12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Randolph Scott)

Neo York City, New York
9:05 AM

The first thing Randolph Scott thinks when he hears a voice, rousing him from sleep, is that Helen's come back to him, somehow. He smiles and rolls over onto his back, smiling at the thought of opening his eyes and looking into her face. And maybe then he'll get up, and maybe they'll just stay in bed for a while, just to start Christmas Day off right.

But then he opens his eyes, and he sees that it isn't Helen waking him up, after all.

(How could she? She's dead. She died right in front of him, right there in his arms. And he still doesn't know if the last words she said are something she said through dying, bloody lips or something he just imagined, however strongly...)

No. It's Karl and Jana. And they look really worried.

"Randolph?" Karl says: "You have slept through three awakenings, now. Are you not getting up to cover the story?"

"What...?" Randolph asks, sleep still trying to pull him down: "What story?"

"There is fighting in the streets," Jana says: "It is all over the television."

Randolph's about to ask what fight, and what streets. But then he remembers what's been going on, here in America. He remembers that there's been a powderkeg, right under their feet, since before the Imago left.

And he remembers that the fuse got lit just under a month ago, right the !@#$ in front of him.

"Jesus !@#$ing Christ," he says, leaping out of bed: "You should have pulled me out and dragged me up, Karl!"

"We were just about to," Karl explains, holding up a computer pad: "There is movement in every state capitol. Shots are being fired and Governors are being seized."

"Secessionists?" Randolph asks as he heads for his closet to get his clothes. As he does he almost trips over Jana, who -- quite helpfully -- already has them out and ready to go. He looks at the closet, looks at her, thanks her with a smile, and starts pulling his black, padded gear on, one leg at a time.

"Karl, are they Secessionists?" he repeats, getting his shirt on.

"Of course, Randolph," Karl says, a little taken aback: "I thought you were having fun with me. Who else would it be?"

Randolph looks at his adopted Nazi clones, and smiles: "If it was anyone else? I'd be !@#$ing grateful."

* * *

By the time he gets downstairs, the other kids have a ton of information to give him. 

The attack started at 8:55 AM, EST, and was coordinated to go off simultaneously. The major targets seemed to be state Capitols, with an aim at either taking hold of the Governors, or else securing the Capitols against their coming in. In states further out West, there was word of elected officials being rousted from their homes, along with their families, and being roughly transported elsewhere.

And, based on what the live video feeds were showing, it was the Secessionists, alright. The "Remember Eben" shirts and pins gave it away, as did the presence of some individuals with obvious powers, high-tech weapons, or both. The leftover Legion members, come down from their compound to do their mighty thing at last.

But Randolph notes with sadness that some of those powers he sees smashing buildings, throwing police cars, and breaking guards and cops in half were members of the new crop of heroes: all the color-coded kids that SPYGOD had brought out for the Reclamation War. The ones he'd since deputized to police the cities and render aid in the absence of real Federal aid or authority, only now some of them are clearly on the other side of it.

He recognizes some of the faces from documentaries on the revolution, and knows that some of them were people he was cheering on, once. He may have even watched one or two of them at work, and seen them cry when they learned what their battle had cost them. 

Watched them mourn their dead friends and loves, just as he had at the end.

Of course, this would not stand. The National Facilitator -- Mr. USA -- was already on television, dressed in his new uniform and explaining that the might of the Terre Unifee was already on its way to America, ready to deal with this "disgraceful behavior." He, himself, would soon be heading out to deal with the bands that dared to come into Washington D.C., itself. 

"To those persons engaged in rebellion, I tell you now," he says, looking into the camera and glowering for all it's worth: "Stop this. Surrender. Lay down your arms and surrender. You will not be harmed if you cooperate. You will be given a fair trial. You have my word on this. 

"But you also have my word that should you continue fighting, there will be no mercy for you. None. I can guarantee you no shelter or aid when Le Compagnie arrives. I see you as my wayward countrymen. They will only see you as enemy combatants. And you've seen how they handle them, around the world.

"Surrender now, and be saved."

And with that, he waved a hand, levitated over the podium, and flew out of the Rose Garden, ready to make good on his threat.

"Well, you go, Mr. President," Randolph sighed, having his third cup of strong coffee in five minutes: "What else we got? Any obvious flashpoints we can get to from here?"

"We could go to the Governor's Mansion," Gunther offers, pointing to a screen showing what's raging outside the Executive Mansion, up in Albany.

"We could also go downtown," Helmut offers, holding up still photos of a battle raging in Times Square.

"I think there is a bigger problem," Karl says, looking at his pad and holding it up: "The compound in Montana. It is being attacked, now."

"How do you know where that is?" Randolph shouts, grabbing the pad out of his hands: "I told you not to look into that, Karl. We have to protect our sources."

"Yes, protect them," Karl says, tapping what the satellite imagery is showing: "And here is what we are protecting them from, yes?"

Randolph doesn't have an answer for that, now. All he can see are superbeings crashing down into the wooden palisades and temporary structures and bringing down the wrath of Heaven. Or at least France.

"Why them first?" Randolph says, having a sinking feeling as he remembers the people he met, there: "Why them first? This doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe they want to kill the head first?" Helmut asks: "If it is possible?"

"It's not even the head, really. They're important, but they're too decentralized."

"Unless they aren't," Jana says: ""You always said there was something strange about it. Perhaps this is where we find out what?"

"A long way to Montana, though," Helga says, consulting the map: "Do we know anyone who can fly us there in time?"

"I got something better," Randolph says, opening a nearby desk, rifling through his disposable, one-use-only cell phones, and finding the one marked India.

* * *

There are mountains. There are trees. There are buildings made of wood and metal.

And there is fire and screaming, everywhere.

Not far from what's left of the compound's gates, there's a noise like markers on a whiteboard. Five people appear from nowhere: Randolph, dressed for a fight; Karl and Jana, padded up and set to record it on camera; Dosha Josh, still in civilian clothes; and Anil, his face recently scarred, and his black trenchcoat in need of repairs.

"This is the last time we are doing this!" Dosha shouts above the screaming and explosions: "I made you one promise!"

"And I appreciate it!" Randolph shouts back, ducking as someone built like a tank goes sailing over their heads, trailing blood and teeth from what used to be his mouth as he goes: "You can !@#$ off if you want! Just come back when we call, okay?"

"Oh no," Anil says: "I'm not your Taxi service, you gaand."

"Anil," Dosha says, putting up a hand, and then glowering at Randolph: "One more ride, outlaw reporter. Straight home from here. And then we're quits."

The Indian pointedly extends a hand. Randolph looks at it, and then shakes it, knowing this is the end of their working relationship. And, with that, the two Indian men vanish, and it's just Randolph and his kids. 

Alone again.

"This is gonna get ugly," he says, unfolding a Tec-9 and striding forward: "Keep 'em rolling, but don't be afraid to duck and cover. I got my mike."

"Oh, don't worry," Karl says, holding his own weapon at the ready and looking around as Jana adjusts the focus on her shoulder-camera: "We'll be happy to go to ground."

And then they're through the burning, wooden gates, and wishing to God they'd just stayed at home. 

* * *

How does Le Compagnie make war? 

Ideally, they start by sending in their quick people. Speedsters zip through the target area, disarming where possible, and disorientating where not. Teleporters appear in key areas, turning off power grids and shutting down larger weapons, the better to keep their allies from being blasted by artillery, laser grids, or the like. 

Then the infiltrators make themselves known. Shape-shifters and disguise experts, doubtlessly there for days, rip off their masks and illusions and take high-ranking prisoners. They also free the prisoners and hostages of the enemy, if any, and see to their escape just before all !@#$ breaks loose. 

That !@#$ comes from above. Fliers and powerhouses, streaking or crashing down from the clouds without much warning. The tall towers, communications arrays, and any remaining weapons are gone in seconds. The gates smashed down. The way open and clear.

And then, everyone else swarms in. Fighters and brawlers, come to pummel and pulverize anyone left standing. Furious fists and feet, strange weapons, and strange abilities that make the average collection of armed thugs and mercenaries fold within minutes, if that.

That's the ideal procedure, of course. It works great against tyrants, dictators, slavers, mercenary camps, arms bazaars, and the like. It works fairly well when there are a few opposing supers to contend with, too, or maybe an entire army of them.

It breaks down a bit when there are non-powered -- though mostly well-armed -- civilians in the way.

The first thing Randolph sees when he rounds the corner into the main staging area is a man on fire. He can't scream any longer, but he can still run. And he's running away from the person who's set him on fire (some guy from Sweden with white skin, black lips, and eyes like burning rubies), but not getting very far.

Randolph watches as the man takes three more panicky steps, stumbles, and falls down dead. He had a six-shooter in his hand. His wife is screaming and trying to raise hers, getting their child behind her as she tries to fire.

The white-skinned pyrokinetic hisses something, his voice making heat ripples in the air. It might be to not be stupid, and surrender. It might be insults or mockery. But he either doesn't speak English or doesn't care to, and she's too scared and grieving to puzzle out what he's saying.

"!@#$er," Randolph spits, shooting his gun at the guy's feet.

The man turns around, surprised.

"You!" Randolph shouts to the lady: "Drop your gun, get down, and go find the other prisoners. He can't kill you if you surrender."

She's crying too much to respond, but she seems to understand. She drops the gun and kneels down, crying. Her daughter won't stop screaming.

The hero glowers and stomps over to Randolph, clearly not happy. But Randolph points to the cameras and smiles: "Press, !@#$-o. Care to comment on how you're doing, today?"

"Fan ta dig," the guy snorts, turning around and pointing to where the lady needs to go, which she eventually does. Once she's up -- and being bundled off by someone less ready to kill her -- the hero takes her weapon in his hands, reduces it to slag, and drops it into what's left of the man he just burned alive.

"So, you couldn't have just touched his gun and melted the barrel, huh?" Randolph asks him as he stomps off, looking for another fight: "Did anyone !@#$ing train you in dealing with people who don't have powers?"

No answer from him. But seconds later there's another scream as some guy with a pair of guns too large for him to use gets flattened into paste by a woman who's two sizes too tall. And then a rain of red follows as some poor woman gets picked up and hurled to the ground, hard enough to vaporize the body. Buildings full of well-armed men and women are set afire, turned to ice, disintegrated, or superannuated.

And while the super villains are still there, fighting alongside their underpowered charges, none of them seem to be caring about their welfare, any longer. They're fighting to save themselves, now. 

It's every cape for himself.

And Randolph strides through the thick of it -- ducking where he has to, firing when he must. He sees it all happen. He intervenes where he can. He asks questions of those who are still able to answer, and tries to get answers from those who think they are above question.

He is spattered with blood and less identifiable things. His face is streaked with dust and soot. Halfway through his mike cuts out and he has to shout to be heard.

But he does not stop. He can never stop. He has to go one more step, peek around one more corner, drag one more wounded survivalist idiot to where the prisoners are being held, berate one more "hero" for using their powers first and asking questions later.

He sees people die, all around him. He knows some of them from the time he came here, but many are complete strangers. But he sees in their eyes the same exact thing: anger and fury at the death of their dream. 

And it isn't until it's almost over that he realizes he hasn't thought of Helen this entire time. 

* * *

"So," Tempete Bleu says, putting his nose in a delicate, bone-white cup of strong coffee as he stretches his legs: "Did you see enough, here, Msr. Scott?"

"I did, yes," Randolph says, wiping his face with a towel some hang-faced functionary was kind enough to bring him.

"And what will you say?" the French hero asks, looking down the way at the smoldering pile of ashes that was the compound, just an hour or two ago.

"I'm not sure," he admits, looking at Karl and Jana, who are doing their best to stay strong in the face of it.

They're sitting on folding chairs in a TU basecamp that didn't exist until ten minutes ago. One of the speedsters set it up between heartbeats: assembling metal huts and reinforced tents faster than anyone could see. And then came a few dozen white and blue-garbed relief workers, ready to tend to the stricken and set up basic food services, as well as take charge of the living and the dead.

All members of Le Compagnie have a trailer of sorts. Randolph and the kids are sitting outside Tempete Bleu's,and being guarded by some well-armed, beefier fellows wearing red and white. They don't have their reporting equipment or weapons, anymore. 

All they have is coffee, warm towels, and what may be an understanding -- dependent on what happens next.

"You are not sure," the French hero repeats, putting his hand under his chin and looking askance: "Now, are you saying that to me because you are afraid of what I may do? Or is that the truth?"

"Stories don't always write themselves," Randolph says, having some of that coffee: "I came here to see what would happen. I figured it could go one way or the other. I'm not entirely surprised it happened this way, but I am shocked."

"Shocked?" Tempete Blue asks, a little amused: "Has your SPYGOD not told you about what happens in a war where those with powers fight those without them?"

"Is this a war, then?" 

"Yes," the French hero insists, his eyes flashing: "We are not kindly disposed to those who would brandish arms against us, Msr. Scott. I do not know what you may think of us, but we are not going to parlay with armed insurgents in a time of global crisis."

"No, I don't suppose you can," Randolph admits, sipping a little more of the coffee.

"And I am not sure I care to parlay with so-called outlaw journalists who enter a warzone, shoot at my people-"

"Shoot near your people," Randolph says: "People who were killing civilians-"

"If they had a gun, they were not a civilian any longer!" Tempete Bleu shouts, knocking the cup of coffee right out of Randolph's hand: "I do not care if it's men, women, or children! If you raise a weapon against us, you are a criminal! If you declare war against us, you are the enemy! And in war, the enemy is fought!"!

Randolph looks at his hand. He doesn't think it's broken, but it's going to smart for a few days.

"And in war, truth becomes the first casualty," Randolph says, looking the hero in the eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't know what my story is, just yet, but I'm sure it's not just 'Le Compagnie defeats American secessionist and super villain alliance.'" he continues, gently taking a Karl's cup -- as he's not having any -- and sipping from it: "There's something strange going on here, Mr. Blue-Storm-"

"Tempete Bleu."

"Something really weird. Because I don't think you didn't know this was here, up until today. I don't think you didn't know this was happening. And I don't think you didn't know what these people were planning, especially if you had infiltrators inside this camp for the last few days, or maybe all along."

"We struck at the moment when all heads were out of the sand," the Frenchman says: "If we struck too early, they would go back underground and we would lose them."

"Point taken," Randolph said: "But I don't think the Governors, State Legislators, and people who were caught in the middle of this would see it that way. They might even say you were reckless with their safety for not shutting this all down when you could."

Randolph smiles, and Karl chuckles. The French hero does not have any emotions on his face, but it's clear he's not very happy.

"So I let you leave, and you accuse us of poor handling?" he asks, returning to his own cup of coffee.

"You let us leave, give us back our equipment, unmolested, and we don't send the whole kit and kaboodle out into the world, unedited," Randolph says, smiling: "I've got it all saved somewhere else. I don't make a deadline, it goes out. All of it. 

"And I don't know about you, but I think I might want to keep a tight lid on your Swedish barbeque boy, at the very least."

"Ah, Helvete," Tempete Bleu says, smiling: "He is quite excitable, is he not? Still, a worthy addition to the team."

"You pig," Jana shouts, throwing her coffee at him: "You sickening pig! Did you not see what your people did? Did you not hear the screams?"

The French hero looks at his dirty suit, sighs, and gets a towel from the functionary: "I think this interview is over, Msr. Scott."

"Do we have an agreement?" Randolph asks, getting up and looking down at him.

"You may take your equipment, but not your weapons," the man says, not looking back as he towels the stains: "And you will ask permission to be at all such combats in the future. If you are not there with us, and you are armed, you will be treated the same way we treat all such people. And you have seen that, here, today."

"We sure have," Randolph says, bundling up Karl and Jana: "We'll show ourselves out?"

"You will be escorted out," Tempete Bleu says, getting up and pointing to the red and white guards: "

Messieurs? Ces imbéciles sortir d'ici. Tirer sur eux s'ils font des problèmes."

"Cochon ridicule," Jana hisses under her breath as they walk away, hoping he heard it.

On the way out of basecamp, after getting their things, they're marched past a  flimsy-looking pen for prisoners. It was quickly constructed just after the trailers were set up, and the less-wounded, non-powered prisoners were ushered in, there to sit and wait to be picked up. They're all wearing thick, metal collars, and the walls of the pen are blinking. 

The threat isn't even needed.

Randolph looks into the throng of dirty, bloody people and sees the woman whose husband was set on fire. She's sitting with her child and singing to her, trying to get her to sleep.

She doesn't look in his direction. He couldn't handle it if she did.

* * *

"Dude, what the !@#$ is your problem?" someone at SPYGOD's Christmas party asks Randolph. 

That brave soul gets a fist in his face for his troubles, and that's not the only thing he throws over the next thirty seconds -- most notably a can of beer at the television SPYGOD's attending his own party through. And thirty seconds after that Randolph's out on the wet, snowy street in front of the inn, on his face, with his coat being tossed after him.

"!@#$ you all," Randolph says, getting up: "!@#$ all of you! You hear me?"

No one does, at that point. So he stumbles to his feet, feels his face to make sure nothing's broken, and begins to walk home before he remembers he has no idea where the !@#$ he is.

Just like life, really. 

He shouldn't have come to the party, tonight. That much was certain. He got the invitation a week ago and just sort of snorted at it, all things considered, but as the night wore on, and the story began to wear upon him -- as it often does -- he began to think that maybe a drink or two with people who weren't journalists was just what he'd need.

Unfortunately, he was wrong. Because he wrote, and he drank, and he drank as he wrote. And once the story was done, and the monumental truth of what he'd actually written -- the story, itself -- smacked him upside the head with all the force of a sledgehammer, he was really in no fit state for any kind of company.

The kids tried to tell him. They did. They told him to stay home and relax. Have a warm bath. Sleep it off. 

He told them to !@#$ off. He screamed at them. He said horrible, hateful things that he never meant to ever say, about their naivete and innocence and wide-eyed wonder and the like.

He told them that if they loved him they'd leave him, just like everyone else, and go find their own way for once.

By the time he realized that was not the right thing to have said, he was already in a cab and getting out at the party. And it just got worse from there, because everyone there was either a Strategic Talent or a hanger-on, or someone from the COMPANY. And none of them were in a mood to talk about anything but what they'd just been through.

And, as is the custom of such people at such times, they got through the horror and the pain by trying to get plastered and make light of it -- things that Randolph was in no way able to handle seeing, right about then.

Especially when his story started going around the world, and people -- not realizing he was actually at the party -- started commenting on it.

He could handle being told he was a troublemaker and a putz. He could handle people wondering which side he was on. He could even handle it when some moron with more muscle than brains decided to expound on his opinion of "outlaw journalism."

But then some douche had to go and say the magic words: he said they had it coming.

"They did, huh?" Randolph asked the guy, who he'd maybe seen at one heroic function or another. Long green hair, big muscles, bad taste in holiday ties.

"Yeah, well, if you're in a war zone and you've got a gun, it better be pointed the other way," he said, smiling over his martini like it was some kind of !@#$ing joke: "Amirite? Amirite?"

"You stupid dog!@#$er," Randolph said, slamming his own drink down: "Did you even watch what I did? Did you? Or did you just catch the main parts and then tune the !@#$ out?"

"Hey, man," someone says, putting a hand on Randolph's shoulder. He shrugs it off and square up toe-to-toe with the other guy and asks him once more: "Did you?"

"Maybe not all the way through," the guy admits, clearly not too concerned.

"Then maybe you should watch it again, you !@#$," Randolph says, poking his finger in the guy's massive chest: "Especially the bits where I showed that there were kids in there. Did you see them?"

"Well-"

"Did you !@#$ing see them?"  Randolph screams, smacking the guy across the face: "Did you see those kids, hiding behind their parents? Did you see the old people being turned into giblets? Did you see those scared, stupid idiots who thought they were going to be protected, and then found themselves in a !@#$ war zone? Did you? Did you?"

The guy just looks down at Randolph, not sure what to do or say, here.

"My god," Randolph says, turning to harangue the crowd: "Don't you get it? That wasn't a good thing that happened up there. This is not a good thing that happened today. You didn't win a victory. You put down a sad and sorry thing that could have been handled nonviolently_''

"Pfft," some COMPANY Agent snorts: "Did you want us to talk them down from an armed rebellion?"

"You didn't have to !@#$ing kill anyone today!" Randolph screams: "You people! You've got powers, don't you? Didn't anyone teach you how to use them creatively? Ever?"

He looks at the television, from which SPYGOD is staring. It's the only way he can be here, tonight, due to house arrest.

"Didn't you teach these people anything?" Randolph shouts, walking closer to the camera in front of it: "Didn't you tell them that the American people are worth making exceptions for? That they're worth saving? Worth going the extra mile to help? Didn't you?"

"Well-" SPYGOD tries to say, but someone steps in front of the television before he can answer.

Someone rather big.

"Dude, what the !@#$ is your problem?" that guy says, and something about how he says it -- the total, buzzed vacuousness of it -- makes Randolph decide to stop talking and start punching.

Hence the fight. Hence the ejection. Hence his walking home in the snow and the cold, drunk and angry and bloody. No wonder the cabs won't stop.

At some point, he sits down on a park bench. He maybe dozes off for a bit, then. Someone tries to wake him up but fails, and he gets the sense that someone's moving him, but he doesn't !@#$ing care, anymore. Let them rob him, kill him. He doesn't !@#$ing care.

!@#$ it all.

But when he wakes up the next day, he's in his own bed. He's been cleaned up, put into his night clothes, and tucked in. They've even left breakfast, water, pain pills, and a bucket by the bed.

He smiles, thinking he knows who got him out, last night. But as he gets showered, and moves around the house, he can't help but realize that there's no one there but him.

At some point, he thinks to check by the bedside. There's a letter there, inside an envelope. It's signed to him.

And !@#$ him, but he already knows what it says.

"I love you," he says to them as he sits and gets ready to read his kids' long-overdue goodbye letter. To his credit, he doesn't start crying until the end.

And doesn't start drinking until he's read it three times, and is absolutely certain this is not goodbye.

(SPYGOD is listening to Stagger (Underworld) and having a Shut The !@#$ Up Ale) 

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.3

On a windswept plain, before a great mountain, lies a small, squat cairn made of black and tan rocks.

It's only about two feet tall, just under four feet wide. It has no writing upon it, nor any identifying marks.  And yet it radiates a sense of importance -- perhaps because it's the only man-made structure for miles around. 

The only one visible, at any rate.

There's a strange noise, like markers on a whiteboard, and then two pairs of men simultaneously teleport within ten feet of the cairn. One of the pairs is a pair of white men: a taciturn fellow in a blue costume, who immediately lights up a terrible French cigarette, and a pretty blonde in a sharp-as-knives suit who takes the landscape in with a single, subtle glance. 

The other pair are Indian: a scarred, well-dressed fellow with a subtle sneer playing about his features, and a large man in a black coat whose face is mostly hidden under bandages. 

The two well-dressed men nod to each other and, walking forward, shake hands before the cairn.

"Dosha Josh," the blonde says: "Good to finally meet you."

"We've met before, Director Straffer," the other man says.

"We have?" Straffer raises an eyebrow: "I don't remember that. I usually don't forget a face."

"It was a long time ago. I wasn't nearly this handsome, and I wasn't quite so high in things."

"And I was," Straffer says, winking, and they both have a laugh about that.

"So?" Straffer says, looking around: "Your government had something to contribute to our efforts?"

"We do, yes," Dosha says, gesturing to the cairn: "If you'll follow me through here, I'll show you."

Straffer looks at the rocks, again, and -- cocking his head to the side -- smiles: "A shift door. How elegant."

"I thought you might appreciate it," the Indian man says: "But just so you understand? This is to be a weapon of last resort only. This is why we didn't bring it out against the Imago."

"I thought it was because you didn't know how the Sudarshana Chakram worked?"

"Oh we do," Dosha says, trying not to show how disconcerted he is that this man even knows its name: "It's just that we don't know how to control the thing."

"That could be a problem..." Straffer says, and Dosha shrugs:

"Well, hopefully we won't need it. But...?" and -- gesturing to his man that he's not needed -- walks right into the cairn, and vanishes. 

Straffer follows not long thereafter, and does the same.

"Ever get the feeling you get left out of the good stuff?" Anil asks Disparaître, trying to make conversation. But the Frenchman shrugs, and goes back to smoking his cigarette and looking bored.

"Gaandu," Anil mutters, wondering how long his boss will be, this time. 

* * *

For a moment, Straffer thinks that the prisoner hasn't understood what he's been told, or at least hasn't comprehended the full scope of it. The lack of shock or fear on his face is almost reassuring.

"And you are certain of this?" Faraj says, putting his hands out before him: "This is not a guess? This Preternatural is coming here?"

"I wish we were wrong," Straffer says, handing the man a folded-up piece of paper. The prisoner snaps it open with a languid gesture, glances over the data it holds, and then looks back at his liberator.

"When was this made?"

"Ten days ago."

"How many know of this development?"

"Not many. And they won't talk."

"That is good," he says, snapping it shut again and handing it back: "And you say that the people know that this beast is on the way?"

"They do, but I don't think it's sunk in, yet. The Imago told them it was on its way and that they were going to protect us from it. It turns out they were using us to help them escape the planet before it got here. I think most people have associated it with the rest of their broken promises."

"Or perhaps they are so broken that they cannot believe that fate would give them one more hardship on top of what they have already suffered," Faraj says, rising from the cot and walking to the far wall, his hands knitted behind him: "We must reach them as soon as possible. Otherwise when the end comes, they will panic. And panic is a deadly foe."

"I thought you might see it that way," Straffer says, getting up and following after: "That's why I need you with me. You know how to rally a people, Faraj. You've done it countless times before-"

"So you believe me, then?" Faraj says, looking down at Straffer and waving his hand before his extensive murals: "The Viridian Sea? The Islands of Time? The Endless Empire that claimed dominion over all? The Emperor and his Unknowing Armies?"

"I more than believe it," Straffer says, tapping a few of the things the prisoner drew: "I was up above the Earth around the time you came back. I had proof that what you were saying was the truth. It was practically raining on my front doorstep for a few years there, while the dimensional conduit was open."

The prisoner blinks, and Straffer thinks that's the first time he's seen this man be surprised (other than the cyborg thing): "And yet, here I have remained..."

"The Space Service was afraid of global panic," Straffer admits: "And after the civil authorities got tired of you, well, we couldn't get you out without admitting what we knew. We might be able to keep our strategic partners quiet, of course, but Morocco isn't known for its ability to keep its mouth shut."

Faraj is silent for a moment, and unreadable. But then he nods: "A sensible precaution. In retrospect, I was clearly wrong to try and rally the common people. I should have started at the top."

"I agree," Straffer says, extending a hand: "I've come to take you there. Will you join us?"

The man looks at the hand for a moment, and then takes it: "We will. But I will need some guarantees. And I have to tell you -- when Earth is safe once more, and I get the chance to go back to the Viridian Sea? I'm leaving without saying goodbye, and this time I think I will stay gone."

"I wouldn't blame you," Straffer says, feeling as though the man's grip could crush his steel bones with minimal effort, and admiring his restraint.

"Also? I need clothes."

Straffer tries not to smile at that -- he was rather enjoying watching this well-maintained, hirsuite man walk around completely naked.

* * *

Across the heavens races a red and silver streak, going from pole to pole like she had no time to spare.

She laughs as she goes, this shiny shooting star. Red hair flying behind her in the cosmic wind. Metal feet planted on her glowing, ruby board. Riding the unseen waves of the universe, cresting and crashing on the invisible powers that that work in secret to keep all things as they are.

And some things as they must be.

Her names is Brightstarsurfergirl. It is not a name she chose for herself, but something the board whispered in her ear, when she first took it up. The board whispers many things to her, as they ride across the night. Amazing things, terrible things.

Things that only those who are chosen may know.

Today, she races to make a meeting on which many things depend. She must speak with the man she brought down to Earth, not too long ago. The man she found, right where the board said he would be. The man she saved, who will in turn save so much, and so many.

The spaceman, awaiting his next journey to the stars.

She could tell him of things to come. She could tell him of the triumph, the tragedy. She could tell him of the things that he will have to do for the future, the great and terrible choices that must be made to keep this world alive and safe.

But he would not understand them now. He may not ever understand them, to be honest. All that is certain is that he will make those choices, because he is the man to make them.

And she will be there to be sure that he does, because that is what she does.

She can almost see him, now, waiting for her on the beach. One day he may understand that she was waiting for him. 

But not today. 

* * *

"So," Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir says over the roaring flames, finding it strange to be in clothes for the first time in three decades: "I see fashion has not changed much?"

"Not really, no," Straffer says, trying not to jump at the explosion behind him: "There was a hideous pastel phase in the 80's, but that went away before long."

"I remember. Thank the Maker for that."

"Won't they be upset about...?" Disparaître asks, turning around to look at the burning prison.

"The official story is that the Pit of Hell caught fire and burned," Straffer explains, watching as a gaggle of suddenly-unemployed guards shout and howl abuse at the fire that's taken their jobs: "All prisoners died in the flames."

"Not entirely true, of course," Faraj says, watching as a group of bewildered men stagger away into waiting police trucks: "Some will be incarcerated elsewhere, quietly of course."

"Of course," Straffer says, marveling at how quickly the man catches on: "And others, like yourself, are going back into the world."

"And perhaps it's ready for me at last," the man says, standing still and taking a moment to breathe in clear and smokeless air: "Perhaps this time I am ready for it."

"Where to now?" the Frenchman asks, tossing his cigarette away.

"Whitehaven Beach, in Australia," Straffer responds: "We've got a girl to meet. I think you might find her interesting, Faraj."

"I'm sure I will," the man says, turning to look one last time at his prison, burning down: "Adieu, Fosse de L'enfer." 

And then they're gone -- to bigger and better things.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pandora (Rapha) and having a Tooheys)

10/14/12 - Something Could Change - Pt. 2

"One of the Overlanders tried to teach me the concept of 'irony,' once," Emperor Thurl says as he scuttles the room of Seven Jaws, occasionally looking from its central parapet to hear if something's started yet: "Tell me truly, Blue and Yellow -- are you familiar with the concept?"

Blue and Yellow tries to say something, but really can't. She's discovered why the room bears its name, and is pinned between three of the seven sets, gasping in pain.

"Oh, I do truly apologize," the boy-Emperor says, scuttling closer to her and extending his hands in what might be a warm gesture: "You must be in too much distress to talk. I imagine the field that keeps you from being crushed by the waterweight is close to breaking, much as even the hardiest shell must break when firm and steady pressure is applied."

"Kill you..." Blue and Yellow hisses, trying to fire her eyebeams. They will not come, but make her eyes glow menacingly for a second.

"But we were speaking of this 'irony,'" Thurl continues, bending his eyestalks down to look her in the face: "The fellow who spoke to me, one of the Germans, spent a long time trying to teach me the meaning of this idea. But we do not recognize this concept, here in the Kingdom. We had enough of a problem understanding a 'desert,' I think you call them?"

The Imago ceases her struggles as the Emperor gets closer. He thinks he knows what she intends to do, but that is fine, as he knows his own intentions.

"However, we do have a story that we tell our strongspawn, so they might grow in both mind and form. It is the story of the small and the large. Would you like to hear it?"

The Imago tries once more to break free, just as he expected. Thurl sighs and gestures, his crown jewels trailing behind his hand, and yet another set of jaws clamps down on his captive.

The blow doesn't cut so much as pulverize, and droplets of blood spurt from her lips, somehow escaping from her force field and leaking out into the water. The smelltaste makes Thurl want to end this conversation and do something much more final and toothy to her, but he denies himself the pleasure.

For the moment, anyway.

"Well, perhaps you have no time for such a lesson, Blue and Yellow," the Emperor says, sitting down before her as the seatmollusks form him a throne: "But I must thank you. In all my lives, I had never been able to understand what this 'Irony' meant. And then you came amongst us, and we learned.

"You see, if you had not come here, after you took control of the Overland, we would have left you alone. If you had simply stayed up there, and tended to the Overland, we would not have come looking for you. We would have been grateful that the Overobligation was ended, and the Great Mistake forgiven by default. But you would have heard nothing from us.

"And even when you rose the City of Darkness from the Wet of the Other Kingdom, and took it above the Barrier and called it your home? Even then, I tell you truly, we would have stayed far from you. Farther still, I think I speak truly, for there are reasons that we fear it.

"But you came to us, Blue and Yellow. You and your Green and Orange friend, missing all these darks. You came to us and pretended friendship. You came to us and spoke of partnership. You came to us.

"And as soon as we learned what you were going to do, you threatened me."

Blue and Yellow gasps, her eyes starting from her skull. Not too long, now.

"If you had stayed where you were, we would have sought nothing more with the Overland. We would have left you to it. What use have we for it?

"But you had to come here and try to control us. You had to become our enemy. You had to threaten the life of my father -- my life.

"And in doing so, I tell you truly that you taught us the lesson that we have been too slow to learn for too long. That I, in all my formlives, have been too stupid to learn.

"I have learned that ours is one planet, Blue and Yellow. The Wet and the Dry are two sides of the same rock. One cannot exist without the other. And those who live in one must be allies with the other.

"And so, we will be allies with the Overlanders, once more. And I tell you truly, Blue and Yellow, that makes you our enemy. But we would never have learned this, or known that, unless you had come to us.

"So now, I truly understand irony."

The Emperor gently reaches towards the Imago's head with his claws. She tries to struggle and get away, but each movement is agony, and makes the collapse of her personal shielding more pronounced. Already the metal on her chest and arms is beginning to buckle.

"And now, I would know what you know, Blue and Yellow," the Emperor says, preparing to crack her skull open: "Do not worry. This will not be like the Deathlifedreamsleep. You will not be conscious, and I will not take you inside myself, as I did my father, as he did his father before him.

"I simply want to know what you have planned, so that I might tell my new Overlander ally, when next we speak on the new communicator he has given us."

And as the Emperor feasts, and learns, there is a deep, booming noise, far away from the citadel. It is a sound that has not been heard for many formlives, given the nature of the Overobligation. But all of the Kingdom know what it is, and what it means, and they instantly drop what they are doing and either prepare to go to into battle, or to take cover from it.

The Warspawn are hatching. The Kingdom will strike.

And woe be unto their enemies.

* * *

Mikhail: So, where do we now stand, my friends?

Dosha: I haven't been able to talk to my government, unfortunately. However, I have been able to talk to the provisional government in exile in Pakistan and the people claiming to be in charge of Bangladesh. And they are in agreement, and willing to contribute.

Jose: Where the !@#$ is your government, Dosha?

Dosha: Where they've always been in times like this, Jose. In hiding. Just like you. 

Mikhail: Can we please be dispensing with the insults? Jose comes to us with good news. 

Khalil: He does? So far all we have heard are words from someone I have never met. 

Jose: There is a reason for that, pendejo.

Dr. Krwi: There is? SPYGOD always told me that you prided yourself on showing up to these things late, just for a joke 

Jose: And who is this? 

Dr. Krwi: The man who just got most of Eastern Europe to sign in with our efforts, sir.

Mikhail: Jose, this is Dr. Krwi, a man of many talents and much experience with insurgencies. 

Jose: I'll believe it when I see it. 

Khalil: Please! We have no time for this. 

Dosha: Agreed. Jose, please accept my apologies. If your organization can help, I will gladly shake your hand and call you an ally. 

Jose: Oh, I can do more than that. I have managed to talk our government into allying with a number of other governments in Central and South America. We have not gotten everyone, yet, but the people there are furious at what has happened. 

Khalil: As are several African nations. But the partnership is very tenuous. A number of the new governments aren't keen to work with their old allies, and some of the countries have more than one party claiming leadership. This is going to be a logistical nightmare. 

Mikhail: And if you think that's a nightmare, you should see the state that Russia is in! But I have played the right cards, I think. I spoke to the military, rather than the government. And they are quite prepared to come to our side. 

Dr Krwi: What about Japan? Do we know what bargain SPYGOD struck with Ju Kikan? 

Dosha: He told me he got a giant favor, but wouldn't go into specifics. Just like the bhen chod. 

Dr. Krwi: That sounds like him. And of course Mister 10 will not speak to us directly. 

Dosha: Of course not. I take it you've had some experience with him? 

Dr. Krwi: When I would hunt in Japan I needed to get permission from that group's predecessors. It was never easily given, or arranged. And all the time I felt as though they might try and kill me.

Mikhail: Very well. then we seem to have as much as we can have. So now it is merely a matter of waiting.

Khalil: I'm not very comfortable with that. Did SPYGOD say when we should tell our people to move? 

Dosha: No, but he said we'd know it when we saw it.  

Dr. Krwi: And, knowing him, that is as much of a warning as we are going to get. 

Dosha: Agreed. Speaking of warnings, Doctor, I couldn't help but notice you crossing yourself at the meeting, the other day. What is the contingency plan you are so afraid of? 

Dr. Krwi: I do not wish to speak of it. With any luck, you will never know. It is bad enough that I know. 

Mikhail: Now, Doctor, we promised each other no secrets. 

Dr. Krwi: Yes, we did, didn't we? Then I hope you'll eventually forgive me for having said nothing.  

(Dr. Krwi Leaves)

Dosha: That could not have been good.  

Mikhail: No, it could not. Khalil, do you have any idea what he could be talking about? 

Khalil: None, but I am not certain of that. I keep thinking there is something I am forgetting. Something about SPYGOD I either know or need to let him know. But what it could be? I have no idea. 

Dosha: Do you feel as though someone has tampered with your memory? 

Khalil: It is just possible. I suggest for the sake of security we do not talk again, like this, until this war is over and done with.  

Mikhail: I think it the wisest course of action, my friend. And good luck to us all. We who are normally men of the shadows are going to have to step out into the light, for a time. I can only hope we can withstand that scrutiny.

* * *

 "So how do I look?" the President asks for the fifth time in as many minutes, adjusting his tie and running a hand through his hair.

"I think you look like a man who could use a drink," Ben says, handing the man a very large glass of beer: "I insist. If you fret any more, you will look worse than Richard Nixon did that one time he debated Jack Kennedy on television."

"Well, I could use some makeup," the President says, but takes the beer all the same, giving it an appreciative sip: "!@#$, that... that is some good stuff, Ben."

"Glad you like it. Old recipe of mine. I brewed it in anticipation of victory, and there's ten kegs downstairs, so you better deliver."

The old man smiles and looks at him over his glasses. The President just smiles back, uncertain whether to trust this man or not. He walks and talks just like he always imagined Ben Franklin would, but his conversation topics and ribald anecdotes are so disturbing that he's having a hard time believing this man was ever a Founding Father.

But he's the one with the camera, and the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., and a few other things besides, so he figures he should give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Where did that cat go, anyway?" The President asks, hoping to change the topic.

"Probably !@#$ed off to the penthouse to check on his vodka stores," Ben replies, checking the camera again, and then turning back to the multitude of screens behind him: "Poor pussy's been having to drink poor man's potatoes for the last year, since he took it on the lam."

"So he can fly a spaceship, shoot a gun, and drink SPYGOD under the table?"

"Oh, that's nothing. That !@#$able creature can drink me under the table. And that is saying something, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Where did he get that cat?"

"Oh, now there's a story," Ben says, and then gets distracted by something he sees: "Randolph, this is Ben. You need to get more televisions over to the North part of the island. There's not enough coverage over there."

In a second, Randolph Scott's face appears on the screen, with one of his conspirators behind him: "I'm working on it, Ben. I'm trying to get some last-minute interviews with the post-bridge refugees, first."

"Well, get someone on it, !@#$ it. The Third American revolution is about to take place and I'm not going to miss my moment in the sun because you were too busy asking them who their favorite musical group is!"

"That's not what I'm asking them, Ben-"

"Just a second," the President asks, getting up and looking at the screen: "That man behind him. Excuse me? Aren't you...?"

The man behind Randolph looks at him, and then dominates the screen. It's been some time since they've seen each other, but the recognition is instantaneous.

"Hello, Mr. President" Jess Friend says, nodding and smiling: "I'm very glad to see you, again."

"I'm glad to see you, too," the President says.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have saved you, sir. I tried, but..."

"Hey, son?" the President says, tearing up a little: "I don't know if you know this, but I saw you kick in the door and try to stop what was happening, just before they transported me away. That gave me hope that someone might come to rescue me. And that hope's what kept me alive over there. 

"So yes, Agent Friend. You did save me. And thank you for that."

"Well, not an Agent anymore," Jess says, holding up the hand they had to reconstruct: "They kind of blamed me for the whole thing."

"Really?" the President says: "Well, when this is all over? You come and find me, and we'll set the record straight. It's time your talents were recognized, don't you think?"

"I can't disagree," Randolph says: "And when this is all done and over with? You and me need to have a talk, too, sir. Your Vice President made me swear to pass along a few things, the night before he died. I'd like to keep that promise."

"Then we'll do that," the President says: "Go make us proud, guys."

With that the screen goes blank, and Ben Franklin nods and claps the President on the shoulder: "Spoken like a true leader."

"Third American Revolution, huh?" the President says, looking at the older fellow.

"Ah, well," Ben says, going back to his screens: "Nice thing about our country, my good President. We may never fully agree on the lyrics, but the song always remains the same."

A while -- and a few beers -- later, the President realizes that his host just skillfully forestalled an argument, which was probably for the best. Right now wasn't the time for people for fall apart.

Not when the whole world was about to come back together. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Words (Missing Persons) and having some of Ben Franklin's own)

9/17/12 - So Perfect As We All Fall Down

It's one in the morning, B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P 4 time, and Myron's lying in his room, looking at the ceiling, and trying to feel bad about what he and Winifred have just done.

It's not the first time this has happened. It's been three times, now, and each time he's told himself that it was a mistake, and they shouldn't have done this, and what was he thinking.

But then, once the day's done, and their work's completed, they're back here. They always say they're just going to watch some BSG and have some popcorn, but they don't even get through one fraking episode before they're tearing out of their clothes and tumbling into bed. 

He shouldn't be doing this, something in his mind tells him. He's more than twice her age. She's a !@#$ing teenager, for Christ's sake.

(And, yes, in her home state of Kentucky, she's legal at 16, but still...)

So he looks at the ceiling, maybe searching for the hand of a God he doesn't believe in, anymore, and tries to feel terrible for this. But try as he might, when he looks back down at her -- cuddled up against his side and snoring gently -- he can't feel that he's done anything wrong at all.

Does that make him a pervert, then? Some kind of pedophile? Is he going to the special hell for this?

He doesn't know. All he knows is that he really likes her, and she's special, and she's crazy in the sack (the best !@#$ of his life, to be honest) and while he knows that this probably won't last, it's good for now.

That and, for all he knows, the world might !@#$ing cave in on them, tomorrow, and who would be left to judge them for this?

Still.

"Send me a sign?" he whispers at the ceiling, wondering if the man with the long beard and stern countenance will be kind enough to send a clear, easy-to-understand memo as to whether he should keep letting this brilliant kid with great taste in TV shows -- and an awful secret she doesn't want to confide, yet -- ride him like a pony, late at night.

And something tells him that God isn't going to be that nice about complying.

* * *

The President sits at a desk in the apartment he's currently inhabiting, and cries quietly, watching his wife and children at their new home. 

The surveillance pad was supposed to make him feel better about things, and what he's had to do, recently. He knows that's how SPYGOD meant it, and he's grateful for the gesture. Really, truly grateful.

But as he watches his wife walk through the home she's been forced to live in, by the Imago, he can see that look in her eye: the one he's been dreading seeing. It's a certain, sagging tiredness that betrays how broken she is, inside -- both by his apparent assassination, all those months ago, and the fact that she's being kept on a leash by the things that now rule the world.

The children are sad, too, but they're clearly moving past it a lot faster than she is. They've just lost their father, and aren't really old enough to understand what's just happened to their world. 

Her? She's lost her lover. Her partner. Her best friend in the whole wide world. The father of her children, and the man she was going to spend her future with.

All gone with two shots of an impossible gun.

He wants to go to her, right !@#$ing now. He wants to fly there, to the armed camp for high-level prisoners they've turned Washington D.C. into, and get them all out of there. He wants to swoop in with guns he now knows exactly how to use, blast his way in there, and blow them all back out again.

He wants his wife back at his side, in his arms, in his bed. He wants his children to look him in the face and call him "daddy" again. 

He wants his !@#$ing life back.

But he can't have it. Not yet. Not now.

And he knows he has to wait, and he knows why it's the right thing. But !@#$ if it doesn't hurt worse than crawling naked over broken glass.

He should really just stop looking at this. He should turn it off. Better yet, he should throw it across the room and step on it a few times, just to be sure.

But he keeps watching and crying. He can't not. And !@#$ him for that.

And !@#$ SPYGOD for his kindness.

* * *

"Oh, that was just exquisite, my dear Scarlet Factotum," Doctor Kyklops says, wrapping a green silk robe around his grey but lithe frame with a magnificent flourish: "Perfectly exquisite. I have not had such pleasure from a business partner in quite some time."

METALMAID lies on the bed, staring up at his bedroom's massive, painted ceiling to avoid looking at him, and deciding what to say next. She decides the best thing to do is to be as dishonest as possible, given that she still needs this old, rich pervert for her plans.

"I am confused," she stammers, wondering how many times he needed to have himself painted on his !@#$ing ceiling: "I have never felt this way before, and I am unsure of what it means. Could it be that I am falling in love?"

"Oh, it's just possible," the old fellow says, farting as he goes over to a nearby, gold table and pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter: "I am told I have that effect on women."

"Well, they told you correctly," she says, rolling over and crossing her legs as seductively as she can, focusing on how nice it will be to feed him his own intestines while he's still alive enough to chew and swallow.

(She also debates whether to keep this exquisitely gaudy, Sardinian castle of his for her own purposes, or tear it apart, brick by brick, and fling it down into the Mediterranean Sea as a final revenge on this well-moneyed fool.)

"So, your company was most kind to send you along to, as they say, 'seal the deal,'" he says, turning to regard her as he brings over his drink (and not, she notes, offering her one): "Did they think I would pay faster?"

"They think you are a good customer in the making, and are exciting to be working with you on this venture."

"Ah, that is good to know," Kyklops lounges on the other side of the bed, regarding her: "I think I will be putting my plan into motion, soon. The recent events in Indonesia have revealed our conquerors to have feet of clay, and I do not wish for them to recover and rebuild."

"A wise maneuver."

"Of course it is, my dear," he winks: "I am an old hand at this game you know. Yes, I think I shall strike while they are still repairing their space elevator. And then..."

"And then?"

"And then," he knocks back his drink, tosses the doubtlessly-priceless crystal glass to shatter on the floor, and crawls back onto her, reinvigorated in all senses of the word: "The world shall be mine, your company shall have the privilege of arming its master.

"And you, my dear, shall be fortunate enough to serve my other, more baser needs..."

And as he sticks himself into her, yet again -- pulling her hair and grabbing her breasts so hard it's a wonder they don't snap off -- she closes her eyes and thinks of the money, and her own plan.

And she wonders where the Violet Demon is, and what he's doing tonight.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the lair she doesn't really have control over, anymore, Zalea Zathros is !@#$ing herself.

More correctly, five of her are !@#$ing each other. Another five are working on making more Slaughterbots for METALMAID. And the remaining five are watching television, eating junk food, and having a nap.

Such is the connection between the fifteen of them that they're all more or less aware of what's going on with one another at any given moment. The ones working smile as they receive pleasure, and occasionally chuckle or gasp along with the insipid Greek soap opera that's playing upstairs, on the landing. Those loving themselves gently discuss plot points and design details as they nibble and lick one another into a frenzy. And those before the television languidly close their eyes every so often, and shudder with shared orgasms, or make a mental list of things they'll have to do when it's their turn at the lathe and soldering iron.

This is Zalea Zathros' signature achievement: a fully functioning hivemind, spread across a potentially infinite number of clones. A clone might die or be injured, but the overmind continues to function without cease. And should all but one be destroyed, that one would assume all knowledge and experience, and then be able to generate more clones from itself.

It is her dream made flesh, this life without limits. She would have made a gift of this blessed state of being to the entire world, if she'd only been allowed. But those with limited views and phobias of true scientific achievement were always out to stop her, for whatever reason.

And SPYGOD? That !@#$er locked one of her up, and then hunted down and exterminated every other clone she had remaining. He even found and burned her original body -- withered and sere, by that point, but still gloriously full of her meticulously altered DNA -- and informed her of this by dumping its ashes into her cell in the Heptagon basement.

Revenge, then, was her key goal once she escaped from his clutches. But that goal has been put aside by her former houseguest, now jailor and slavemaster. And try as she might, there's nothing she can do to get out of her bondage.

She keeps thinking there's something she could to do stop this. There's something she's doing, or not doing, that's keeping her like this. She has no idea what it could be, though, and so far every attempt she's made to narrow it down's been sidetracked, somehow.

(It's like something's aware of her investigations and is carefully moving the results of her quiet, slow experiments, so as to stop her from reaching definite conclusions.)

So she !@#$s herself. She works as ordered. She laughs and cries at the television and eats snack cakes and gets fatter than she'd like.

And as she comes and welds and passes the remote, she's all too aware that she's !@#$ed herself in more ways than one.

* * *

It's late at night in New Delhi. Dosha Josh is sleeping in the room of the safehouse he's "appropriated." Anil is standing nearby, watching him sleep.

He watches his chest rise and fall, ever so slowly, grateful for each new breath. He studies his face as he reacts to dreams, and as he lies peaceably, with no expression whatsoever.

When he's asleep he's the most beautiful man, this Dosha Josh. His scars are merely character. His eyes are kind and understanding. His lips full and luscious.

It's taken Anil some time to muster up the courage to stand there and watch, rather than to sit in the other room and keep an ear open for the two of them, like he's supposed to. Dosha only meant it jokingly, but he didn't know -- and still does not know -- that Anil does not need to sleep.

(Some strange trick of biology? No other teleporter Anil's ever met or heard of has such an issue. And while he's happy to not be enslaved to the cycle of wakefulness, he wonders what it must be like to truly lose himself to dreams, for a time. Perhaps only death will teach him this.)

But he daydreams. He fantasizes. He imagines.

And as he stands there, looking at Dosha's body under the thin sheet, imagining its hard surfaces and warm hollows, he dreams of a day when he might crawl into that bed and lay with him.

This is another thing that Dosha does not know about Anil, and probably never will. Anil has known what he was since he was old enough to know how men and women fit together, in the larger scheme of things. And while Dosha has never had time for love, sex, or any other "grotesque entanglements," as he puts it, he's quite clear about the fact that, if he ever desired to be so entangled, he'd look no further than some lovely, young Indian woman -- a vision of brown curves and fragrant hollows, with eyes that sparkle and hair that never ends.

(And a body that falls to ruin either right after the first baby, or sometime in one's 40's, Anil can't help but notice...)

Anil is none of those things, and would not care to be. He is a man, and he loves as a man does: a careful balance between firm directness and gentle suggestion. To make either to Dosha would be fatal to their working relationship, and shatter any hopes of a friendship beyond that.

So he watches Dosha sleep. He listens to him breathe. He promises to all Gods he knows that he will protect this man from all things, in all ways, and in this way show him his love.

It's not enough -- it could never be anywhere near enough -- but given that fate has decided to play this hand for them, in this lifetime, Anil will take the cards and hold them with silent gratitude.

And love.

* * *

Elsewhere in B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4, Mark Clutch sits at the console, counting the seconds until Martha comes on to talk to him. Her and Kaitlyn have been up to a lot -- most of it quiet errands for their mysterious backer -- and there's a lot to talk about. Plans, errands, concerns, things like that.

Tonight could be the night he lets it slip that he's been thinking about her a lot.

It could actually happen, tonight. It's been a good day, and nothing feels like there's a disaster looming. He could just slip it into the conversation, as they get ready to sign off, and see what she says.

He could. Really.

But how does he say a thing like that? Really?

And how is she supposed to take it? Really?

Because he knows how this sounds: pathetic and base. It sounds like he's lonely, and missing his wife, and horny, and looking for a new mother for Kaitlyn, and a million other things that just scream "woah, back up, buddy."

And it's true, that sometimes when Martha laughs or cries -- or kicks people's !@#$ -- she reminds him of her so much. So !@#$ much...

But there's other things, besides. The way she talks, the way she thinks, the way she trusts to God always, and in all ways. The way she looks after his daughter, and will not give up on her son.

The way she's become the head of the family, now, and has learned to trust her own judgment and see what the Lord provides.

He has fallen in love, again. He has seen things in her he never saw before, and probably just as well given that he was married to her cousin. But fate has cleared the way between them, and, with the world hanging in the balance, can they not try to be happy as they save it?

But how can he say those things? How can he think those things? Rachel hasn't even been dead a year, and he's already trying to see her cousin. Surely there's something about that in the Bible. Somewhere.

(Though, the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks there's something about someone in the family having to marry the in-law who's lost her husband? Does that count for him? Does that even count at all?)

But all the reason and morality and propriety in the world can't cast aside his feelings. It's more than just loneliness, or wanting to make love to a smart, capable, and very lovely woman. It's a small spark that was lit when they met, all those years ago, and has blossomed into a full and beautiful flame now that the fire of his lost wife has dwindled away.

And if he doesn't do something about this blaze, it will burn him down.

Maybe tonight will be the night he says something they'll both regret hearing. Maybe tonight he'll just leave it lay for a better time.

Maybe.

* * *

In a shadowed apartment in Washington DC, a Beautiful Stranger frantically surfs the internet, looking for signs of a disaster. 

He knows the net's been censored, courtesy of the new masters of this planet, but he figures that news of earthquakes, floods, and tornadoes are probably let straight through. And after what he and Aaron did in the bedroom, earlier tonight, surely there has to be some sign of displeasure from on High, or Below. Some sort of cosmic comeuppance must have been levied against this trembling, moral world.

Surely the Earth must have moved.

As he searches, terrified of what he may have done, Aaron lies back in the bed they just broke, remembering the moments leading to here, at this moment. The lead-up to them was slow, sweet, and exquisitely tortured -- often a two steps forward, one step back sort of affair.

And, now that that's done, everything from here is likely to be fast, sour, and harsh. 

He does not cry. He does not smile. What's happened has happened, as he knew it would the moment he looked at that entity. 

And as for what happens now? Well, he'll probably find that out tomorrow, or maybe the day after. 

People think he knows everything that's going to happen, but that's not true. He only ever gets small glimpses of most of what's coming down the pipe -- small flares sent up from the font of Creation which are gone before they're really understood. It's only the big things that light up his mind, and make him ever so aware that everything he's doing has been planned since his creation, countless aeons ago.

This? Well, it was nice while it lasted, and might last longer than tonight. But in the grand scheme of things, it's was just a !@#$.

(A very nice !@#$, though -- one billions of years in the making.)

The stranger's weeping at the keyboard. Something about Vanuatu, or the coast of Japan. Aaron smiles and wills himself back to the closest he can approach sleep, knowing he'll just have to deal with it tomorrow. Maybe with more of the same.

* * *

In a small, Bridgetown shack, on the Southwest corner of Barbados, a cat is snoozing, curled up around a bottle of vodka and an AK-47. Three very tired hookers are conked out in a pile around him. Every so often he wakes up, halfway, mutters something in Russian, and then goes back to sleep, knowing that tomorrow he's going to be really !@#$ing busy.

He'd better get his relaxation when and where he can.

* * *

In a safehouse in the Bronx, two war vets alternate between !@#$ing and fighting. He's old, with the scars to prove it, and wearing nothing but a black mask with an ace of spades on it. She's young, but has almost as many scars as he does, and is wearing a blindfold, just to make this interesting. They'll do this until they're too weak to do anything but sleep, and maybe in the morning they'll do some business, but for now it's been too long since they've thrown down.

And they both need this -- badly.

* * *

And in China, not too far from where the President is crying, and the man he got the information from is sleeping, SPYGOD sleeps with his guns crossed over his chest, clearing his mind and making himself ready for what he's going to do, tomorrow. But every so often, he can't help but remember the Dragon, and relive that lovely bit of ghost sex they had, there in that fire, as the barriers between worlds and futures was shattering around them. 

He tries not to cry for that lost moment, wanting to have a blank mind for the job. He tries to resist the sickness of regret, which can both paralyze and kill an Agent -- even someone like him.

But here -- in this place and time -- he can't help but let the sorrow wash over him, so he gives in, and loses himself in that rush of dark emotions. He puts his guns down, grabs his mutated, lovecraftian !@#$ and masturbates weakly, trying to let the wave of light and airy endorphins this brings counteract the sour mash of loss and horror.

In his mind, one man becomes many men. The Dragon of then becomes The Dragon of now becomes Director Straffer becomes a mindless, soft parade of Thai ladyboys, MI-6 agents, and fighting men from every war he's ever been in One set of buttocks melds into another, all !@#$s become one !@#$, all torsos and shoulders and hips and calves and necks and jawlines and lips and eyes are pieced together from the honeyed trap of his memory, becoming a frankensteinian patchwork doll, there for him to !@#$ from all angles, in all ways, in all times.

One man in one moment, shining and resplendent, taking him in his arms and calling him home. 

He's come three times before he knows it -- sperm bullets shattering portions of the drywall and ceiling. The resulting rush of bliss washes over him, knocking the sorrow out of his skull, at least for now. And then he lies back, watching with some fascination as his twisted manhood slithers and slurps itself back into his pants.

"I love you," he says to the piece of the Dragon left behind in his mind's eye, just before it becomes Straffer and then vanishes with the wink of a winsome katooey's eye: "I loved you all."

And then he gently takes his guns up, crosses them over his chest, and goes about clearing his mind for his mission -- the only real and true love he has left, now.

And the only one that can really love him back forever.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pornography (The Cure) and having something you never want to taste)