10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 16

When the Imago began to hatch their plan to take over the Earth, through GORGON, they realized that they would have to neutralize SPYGOD as soon as possible.

It wasn't necessarily because of his position, his connections, or his long history. Nor was it his skills, or his abilities, or even his power set.

(It wasn't even his somewhat skewed sense of fashion, though the less serious amongst them joked that removing his utterly flamboyant optical pollution from the world could only be a good thing.)

It was simply because they knew that, when the time came, he would fight them tooth and nail in such a way that they could not ignore, much less sweep under the rug.

They thought they had him taken care of, thanks to their gruesome deception involving the American President, and the arrangement they'd made with the two beings from Alter-Earth. They figured that, accused of such a terrible crime, SPYGOD would crawl underground and bide his time, giving them just enough of it to take over the world before he could launch a plan. And even if he did show his face again, he'd have a very hard time convincing his people of the truth while they were hunting him down -- especially with False Faces in important positions.

And if he followed the trail the truth ultimately led to -- all the way to Alter-Earth -- he would surely not return.

When they learned he'd gone there, after all, they were worried at first. But then came the news that the city they'd taken the real President to was gone -- completely obliterated -- and they figured that he was, at long last, dead. And so they went forward, secure in the belief that no one and no thing could stand against them now.

And for a time, things were truly glorious. 

But then things started happening, like the high-tech bombing of their space elevator. And after they chased down the obvious culprits -- killing far too many humans in the process -- and then discovered that, while they'd been searching for them, someone had stolen key information from a lock-up in China, they realized that they had been played.

And they were quite confident that they knew who was sitting across the card table from them, sleeves stuffed full of Aces.

So they began to hunt him down, as he was, in turn, hunting them. They swatted aside annoyances with increasing levels of firepower and civilian casualties, hoping to rouse him to anger and sudden action, but he did not oblige. They laid traps along the way, hoping to snare him, but even when they did they never held onto him for long.

And then there was that strange attempt by that old, had-been supervillain to take over the world using an army of the sort of robot SPYGOD used to use for domestic help. At first, they figured it was a separate matter, but when it was all over, they wondered if it wasn't yet another costly diversion from SPYGOD, after all.

And now, not long thereafter -- seven months to the day since they took over the world -- they were in dire danger of actually losing it, again.

And here is SPYGOD, leading the charge against their own center of power.

He is surrounded by a horde of Imago -- false and true -- and being bombarded by eyebeams that should be deadly to any living being with a set of eyes. Except that he has no eyes, save for a glass copy of one and the Chandra Eye under an eyepatch. And while their beams can do massive damage to nonliving things as well, he is not letting that stop in him the least.

He has no armor, no weapons, no means of transportation. He is naked and unashamed, battered and bruised and bloody. And yet he continues to fight on -- leaping from Imago to Imago, killing each one in turn with a vicious bite to the forehead, or powerful smack upside the skull with his hands, feet, or penis, and then jumping onto the next and nearest victim.

And all the while, as the Imago are tied up dealing with him, the massive, white robot he brought out to fight flies ever closer to the Lost City, and the Flier, not even feeling the sting of the Flier's weaponry yet.

The Dragon -- perhaps the only member of the Imago's leadership with the tactical skills to know what to do next -- realizes that it's only a matter of time before the Dignitary is at their gates, and using its own strength and weapons to rain mega-powered ruin down upon them. He has no desire to see this, and so has decided to hold back on the true strength of their weapons, the better to lull them into a false sense of security, and get them close enough to feel the full bite of their power.

But as he prepares to fire these as-yet silent weapons -- sliding forward massive dark matter cannons, sending protonic missile pods out from their shafts, and aiming the mighty displacer beams -- The Dragon realizes that even this is a terrible gamble.

They may yet lose. The enemy may yet win.

And if the enemy does win, that victory can only ever be laid at the feet of the man who they tried so hard to put out of the picture, and obviously failed to do so.

SPYGOD will have won this day.

And, given their history, The Dragon will not have any standing for surrender in the aftermath.

So he waits for the crucial, critical moment, when either SPYGOD or the earth-shattering mecha he has awakened gets just close enough, and then he can make that one last roll of the-

* * *

dice, lady," Mrs. Liberty says, kicking the Imago trying to kill her right in the uterus, and smiling rather widely when she sees an entire, boot-shaped section of her metal-plated anatomy go flying out the back.

And then it's all she can do to shoot the !@#$ in the face -- the better to withdraw her foot from the sticky, bloody mess -- and then go on to the next one. 

Her partner and friend, Liberty Belle, is dead, lying in sorry pieces at her feet. She doesn't have the time to mourn her now, and that just makes her !@#$ angry.

(And the strange presence that either was or was not with them, helping them fight, hasn't been around for quite some time, so she's imagining he's dead too -- whoever he was. But imagines she'll feel sad for him, too, when the time comes.)

She also realizes she'll have a lot to mourn, in the days to come, if she survives this -- which is a big maybe, right now. The special eyeglasses she's wearing to keep the Imago from killing her with their eyebeams is probably one more direct hit from frying, and then she'll either fight blind or not at all.The guns she's been looting from dead enemies are getting fewer and harder to find.

And the sky keeps opening up and vomiting out Imago, or Specials, or whatever those weird hybrid things are...

All around the world, it's the same thing. Groups of heroes huddle together, dealing with the last, frantic gasps of an enemy whose true power was never truly known until now. The weird armies redouble their efforts and try to protect civilians as best they can, but find themselves unable to both kill the enemy and save others from being killed by them. 

And if not them, the seemingly-endless supply of those that come after them. Over and over again.

As the numbers of the good decrease, and the numbers of the bad increase, more than one hero raises his or her head to exclaim that they could win this day, if only someone would find a way to-

* * *

!@#$ it!" Myron shouts over his communicator, as he heads into the dark bowels of the Ice Palace with only a map and a headlamp to guide him (and Yanabah to guard him): "You deal with... that, and let me deal with this, okay?"

"Alright son," Mr. USA replies from where he is, his voice weak and quavering: "Just hurry. We've already been too late, today..."

Myron grimaces. He really did not need to be reminded of that, just now.

"Hold up," the Native American woman says, capping off a pair of shots into the gloom ahead of them. There's a scream and a gurgle, and then a dwarf tumbles from a support beam, his rifle clattering to the ground just after him.

"Good shooting," he says: "Can you see in the dark?"

"I can smell things really well," she explains, kicking the rifle away from the thing as they pass it, just to be sure: "There's no more in this passage. Might be some in the room we're heading to, though."

"Alright then," Myron says: "You take point, I'll come after."

"No guns?" she asks, looking at his uniform.

"I didn't get into this business to kill people."

"Time to learn, Underman," she snorts, and runs ahead to the swinging double doors looming ahead of them. She kicks them in, and does a cartwheel with her forward momentum. There's six quick shots, and then some more screaming, and then nothing.

"Nasty !@#$," he mutters, remembering when SPYGOD told him the same thing about learning to kill, and how well that went.

In the room, there's a half-dozen dead dwarves strewn about the ground, some still twitching. All of them appear to have been shot between the eyes. Yanabah is looking at the large bank of controls on the other side, most of which appear to have been added onto whatever ABWEHR was doing, here.

The noise in here is almost deafening: electrical hums and clicking, along with the strange, water in the wind noise that massive teleportation platforms give off when they activate in series. 

"Okay, this is the energy output station for the upper level," Myron says, tossing the map aside as he goes: "So it's the logical place for them to be sending their teleport waves through. Might also be a good place to see if we can disrupt their energy supply, somehow."

"Don't talk," she says: "Do. I'll watch the door for more. I can smell them coming."

"You really are one nasty and unpleasant person," he says, sighing: "I could really use some good vibes right now."

"Ain't got none to spare," she says, walking to the door. And it isn't until five minutes of feverish and fruitless work go by -- along with a lot of shooting outside the doors -- that Myron realizes she was crying when she said that.

But he doesn't dare ask her-

* * *

why this way, paleface?" Gosheven asks his older ally, who's so angry it's a wonder he doesn't turn red and melt.

"Because it's all coming back to me now," the original New Man says, purple flecks of energy coming from his mouth as he talks: "While I was being used by them, all those months, it was like my mind was all over the ship. They were using me, but I was spying on them. I just couldn't do anything."

"And now you can," the shapeshifter says, taking a quick look down the maintenance corridor they're about to turn down, and hearing more strange groans from the superstructure: "Any idea what all that !@#$ noise is?"

"They're gearing up to use the big guns."

"You mean they haven't already?"

"Oh no, friend. Not in the slightest. All they've been using so far is the stuff that was on board the Flier when they took it over. These weapons they're calling up are the things they used the last time they took over a world, and maybe the time before that, too."

"Oh boy," Gosheven says: "So what sort of !@#$ are you intending to have us !@#$ up, then? The weapons?"

"How about the kind of !@#$ they can't afford to lose in a firefight of that scale, my friend?" the older man says, patting his ally on the back: "Their central power conductors. And I know just where they are, and how to knock them out."

"Then let's do it."

"There is a chance the damage might be so great that you won't survive," New Man warns him: "I can become energy, but I'm not sure if-"

The Native American looks at the man he rescued and just smiles: "I survived a shot to the head and turned myself intangible to fool you people. You think an explosion's going to hurt me?"

"Fair point. Just duck when I tell you."

"Oh, no worries-"

* * *

there. The robot is just within range, and SPYGOD is not far behind. 

It is time, The Dragon announces to the Leader. I will destroy him.

I cannot speak with The Motion, the Leader says: He has gone blank in my mind.

Perhaps something has happened, The Dragon says, knowing full well what has probably just occurred: Do not worry. Safeguards are in motion to protect what he was doing. They will not be overcome by the likes of what little they have to throw against us.

You do not care for him, the Leader says: Just as you did not care for The Fist, or The Sight. You care only for yourself.

I care for you, my leader, the Dragon says. And maybe, in his heart, he does not feel that it is a lie. 

(And maybe he does, but simply does not care to deal with the contradictions at this glorious, supreme moment. There will be time enough for reflection -- and further, necessary deception -- when the day is done, and the battle won.)

He flexes his muscles and aims his fingers. The dark matter shells are loaded into the cannons. The exotic explosives are armed and ready to fire. The displacement cannons are aimed and primed.

He focuses on the massive, circular iris in the robot's chest -- the place that its primary armaments will come from, when the moment comes -- and then makes ready to fire....

And then, something strange happens. 

The entire city lurches to the east, as something incredibly large and dense crawls out of the ocean and begins to attack it.

From all over the Lost City, and from cameras all over the Flier, The Dragon can see that they have been attacked by some strange, undersea creature -- the genius of all pirates' tales of otherworldly monsters from the deep. A tremendous, sanity-blasting mix of Leviathan, Behemoth, and Kraken, roiling and ripping and smashing as it goes.

A War Spawn.

And it is not alone. A half-dozen more burst to the surface and begin to attack. Then another dozen. 

Then at least a score more...

We are attacked! the Leader screams, panicking: Destroy it! Destroy them! Now!

The Dragon can only concur, and quickly shifts the Flier's weapons to aim at both the monsters and the robot.

And it's only after he begins firing at both that he realizes the massive mistake he's just-

* * *

made this decision lightly, Emperor Thurl says, knowing that SPYGOD can hear him: I tell you truly that the one you called my father feared you, but also respected you. I say to you, also truly, that I give you this gift in his name, as agreed with the one who led your troops in your absence. I hope we both understand what this means, going forward.

"Emperor, you just made a lot of dead sailors lost in the War very !@#$ing unimportant," SPYGOD says, watching the mighty guns of the Dignitary come out for the first time this battle and begin firing at -- and down -- the exotic weapons of the Flier: "And when I say something like that, it !@#$ing means something." 

Then the Overobligation is done?

"Done and dusted," SPYGOD says, tearing the head off the Imago he's riding, throwing it right through another one, and then leaping to the next: "Next time we talk, let's !@#$ing talk normalization, okay? I'm just a little !@#$ing busy, now..."

Truly I understand, the Emperor says, staring up at the darkness above his palace: Go well into battle, my ally. All our hopes are truly with you at this time. 

"Halle-!@#$ing-lulah," SPYGOD says, reaching his hands down into the bloody mess of the Imago he's riding and trying to get it to keep flying: "I could sure !@#$ing use some, Emperor. The world's gone !@#$-down in a sea of !@#$ here and now..."

He thinks to try and explain what he's seeing for a moment, but how could he really? How can he tell someone of the harsh and beautiful glory of what his eye reveals, as the weapons of the Imago attempt to rip open reality, itself?

Shells armed with exotic matter detonate not only matter, but spacetime, itself, in small, controlled bursts. Missiles that can create miniaturized atomic blasts streak towards the target. And beam weapons that put their target zones both a million miles away, and yet exactly where they are, try to create critical instabilities in the enemy's molecular structure, causing terrible implosions as they go.

Against a lesser enemy, the battle would have been over seconds ago, and the foe all but wiped from the face of the world.

But yet the Dignitary strides forward, answering the strange weapons of its enemy with stranger weapons of its own -- unleashed from behind the great iris in its chest. Birds of light and fire that intercept shells and missiles. Spirals of crystal flowers that erase beam weapons, turning them to soothing music. And green waves of power that take the damage done to the surrounding areas and clean them up, as though no battle had ever taken place here.

It is beautiful to see such terrible weapons overcome by such wonderful ones. Indeed, SPYGOD could sit on this dying Imago and watch it all day.

He just doesn't have the time, now.

"Gonna have to let you go, Emperor," he says, getting back to work in the knotty, red innards of his foe: "Hopefully I can !@#$ing make this-

* * *

work!" Myron shouts, banging his fists on the controls: "They've been locked down, !@#$ it!"

"Then unlock them!" Mr. USA replies, not sounding too good.

"I can't. Not without the code. And I bet it's !@#$ing DNA...."

"And there's not enough of him left to get any," Mr. USA sighs: "And Doctor Power doesn't have the power to deal with that, right now."

"And, not to rush you or anything?" Yanabah shouts from the door, where she's been firing non-stop for the last few minutes: "But I'm running out of ammo, over here. And not running out of targets."

"What was that, son?" Mr. USA asks.

"My two-handed firing partner says we're about to get overrun by the nazi sex dwarf brigade."

"So what are our other options?" the old hero asks, something approaching weary defeat in his voice (which scares Myron more than he's willing to admit).

"Not a lot. Not without going down there and tearing half this base apart. And..."

"Then you're going to have to just go do it, Myron," Doctor Power says, his voice hoarse from effort and weeping: "I'm dealing with things up here. Mr. USA doesn't know a circuit board from a checkerboard, and Skyspear's... well, she's not leaving the survivors."

Myron shakes his head, not wanting to think about that. And as he does, he glances over from where he's been working.

And that's when he sees it. 

"Did you hear us, son?" Mr. USA asks after a few seconds of silence.

"Yeah, I did," Myron says, taking his broken sunglasses off, and looking at the electrical components he'd built into them, long ago: "I think I might have an idea, provided that's not locked off, too."

"What son?"

"No time to talk. Mr. USA? Get your !@#$ing mega-geriatric !@#$ down here and help guard the door. Maybe Skyspear can teleport you if she can let the two of them go for a second. Let Doctor Power do what he has to with her, okay?"

The answer he gets isn't nice or polite, but he doesn't care. He rushes over to the portion of the controls he just saw, hoping that it's what he thought it was. And he's not only delighted to see that it is, but that they didn't lock it down -- probably because they didn't think it was important.

"Can it just be that simple?" he asks himself, looking at the eyeglasses and the exposed -- and, in the Imago's case, highly redundant -- communications circuits: "Really?"

* * *

"Not really, no," New Man says, looking out at the massive field of large, glowing glass balls -- all of which seem to have something inside of them, spinning and spiraling too fast to be really seen.

DEROS, of course. 

"What do you mean?" Gosheven asks, using his powers to break and smash through the Specials that were guarding this large and cavernous room -- formerly the engine room, from the looks of things -- and keep his ally from being hit by their weapons.

"I mean I didn't think there were actually so many of them!"

"So what does that really !@#$ing mean?"

"It means that the moment I blow them up, we're both dead!"

"Even you, paleface?"

"Even me, Tonto."

Gosheven looks at him and smiles: "I was wondering when you were finally going to get one in on me."

"Not much as last words go, huh?"

"I'll take 'em," the man says, forming a large, metal wing to deflect the storm of flechettes heading their way, courtesy of the Specials' guns: "How about we both yell 'Geronimo' for good measure? Then we can be totally politically incorrect."

"Okay, that makes it official. We get out of this, you're my new best friend for life."

"Only if you buy the drinks."

"We'll take turns."

"!@#$ straight we will," Gosheven says, and gets ready.

New Man inhales and grits his teeth. Then he releases all the energy he's been storing for the last seven months in a massive, rippling wave of purple light. 

The wave goes forward, into the DEROS as they spin and purl, unaware of their fate. Each one only has a split second to realize what's happened before it's consumed by the violet fire and explodes.

And as each explodes, the energy carries on to the next, and the next, and the next, like massive alien firecrackers the size of large boulders. 

Gosheven cradles his spent ally-turned-friend in his arms and changes as rapidly as he can, hoping he can ride them both out of here. It's a slim chance, but he's been through tinier holes in his life.

Maybe the Great Spirit will let him keep his life to go with the victory, today, after-

* * *

all the weapons of the Flier are silenced, suddenly, as a great burst of fire and flame erupts from its center. 

The mighty craft begins to expand, then, as though it were a trick balloon rather than a thing made from otherworldly metal. Tendrils of light shoot out from where it buckles and bends, and debris begins to rain down from its undersides.

For just a quick second, it looks as though the battle is won.

But this is an advanced craft, by anyone's standards. It does not merely take damage lying down. It repairs, and rebuilds.

It reforms.

The light ends. The fires are extinguished. The falling parts are reclaimed and remade.

And, perhaps three seconds after it should have been destroyed, the nanites' work is done, and the Flier begins to open fire once more.

But it does so unconvincingly. Haltingly. It is nowhere near as massive or rapid as it was, just seconds before, and it gets no better.

Indeed, the craft appears to be crippled. It does not hover above the Lost City, but rather perches above its highest points -- forming grappling arms to take its weight as it settles down, unable to fire and fly at the same time. 

And that's all the invitation its opponents need. 

Before The Dragon can fully comprehend what has just happened -- and how badly things are going to go for them, now -- the Lost City is all but overrun by the remaining War Spawn, and the Dignitary now stands right beside its ultimate target.

"Enemy of this world, I call upon you to surrender!" the massive robot commands, its many, positive weapons jutting from the circular hatch in its chest and its arms raised to strike: "You have no option!"

Never! The Dragon shrieks, and begins to fire everything he has-

* * *

left to fight," Mr. USA wheezes, barely able to pull himself back through the doors, beyond which is an endless, running horde of dwarfs: "I'm sorry, Myron..."

"And I am out of ammo, now," Yanabah says, pulling out a long knife and making ready to use it on whatever comes through the door next: "So if you're going to !@#$ing do something, Underman, now would be a !@#$ good time..."

"It's done," Myron says, looking at the weird cobble-together he's just made from his glasses, the communications station, and a few odds and ends he was able to break off of other things while they were keeping him safe.

"Are you sure, son?" Mr. USA says, looking up at him: "I don't hear any difference...."

"You wouldn't," Myron sighs, sitting down and looking at the doors: "I didn't stop anything from happening. I just added a few things, that's all."

"Like what?" Yanabah demands, quickly slashing the head off the first dwarf to come through the doors: "Underman? What did you do?"

"I'm sending the signal we were going to broadcast through those satellites," he says, wondering if he should get up and fight or not: "Right now, every Imago in communication with this place is shutting down."

"Does that mean..." Mr. USA asks, but then he cocks an ear as a series of thumps come from the hallway, outside.

Yanabah looks at Myron, and then at the doors. Then she carefully walks over, knife still at the ready, and kicks one of them open.

Beyond the light of the room, just outside the swing of that door, all the dwarfs of Dr. Yesterday lie still on the floor, twitching and groaning.

"Good thing he upgraded them, then," Myron says, getting up and grabbing something two-handed and heavy: "I was afraid we were still going to have to fight through them."

"Are they dead?"

"Just stunned," he says, walking past her: "So let's take advantage of it, huh?"

"Well done," she says, smiling at him.

"Thank you," Myron says: "And please? Underman is dead. Just call me Myron."

And then he starts to bring the bar up and-

* * *

down to Earth, at long last -- one and all.

Every Special drops down, useless and still. Every False Face seizes up and keels over. Every Imago goes cross-eyed and clanks to its knees, or on its face, and every strange, hybrid monstrosity stops moving and falls to the ground, smashing open like ripe fruit when they hit.

And every new group that gets beamed in does the same -- tumbling through the hole in the air like garbage through a chute, only to land in a heap on the ground.

At first, there is disbelief. Then shock. Then joy.

And then, when that's exhausted, and cooler heads prevail, joy turns to concern that they might get back up again. 

And then anger, and the desire for revenge, take over in full measure -- giving even the meekest and weakest of survivors a chance to kill one of their would-be assassins this day.

The streets run red with stolen blood. The cities burn with fire, with anger, and with hard-won freedom.

The Imago have lost.

* * *

The Flier stops shooting. 

The Dragon curses, wondering what has happened, but then realizes that not only can he not fire, but he cannot move, either. He cannot fly the machine away, or change its shape. He can barely even think.

All he can do is hear as the Leader screams and screams, terrified like a child. 

He tries to disengage himself from the machine he is bonded to, but the thing will not obey him. He tries to howl in complaint, but he cannot be heard.

Outside, the massive white robot reaches its hands out to take hold of the Flier. He can feel as its mighty hands clutch at it, and pull it up off the Lost City. He can sense it coming to pieces under that grip.

And then he feels the strange parabola of forces as the Dignitary picks it up, holds it over its head, and brings it right down upon the city, itself.

As he goes down, just before being smashed into the ancient stone, the Dragon looks through frozen eyes, and sees SPYGOD watching him fall. The man is riding athwart a headless Imago turned into a jetpack of sorts. 

And as the Flier is driven into the city -- again, and again, and again, until the nanites cannot cope with the damage and cease working -- he is aware that SPYGOD can actually see him, somehow.

And that he is flipping him both birds.

"... and you were !@#$ing lousy in bed!" he shouts at some point, but The Dragon can no longer quite comprehend what that might mean. The damage to the Flier takes away his mind, piece by piece, until he is little more than a simpering moron.

And then there is just darkness, and the fear that comes with it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Strangelove (Depeche Mode) and having a Victory Lager)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 3

All around the world, the people stand in a state of shock -- their minds suddenly free of the subtle, but all-pervasive mental control they've been enduring since the Imago took control of the internet.

Some are angry enough at what's been done to them to want to fight. Some are ashamed enough of what they've done -- or not done -- to want to hide. But the vast majority is lost and shaken, uncertain of what this means, or how to approach it, or even what to say.

And when they reach for the internet, hoping to find information, or facts, or at least hear the voices of those who are feeling as they do, and add their own words to that stark, growing rumble of confusion, fury, and hurt, they find that they cannot.

All their smart phones and blackberries, all their tablets and laptops, all their computer labs and internet cafes -- all are black and still, unable to connect. The other programs work fine, and there doesn't seem to be any malicious, memory-eating worms working through their systems. But nothing can get the net working, anywhere, for anyone.

And, bereft of easy answers in a time when they need them most, people start to talk. They speak of what's been going on, and all the weird things they've noticed. All the strange lags and oddly-cadenced emails. How the news has seemed too good to be believed, or too strange to be understood.

And their children! Some of them -- especially in the less-developed countries, where they've been put to work for the Imago -- have had their children off in those big, white boxes since this all started. The Imago told them they'd be teaching them amazing things, in there, and they got to talk to them once a week. But the things they said, and how they said them?

The blank way they acted, at times? How far away and distant they seemed?

No, something is not right, here. Something has not been right since this all started. And now that they know -- now that they understand -- they won't be taking any easy explanations from glib-tongued metal people.

One by one, and then two by two, and then in large and shouting groups, the people of the world leave their blank computer screens behind. They head to their houses of government, and reason with the guards there to let them past, or else they'll stand outside and shout until they are acknowledged by their keepers.

And they will shout and chant and congregate, in their hundreds and thousands and millions, until they at last get the precious answers they have clearly deserved for so long.

* * *

Good afternoon, my fellow Americans. This is the President of the United States of America, reporting to you from a secret location.

I know that seeing me here, alive, must be a shock to many of you. I know that you saw me shot on live television. I know that you saw me die, and saw that SPYGOD was the one who fired the bullets.

But I assure you that this is me. I am alive. I am not the man who was shot dead, any more than SPYGOD was the man who shot that person. We have, both of us, been the victims of a very elaborate, and very deadly hoax.

A hoax that helped enslave the world.

The how and the why of what happened to me are not so important now. Not now that America, like the rest of the world, languishes under the thumb of otherworldly tyrants. Alien beings who quietly conquered our planet while we slept, and then engineered certain events to make us all fall right into their hands.  

The hands of the Imago.

Tonight, I accuse the beings who call themselves the Imago of being liars and monsters. I accuse them of working in collusion with a science terrorist outfit, GORGON, to lay the groundwork for an invasion of our world. I accuse them of duplicating thousands of people, around the world, and killing the originals. 

I accuse the Imago of using those duplicates to create a worldwide crisis. I accuse them of stepping in to exploit the chaos and terror they, themselves, engineered for that purpose. I accuse them of using our orbital defenses to destroy and kill on a global scale, both on 3/15 and ever since.

And, on a more personal note, I accuse the Imago of blaming that crisis on the American government, of holding false trials with duped witnesses and bullied defendants, and of executing without cause the surviving members of several Presidential Administrations, Federal Departments, and Congressional leaders.

I accuse the Imago of executing without cause my Vice President, who was one of the finest men I have known and worked with. I accuse the Imago of duplicating his wife. I accuse the Imago of using the safety of his family and mine to threaten him into saying anything they wanted him to.

I accuse the Imago of using the internet to subject the people of the world to mind control, and using their control over you to get you to look the other way as they quietly committed atrocity after atrocity.

I accuse the Imago of deeds of a scale of villainy that I couldn't even have imagined existing in this world, until I actually got back here to find out what they'd done, and how.

My fellow Americans, my fellow people of the planet Earth, right now the confusion you are feeling is a result of their influence over your minds leaving you for the first time in months. These signals are being broadcast to you over the televisions that, I am advised, most of you kept, even though they didn't work after 3/15. It will continue to play, over and over, until this crisis is past, and we have taken back our world.

I urge you, for your own safety, and the safety of your loved ones, to stay off the streets. Do not take matters into your own hands. Heroes from around the world are fighting for your freedom, this hour. 

And they will win.

To the Imago, I say your time has come. You are done. Leave this planet now, if you even can. And if you can't, we'll be happy to kick you off of it.

To the world, I say that America stands with you, tonight. Whatever we have been to each other in the past, in different times, does not matter in this moment. At this moment we are all a people under threat. At this moment we are all as one in the struggle to be free. 

To my country, I say that, in the words of Mark Twain, reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I hereby resume the office, duties, and responsibilities of the office you elected me to. I once said 'Yes we can.' Today I say 'Yes we must.' 

And together, and with God's blessing, we will. 

Good afternoon, good luck to us all, and may God bless us, the United States of America, and the world in this, our hour of need.

* * *

"This should be all you need, mate," Tate says, handing the small cylinder over to Prentice in the back of the workshop: "I've rigged it with a three second delay, in case you want to throw it and run or something..."

"That won't be necessary," Prentice answers, looking at the tiny switch on the underside. He doesn't even look at Tate when he says this; he's hardly looked at him at all.

"Yeah," Tate replies, putting his hands on his hips and looking around: "Look, I know we haven't always gotten on too well. It's been a rough couple months-"

"I never liked you at all," Prentice says, finally really looking at the other man: "Not before, not then, and not now."

"Well, it's all coming out in the wash, now-"

"But I will say that you are one of the few truly professional people I've dealt with, up here," Prentice says, tucking the weapon under his arm: "We're alike in that way. We both know we have a job to do, so we do it. Anything else is irrelevant. And liking anyone up here's just something else to get in the way of tough decisions."

"Well, I liked you, sometimes," the other man says, extending a hand: "And I've always respected you. And I want to say thank you, before I can't anymore."

Prentice looks at the hand. He takes it carefully, and shakes it. He even smiles, just a little, but it means nothing to him. 

It's all for the man who actually made the bomb, just to make him feel better about all this. To feel better about being the man who finally said what they were all thinking, and put forward the need to do this in the first place. To feel better about not drawing the shortest straw, after all that agitation. 

To feel better about not being the one who dies today. 

With that, Prentice turns and leaves the workshop, heading for the chamber where the former Director of Deep-Ten is holed up, creating a weapon that could destroy Alpha Base Seven if it's turned on. Which is why he's not going to let him turn it on. 

Everything else that's gone into this decision is irrelevant. There's only the here and now, the many and the one.

There is only this action, which will reverberate throughout history.

* * *

From his high perch, looking down at the great chasm below, Emperor Thurl must confess to fear. 

He has heard the words of the Overlander President. He knows that the time to act has come, and that he has pledged to do so. He knows that everything he has done, of late -- indeed, the entire reason it is he who stands here now, and not his previous formlife -- has led to this very moment. 

But yet, the decision will be a momentous one. The Kingdom is no longer held by the Overobligation. They no longer owe the air-breathing denizens of the Overland any fealty or apology for the actions of the past. They could live down here, in the dark, and never have anything to do with the surface or its wars again.

Now that the Imago are about to be wiped from the face of the Overland -- and hopefully their City of Darkness with them -- the Kingdom need never be involved with that again.

But he has made his promise to the one coordinating the attacks against the Imago. He has told this man that the Kingdom will send help, the best way it can. And in return he has been promised true absolution for the Great Mistake, and a place at the table of the surface world. Inclusion in their "United Nations." A proper trade treaty. 

(And maybe even an end to the garbage that is being constantly dumped into their world.)

It is a great leap forward. It can bring new and good things with it. It could also bring new dangers. Unseen obstacles. Maybe even untold disaster.

No adviser can make this decision for him. There is only the wisdom within his mind, and all the voice of all the formlives he's had. 

And they all say the same thing.

"My Emperor?" the warden asks, kneeling before him: "I tell you truly, the moment is upon us. If you would let it happen, it should be now, or they will surely begin to eat one another."

"Then let us give them something else to eat," Thurl says, holding his claws up: "Release the War Spawn!"

And with the rushing of many unfathomably-large beings -- the very stuff of nightmares, Overland or otherwise -- his words become law, and the decision is made. 

Hopefully it will be one the Kingdom can live with.

* * *

"Yes, I know you're getting !@#$ing hammered," SPYGOD shouts at one group of heroes, watching their movements on one of the many screens he has up in Lady Gilda: "Fall back a little. Let them think they're !@#$ing driving you back. Hold on-

"Okay, good. Well done, American Shield. Now hold that !@#$ position. Pretend it's !@#$ing Korea, again, and the Chinese are coming over the !@#$ hill. Okay? !@#$ing awesome. Hold on-

"Bee-Bee? Pass me some of that !@#$ vodka, will you?

"Okay, go ahead. What, how many times has the kid blown up? Not even a !@#$ scratch? Well !@#$. Okay, start using your alchemy thing, then. Have him blow up the !@#$ Specials when they show up. Hold on-

"Bee-Bee? This !@#$ sobriety isn't going to !@#$ing cure itself! Move your fuzzy !@#$ and give me booze!

"Sorry, yelling at the cat. Where are you? China? Okay, that's not where you were !@#$ing supposed to be... oh, you got that other one? Okay, then. Good work. Now if you take this one out, too? Just !@#$ing stay there. I may need you to go on to... hold on-

"Yes, Owl, go ahead. Oh, he did? Well !@#$ me running, that's !@#$ impressive. Okay, you hold that position. Do not go further. I may need you to swap with... ah, !@#$. Hold on-

"Okay, thanks Bee-Bee. You know I get if I don't get my !@#$ing vodka.

"Yes, Mister 10. We have you. Please don't start !@#$ing moving until we've got a green board on the satellites? I don't want you to get !@#$ing zapped from orbit-

"Come to think of it... Hey? How's that satellite situation going? They loaded up, yet?

"Hello? Earth calling !@#$ing B.A.S.E.C.AM.P. 4! Where the !@#$ing !@#$ are my !@#$ing satellites?"

* * *

"Tell him we're having some difficulties!" Mark Clutch shouts to Skyspear as he grabs the biggest gun he can find and runs off to the infirmary, leaving the massive, tv-like machine that dominates the grand buffet room to hiss and spit: "Just that!"

"And what if the difficulties come here?" she shouts, looking at Winifred, who's white-faced and crying, spattered with what's left of Running Bird: "That monster could destroy the machine with ease!"

"I trust you to keep him back," Mark says, stealing back one last look at her. And he does, too. 

A lot of thoughts are going through his mind, right now, as he runs. Where the heck is the Lion? Where are the satellites? Where's Myron, for that matter? Can they get the equipment back to the real world before the beast smashes their way in and out?

And are they going to have to sacrifice themselves to hold it here, so that what needs to get done on the other side of the television can be done?

On the way he has two of his questions answered when he runs into Myron, who's struggling to carry one of the satellites to the main room all by himself. He's been burned, and is either bleeding or covered in someone else's blood. 

"You alright?" he asks.

"That's a !@#$ stupid question," Myron hisses: "Is Winifred okay?"

"She's shaken, but not hurt."

"Oh thank God," he says, and continues a little faster: "I'll see if I can get the rest of them to the main room. But I'll need help!"

"I can get you some time," Mark says, continuing to run: "Hopefully that'll be enough!"

Myron says something in return, but Mark doesn't hear it. He's running too fast. Praying too loudly. 

Scared too much.

Outside the infirmary, there's fire and blood. SPYGOD SCOUTS are struggling to put it out with halon fire extinguishers, but the flames are proving intractable. If this gets any worse, the whole treehouse may go up. 

In fact, the only flames that are being put out are the ones doused in human blood. A good thing there's so much of it, Mark thinks. And then he curses himself for ever even being able to think it. 

(What the !@#$ is happening to him?)

He gets inside the infirmary, jumping over a charred lump of flesh and fat that was once their doctor, right through a broken, smoldering hole in the wall that used to be the door. Just past it is the broken, shattered remains of what used to be the examination room and operating theater. 

And beyond that is a sight he never thought possible -- someone actually holding off the monster that's rampaged through their base.

It's the Green Man, and he's moving so fast that Moloch can't get a hit on him, using surgical implements and steel bars to block and parry the numerous, slicing arms that the brass beast's limbs have separated into.

"You will fall before Moloch!" the monster rages, smoke and fire tumbling from its mouth.

"You will tire and give up before I'm even scratched," Green Man taunts him, leaping up and throwing a knife right at the thing's eye. It melts into metal steam before it can do any damage, but the skill needed for such a throw is unnerving, and makes the monster take a step back.

"Hey, ugly!" Mark shouts, and opens fire. 

The beast turns around to regard him as the bullets bounce from its hide. As it does, Mark sees where the Lion has gone during all this. And the sight of the man in the machine makes him hesitate, just for a second.

And in that moment, Moloch strikes, shooting a gout of hellfire right at Mark's face.

In the split-second before everything explodes, he wonders how Martha is doing, and if she'll ever know what he'd been trying to tell her, all these months.

And he thinks what a stupid and sudden way to die this is.

And he prays that Thomas' father can save his son, and that the others can save the planet. 

And he closes his eyes, hoping that the next thing he sees is Jesus, welcoming him home at last.

And then everything goes hot and noisy and yellow, then cold and silent and white, and he follows the cool, pale quiet down, wondering what he'll find at the bottom of it all.

(SPYGOD is listening to Fly on the Windscreen (Depeche Mode) and having a Fireball)

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)

9/24/12 - Shapeless in the Dark Again - pt. 1

It's the dreams that get to him, these days. They always do.

In his dreams, Wen Boxiong is back on 3/15, and the Imago have just upended the would-be upheaval of the Chinese government. The pro-democracy forces have been quite literally broken, their battered and bloody pieces strewn over the floor like a scene from a particularly filthy slaughterhouse. He can hear screams echoing throughout the building as the revolution's remnants are seen to, and the sounds and the smells are so vivid and nauseating that even when he closes his eyes he can still see what's causing them.

There is no escape from this one terrible moment he is trapped within.

If this was merely a memory, the Imago would be hailed as liberators, and then tell their General Secretary (the one who's dead, now) to stand by for an important announcement. And Wen Boxiong would remain kneeling, praying that no one noticed that he had soiled himself while begging for his life. He'd remain there well past the announcement, miming shock, until he could excuse himself to a nearby toilet to be sick in, and then, weeping, clean himself up.

If this was merely a memory and not a nightmare, that is what would happen. That is what happened, all those months ago. And everything that's happened since then is further testament to either the power of cowardice, or the fact that something out there is looking out for him -- near-worthless coward that he is.

But in his nightmares, the Imago do not stand there like serene, metal statues, perversely beaming with endless smiles and kindly looks after having torn men apart like paper dolls. Instead they all turn towards him as he kneels, festering in his own filth, and point their bloody fingers at him.

"Traitor," one of them says.

"Collaborator," says another.

"Saboteur," confirms yet another.

They repeat their accusations, stepping just a little closer with each new round. He whimpers and protests his innocence, begging for his life to them just as he did to the now-dead revolutionaries. He falls to the ground and abases himself, losing control over his bowels yet one more time as they finally reach him.

And then they all raise up their fists like hammers, and bring them down on his head.

That's usually when he wakes up, eyes wide open and heart racing. Sometimes he dreams they're halfway through pulping him, first. Sometimes they're more creative than that.

He used to always scream when the dreams reached that point, and wake up to the sound of his own voice in his ears. These days he just sits up with a start, gasping and thankful that it was just another dream. His head is still intact. His pants are not full of !@#$.

And no one -- not even the American President  in exile -- knows all his dirty secrets.

But as he slowly takes control of his breathing, once again, and debates whether to try and go back to bed, pour himself a drink, or try and do both, he remains unaware that a pair of figures are watching him from the shadows. They remain both still and mute, watching and listening as he makes up his mind, and as he goes to turn on the light one of them nods.

The lamp goes on, but they're gone just before its light can reach them. 

* * *

It's 10:30 at night, and the biggest, best hospital in Addis Ababa has been closed to visitors for quite some time. Nurses perform their rounds, doctors check up on their patients, and surgeons go from case to case, looking forward to the chance to do what this time of the day normally demands.

Somewhere in all that motion, an unseen crime takes place. A strange noise is heard by no one, and then there are two people in a private room, meant for only one occupant.

He's young and good looking, the man lying in the hospital bed. He's also in a vegetative state, blank eyes staring at the ceiling. The only sounds in the room are his gentle, shallow breathing and the endless beep beep beep of his heart monitor.

It's a good set-up, this room, and the least that NGUVU could do for one of its stricken agents. But there's very little hope of this man ever getting any better. Some strange kind of sudden brain damage, his doctors figure -- nothing they've seen before, and nothing they'd wish on someone.

The two figures regard the young man as he stares at the ceiling. There's spy cameras all over the room, but they don't seem too concerned, any more than they're worried about the two fellows who are lounging outside in the hallway, their guns just a quick gesture away.

"It's time," one of them says, his voice old and scratchy, but quite forceful.

"So it is," the other replies, his voice strange and echoing, as though it were coming from a long ways down a tunnel.

The other waves his silvery hand, and something strange happens to the man in the bed. He blinks his eyes, screws them shut, and shakes his head, as if he were coming out of a bad dream.

"You're not dreaming," the one with the old voice tells the man, who starts at the sound, but is unable to raise himself from bed.

"Where... who..." Khalil asks, his voice weak and raspy: "Why can't I see?"

"Your sight will return in a few days. You've suffered brain damage."

"I... brain damage?"

"Yes. That thing your attacker used scrambles your brains into paste. If you hadn't put up your shield, it would have killed you outright. As it is, you were pretty much gone from the neck up for the last nine days, but darn lucky to be alive."

"I see..." the man says, trying to put his hands to his face but failing.

"Don't push it, young man. It's going to take a while to get back to normal."

"Who are you?" Khalil asks: "I remember... I was..."

"You were visited," the old-sounding man says: "And you might think you know who it was, but you don't. Not really, anyway."

"I do not understand."

"It is well that you do not," the one with the echoing voice chimes in: "But when your friends find you, tomorrow, you must not tell them who did this to you. It is not yet time for them to learn the true face of the one who attacked you."

"No," Khalil insists: "We promised... no more... no more secrets."

"Did you, now?" the old-sounding one says: "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

The other visitor waves a silver hand, again, and the expression on Khalil's face changes. He blinks his useless eyes and tries to get up.

"Do you remember who attacked you, son?" the older-sounding man asks.

"No..." Khalil says: "I thought I did, but... no, it's gone. I do not know who... who are you?"

But the two mysterious figures are gone, leaving Khalil to yell at an otherwise-empty room until the NGUVU agents out in the hallway come in to see what the matter is.

* * *

Human time is a hard thing to reckon at the black, crushing bottom of the Atlantic, where the Kingdom rises above the Wet Below. The Sun's rays do not shine down there, after all, and any landmade contrivances for keeping track of its passing tend to be flattened into hard, little balls of matter before they get even halfway down to its spiky, rock towers and glittering walls.

But it is enough to know that it is the later part of what they would think of as a day. And that is quite significant, tonight, as the activity within that city is much, much greater than it would normally be for this point in time.

The citadel has come alive, tonight. Swarms of living lights encircle its tall, craggy spires and shed light on its dark hollows. Near-mindless, globular things are goaded into floating about the city in an endless parade of alien pomp and circumstance. Its denizens' finest jewelry crawls about their carapaces, and all eyes are bright and filled with wonder.

For today is the day that the Emperor dies, and yet lives.

Today, Emperor Thurl, who has ruled the Kingdom for untold ages, will sink so that his spawn may rise.

At this very moment, in the room of the seven jaws, dignitaries and emissaries from every corner of the Dark are watching as Thurl is being consumed by his strongest, toughest spawn. The Emperor has been prepared with the utmost skill by the royal food preparers, so that he is most edible and delicious, yet still alive and conscious.

It is a complex and meaty ritual, this deathlifedreamsleep. His spawn and he must remain in conversation as long as possible as the former devours the brains of the latter. They must share their souls, their hopes, and their dreams as they become one in the flesh. Only then can the royal jewels truly accept their new Emperor, and only after that happens will the Kingdom truly kneel before him.

This ritual has happened many times, but this is truly a special occasion. It is not only the first new deathlifedreamsleep since the ending of the Overobligation, but also the first to be witnessed by an overlander. Yellow and Blue, Imago adviser to the Kingdom, floats above the sacred feast and watches, apparently quite fascinated by its savage intimacy.

(Or maybe she's smiling for a different reason?)

Outside the palace, at the outskirts of the city, the other Imago -- Orange and Green -- walks amongst the people, as has become his habit. He has found that watching a condemned and mewling leader spend his last days in power is not to his liking. And, as his companion seems better suited to make certain the Emperor does not renege on their agreement.

Of course, that's academic, now. The Emperor is soon to be dead, replaced by his child. That child will be advised by Blue and Yellow, and thereby kept from discovering the shocking truth that his father had uncovered, about the their City. And so will the mighty Kingdom be kept blind and docile to their plans, and what will come on The Day.

And after that, well...

He smiles a little at that thought, wondering if the soon-to-be-late Emperor's boasts of being able to survive another "overapocalypse" will amount to anything, this time.

As Orange and Green wanders, observing, he is in turn observed. Up above his head, hiding in the wandering shadows between schools of lightfish, two figures float. The one with the older voice is nestled inside the silvery body of the other, as though they were Russian dolls of a sort, and in this fashion they are both protected from the harsh environment, here.

The Imago comes to the very edge of the city, now, and turns to look around, taking in the few stragglers to the party, or those few who are choosing to leave it. As he does, he listens to a family as they devour their dinner in a cramped hole that may be their home, a restaurant, or just some corner they've ducked into.

It's two adults and a child, possibly no larger or older than the one who's about to be the new Emperor. He's not sure if what they're eating could be something that has a name, or is just food -- even after a few months he's not sure how they differentiate between the two.

"If the Emperor is dying, why are we happy?" the child asks.

"Because the Emperor never truly dies, my freshshell," one of the parents explains: "He dies in the mouth of the spawn but he lives in the heart of the spawn. This is how we continue, here in the Dark."

"But I thought when we died we went into Mother Dark?"

"Only if we choose to," the other parent said, letting her mate eat in peace: "Those like us have no power and no station, and must obey our masters, but ours is the right of joyrest. And those who have power are both master and slave to their station, and they must suffer the deathlifedreamsleep for all our sakes."

"Deathlifedreamsleep..." the child says, letting the word roll out of its mouth.

And Orange and Green hears this word, and remembers something that Thurl spoke of, the first time they met. He remembers something about "formlife," and how the Emperor had taken three forms since the Overobligation.

He had thought that Thurl had been referring to some kind of molting process, or some strange metamorphosis, unique to their species. But remembering the strange words he heard the massing guests and dignitaries whisper amongst themselves when he deigned to visit the citadel -- reverent mentions of sacred cycles, the gifting, and the oldnew --  he begins to understand that he has misunderstood.

He realizes he has made a mistake, and that they have been fooled.

Oh, there will be punishment for this deceit! This Kingdom is now forfeit. The Imago will rain down fire from Deep Ten to purge it from the seabed. They will send down reinforcements to rend and tear to pieces what manages to live through that. And they will ensure that this "oldnew" Thurl lives long enough to see the full consequences of his sorry, sad attempt to trick them...

But that is the last thought that Orange and Green has, at least along those lines.

The next thought he has is why everything around him is shimmering, and then blazing hot.

And then he never thinks anything, ever again.

The two figures in one watch as the small piece of Earth from a few billion years ago -- molten and hungry -- consumes everything and everyone that stood atop it. Those few beings closest to the Imago are instantly slurped down and immolated, and while Orange and Green's armor can withstand the stress for a time, its fleshy bits are less protected.

Its work done, the superhot maw begins to cool off. Those nearby either scuttle away from the intense heat, or kneel and pray towards it, hoping to supplicate its hunger with their love. The family in the cuttlehole leave their meal to observe, praying as they go.

For they believe it to be the Red, come to take its due for this day. Such incursions are not unknown, even right here within the Kingdom. And while some may say that such a thing, in such a place, at such a time, augurs ill for the start of Emperor Thurl's new formlife, some will say that this is as it should be.

And with the disappearance of the two figures in one -- sad, but satisfied that what has needed to happen, here, has been done -- no one will be any the wiser.

Especially not Blue and Yellow.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Hanging Garden (the Cure) and drinking something under heavy pressure)