, and moves it to the exact spot it needs to be in. For a moment there is a strange illusion of a half-transparent head, with its brain showing underneath like a 50's movie monster.

And then the white square comes alive and begins moving up and down, building a new skull around the brain, itself. One slow pass, and the cranium is whole, save for the front area. Another, faster pass, and it's mostly sealed up.

Then begins a series of quick cycles, creating the recognizable front of the skull: eye sockets, cheekbones, nasal cavities, the upper and lower jaw. Muscles are made and attached, creating the underlying face, and nerves and blood vessels stitched between the layers.

And finally an underlayer of raw, red skin -- fresh and new and beautiful. 

The head is still for a moment, and then it shudders. Its newly-made eyes open, and its mouth opens and closes. The doctors ask it questions, and seem to approve of its answers.

With that approval, the next step can begin.

* * *

"Yeah, I !@#$ing know," SPYGOD says, talking on his phone down a deserted hallway, just outside of the operating theater: "I !@#$ing saw what was !@#$ing left of Krwi. I still can't !@#$ing believe it...

...

"Yeah, I'm okay. Sort of. Me and that !@#$ing Pole, we've been through some !@#$ together, right? Who would have !@#$ing thought there were so many !@#$ commie vampires out there, eh?

...

"No, this doesn't !@#$ing change a !@#$ thing we talked about," he says, looking around to be sure they're not being eavesdropped on: "You keep a !@#$ing eye on things at the White House. Things get worse, you tell me. Things get better... aw, !@#$, who am I kidding. They never do.

...

"Yeah, tell me about it. I sympathize. You got a foot in each side of the !@#$ road, now. Not gonna be !@#$ing easy.

...

"I know. I do. But you hold strong, (REDACTED). I know we've been at the wrong !@#$ing end of each other's business since the !@#$ War, but I know you're a good man under all that. You do the right thing and I'll figure out what we !@#$ing do about that... thing. Okay?

...

"Okay. Knock 'em !@#$ing dead, Mr. Veep."

Then he hangs up, sighs, and leans up against the side of the hall, thinking of the vampire hunter he'd hated to love. He remembers the many times they'd fought side-by-side as allies. He reflects on the times they'd fought each other, which were all too frequent, lately. That horrible way that he'd died.

And the mocking message his killer left, there amongst the mess that was once a man.

"I get a moment, you're !@#$ing mine," he says, wondering if the other him can hear him, somehow: "I don't care where you are, or what you're doing. I will find you. I will kill you.

"And then I'm going to drink Krupnik until I !@#$ yellow for a month." 

And with that, he turns his phone off, puts it away, and stomps into the operating theater, trying to think of nothing but the man he loves.

* * *

There's some double- and triple-checking, and consultation with the screens, and then the doctors pick up the head with their force hands, gently cradling it by remote like a strange baby. 

When nothing changes on their screens, they tip the head back, so that it stares at the ceiling. And then they move it -- oh so gently -- towards the red, white, and silver sculpture that lies on the table. It's a long, slow process, as they must make minor corrections in angle and trajectory every step of the way, ensuring that the neck aligns perfectly.

They take it over so far, and then leave it. Then there are a few minutes where the head and body float in space, like a planet and its moon. 

Seconds later, something both miraculous and curious occurs: a long, silver tendril snakes from the head's portion of the spine, like the frond of some skinny, mechanical plant in search of sunlight. 

The frond is soon kept company by another, and then another. Soon there are many silver strings, floating and twisting in the air between the two halves of the neck. 

The doctors and the patient are speaking, and though I cannot hear them, I suspect from what the expression on the patient's face, this is both normal and desirable. 

"Go on," SPYGOD whispers beside me, his voice like crushed glass: "It's your body, now. Take it and don't look back."

And then, not a full second later, the patient does exactly that. The fronds slide into the other end of the neck, one after the other. And when they are all in a straight line, the head and body begin to move closer together, once more.

Two feet, now. One foot. A few scant inches. The two parts become one, and as they do, the body begins to twitch and move, ever so slightly.

There's one last effort, then, and then contact is made. The patient closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, like a man sliding into a relaxing tub full of perfectly-warm water. 

The two have clearly become one. 

Seconds later, the large, white square begins to move, once more. It starts at the toes, and works its way up the body, ever so slowly. It lays down a layer of red underskin, and then another, and yet another. Layer after layer, building up on the body, until one last, white spray almost completes the process.

And there he is, at last -- a whole and perfect being, hairless and new, floating in space.

The doctors and surgeons crowd around him, asking him various questions and manually testing certain things to be certain the screens aren't lying to them. They're so busy, and there's so much going on, that for a few moments I don't see that SPYGOD is crying.

He says something. It might be "ecce homo" -- "here is the man." Or it might be something else. But I do not intrude, and let him have this moment. 

Of course, they won't let this new man walk, just yet. There are more tests to be made. Decontamination. Sterile environments and allergic reactions. Nutritious meals and bowel movements. All sort of final things that must be done and measured after such a great undertaking.

But they let him lift up his arm, towards the windows of the operating theater, where we sit. He looks his lover in the eyes, and smiles, and says, quite clearly, "I love you."

And SPYGOD puts his hands on the glass and says the same -- keeping them there, and continually repeating those words, even after they've wheeled his rebuilt lover from the now-quiet and still operating room.

- Karl Scott, Neo York City

 (SPYGOD is listening to Red Skies at Night (The FIXX, Shock remix) and having Krupnik by the ton)

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 3.1

11/7/12

Mount Sinai Hospital has an amazing secret, hidden behind an ordinary-looking pair of swinging doors.

To get to that secret, you must be clean. You must walk down a hallway that has been specially built to detect any pollutants, toxins, or dangerous substances. If your scan comes up "red," the hallway shuts down, and a force wall pushes you back to its start, like an angry wind that will not take "no" for an answer.

The things on the other side of those doors are delicate, fragile. They require constant maintenance and upgrading. And the men and women who tend to those things have no time for dirt or dust, or anything that might cause a problem for their patients.

Their patients are very grateful for this, or so I am told. I was only allowed to see one of them, today. But then, this man is the star attraction on this day.

Director Straffer, formerly of Deep-Ten: the massive, trans-lunar weapons platform that ringed our Earth and Moon, and protected both from invasion for decades. For all that time, he watched out for us, up until the Imago attempted to kill him and take his place, and then used that platform for their own evil and destructive ends.

But then -- after surviving a fall from there to the Moon -- this man came back to return the favor, and destroyed Deep-Ten.

Some say this may have won our war against the Imago. If so, today I speak to a war hero, about to be given the best honor any such man could be given.

For today, the doctors and scientists of  this place will be wheeling what's left of him from his room, and taking him into a surgical suite so advanced it makes terms like "state of the art" trite and useless. There, over the course of a day, they will labor to make a true miracle.

Over the door of that surgery are the words Melior, Ocior, Fortifor. "Better, Faster, Stronger" -- the motto of Mt. Sinai's Cybernetic Prosthesis Surgery.

Words that will be at the forefront of their minds as they rebuild this man.

* * *

"So let me explain what's going to happen, today," the barrel-chested chief of Surgery says to his patient and his lover, pointing to a high-tech diagram he's printed out: "Before we do anything, we're going to go directly into your cranium, and replace the existing conduits in your neural matter-"

"You can do that?" Straffer asks, cocking an eyebrow. SPYGOD -- ever nearby, today -- gets the feeling that if his lover still had hands, they'd be squeezing his for all they were worth.

The chief smiles: "Been able to do that for about a decade, now. Advances in medical nanotech have been nothing short of astounding. Thought you'd have kept up with that?"

"Well, not really," Straffer admits: "After the last surgery I had, in the early 90's, I was told this was really as good as it was going to get."

"Well, that's the Space Service for you," the man winks, getting up and walking over to put the diagrams on a lit panel, up on the wall: "Think we both know how that goes. We can do better for you. We're going to."

"And if they don't, I'll put lead in his !@#$ing noggin so quick he'll be in Hell before the !@#$ Devil knows he's there," SPYGOD whispers into Straffer's ear.

"Heard that..." the man says, not turning around.

"You'll have to pardon my boyfriend," Straffer chuckles, rolling his eyes: "He wants me up and out of here as soon as possible."

"So do I, frankly," he says, coming back with some new diagrams: "You're a great patient, but I'm kind of tired of having my staff threatened and shot at."

"Sorry," SPYGOD lies, shrugging.

The man smiles, somewhat weakly, and then goes back to explaining the wonder they're going to perform, today.

* * *

Up in the observational theater, I look down at a bare room. No banks of machinery, no life support systems, no pallets of surgical tools. Just a plain white room with a plain white floor, seeming grey and misty under the dim lights.

Then the doctors and technicians come in, and everything changes.

The room is washed in brightness as lights glare, and then dim. Things begin to appear around them: cabinets and tables push up from the floor, light fixtures slide out from the walls, and 3-D screens float in the air. 

Finally, a table appears: a table with a white, metal square looped around it. One of the technicians tests to make certain it has free movement -- sliding it from one end of the table to the other, smooth as glass. Someone else tests the various tanks that sit under that table: reservoirs of mineral and biological material, all hooked up to the metal square. 

There's a bustle of movement from the doors, and a small tray is wheeled in. On top of that tray is the patient -- a head, still plugged into his batteries and nutrient tanks. 

And still wide awake, because they will need him to be fully conscious for what happens next. 

There will be two things going on, here, today. They will happen at the same time. If everything goes well, they will also be ready for each other at the same time. 

And in this case, they cannot do any less than well. They cannot mess this up. They cannot do this over. If it does not work the first time, when they get into the more delicate (and dangerous) part of the operation, there will be no going back.

So they check everything one more time, and then yet another. The equipment, the patient, their screens, themselves. Everything and everyone is double-checked, just to be sure, and then checked one more time to be absolutely certain. 

And then, when they are as sure as they're ever going to be, they all nod to one another, and start building an enhanced human.

* * *

"Wow," Straffer says as they sit in the waiting room, waiting for the doctors to finish conferring in the next room over: "Just... wow."

"!@#$ing tell me about it," SPYGOD says, tousling his lover's hair: "I thought your old body was something amazing, but this... I had no idea they'd come this !@#$ far."

"And that's you saying it."

"Right, so that's saying something."

They both laugh at the joke, weak as it is, and then go back to snuggling, such as they can.

"Like comparing an edsel to a formula 1 racer," Straffer says.

"A cannon to a minigun," SPYGOD continues: "You're going to be the prettiest !@#$ing man this side of the Atlantic."

"And the most enhanced. I mean... !@#$."

"Are you worried, at all?" SPYGOD asks: "I mean, about the operation."

"Not at all," Straffer says: "I really just wish they'd get on with it. The waiting's what's driving me crazy."

"Well, it's going to be a long haul in there."

"I know, believe me. I think they've got it all timed out and planned, even the cigarette breaks."

"Never a bad idea," SPYGOD winks, revealing that he brought a flask of whiskey: "Speaking of which, want a hit?"

"Is that Wild Turkey?"

"You know it. Your favorite."

"Oh !@#$ yes," Straffer replies, and greedily laps down a few drops as his lover drops them on his tongue. He closes his eyes as he does this, eager for the sensations that will quickly come, and leave just as swiftly -- filtered out with mechanical precision by the machine acting as his liver.

"Not too !@#$ much," SPYGOD says, hiding the flask: "They need you running on all four !@#$ing cylinders, I think."

"I'm good," Straffer says: "This blood scrubber's pretty fast. Too fast, really."

"Makes you !@#$ing wonder what the new one's going to be like, eh?"

"Oh, they better let me get drunk," Straffer says, looking up at him: "I want to be drunk with you. I want to feel like my belly's about to explode after a good meal."

"And after a good !@#$?" SPYGOD asks, grinning

"Like I'm about to explode," Straffer says, shuddering just a little: "Pity it's gone so quickly. I could use a good drunk right about now."

SPYGOD smiles and, tipping the flask back, swallow mightily and then leans down to kiss his lover. As their tongues slide over each other, the alcohol travels with them, giving Straffer at least the illusion of the kick he was looking for. 

They look at each other, then -- eyes hazy from the alcohol, yet sharp with desire -- and all that needs to be said between them is contained in that look. Acknowledgement that one went through the fire for the other, and would do so again and again to be with him. And a promise to honor that sacrifice for as long as they both shall love.

When the doctors come back, a few seconds later, they can't help but feel like they've interrupted something sacred. And maybe they have, too. But it's time to get this show on the road, and if they don't go now, it might not happen at all. 

And so the two men must part, for a time. But neither will be far from the other, during this ordeal, nor far from each other ever again, after it's over.

The whiskey may as well have been a ring.

* * *

"Enhanced human." 

It sounds like a cold and clinical term, but I am told that, despite the name on the hospital wing, they medical profession now likes to think in terms of "enhancements," instead of "bionics" or "cybernetics." So long as even a single piece of a naturally-created being is within the framework, somewhere, all they have done is enhanced its existence, somehow -- made it healthier, stronger, hardier. 

Made it more than it was.

(I am also told that, for a time, they wanted to use the term "enhancile," but it sounded even worse than "cyborg." So "enhanced human" it is.)

I lean over a bit more as they get ready to begin, barely aware that SPYGOD has slipped into the theater, beside me, and taken up watch without saying a word. I wish there was something I could say to him, here and now, but I fear that nothing I could speak would be even adequate at this point.

He watches in silence as they prepare to remake his friend, and I choose to honor it. There will be time for talk, later. Talk, and hopefully many other things. 

But this is a separate matter. Below my vantage point, they have begun creating a skeleton -- one that shines under the bright lights as though made of silver.

The white square goes back and forth, from one end of the table to the other. In its center lies the skeleton, floating in the air as it is built up, layer by layer. The minerals and metals are sprayed out, and then funneled and shaped by force fields, slowly becoming more recognizable with each swift pass of the square.

The skeleton does not have a skull, we notice. That is because it is being holographiclly recreated above a smaller, white square, over on the smaller table, right next to the disembodied head. Scans are being made of the organic remnant, and with each scan the hologram becomes more complete, more detailed.

As the metal skeleton is finished, other things are added onto it -- weird, efficient-looking meshes of red flesh and gleaming metals. We see the webwork of nerves, branching out from the spine, and waving in anticipation of things to plug themselves into. A red carpet of muscle to hold it all in and together.

Then the square stops going all the way up and down, and instead focuses on specific areas, building them up one at a time. We see the genesis of the renal system, with small but powerful kidneys leading to a muscularbladder. A large loop of chunky intestines -- designed to create organic nutrients for the organic remnants, and also manufacture synthetic lubricants for the body's many moving parts -- is spiraled out and curved around. 

A large stomach, bulging and wired, is laid down alongside a slim and efficient liver. Something that may or may not be a pancreas is nestled between them, along with several other structures that seem to have more to do with the mechanical systems than the organic.

Strong, filtered lungs, designed to work in a vacuum, are put down on either side of a heart wrapped around a nuclear battery. Then a webwork of arteries and veins is spun out, connecting all things up and down the line with that strong, central organ. Glands are inserted, lymph nodes positioned, and millions of other things brought into life, and then online. 

Each slide of the white square creates yet another portion of yet another biomechanical wonder, gleaming under the lights. Each pass challenges the work of the gods, who labored with mud and stone and divine breath to shape the rude clay into something that could stand tall and say "I am." 

Each pass says "I am God, here," and no one seems willing to disagree. 

* * *

"So, you wanted to !@#$ing talk?" SPYGOD asks the chief surgeon, not long after his lover is wheeled away for pre-op.

"Yeah," the barrel-chested man says, walking across the waiting room and extending a hand: "Let's start over."

"What do you mean?" SPYGOD asks, looking at the hand as though there was a gun in it.

"You're being an !@#$hole, (REDACTED)," the man says, keeping the hand right there: "An !@#$hole to me, to my staff. From the first day here, all up to now. No one's done or said anything to you, now have they?"

"Well-"

"Answer you're looking for is 'no,'" the man pushes: "Either you are an !@#$hole, or we got off on the wrong foot. Since I'm going to be putting your lover back together...?"

SPYGOD looks at him, and then the hand, and then takes it, sighing.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," he says, puffing his cheeks and exhaling: "It's just... I just got him !@#$ing back, you know? I thought he was dead for months. I mourned him and made my peace. And now he's back, and he's alive, and we're taking the future together-"

"As you should. He's crazy about you."

"Yeah, and I'm !@#$ing crazy about him. But then... well, this surgery. A whole !@#$ton of things could go wrong-"

"They won't," the man says, putting his other hand on SPYGOD's shoulder: "Won't let them. Outside of here, you call the shots. Here? I'm in charge. Pins don't drop without my say so."

"If you say so."

The man smiles: "Control, isn't it? Don't like to not have it."

"!@#$ no."

"Then we got one thing in common," he says, clapping SPYGOD on the shoulder and getting ready to walk away: "Another thing? Not gonna let him die. Not in there, anyway."

"But that is a risk?" SPYGOD asks, taking a half step towards him as he goes: "No bull!@#$, doctor. Could we lose him?"

The man looks back from the door, and nods: "We could, yes. Surgery's always dangerous. This kind's really dangerous. But like I said? Not gonna let him die, here."

"You promise?"

The man smiles a little: "Promise. He dies over my dead body. And I don't plan on dying again."

And with that, and a manly wink, he's gone, leaving SPYGOD somewhat chastened, but no less worried.

(SPYGOD is listening to Sunshine in the Shade (The FIXX) and having a Steelhead Broadway Blonde )

12/19/12 - Leads You Here Despite Your Destination

The secret to good Pad Thai (or so my handsome man tells me) is in the !@#$ing ginger.

Some people apparently swear by the tamarind sauce, which can be hard to find if you don't live somewhere like !@#$ing Neo York City, where there's cookie-cutter Asian markets every 2.5 !@#$ blocks. But he says that's bull!@#$, because, apparently, the Thai themselves didn't use it until they got it from China.

(Kind of like how Chop Suey, made by immigrants in America for their restaurants, eventually filtered back across the Pacific. You asked some fellow in Beijing what Chop Suey was and he'd wonder if you were !@#$ing propositioning him, or something. Never worked for me, though...)

But no. You can get by just fine without tamarind paste, but you abso!@#$inglutely have to have the right ginger. He uses a big !@#$, deflated-!@#$-sized hunk of galangal, which can also be bought at the cookie-cutter asian market store, and gives it a whole different flavor. He also marinates the chicken in soy sauce and lime juice, too, rather than just the soy, which he says is what makes it his.

He's possessive like that, my man.

Other than that, it's the usual mix you get on the "Long Wang and Hung Well Can !@#$ing Cook for Fat White Idiots That Watch Us" shows on what passes for the Food Network, these days. Marinate the chicken, make the sauce, cook the noodles until they're just south of firm, throw the other ingredients in the pan and stir-fry the !@#$ out of them, and then add the chicken, the noodles, and drip the sauce in a little at a time until it's gone and the noodles are perfect.

That and some limes, onions, crushed nuts, and a couple cold Singhas, and we're eating.

(Oh, and maybe a jar of chili sauce for !@#$holes like me who like it so hot my toes curl, snap, and want to secede from my !@#$ feet. He just laughs at my need to bake my !@#$hole, and I promise to bake his later, after dessert.)

He says he learned how to make this from his first serious boyfriend, who he met when he was just in the service. Young, blonde, corn-fed American man-boy, stationed in Southeast Asia, where the nights are hot and sweltering, and the local men who like non-local men have that drowsy, luscious look about them as they preen and sweat in the heat of the city, and the shoreline...

Of course, he kept his love for a local man quiet. That was the military culture, back then, especially in that branch of the service. But he tells me he figured people !@#$ing knew, but just chose not to say anything. Probably because those lovely man-boys had most of his fellows !@#$ing questioning themselves, too.

(And we all know how that goes, right?)

But then came another !@#$ posting, and it came !@#$ sudden, too, which is also part of the culture. He had to say goodbye quicker than he would have liked, which left hurt feelings all around. So by the time he made it back there, years later on a visit, things had changed, and not for the better.

But at least they got to say goodbye properly, that time.

And he still remembers him, now and then, when he makes this dish, which he hasn't been able to do for the longest !@#$ing time. And all that's thanks to the substandard cooking facilities on Deep-Ten, along with how rarely they could actually get proper !@#$ing galangal, to say nothing of fish sauce, fresh spring onions, and chicken that wasn't !@#$ing pre-cooked for safety's sake.

(Figures that his super-high-tech robots could fix him a decent !@#$ drink in his chair, but he couldn't really rock out in the !@#$ing kitchen.)

And now all that's gone, son. No more big, beautiful, super-amazing weapons platform keeping us safe from galactic invaders, star gods, weird weapons from beyond the frontiers of space, and !@#$ like that. Just a big !@#$ cloud of debris and dust !@#$ing floating around the !@#$ing Earth, well outside the Moon's orbit.

No more Alpha Base Seven, either, thanks to what sounds like a major cluster-!@#$ of poor choices on their acting commander's part. But it's the loss of Deep-Ten that's really going to !@#$ us, when a certain problem comes along.

(And it's coming, son. Boy is it !@#$ing ever.)

In the end, it was my love who had to pull the !@#$ plug on the thing, himself. And it should have killed him, too, thanks to the "if I die, it doesn't work" sort of precautions they stopped using back in the 1980's, when it became readily !@#$ing apparent just what a stupid !@#$ plan that really was.

But boy, was he ever surprised to learn that I'd known all along...

* * *

10/29/12

Mount Sinai Medical Center
16:34


"... ask why, just !@#$ing do it," SPYGOD shouts into his communicator as he kicks his way through another set of swinging, metal doors: "I want to hear directly from that !@#$ vampire hunter, and I want to hear from him !@#$ing yesterday. With noodles.

"What? How the !@#$ should I know?" he continues: "I've only got half the entire free !@#$ world on my plate, now. Go see if he's !@#$ing hiding back in !@#$ing Poland, or something. Jesus."

He sighs and hangs up, and then, for good measure tosses the phone into the air and shoots a hole right through it.

"!@#$er," he mutters, as much to who he was yelling at as to himself, and kicking through one last set of doors as he finally arrives at the hospital's world-renowned Cybernetic Prosthesis Surgery section.

"Sir, you can't shoot off guns in here," one of the harried doctors says to him, coming up with a large pile of papers on a clipboard: "Please tell me how I can help-"

"Tell me what's !@#$ing going on with Director Straffer," SPYGOD answers, getting right in the man's face: "Right the !@#$ now."

"No use asking him," one of the other ones says, getting up from her chair and walking over to SPYGOD: "We just keep him around to change tubes and things."

"Can I go now?" the man says, inching away and trying to conceal that he's !@#$ed himself.

"And you are?" SPYGOD asks, waving the pants-peer away with a wave of his hand.

"Doctor Langley," she says, shaking his other hand: "I think I need to prepare you for what you're going to see."

"How much of him is left?"

She blinks: "Did someone tell you...?"

SPYGOD smiles, weakly, and taps his eyepatch: "I know what color your tampon is, doctor. Let's not play !@#$ing games, shall we?"

She coughs and nods, walking him down towards the isolation room.

"Apparently one of your Strategic Talents found him in what was left of a lunar escape craft, two days ago," she says as soon as they're out of easy earshot: "I didn't catch her name-"

"Brightstarsurfergirl," he says, getting a little testy: "We had her looking for anything we could use, up there. Not a whole !@#$ lot left, to hear her tell it."

"Well, when she found him, he was in a self-induced coma. He'd hooked himself up to the power unit of the craft, and made some heavy modification to his own power plant. It seemed to be in perfect working order, but he wasn't using it."

"If he did, it would have !@#$ing killed him after he blew up Deep Ten," SPYGOD says: "Safety precaution to stop him from falling into the wrong hands and compromising his !@#$ mission." 

"Oh," she says: "That's-"

"Top black !@#$ing secret, that's what it is," he interrupts, putting a hand in her face to push her off as they get to the door of the isolation room: "Just be glad you didn't have to agree to a full body prosthesis to be able to work in this joint."

"Don't expect too much," she says as he strides into the room: "He's a little loopy..."

SPYGOD doesn't give a !@#$. He walks on up to the bed they've got him on, doing his best not to cry. And the moment he gets up to it, and sees what's there, he snaps his fingers at the few med-techs in the room, and gestures pointedly to the door he just came through.

He doesn't need to say anything. They're gone in seconds. And then it's just him and what little they could salvage.

His head. 

"I look terrible, don't I?" Straffer says, trying to smile. His skin is leathery and dessicated, and his eyes are unfocused and red. Tubes are running into and out of the ragged stump of his neck, bringing oxygen and nutrients straight into his brain.

"You look like you," SPYGOD says, grabbing a chair and sitting down in it, close enough to reach out and touch his lover's cheek.

"You know, for a spy, you're a terrible liar."

"Only when I want to be."

"So you knew, all along?"

SPYGOD smiles: "I did. Why do you think I didn't hold back in bed?"

"Oh, well that's disappointing," Straffer says: "I was kind of hoping you were holding back."

"You catty little !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, and then laughs, not trying to stop the tears, anymore. 

The head smiles, and closes his eyes: "I missed you."

"I didn't know you were alive," SPYGOD says, trying not to choke up through his tears: "I thought you were dead. I thought when they had another you, that meant you were dead."

"They just missed me," Straffer says, opening back up again: "Idiots attacked me when I was in a spot that needed repairs. I shot out the windows and spaced them. Then I launched myself at the Moon."

"You..." SPYGOD blinks a few times.

"Good use of time, making alternate escape plans," Straffer says, smiling at how befuddled his lover is: "I think you might have told me that, once."

"Yeah, maybe I did," SPYGOD says, tousling his hair: "And you wanted this all to be a surprise?"

"I did. That's why I told the leader of the resistance not to say anything, when he visited me at Alpha Base Seven. I see he kept his promise."

"Yeah, he's good at that," SPYGOD sighs: "Usually..."

"What's wrong?"

"Oh... !@#$ing nothing, !@#$ing everything,"  SPYGOD replies, putting his hands in his lap: "I made some... !@#$ it, I made some bad choices. I !@#$ed up pretty bad and now it's about to come crashing in on me."

"Is the world free?"

SPYGOD nods: "Yes."

"Are we safe for now?"

"Yes."

"Then tomorrow can go suck itself, love. We'll figure it out when we get there. And we'll do it together."

"Together?" SPYGOD asks, putting his hand back on what little remains: "You mean that?"

"Oh God, yes," Straffer says: "All through that fall through space, this moment's what kept me going. I don't want to spend another cold, empty night without you. I want you in my life, (REDACTED). I want you in my bed. I want you in my future, now and forever. And if I have to be a head on a pillow, then !@#$ it."

"Actually, I don't think that's going to be a problem," SPYGOD says, leaning in and winking: "I can hear them talking about your new body, right next door. Just like the old model, only better."

"I didn't think they'd give me one after how I blew up my job."

"Well, I sort of talked to the President about that, before we came over," he says, smiling: "As soon as we're back up and running, we're going to need a new space-based defense system. And you're the right man for the !@#$ing job."

"Your opinion?"

"His words. Exactly."

"He's changed a bit."

"He has, yes," SPYGOD says, hitching a little when he thinks about what that changed man might do in a few days, when an uncomfortable truth comes out.

"I'm surprised you didn't want me for the COMPANY."

"Naah. You got your job, I got mine. We'd drive each other !@#$ing mad if we worked together."

"We might do it living together, too."

"Yeah, but good mad, I think," SPYGOD says, tousling his hair again: "I love you."

"I love you, too," Straffer says, closing his eyes: "We don't have to talk, now. Just stay here with me?"

"Forever," SPYGOD promises.

And for that night, at least, it's kept.

(SPYGOD is listening to Under the Milky Way Tonight (The Church) and having a Singha)

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

The particle cannon blasts continue to come, regular as clockwork. One hits Tokyo, then one hits the Dignitary, and another hits the glowing ball between the two, where an android that looks something like a young, Japanese girl floats in mid-air, maintaining a powerful shield over the city, the robot, and herself.

With each strike, the shield glows a little less. With each blast, it becomes clearer that she cannot keep this up for much longer. And while she's smiling widely -- some might say bravely -- it's also clear that her expression is more to do with appearing genki than actually anticipating a victory at this point. 

Something has to break, and soon. 

Just ahead of the giant, white robot that strides away from Tokyo, somehow walking above the waves, a flying saucer stolen from supernazis slowly makes its way out to sea. A large, strange-looking cat that speaks Russian is at its controls, keeping it well-clear of the blasts as they come down from the sky. And in the center of the flight deck, SPYGOD stands, watching as the war he's running comes down around his ears.

Too many of his people are dying. Too many of the supers he called to duty are being annihilated. Too many of the strange armies he bullied, cajoled, and blackmailed into action this day are looking at 75 to 100% losses. The commanders are braying for help he can't give, and suggesting new tactics that are just a pubic hair's breadth away from being surrender. 

And as he watched, and weighs his options, he becomes aware of his cat hissing, just before a sudden barrel roll almost lands him on his !@#$.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$, Bee-Bee?" he shouts, getting up. But then he looks at the main window, and sees why his cat decided to engage in mid-flight acrobatics.

"Well !@#$," he says, looking at what just appeared in firing range of his ship.

He doesn't know what to make of them, at least at first. The Chandra Eye sees them, but he has a hard time actually believing what it's showing him. It isn't until the strange, large, flapping things -- some weird, metal-plated mix of buzzard, wasp, and man -- start firing eyebeams at him that he realizes what's going on.

And, ultimately, what it could mean.

No time for that, now, though. He gets the idea, very quickly, that these newcomers are only firing at his ship because he's in the way of the Dignitary. Which means that they're trying to wear down its shields, so as to get a clear shot at it.

Which means they're fully aware of what the !@#$ is going to happen when the massive, white robot gets to their city and starts attacking it. And that, if nothing else, at least gives him some hope.

Still, it's a long way from Tokyo to there. And if the android's shields cut out, it'll be a !@#$ short trip.

"Well, then," he says, grabbing the big !@#$ gun Ju Kikan got him, and activating the magnets in his pumps: "Guess we're taking the big !@#$ party outside, huh?"

His cat just hisses, barrel-rolling yet again to avoid being hit by the bright-colored barrage of twinned beams. SPYGOD walks to the rear exit calmly, a leaf in the wind.

But, before he does, he realizes it's well past time to do something. He turns and looks off into the distance -- far, far away, where their destination hovers over the lost city they're heading for.

"Sleeper, awaken," he says, sending the signal through his eyesight.

And, that task done, he goes back to heading out of the flying saucer, and gets ready to kick some serious, metal space-!@#$, for America.

* * *

On the day everything went wrong, the Flier's nanites were hijacked, and the ship was reformed and remade from within. 

The traditional shape that had served it so well for so long was converted into something otherworldly and strange. A sleek, strangely-colored, giant metal insect, somewhere between butterfly and dragonfly, has been hovering over the Imago's lost city for the last seven months -- appearing otherworldly during the day, and glowing with strange hues from within at night.

During that time, many COMPANY Agents lost their lives as the ship's decks melted away to nothing, only to reform elsewhere. And those who did not die then and there were hunted down and killed later -- their bodies taken over by Falsefaces.

So, for the last seven months, the Imago have been secure that this ship is now theirs. They believe that they can let their hair down, so to speak, and be themselves amongst themselves, there. They feel that they are safe, and that no one and nothing can harm them, let alone see them.

They would be wrong -- after a fashion, anyway.

In the prisoner cells (the one part of the ship that has seen no use since 3/15) something is stirring. A wave is seen in the air, followed by an ephemeral form, floating well off of the ground. The form slowly but surely gains depth, and then something approaching substance. And then it has arms, legs, a trunk, and a head.

And then clothes befitting someone who's just awoken after a nap lasting several months.

"I'm awake," the slightly pudgy, Native American man says, shaking his head to make sure he's not dreaming this, too: "I'm inside the Flier, I think."

You are, Gosheven, SPYGOD replies, speaking in a voice only the metamorph can hear.

"Well, I sure don't recognize the place. Did they remodel-"

Never !@#$ing mind that, now, you !@#$ing goofball, the voice of SPYGOD growls in his mind's ear: You're in the belly of a real beast, now. The enemy I wanted you there to hide out and deal with is now awake, and they turned my Flier into a !@#$ing modern art sculpture. 

And you !@#$ing know how much I hate modern art.

"Yeah, I remember reading when you threw Warhol through one of his soup can paintings..." 

It was a Marilyn, and we don't have !@#$ing time for that. You are surrounded by otherworldly enemies. Your assignment is to find out what they're doing, and then !@#$ up their !@#$ before they can attack us. You got that?

"Where are you?"

 
Tokyo, and we're going to be heading your way !@#$ quickly as soon as we clear up a problem or two.

"Okay then," the man says, puffing himself up a bit -- quite literally: "But just so we !@#$ing understand? This is it, right? After this, I'm free?" 

That was the agreement, Gosheven. Don't !@#$ this up, though.

"Wouldn't !@#$ing dream of it," the shapeshifter says, smiling. And then, adjusting his molecules to make him all but invisible, he saunters out of the cells and into the ship, looking for some !@#$ to !@#$ up.

And it's been his experience there's always something he can screw up, somewhere.

* * *

"I don't think we have any time for last-minute checks, son," Mr. USA says, watching Myron apply last-last-last minute adjustments to the cobbled-together bank of parts and wires that's going to get them home: "How badly can it go?"

"One wire in the wrong place and we wind up floating behind the Moon, sir," Myron says, hoping the adjustments he made to the great machine -- still warming up under their feet -- will get them to Neo York City like he planned: "Can't be too careful, here..."

"Thomas stopped breathing!" one of the SPYGOD Scouts yells, and there's a moment of well-deserved panic, but then a raggedy, halting exhale comes from the burned stump of a boy, wrapped in a sweaty, soiled blanket, and everyone takes a step back and breathes easier. For now.

"And that's why I'm saying we need to hurry this up, Myron," the old superhero says, taking a step towards him.

"Don't you dare !@#$ing rush him," Winifred says, stepping between Mr. USA, Mark, and the others: "Just let him do what he has to, okay?"

"That's out of line, young lady," Mark starts to say, but he's halted by a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I trust in him," Skyspear says, gently pulling Mark back a step before he can say anything to the contrary: "I also trust in God. We will get home, God willing."

"I just don't feel safe using something that... thing brought with it," Mark sighs, putting his hand on hers.

"It's all we have to work with, Mark," Mr. USA sighs.

"I know it's all we've got, but still."

"Um, excuse me? Who's got the Action Badge for Making It Work?" Myron asks, waving his free hand: "That would be me. So if everyone could please just let me !@#$ing do this? Okay? Thanks."

A few tense seconds later he snaps his fingers, and Winifred knows to hand him a smaller screwdriver. As she does, she whispers to him: "I thought you were in Boy Scouts, not SPYGOD SCOUTS?"

"Details, details," he says, winking. He's very glad to see her smile at it, and for a moment he thinks about other things. 

And then he realizes something is wrong.

"Those circuits just connected themselves," he says, stepping back and leaning away from the small, glowing, brass cube he's been working on: "They just !@#$ing connected themselves."

"What the !@#$ does that mean?" a SPYGOD SCOUT asks, and then finds out when a large, brass arm snakes out from behind the machine, grabs him by the neck, and pulls his head right off at the shoulders.

"It means that Moloch strides amongst you, once more!" the beast says, rising out of the Great Machine like a parasite sliding out of its host -- all sharp, twisting limbs and bull-mouths and horns.

Some panic and try to get off the platform. These ones, it cuts in half and flings to either side of the great hall. Some try to attack the creature their escape route has become. These, it smashes flat or viciously bites.

"You will not escape Moloch," the beast announces to those that survive the initial onslaught, holding a few surviving SCOUTS aloft, with knives held to their frightened throats: "And you, old man. Stand down, or Moloch will punish these for your impudence."

Mr. USA scowls, but steps back: "What do you want, you filthy thing?"

"You will contact SPYGOD, and tell him to come here and face his doom. You will tell him that God wishes to punish him, and if  he cares to see you alive, he will travel here. You will tell him these things."

"How?" Mark shouts, guarding the body of Thomas with his own: "We can't communicate with Earth, you idiot!"

"Moloch has rewired the circuits needed to talk to him," the machine explains, and one of its many heads vomits forth a mass of wires and speakers, along with a small viewscreen: "You will speak to him through Moloch. You will do this now. Each moment you hesitate, another dies..."

Just to prove its resolve, it squeezes its knife-hands around the neck of one of its victims. The girl only has time to gurgle before her body hits the floor well ahead of her skull. As the others scream and curse, Mark realizes that, even after all these weeks together, he didn't even know her name.

"You hesitate, still?" Moloch asks, getting ready to reach for someone else.

"No!" Mark says, holding up his hands: "Please. I'll do it. Just, let me figure out what to say-"

"Moloch will speak. You shall recite." the beast says. 

(And for some weird reason, Mark gets the sense that Moloch thinks that's incredibly funny.)

"Okay," Mark says, looking at Mr. USA, who's clearly at a loss. They can't destroy the beast without destroying the machine. And if they destroy the machine -- render every working piece down to melted alloys and burned circuit boards -- they may never get home at all. 

And Thomas will most likely die.

"Now, Mark," the beast taunts: "Time grows short for you. Only Moloch is eternal, and the wrath of Moloch will know no ceasing-"

"Oh, please just be silent," a raggedy voice commands from on high. And what happens next happens so fast that even the principal players will never be able to process the entire thing. 

A green blur falls down from the broken ceiling, hurling itself at the center of Moloch's heads, long knives in its badly-burned hands.

Moloch howls in surprise as the knives enter the bulbous, metal eyes it created for itself, and lets go of the SCOUTS it grabbed onto in order to brush this painful annoyance away.

"Now!" the Green Man yells, leaping back from the thing's head a split-second before the many, sharp hands of Moloch crash against its face.

And Myron, still unsure of whether this thing will actually work -- especially now -- turns the machine on.

And then...

* * *

 ... yet another viewscreen goes blank, for a moment, and then comes back up on a blasted landscape before a massive, white cube. The unearthly armies that had been attacking it a second before are strewn on the ground, dead or dying. And misshapen, metal-plated limbs and tentacles come in from the sides of the screen to deal with those poor souls as-yet-untouched.

It's the same on all the screens the First Lady is watching, along with her children and their captor. The false Dr. Yesterday -- who's now properly introduced himself as The Motion -- is sipping coffee from a chipped mug that shouts IT'S NOT MAGIC, IT'S SCIENCE! and snickering as the metallic monsters he let loose on the world do what monsters usually do. 

He looks at his watch, somewhat theatrically: "It's been fifteen minutes, Mrs. (REDACTED). Do you think he's going to call?"

"I know he will," she says, holding her children's hands tightly: "I just don't think he's going to say what you want him to."

"What, that he'll end this stupid revolution to save your life?" Yesterday says, turning to look at her: "I hope for your sake he's more humane than that."

"This is about the greater good," she says: "My life for billions. He'd want me to make the same choice."

"And their lives?" he asks, pointing at her youngest, who recoils: "What about his children? His biological seed? Does he not care about that?"

"He does, but this is greater than them," she says, getting up and looking down at her captor: "But I'm curious about something."

"What might that be?" 

"You speak as though you have no feelings for us?"

"Yes, that's true-"

"But you seemed very concerned about that extermination order you were talking about," she says, gesturing the big bank of controls he was working from when he made that message to her husband: "Don't you want to see us all dead?"

He winces, and then looks back at her: "You mistake sentiment for expediency. The Day will go smoother if we put as much effort towards it as we can. We need you to work for us-"

"That didn't sound like concerns for expediency to me," she says, sitting back down to look him in the eye: "That sounded to me like you didn't want to be the man who killed an entire planet just to save his own people."

"I'll do that and more, woman-"

"It sounded to me like there's more of Dr. Yesterday in The Motion than The Motion would like to admit," she presses: "And if there's one thing I remember about him, about you, was that you were a good and humane man."

"Oh, I was nothing of the sort," he says, leaping to the feet and reaching for the hammer: "Do you know why I made those blue things, out there? Do you know why Rockethand went insane, last year? And do you know what I did and tried to do while that was happening? Do you?"

She shrinks back, thinking of what to say next. Before she can, he swings the hammer down, almost hitting her hand. She screams and jumps back, startled by the truly hideous look in his eyes.

"I have always been ambitious," he says, holding the hammer up to her face: "And I have always been stunted in that ambition. I have been second or third to the bat, always and forever. I have been the one they made to fix their weapons and make their machines. I'm the one they forced to marry that Nazi harridan, and be second fiddle to her and her brothers. 

"My God, the things I could tell you about her, about them-"

"Please," she says, but almost gets hit with the hammer, again.

"You listen!" he shouts: "I have always wanted more than this mere wisp of a life can offer. I want to transcend this frame, woman. I want immortality. The stars. Godhood. I have always wanted those things, and while I may not have been so keen on how they gave it to me, I have them now. 

"And I will not be stopped by the likes of your !@#$ing husband!"

He looks at her, and her red-eyed children -- almost too weary and worn out to cry further, and yet they do -- and then sits down, looking at the viewscreens, and then his watch.

"Twelve minutes left," he says, sipping his coffee: "And I think I'm going to definitely start with one of your girls. I want to see what happens to your lawyer's patter when I destroy what means the most to you. And when I do, I'm going to ask if you hold your husband responsible.

"Because he is."

And she grits her teeth and closes her eyes, praying for a miracle. 

* * *

"Okay, then" Director Straffer says, nudging his escape craft just a little bit to starboard, hoping beyond hope that he's just mistaken for space junk by the mighty -- but occasionally farsighted -- detection grids of Deep-Ten. 

He thinks of all the years that they've been smacked by derelicts and debris -- bits and pieces of old Soviet ships, small rocks traveling thousands of miles per second, and the like. Fortunately, the platform had advanced and efficient ways of dealing with the small pricks and large holes such collisions could cause, but it would have been nice if they could have seen them coming.

Today, he's grateful he never could.

At a certain point, just as a number of particle cannons let loose with three rapid volleys -- over Japan, he figures -- he decides this is close enough to work. And, having made that decision, he reaches for the switch. 

Before he throws it, he looks up at the station he's commanded for all these years. He thinks of his first day, and his last day. He thinks of the loneliness of being up on high, and the joys. He thinks of dreaming of space -- listening to it whisper in his mind as he slept in its weightless arms, letting it soothe him to sleep.

He thinks of the day they told him how much he would have to be changed in order to work within such a massive thing, and the final bit of safety protocol they were going to install within him.

Logical, really. They could be as certain as anyone that he wasn't suicidal, given the massive batteries of tests and interviews he'd undergone, before entering the Space Service, and then Icarus, then Alpha Base Seven, and then, finally, Deep-Ten. But they couldn't be certain he wouldn't be bought out by the Earth's enemies, or be overpowered and forced to use the station against them.

So they put the destruct switch for the entire station within his own body, and hooked it up to him in such a way that, should be throw it, he would die not long thereafter. 

After he leaped from Deep-Ten to the Moon, he did so with the hopes that he was dealing with a rational enemy, and that he could come back to his platform in triumph, eventually. But on 3/15, as he still floated down towards the Moon, and realized that they were using his platform to perform the unthinkable -- to attack the planet it was meant to defend -- he knew that he had made a grave error in judgement, and one he would have to make up for.

The signal he'd been constructing at Alpha Base Seven was meant to fix things, but then he was betrayed. And that left him only this one option -- or two, if he was willing to give up on the spirit of the switch in order to actually live through the death of his commission.

And he was. Oh dear God was he ever. Because as he'd fallen through space, aiming for the Moon, and hoping to one day hit it, he thought only of getting back to SPYGOD, and the one thing he'd ever loved more than his job -- more than himself.

So this was him, activating the third way: using the lifeboat's batteries to keep his brain and body alive after throwing the switch that destroyed Deep-Ten, and hoping the blast wave didn't cripple or kill the ship.

"'This rough magic I here abjure...,'" he quotes, wishing he knew the rest, and throws the switch.

And then he closes his eyes, because he simply cannot bear to watch. 

* * *

The first sign that The Fist gets that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong is when the nearest servitor robot fails to hand him a fresh martini.

He extends his hand to his back right, waving it around, and wondering why it's not making contact with a cool glass. Scowling, he turns around to berate the stupid, metal thing, but sees that it's been deactivated in mid-hand-off. Its big, bright eyes are no longer glowing, and its magnetic hold on the floor is starting to slip.

It's not the only one, either. All the servitor robots in the main control room -- who'd been running from post to post just seconds earlier -- are all still and unmoving. They have been switched off in mid-motion, as though time itself had been stopped.

The Fist is about to page for assistance from any currently-operating robots, and then report in to the Leader, when he hears an alarm he's never heard before. It's deep and long, and makes his teeth and eyes rattle in his skull.

"Final remote self-destruct activated," a voice says from all around him: "All hands abandon the platform. This is your first and only warning..."

It says more, but it's lost in the babel of other alarms that accompany it. Each of the platform's ten reactors are critical, and about to lose containment, and catastrophic failure is imminent. The particle cannons are overheating, the heavy lasers are venting coolant, the missiles have armed themselves.

And structural integrity is collapsing in sections 100, 99, 98...

He gasps. He swallows. He searches his brain for what to do, now, but realizes that he did not remember that this could happen.
 
He also realizes he has no idea how to turn it off.

He sees the cannons light up from within and explode outwards. Entire sections ignite as their munitions go critical. The long, curved platforms buckle and implode, and start to fall away from each other, and the ground under his feet starts to shiver and shake.

He doesn't know how many seconds he has left. The machine may or may not have said it, but he certainly didn't hear it over all the other warnings.

So he sighs, and reaches over to take the martini from the robot's hand. As last gestures go, it's pathetic, but he'll at least have the satisfaction of one final, perfectly-mixed drink.

Just his luck, his fingers don't even make contact with the glass before everything goes white, red, and then black.

* * *

There are some sights that one never forgets. Some things that, even decades later, you can always remember where you were and what you were doing when it happened. 

For many people, all around the world, the death of Deep Ten will be one of those days.

All around the globe, be it in the dark of night or the bright light of day, it is witnessed. A bright line of fire stretches across the sky, its magnitude worthy of an exploding star. The line expands, going from the thickness of a piece of string to the width of a hand in seconds, and then quickly decreases in brightness. 

Most people have no idea what has just happened. They had no idea the weapons platform was even up there, given that its existence was a massive secret. So, for them, this just becomes another frightening event on a day that's already proven to be more traumatic than most minds can bear.

But for those who have been fighting and dying on this day -- and suffering heavy losses due to the cannons from that trans-lunar platform -- this is a moment of joy. 

The cheering goes up in Asia, in Africa, all across Europe and North America, down to South America and over to the Pacific islands and Australia. Everywhere that the weird warriors of the world are fighting to save it, they realize what has happened, and act accordingly. 

The broken get back on their feet and charge. The shattered groups reform and redouble their efforts. Hidden backups are brought into the fray, reinforcements are called in at last, and every last trick their generals were holding onto is finally played.

And those armies that have hidden out until now, waiting for the right moment, find they have no excuses left, and fulfill their weighty obligations. 

The tide has finally turned, and there is no time but now to ride to victory. 

* * *

On the roof of Lady Gilda, firing his obscenely large gun at the strange, new Imago that have come out to fight, SPYGOD sees this happen and knows joy for the first time this day.

"Alright!" he shouts over the noise of the gun (and what he's listening to): "Payback time, mother!@#$ers!"

"SPYGOD, is that what I think it is?" Mister Ten asks from inside the Dignitary.

"Yes it !@#$ing is," he says, lighting up his enemies with something approaching orgasmic joy: "Tell Hanami she's clear to turn her !@#$ shield off. She might want to hang back and help Tokyo, though. I think these metal-plated buzzards are gonna !@#$ it up if they can..."

"I think I will try," he says, but SPYGOD realizes, soon enough, that there's no telling that android anything. Before he has enough time to turn his head and watch, she's already flown past him three times, annihilating more and more of the newcomers with each pass. 

Before long, there's nothing but debris twitching in the ocean where he had targets. That and a smiling android, floating above the waves and giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Well done, Hanami," Mister Ten says, smiling: "Now, please go back to Tokyo. You must keep it safe from these things, and other threats. Can you do that?"

"I can," she says, smiling and bowing in his direction: "Please be careful, Ju San."

"I will," he replies, more worried about her.  

"Alright then," SPYGOD says: "If you're heading to the Lost City, it's !@#$ing thataway. Shall we?"

And, now going at top speed, the flying saucer and the giant, white robot do.

(SPYGOD is listening to Puppets (Depeche Mode) and having a Buzzards Bay IPA)