1/1/13 - A Shadow of Life - Pt. 2

Where the !@#$ we? Not that important, son. We could be a big !@#$ mile under Paris, London, Neo York City. Anywhere the Terre Unifee's got its fat, French fingers into, we could be there, watching our man get the mother of all debriefings.

(I'm betting Rome, though. The guards all look like pictures of my Great Uncle from my !@#$ing family album. Especially the women.)

What is important is what this guy is saying, and you can bet everyone worth a !@#$ in this new, post-Imago world is listening in.

That goes for me, too, of course. And you can bet your big !@#$ $800 Prada belt I'm looking in on this third man, along with Straffer. 

What, they trust us again, now? !@#$ no, son. We're still on the outs. It's just that we sort of !@#$ing invited  ourselves. 

But here's the kicker. No one else in the room can !@#$ing see us, but we can see and hear every !@#$ thing that's going on. 

(And how we're doing that is something I'm going to have to keep !@#$ing quiet for now, son. I'm supposed to be under House Arrest, after all. We wouldn't want to get in any worse trouble than we're already in, would we? Though it'd be hard !@#$ing work to do that, at this point.)

But we're watching and listening as the TU's best interrogators are working this man over, ever so gently. As someone who's had to "welcome" any number of superspies, villains, and idiots with more power than ethics or brains over the years, I have to say they're doing a !@#$ good job.  

Even with that weird, green-haired woman standing right behind them (the one who makes it so his powers don't !@#$ing work) I wouldn't be worried that he'd try to jump the !@#$ out of here with the sugar trail they're leading his dead-eyed !@#$ down.

Not that he has anywhere to jump, now. Not really. Not now that his double, Disparaître, has his scent and can follow him !@#$ing anywhere he tries to go. 

And not that he can really go home, either, which is the whole !@#$ point of this discussion.

I'd almost feel sorry for him, except that I'm still too !@#$ed off at what happened there, a couple months back. That and I'm still trying to wrap my !@#$ing noggin around what he's saying he saw. 

And yes, son. Now more than ever, that is saying something.

* * *

You see, son, something has gone wrong. Badly wrong.

The whole Alter Earth plan revolved around one big !@#$ fact. And that was that, while both our planet and theirs was going to be visited by this big !@#$ space monster to end all big !@#$ space monsters, we were going to get hit first. 

How did they even !@#$ing  know this? !@#$ed if I know, son. I know that they had some records left over from the time before, when other things were living on their Earth, but how they knew how to interpret them, and how those things even !@#$ing knew? Kind of makes my !@#$ head hurt. 

!@#$, son. For all I know their Zombie Emperor Jesus gave the !@#$ing date ex !@#$ing cathedra, at some point during his centuries-long reign. Who can say? 

Alter Earth was never what you'd call a !@#$ good source of reliable intel. Most of what we got, prior to my discovery in the HONEYCOMB's central HIVE, was courtesy of people who got zapped over here for however long before they faded back home. 

And as you might !@#$ing imagine, they really did not feel like cooperating. Even when we were really !@#$ nice to them. 

(Especially when we were really !@#$ nice. It scared them more than the threats.)

But here's the big !@#$ deal, son. Like I said earlier, we were supposed to get !@#$ing nailed by this space beast a year and three months before them. And the idea was that they had some machine that might help, and they wanted to test it out.

So big !@#$ space monster day would come, they'd turn their !@#$ing technogooble on, cook up some !@#$ing popcorn, sprinkle butter-flavored powdered baby parts over it, and munch and !@#$ while watching us burn, or melt, or whatever. And then they'd go home, intel in hand, and either build a bigger version of their !@#$ing machine, or prepare to bring people over here to ride out the storm.

Whichever, whatever. But they had a plan, based on a rough time estimate, and they were !@#$ing sticking with it. 

Well... you know what I say about plans, by now.  Right, son?

* * *

So our third man, this double of Disparaître, he's spent the last couple months carrying on like nothing's !@#$ different, because for him it really isn't. He can go back and !@#$ing forth, right? Who cares about the !@#$ Imago if you can just wink anywhere you !@#$ well like?  

He comes here, sees !@#$, doesn't !@#$ing care, does nothing. Maybe he gets in contact with the other me and the nasty !@#$ they were partnered up with, maybe he doesn't. And then he goes home, checks in, feeds them intel that's a mix of true and false, just to keep things !@#$ing interesting. 

Comes here, goes there, repeat as !@#$ing needed. 

So he's telling these nice TU interrogators that the last time he was there was a day at the end of !@#$ing November. They were having Market Day, then, apparently, and he had a few big !@#$ing purchases he wanted to make.

(And you do not want to know what he bought, son. Just trust me there.)

He buys some... things. He makes his !@#$ report. It's half true, half bull!@#$. They don't !@#$ing call him on it, he doesn't give them a reason to, and then he !@#$ing comes back over here.

And then, on Christmas Day, he teleports the !@#$ back home, expecting to find people preparing for another !@#$ing festival. Something to do with the Unconquered Son, or some such.

And instead...

...

The first thing he noticed was the Moon. It was gone. A big !@#$ piece of it was tumbling away from view, end over end like some poor !@#$hole falling out of a plane without a chute. 

Then the smell hits him. The kind of horrible charred smell you get when the mother of all pot roasts gets left in the oven just long enough to turn into coal, mixed with damp rot, methane, and !@#$ knows what else.

He looks down. It's the worst thing he could have done. Nothing is left of the city he once came back to. The buildings are all shattered and razed, covered in some weird, black !@#$.

There are people still alive. Just not a lot of them, and not for long.

The first one he comes across is kneeling with her back to him. She's a slave, he thinks, because she's naked. She's dirty and bruised and bloody, she's messed herself.

And there's something about the noises she's making...

* * *

At first, he thinks she's just crying, as her face is wet and she's making low noises. And who wouldn't be? Her world is destroyed, her master probably dead. There's no reason to stay silent and stoic, anymore.  

Who would be so cruel as to beat her for a lack of composure at a time like this?

But when he walks around, he sees his error.

She is not weeping. She is making the sound that people do when their minds have finally failed, and their bodies are shutting down. The low, endless "uuuuuuu" of the lost and the dying.

And she is not crying, either. The black, lumpy streams of matter oozing from her blasted and smoking eyesockets are not tears.

He has the uncomfortable feeling they may be what's left of her brains. 

He steps away from her, quickly, and looks around. He sees there are more just like her, living and dead. All with the same open, blackened, and smoking eyesockets, leaking charred and filthy matter down their faces.  

The few living ones making that horrible noise, the only sounds over the rushing wind and licking flames.

He whirls around, seeing that the buildings are alive with gruesome things. A pulsing, living darkness, clinging to their cracked surfaces. Insubstantial but ever-present, smelling of something truly awful.  

Something infectious, hanging in the wound between worlds.

He jumps, heading to the one place where there should be actual survivors. The place prepared for the highest amongst the high. Those whose robes are so white it actually hurts to look at them, and their servants must have their eyes altered accordingly.  

The Sleep Chamber, the last hope of their world. Mighty and inviolate, and still intact, there in the distance.

But the moment he teleports, he screams. The air is wrong, somehow. The substance tainted.

Something dark is waiting for him, there.  

He flails away, landing outside the building he was aiming for. And then he realizes what is wrong. The strange, pulsing darkness that has coated the broken buildings is here as well, sliding over the outside surface.  

Feeding on what is within.

He hears their screams from the high windows. They howl that they were cheated. That they should have been given a new world they could live in, and not this sere and carnivorous landscape.  

Not this shattered, black mockery of a world. 

He could go up there and save them. He knows this. But he also knows that this would risk going into whatever darkness hangs in space between here and there. The scalding, acidic foulness that almost devoured him the last time.  

And so he turns, and ignores his masters in their moment of need.

He's crying, now. It's finally sinking in. His world is gone. There is nothing left for him now, here. Their plan is over.  

It was all a terrible mistake.

But then he makes an even greater mistake. He looks up, past what's left of the Moon, still falling away from his world.

And he sees... something. A blackness, where there should be stars. A dark shape, getting smaller as it moves away from the planet it just wrecked.  

And for the briefest moment, maybe the space between two heartbeats, he can make out its shape...

* * *

And that, son, is when he finally did the sensible thing and got the !@#$ out of dodge.

He's not entirely sure what happened next, to hear him tell it. He says he !@#$ing wandered around in a daze for a while, alternating between crying and drinking. And then he just settled on !@#$ing drinking, and went to that nasty Cairo bar, knowing they'd leave him the !@#$ alone.

That's where they found his sorry !@#$, like I said. He wasn't trying too hard to hide, anymore, though. He just didn't !@#$ing care. In fact, according to him, he was working up his courage to go step into the !@#$ Sun when they arrived.

(One way to dodge the mother of all bar bills, I guess?)

All well and good, of course. But looking at this broken bastard, crying into his hands now that the massive pile of nasty !@#$ we used to call Alter Earth is a !@#$ing tomb, here's the big !@#$ question, son. 

How do I feel about this? 

See, I used to dream about a day like this. I used to imagine a final !@#$ end to that !@#$hole of a world. All their rape as punishment, torture as entertainment, child sex as family business, death!@#$ing as ritual... just to find out it all ended at 5 in the PM on an otherwise-boring friday would have !@#$ing made my weekend. 

Especially after what happened, last year.

But now? Looking at this creepy !@#$ copy of Disparaître crying because he !@#$ing feels he should be dead, too? That he failed them, somehow? 

It reminds of of this time after the War, when I was looking at the dossiers of Hitler's Ubermenschen. The before and after photos Hitlers oh-so-exacting record keepers kept, year after year. All those fresh-faced kids and young people, some staring ahead like soldiers, some smiling like kids having their !@#$ graduation photos taken. 

I remembered some of them. I fought them. I cut them to pieces, shot them full of holes, ripped them apart with my !@#$ing hands. I cheered to see them dead and dying. !@#$, I even laughed  as they bled out.

But looking at their pictures, all there in their fresh, new uniforms, their faces full of hope and pride? I couldn't see any !@#$ difference between them and the pictures of the kids and young people I volunteered with, after Pearl Harbor. 

Just different uniforms. Different countries that couldn't settle things peaceably. Different ideologies that couldn't coexist. 

Differences that killed. 

Was it their fault those German kids were born into a broken world? Was it their fault they were told evil was good, wrong was right? Did most of them really know what they were !@#$ing doing?

I was never !@#$ing sure with some of them. But I think of all that !@#$ potential wasted. All that possibility gone.

And you know what? Even of Alter Earth was broken, so that the good was bad and the bad was really !@#$ing bad? How do we know there weren't some !@#$ points of light, there in that darkness? How do we know there weren't saints, alive and working in secret?

Did the good deserve to die along with the evil? 

... 

I don't know, son. Sometimes I make like I'm the biggest !@#$ing authority on everything in the !@#$ world, and maybe sometimes I am. But at a time like this, I can't be of any !@#$ing help at all. 

At times like this, I'm just an !@#$hole with a gun who's famous for all the wrong !@#$ reasons.

* * *

Sow what?

My wonderful boyfriend, he talks to aliens for a living. Usually from the other end of a very large !@#$ing gun, of course, but we've always had other species living here, on Earth. And so long as they behave themselves and don't !@#$ing cornhole cows and steal farmers' daughters off to Zeta Omicron IV and a !@#$ half for fun and profit, we're fine. 

Sometimes they're even !@#$ing useful, because sometimes they have actionable intelligence. And even when they don't, well, at least they've got stories.

So you can imagine that, when I realized what this ((UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT)) thing was about, I wanted to !@#$ing know everything. And while a lot of them don't have more info than we did, at least they had stories. 

Horrible stories.

Stories of entire !@#$ing solar systems wiped out in days. Stories of big !@#$ empires brought to nothing. Stories of the greatest !@#$ing armies and armadas wrecked to !@#$ and left burning in space.

Stories of how this !@#$ing thing's presence within a lightyear was enough to make entire planets pack the !@#$ up and go in the opposite !@#$ing direction, hoping it didn't notice them. 

Stories about how nothing could !@#$ing save those who were hit by this thing. Not bomb shelters or shields. Not all the !@#$ armaments in the world.  

Stories about how the few survivors didn't last long...

But this third man? This Omega-class teleporter sitting in this room, trying not to cry? He's the only person who's ever actually seen the immediate aftermath of this thing.

So now we know the stories we've been hearing are true. 

We know that, once we see that !@#$ thing, it'll be on us in less than a month. 

We know exactly what it will do when it gets here, and that nothing we can do will save anyone. 

We know that the disturbing news we got some time ago is even more disturbing than we'd thought.

We know what we are up against.  

And for me, that means that, now more than ever, we have to come together. All the plans, all the plots, all the problems. None of them are with a good god!@#$.

And that, son, means this House Arrest !@#$ needs to end, one way or another. I don't have time to be sidelined or out of action. Neither does my lover.

The good is not going to end here, son. Not so long as I have a !@#$ing breath. 

This fight must be fought, and I've got to be there, for all our sakes. 

(SPYGOD is listening to In a Dark Place (Gary Numan, remix) and having nothing now)

1/1/13 - A Shadow of Life - Pt. 1

The first thing he'd noticed, our man, was that there was no Moon up in the sky.

And yeah, that seems like a !@#$ing funny thing to notice first, given everything else that was waiting for him. All those !@#$ing horrible sights and terrifying sounds. All those sickening odors, coupled with the knowledge of what those ghastly !@#$ smells were.

The brain-!@#$ing understanding that can only come in a moment like that.

(And, yeah, the increasing, big-!@#$-iron-brick-in-the-stomach feeling you tend to get the moment you know that either you've !@#$ed it all up, or someone else has.)

But it actually makes perfect !@#$ sense, given that our man always liked to look up at the sky when he did this. He'd look at the Sun or the Moon, or the clouds or the stars. He'd see where they were, up there, far far from anything on the ground.

And then he'd close his eyes, and smile, and then open them up somewhere else.

Somewhere different, let's say. 

So this time, there had been this bright, beautiful thing up over the cold, December horizon, waxing so full and fat he could make out most of the craters. It was a clear night, and the moonlight on the snow was a !@#$ beautiful thing. So !@#$ beautiful that it was hard to believe it was happening on the same day so much bad and crazy !@#$ had happened.

(Not that he was really all that shocked by it, as we're now learning, one big !@#$ interrogation at a time.)

Our man? He'd looked up at the big !@#$ moon, held out his hands, and closed his eyes. And he'd done that thing that he did so !@#$ well, knowing at least the sky would be the same when he got to where he was !@#$ing going.

That different place he liked to call home, when he wasn't over here, !@#$ing up our !@#$.

But when he'd opened his eyes again, our man, the big !@#$ thing just wasn't there. It was gone, leaving nothing but the cold, distant stars, barely visible from the fast-moving, sickly clouds that were streaking over him like they had somewhere more !@#$ing important to be.

And there was no big !@#$ Moon in the sky because the big !@#$ Moon was no longer there.

It was gone from the sky. Missing from orbit. And if he squinted his eyes just so, he could see that a bright patch, just past those streaking clouds, was a big, jagged piece of it, flying away from the Earth.

Which may or may not have been when his mind gave our man a mercy he really did not !@#$ing deserve and just shut the !@#$ down, sparing him the full realization of what he saw next.

The realization we're all !@#$ing wishing we didn't have to deal with, ourselves. 

* * *

There's a lot of reasons why this is happening right the !@#$ now, son. But by and large (as my beautiful boyfriend tells me) his new friend Disparaître was the key.

He's !@#$ quiet for a Frenchman, that guy. Just doesn't like to talk at all. Not too unpleasant to look at, but not gonna win any !@#$ing awards from the body nazis at the bar. Likes dark blue suits and !@#$ty, cheap cigarettes. Doesn't get !@#$ing drunk with everyone else, either.

Maybe because he's afraid of what might happen if he !@#$ing loses control. 

You see, Disparaître is the best !@#$ing teleporter the Terre Unifee's got in its stable of postwar supers. He was Direction Noir's dirty little secret for decades, going here, there, and !@#$ing everywhere in the blink of an eye, getting !@#$ done on the quiet, and then vanishing before anyone could figure he'd been there. 

And since the Reclamation War, and TU's slow takeover of the rest of the !@#$ world, he's been working for their Space Service, making sure our best !@#$ defense against a certain thing that's !@#$ing coming to kill the !@#$ planet can be anywhere it needs to be. 

And I do !@#$ing mean anywhere, son. 

You see, most teleporters are only able to tekeport within line of sight, or maybe someplace they know. Some of them can even muster up enough !@#$ moxie to take you somewhere they feel they know because they more or less know where it is. Like the !@#$ing Eiffel Tower or something. 

(That's Skyspear, in case you were !@#$ing wondering.)

And some of them? Well, they're good enough to take you someplace they don't know, but they have seen. Show them a !@#$ picture and they'll get you where you need to go. Might take a whole bunch of stops, but they'll get you there, eventually. 

(And that's Anil, in case you were wondering about that.)

But some of them? Well, !@#$, son, you give them coordinates? Show them someone's picture? Give them a general idea? They think for a minute, if that, and then poof, they're there, surprising the !@#$ out of someone, and moving through space in such a way that no one -- not even someone like Wayfinder, rest his soul -- could ever find him?

And that's Disparaître for you, son. Anywhere in a few seconds, with or without company, and totally !@#$ing undetectable. !@#$ useful to have around.

But there's more to his power than he lets on.

See, if Disparaître wanted to go to the !@#$ing moon? He could. He's even done it before, once, when Direction Noir needed to deal with something pretty !@#$ heinous and alien, back in the 90's. All he needed was a !@#$ spacesuit they stole from the ESA, and away he went.

If he wanted to go to Pluto? He could do that, too. Might be a little hairy, and he'd need a better !@#$ing spacesuit, but sure.

And if he wanted to !@#$ing end his life with a !@#$ of a bang, and just walk on the !@#$ Sun...? Well, I guess you can figure that out, huh? 

Like I said, son. Quite a useful guy to have around. 

But there's a reason why Disparaître avoids talking to people, unless he feels he needs to. There's a reason why he doesn't lose control. And there's a reason why he's !@#$ glad most teleporters of Anil's level or higher just don't need to sleep, for one reason or another. Though most folks I know figure it's to keep them from accidentally teleporting themselves someplace dangerous in their dreams. 

And that's because Disparaître can go somewhere else, if he really wants to. 

But he went there once, when he was very young. In fact, that was the first place he ever teleported to, and it drained him so badly it took him three whole days to come back. 

And as for what happened in those three days? Well, it's part of the reason why he's so quiet and reserved, I guess you could say. But it's also the reason why he never teleported again until Direction Noir's scientists found him in a home for mentally disturbed young adults, dragged him the !@#$ out of there, and gave him a choice between a uniform and a lobotomy. 

(And they thought The COMPANY was !@#$ing brutal? Give me a !@#$ break.)

But he took the !@#$ uniform. He became their teleporter. Over time, he even came to appreciate it, as doing something constructive with his talents made some of the rage and pain go away, and helped him to conquer what had been done to him.

He was becoming a survivor, as they like to say these days. And rightfully !@#$ing so.  

A survivor, he served with Direction Noir, until it stopped !@#$ing existing on 3/15. At that point he became part of what would become the Terre Unifee, which has yet to stop existing. And that led to him becoming part of their Space Service, tasked with protecting our world from all external threats. Especially the big !@#$ one that's on its way here.

The thing we call ((UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT))

Which led to him being a part of a post-Christmas meeting with the new President of the Terre Unifee, being the former President of the United States of America. During which time he finally got to meet the new boss for the first !@#$ing time.

Which led to a very frenzied few minutes as the President all but freaked out, and accused poor Disparaître of having once done a very terrible thing. 

* * *

Which terrible thing? 

Well, !@#$ son, you were there. You know what happened to my former Commander in Chief. About a month before GORGON !@#$ing dropped the boom down on the world, they arranged to have him !@#$ing kidnapped, right out of the Oval Office, and zapped over to !@#$ing Alter Earth. 

And just so we wouldn't look for him, and just to !@#$ with my ability to stop their alien !@#$es, they brought his twin from Alter Earth here, to be shot and killed on live television by my !@#$ing Alter Earth twin.

So eventually, I figure out what the !@#$ happened, and find a way to get my !@#$ over to Alter Earth and save him. And I did, though things got a little !@#$ing weird with the plan, and the complications nearly !@#$ed the greater plan right in the !@#$ behind with a !@#$ing giant robot jackhammer, minus the lube. 

Eventually, we find out what the big deal was, courtesy of one of the nastiest !@#$ing things I've ever had the displeasure of having to sit in a courtroom with. Turns out the Imago had a deal going with the !@#$ing Alter Earth crowd, courtesy of a rather twisted !@#$ who fooled us all into thinking she was the good twin of the now-dead head of HONEYCOMB, and her bodyguard, who turned out to be my twin. And it all revolves around that thing that's on its way to Earth, here to eat us up like a big !@#$ bag of !@#$ing jellybeans, or whatever. 

See, according to Dark Star, these Alter Earth people had known for quite a long !@#$ time that this thing was on its way. And they also knew that our planet was going to get hit first, about a year and a quarter before them. And since they'd had time to prepare, they had a big !@#$ing machine they wanted to turn on, here, and see if it worked. 

So, it works? Hip !@#$ing hooray, and they'll use it at home. It doesn't? Well, tough !@#$ing !@#$, and they'd get ready to just move their people from there to here after we got all !@#$ed up, wait for the storm on their end to die down, and then either go back or stay here... whichever. 

Got all that?

Now, it goes without saying that the Alter Earth people had their own !@#$ agenda and weren't playing straight with the Imago. And it also goes without saying that the Imago weren't going to just !@#$ing sit around and wait to see if the Alter Earth people's big !@#$ machine worked or not. 

In fact, I don't think the big !@#$ machine even got built on their watch, mostly because I think the machine was just The Chamber, sitting down there in the !@#$ Ice Palace, and waiting for Geri Yesterday to figure out how it worked, and use it to drive the thing off, just like it did a million years ago. Only once the Imago took over, their absorbed version of Doctor Yesterday kind of !@#$ed around and didn't get anywhere figuring it the !@#$ out, and Geri kind of vanished... maybe. 

(Still not !@#$ing sure what all happened there, son, though I'm hoping for more answers, soon.)

But let's do some math, shall we? We got the Alter Earth Geri Yesterday accounted for, and she's probably out there somewhere, being a dangerous !@#$. And we've got my Alter Earth double accounted for, and he's out there, somewhere, no longer able to be me with !@#$ing impunity but still dangerous. 

But to borrow a line from an old movie, what about the third man?

* * *

Oh yes, son. There's a third force in play. Kind of sneaky, too. 

See, on the day the President was supposedly killed, but actually was taken, he was approached by someone in the Oval Office. Someone that even Wayfinder couldn't see, somehow, though he knew I was there... even if it wasn't me.  Someone in a weird uniform no one had ever seen before, and one that a certain former Secret Service Agent named Jess Friend (who had what was, hands-down, the worst first day of any SS Agent ever) just knew was up to no !@#$ing good. 

But then the other me showed up, just in time to make !@#$ing history the worst !@#$ way possible. And then Jess was missing parts. 

So this third guy took the President to Alter Earth, dropped him off to his captors, and then replaced him with his double. Said double gets his head !@#$ing exploded in the Rose Garden, and fools a bunch of people. Anyone who doesn't get fooled gets vanished by the Imago, who've got Men in Black walking around disappearing people who know too !@#$ much before 3/15. 

But here's the real kicker, son. Remember what I said about Alter Earth, and how when people from here go over there, due to some weird science !@#$ery, or a big !@#$ cosmic accident, their double usually shows up over here, at least until the effect wears the !@#$ off?

Well, you'll note how that hasn't been !@#$ing happening in this case. And we know HONEYCOMB figured a way to make it work, though not without a big !@#$ science donut from !@#$. But here's a !@#$ case where another me, and another Gerde Hoffstatler, are walking around on this world without the two of us being flung the !@#$ over there.

(And yeah, Simon Pure was able to get us the !@#$ over there without doing a doubling, which is probably a !@#$ good thing because there's no way I want to unleash the Mr. USA of Alter Earth on us, though that might be a big moot point, now. But I digress...) 

Anyway, what we've learned from all this is that one of the interesting things about superpower-based trips to Alter Earth is that there is no reversal effect. You go over there? Your other does not come here. You take someone over there? Their other does not come here. 

Unless you !@#$ing make them, of course, hence poor Jess Friend's confusion that day in the Oval Office. He couldn't !@#$ing tell how many people were there. First there were three, then two, then four, then two, all with weird spatial distortions that make onlookers a little queasy if their brains aren't !@#$ing wired up right. 

So what about that third man, then? Where did he !@#$ing go after he dropped off the other me and the other head of HONEYCOMB? Where's he !@$#ing been since then? 

Well, son, you want to hide something? You put it right in !@#$ing plain sight, or else hide it along with something else you keep hidden.

* * *

And that's why Disparaître, after figuring out what was going on (with a little help from Faraj, who had some under-the-table help from his former Director) used his power to find someone, anywhere, on himself. 

Which is why a bunch of very powerful people stepped into a rather scummy sex club in Cairo, a couple days back. And when they got there, they immediately collared a very morose person who'd been there, literally drinking nonstop since the day after Christmas.

Because the place runs 24/7,as Faraj well knows. And because that person has a lot of money and can make people who !@#$ wiith him just disappear.

And because that fellow, our man, doesn't need to !@#$ing sleep. 

Our man. The third man. The dimensional teleporter that arranged for the arrival of Alter Earth's science atrocity ambassadors, not long after the War, and attended to the kidnapping and replacement of the President, just under a year ago, and has done who !@#$ing knows what the !@#$ else before and since.

Someone who looks exactly like Disparaître, right down to the DNA... except for a few different scars, a proclivity for sadism, and the fact that there's nothing in his eyes but a flat and terrible blank where there should be a soul. 

And it's not the usual darkness people from Alter Earth tend to have, either. The people who took charge of his !@#$ and remanded him into the TU's expert interrogators say he looks like he's seen the mother of all ghosts. 

And that's just it, son. He !@#$ing has. 

...

You'll have to excuse me for a second, now. They're coming back in to talk to the !@#$er and I don't want to miss any of this. Not after all this time.

And not after what he's had to say so far. 

(SPYGOD is listening to In A Dark Place (Gary Numan) and having a Faustian Stout)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 6.

Yeah, drink that !@#$ing beer down, son. We're operating at six for me to one for you, and this part needs a good !@#$ drunk to be able to tell.

So where were we? Oh yes. Oldest living withered crone hosting a malevolent alien intelligence just outed yours truly in court. Everyone there's just wheeled around to look at my fine, gay !@#$, and all I can do is stare back and shrug... at least for a moment.

And then I realize exactly what she means. And it takes everyone there to keep me from pulling out the two guns they didn't  !@#$ing confiscate and shoot the nasty !@#$ full of holes, right then and there.

* * *

SPYGOD: You !@#$ing genocidal whore! You !@#$ing !@#$headed smear of ET !@#$! I'm going to shoot you so !@#$ing full of lead they'll be picking !@#$ing pieces of you out of the walls in !@#$ing Norway, you withered... gah... (incoherent cursing)

Dir. Straffer: (REDACTED), this is no good. Please, calm down.

Judge: Order! There will be order, here!

Dark Star: (Maniacal, incoherent laughter)

Mr. USA: Stop it, (REDACTED). Please. It's alright.

SPYGOD: The !@#$ it is! She's the one! She's the one who !@#$ing set us up, (REDACTED)! She's the one who !@#$ing set us against each other-

Mr. USA: I know. We both know, now. Let her finish the story. 

SPYGOD: I've !@#$ing heard enough-

Judge: If you have, indeed, heard enough, then perhaps you should leave the courtroom until we are ready for you to give testimony, Msr. SPYGOD.

Defense: If it would please the court, I would like to recommend he be removed entirely. I think we would be poorly served by letting a witness for the prosecution kill one of the defendants. 

Winifred: Speak for yourself, !@#$face.

Judge: Young lady, you will be quiet-

Defense: Nothing he has to say is of any use to the conclusion of this trial, quite frankly. It can be entered into evidence without his presence.

Prosecution: I respectfully disagree. I would really prefer to have him here.

Judge: Very well. If we are done trying to kill the defendant...?

SPYGOD: ... yes. I'm done.

Judge: Are you, msr. SPYGOD?

SPYGOD: I am, yes. 

Judge: Good. Then we shall take an hour's recess, and come back to this point. In the meantime, Msr. SPYGOD, I suggest you relinquish all your weapons before re-entering the courtroom. One more outburst of any kind from you, armed or not, and I will throw so many contempt charges upon you that you will wish you were sharing the defendants' fate. And that goes for you too, young lady. 

SPYGOD: She'll behave herself, your honor. We all will.

Judge: See that you do. This court is adjourned.

* * *

Oh yeah, that was embarrassing as !@#$. I really don't like people to know that I have those guns, any more than I like them knowing about the sword, or a few other nasty !@#$ tricks I've got up my sleeve.

As for self control issues, well, !@#$, son, we just listened to that !@#$ cackle about eating the world's children for fuel and running their parents' electric cars on the overflow current. If anything, everyone in that courtroom should have been pulling out hidden weapons and carving the !@#$ up like it was !@#$ing Christmas.

(Especially Winifred. After what she went through I'd have !@#$ing applauded if she'd grabbed one of my pieces and let the !@#$ have it.)

But yes, I bet I know what you're thinking. How the Prosecution just sort of rolled the !@#$ over, there? Well, it will be important, later. But for now let's go on with the big !@#$ story, here.

So they let us out, and I hand over my guns like a naughty schoolkid who got caught with a paper airplane. Then we all go downstairs, and the first thing my boyfriend asks me is "how many things?"

And I say "A whole !@#$ing room."

A minute or two later I'm !@#$ing smashing tables, windows, and computers in a small room no one's using. Straffer's in the room, watching to make sure I don't go out of control, and the Owl's outside, running sonic interference. Everyone else is off getting coffee or a smoke or !@#$ knows what. 

And I smash and crash and break and wreck !@#$ing everything in there until I can finally stop seeing red, and start breathing regular again. And then I'm two seconds away from needing the mother of all drunks to !@#$ing kick in and knock my brain back from thinking. But fortunately Straffer's there to smack some sense into me and tell me I'm no good to anyone if I'm blasted out of my mind and hallucinating, again.

Yes, it involves the mother of all kisses, son. And thank !@#$ he's good at those. 

So we brush off as much of the sawdust and plaster flecks as will come loose, I wash up in the men's, and we get the !@#$ out of there before anyone walks in and has the mother of all freak-outs at what happened to a large room full of innocent office stuff.

Then we're all back upstairs, and I'm back in the courtroom with that nasty, withered !@#$, again. And she's just looking at me, quietly cackling. 

And I know we're in for a good time, now. 

* * *

Prosecution: So, to begin again? You said that SPYGOD was the one who told you that this... I'm not certain how you say it-

Dark Star: (UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT), human.

Prosecution: Yes. That. He told you it was coming?

Dark Star: Yes, he did. And he was not alone-

Prosecution: Is that man in this courtroom?

Dark Star: No, he is not.

Prosecution: I am not certain what you mean. 

Dark Star: There's this SPYGOD, here, who at least has the courage of his convictions. And then there is another SPYGOD. Someone you have not met, perhaps, but someone you have seen.

Prosecution: And when have we seen him?

Dark Star: Shooting the American President on television, of course...

(GASPS)

Dark Star: ...except that was not the President, either. Except that it was. 

Prosecution: I do not understand...?

Defense: This is new to me as well. We did not discuss this.

Dark Star: Allow me to explain. There is another Earth, traveling besides yours in space. It is your closest parallel, and it is, to your sensibilities, at least, a dark reflection of this one. Those scientists who know of it call it Alter-Earth. And I suspect its existence has been kept a secret to avoid panic, as well as having to avoid telling your rather squeamish citizens about what things are like there.

Prosecution: And how are they?

Dark Star: Quite hideous. I think I will spare you the details, given how poorly you took the truth about what we did to you, for all those months. 

Prosecution: And what is your connection to this world? This Alter-Earth?

Dark Star: A very complicated one, now. Initially it was so much simpler. We had each had information that the other wanted. But then we took advantage of a coincidence too great to leave alone, and then things became rather... baroque, for want of a better word. 

Prosecution: You have our full attention, I assure you.

Dark Star: In the early 1950's, we were clandestinely approached by two individuals, both claiming to speak for their world. A man and a woman, both possessed of a fierce intelligence and very savage appetites. They had actually been here for at least a decade before, she infiltrating certain circles within America's Strategic Talents, and he lurking in the background, keeping an eye on certain developments. 

Prosecution: Certain circles? Could you be more specific?

Dark Star: When she surrendered to the Allies, after your second World War, she claimed to be Dr. Gertrude Hoffstatler. I believe you know her better as Dr. Geri Yesterday? 

Prosecution: The wife of the late Dr. Robert Yesterday? The one you took over and turned into, the Motion, was it?

Dark Star: The same.

* * *

Now, right about now, Mr. USA and I are !@#$ing looking at each other. And neither of us is wanting to say what this means. 

You'll remember that, a long !@#$ing time ago, I told you that Gertrude was the conjoined twin of Gerde Hoffstatler, who learned a lot of sick !@#$ at the vivisection lab of Dr. Josef Mengele. Gerde who vanished after the War only to show up later as the !@#$ing leader of HONEYCOMB. Gerde who then spent way too much !@#$ing time telling us how we really should just accept her crazy-!@#$ ideas of a perfect planet, under her rule. 

But then, we only had Gertrude's word to go on that, now didn't we? That Gerde had a conjoined twin was a matter of record, given the exactitude of German pre-war records. But could we be so !@#$ing sure that the Gertrude we knew was the actual twin?

Think about it, son. For all we know, the nasty scar on her back could have been self-inflicted. Or maybe there was a Gertrude and Gerde over on Alter-Earth, and they were separated as well? What would have stopped her from killing the real Gertrude at some point and taking her place?

And it's not like we actually got the !@#$ing chance to interrogate Gerde, now did we? Crazy !@#$ jumped to a nasty, atomic death the second she realized the main H.I.V.E. was compromised, back during OPERATION BUGSMASH.

So that was our little mind!@#$, right there. The nice person who made cookies, talked sense into her crazy!@#$ husband the mad scientist, and actually did the real brainwork when her hubby couldn't figure out what to do was actually an evil twin, all along. 

And that meant that she'd had access to !@#$ing everything all along.

So we looked at each other, and the look he gave me was something along the lines of "We need to talk, later."

And mine said "You're god!@#$ !@#$ing right."

Back to the front of the courtroom:

* * *

Prosecution: And who was the other?

Dark Star: At first, we did not know. She said he was her protector, and he did not care to speak. But we soon came to realize that he was as much a part of the venture as she was. He just preferred not to converse with her in front of us, so they could conspire and have their lies well-prepared.

Prosecution: So these were not trustworthy allies?

Dark Star: Far from it. On Alter-Earth, duplicity is the norm. To be honest is to be weak. And weakness is destroyed, along with the weak. 

Prosecution: I see. So you eventually discovered that this man was SPYGOD's... twin?

Dark Star: Yes. The same man, in most respects, but just slightly different.

Prosecution: Similar enough to be able to kill the American President on television and have others believe it was him?

Dark Star: Similar enough to pass any number of mental and physical scans, so that there was no doubt amongst America's Strategic Talents that SPYGOD was the culprit.

Prosecution: But that would not come until much later. What did they come to you for, and with, initially?

Dark Star: A cooperative project, designed to save both of us from the onslaught of (Unintelligible Concept). 

Prosecution: And how did they know of it?

Dark Star: Their parallel had also been visited by a reflection of it, roughly a million of their years ago. Unlike this world, records of that time survived, handed down from the advanced race that once lived on that world and was destroyed by nascent humanity, there. They knew it was coming, and had some ideas on how to stop it. But they needed access to our world to see if their plans had merit. 

Prosecution: Why?

Dark Star: Two reasons. This world is actually going to be the first one visited, by a factor of a year and three months. They hoped to see if their device worked here, first, before trying it on their world. And, as we later learned, were also quietly planning to move their own people over here once the thing had been and gone, in case the device did not work. That way they could either wait here for their world to be ravaged, and then return, or else rebuild on this new Earth. 

Prosecution: And the other reason?

Dark Star: Apparently, when our world was visited, it was not ravaged as badly as theirs was. There was something here that kept it from being completely annihilated, and drove it off, to an extent. 

Prosecution: Which something was that?

Dark Star: That is not known, even to us. But we know it has something to do with the structure in ABWEHR's Antarctic redoubt, which you call the Ice Palace. The answer lies within the Chamber, and she had quite a bit of access to it, once your SPYGOD took control of it, and after, once it was just her and Dr. Yesterday and the United Nations watching over it. 

Prosecution: And did she discover what she needed to know?

Dark Star: That is the strange thing. She never told us. After she shot Dr. Yesterday, thus denying us a total copy of his mind and inventive skills, she left us. 

Prosecution: Now why would she do that?

Dark Star: We do not know. We tried to get her protector to tell us why, but he claimed ignorance. He said that this was just her way, and that if she fouled up our plans it was doubtlessly for a good purpose. And as a sign of his good faith, such as it was, he continued on with the plan to replace the American president, and kill the replacement on live television, thus discrediting SPYGOD and keeping him from stopping us. 

Prosecution: And this plan was yours?

Dark Star: It was. We needed him out of the way, you see. We knew that, if he knew what we had planned, and what we really were, he would stop at nothing to destroy us. We initially thought we could wait to do this, of course, but then he decided to go on the offensive, after decades of a somewhat pathetic stalemate. So we had to advance our plans, and perhaps this was too much too fast for Geri's liking? We do not know. 

Prosecution: What else did this plan entail?

Dark Star: Oh, many years of small things. Once we realized that her protector was the near-exact duplicate of SPYGOD, we decided to have some fun. There were many times that he was less than sober, thanks to his personal failings. On those times, we would sometimes have him pretend to be him, and do strange and unsettling things to make him seem less reputable an individual. And since he would not remember these things, he could not say whether he'd done them and forgotten, or not. And he'd either deny it, or blame it on mind control. (evil cackle)

Prosecution: Well, that's quite diabolical-

Dark Star: Oh, that's nothing. When we learned that Mr. USA and SPYGOD had been feuding since World War II, we decided to make certain that America's most powerful superhero was also neutralized. 

Prosecution: What...? How?

The Owl: What?

Dark Star: We found out his darkest secret, and used it against him. And we had our SPYGOD call him up, and threaten to take full advantage of it, if he didn't do what we wanted. 

Prosecution: And what did you have him do-

Mr. USA: I killed people. 

(Gasps)

Judge: Sir, you are out of order.

SPYGOD: (REDACTED) Sit down and shut up. 

Mr. USA: I sat on my hands and did nothing while terrible things were going on. I looked the other way and let them do whatever they wanted. I remained silent, though I wanted to scream. And I betrayed my world, my nation, my oaths, and my friends. 

SPYGOD: Oh god...

Mr. USA: And I did it all for love, which is pretty sad when you think about it. 

Dark Star: Yes, it is. (maniacal laughter)

* * *

And that was the end of that day's worth of testimony. 

And the end of a few other things, besides.

(SPYGOD is listening to Kiko (Dead Can Dance) and having a Tenebreuse)

10/14/12 - Something Could Change - Pt. 3

It's late at "night" on the Moon, and in a small room no one knows survived 3/15, five people have come to see which one of them has to die.

"Look, I'm just not sure we should be doing this," Marcus says, looking across the table at the four other Alpha Base Seven officers involved in this tiny but deadly conspiracy: "Surely we can make him see reason?"

"Have you talked to him, lately?" Tate asks, putting his hands down on the table: "Reason and that cyborg don't !@#$ing go together, mate. He's Ahab after the bloody white whale, and we're the !@#$ing Pequod."

"He's not reachable, anymore, if he ever was," their commander, Barbara, says, holding onto the cut straws she brought up from the makeshift cafeteria: "And if we don't stop him, he will turn that thing on. And then we're doomed."

"I just think there's a better way," Marcus sighs: "There has to be."

"There isn't," Clifton says, putting his hand on Marcus' shoulder: "Now I know how you feel. I think we all do. You're a doctor. You save lives. But this man is threatening all our lives. If he was an infection in a person's body you wouldn't think twice about cutting him out."

"Infections don't have souls-"

"Then look at it as a tactical decision," Prentice says, leaning forward and breaking his silence: "One man dead for all of us, versus all of us dead for one man.  I don't think you can disregard the logic in that choice."

The doctor looks at his commander, and then the other men he's worked with for years. He nods, and puts his hand out, not looking anyone in the eye.

The others also put their hands out, and she nods. She shows everyone the straws, quickly, and then, after making a fist and arranging them evenly, holds them out to everyone -- all lined up in a row.

Clifton pulls first. He wonders if anyone will be able to keep the computers going when he's dead. The straw seems of medium length, though, so he thinks he's safe.

Marcus pulls next. Of course, he gets what has to be the longest one. And that means he'll just have to be !@#$ed for being a part of this, instead of being doubly !@#$ed for being the one to do it. 

Tate pulls after that. It's short -- way too short. For a moment he feels fear, but then realizes he's been living in fear since 3/15. This would be an end to that fear, and so he embraces it.

Barbara looks at Prentice as he pulls. He doesn't meet her gaze, but he knows what she's thinking. He always has, and that's why he picks the one he does.

She looks at what he's pulled. It's so short it practically falls out of her fist the moment he touches it. She didn't want there to be any mistakes or misunderstandings.

"I think you don't need to show us yours," he says, smiling and holding the straw aloft.

"Then you'll do it?" she asks, even though she doesn't need to.

"I'll do it, then," he says, closing his hand around the object that's doomed him: "I'll kill Director Straffer and destroy the machine before he can turn it on."

"Then I'll get the device ready," Tate says, getting up and leaving so no one can see the expression on his face.  The two others who were spared leave shortly thereafter, leaving the commander and her weapon alone.

She doesn't know what to say to him, so she just takes his hands in hers.

He knows what to say to her, but doesn't need to -- it's all in his eyes.

And when he kisses her -- like he's wanted to do since they met, all those years ago -- she not only allows it but fully reciprocates. 

And everything that happens after that goes exactly like he imagined.

Just like he planned.

* * *

The naked woman crawls across the white tile floor of her luxury Taipei apartment, leaving a trail of blood and noxious, bubbling fluids behind her.

"If you're hearing this, lover, then you did what I thought you would," a familiar voice says, playing from some hidden source: "Which is to say, you didn't do a certain something. And, having not done so, I didn't warn you to not do the one thing you normally do every night around this time."

Geri Yesterday calls his name -- his true name -- panting as her heart races in her chest. She begs him for help, even though she knows he must be a million miles away. And she clasps her hands between her thighs, sickened to feel herself disintegrating beneath them.

"It's not that I don't understand your reasons," the man's voice goes on as she starts losing consciousness: "In fact, I actually agree with them. These allies are damn useless, in the long run. Fucking metal-clad parasites, one and all. I can't stand their thinly-veiled threats and thinner veneer of kindness.

"Their hypocrisy makes me sick."

She cries out, feeling her pelvic bones turning to mush under what's left of her skin.

"But the fact remains that your reasons for betraying them are based more on fear than fact. And if that's true, then your mind isn't worth a damn, anymore. And if that's true, then, well, I had my orders. Just like you did, I'm sure."

One of her legs drops off, then the other. Blood spurts out from the stumps in time with her heart, which is skipping beats as the poison she unwittingly ingested through her vagina begins to melt that organ, too.

"Having said that, I don't know what I'm going to do, either," the voice continues as the rot spreads faster and faster: "Should I tell them what I know? Should I warn them what they're going to do?

"I've been watching what's going on, lover. And you wouldn't believe the shit that's about to happen. I actually think they might do it.

"If I let them do it, that is. And I haven't really made up my fucking mind, yet."

She screams. It's half air, half blood. Her lungs collapse from the effort.

"But for what it's worth? It was fun having this world as our big playground, for all these years," the voice continues: "I really hoped we could watch it burn down and fuck each other raw and bloody in the ashes before going home. I wanted to smear our come and blood and shit across the face of the moon, and leave it circling a dead planet, just to say that we could.

"But the mission comes first, lover. And if you're no use to it, you're no use to me.

"So, this is goodbye," the Alter-Earth SPYGOD says, and then the recording stops.

Not long thereafter, so does she.

* * *

"I think that's it," Winifred says, stepping back from the large device she's been working on and putting the circuit testers down.

"You sure?" Mark asks, looking at the thing they've made -- one of six, large and incredibly technical-things, all sitting on tables in the workshop.

"If she says she's sure, she's sure," Myron says, not looking at either of them, though it's hard to tell when he's got those sunglasses on: "And that's good enough for me."

She smiles a little at that. Maybe he sees it, maybe he doesn't.

"Then I guess we're on schedule," Mark says, getting out his communicator and calling in: "Skyspear? Tell the mainland we have the gifts. Ask them if they have the boxes ready."

"I was about to call you, my friend," she replies: "Fred just called to say the boxes were ready, and did we have the gifts?"

"Excellent timing!"

"Alhamdulillah!" she exclaims.

"I didn't catch that?" he asks, walking out into the corridor and leaving Myron and Winifred with the devices -- and each other.

"Oh, I am sorry, my friend. It means 'Praise be to God.'"

"I'll have to remember that," he says, smiling, and turns the communicator off. On the way he sees the Lion, and comes to give him the good news, but stops short when he sees the expression on the man's face.

"Tell me, my friend, have you seen Man of Steel?" the Algerian asks, looking rather concerned.

"No, not really," Mark says: "But he's been avoiding me since he blew up at me, last week. So...?"

"He did not come to morning prayers, today," the Lion says: "Normally, he is the first of us to be there, even before Crocodile. I am wondering if something bad has happened."

"Maybe he wanted to pray by himself?"

"Perhaps, but this seems so unlike him. He was normally so social. Crocodile was particularly worried, and went off to find him. And I haven't heard from him in quite a while, either..."

"Well, it's a big treehouse with a lot of places to hide. Maybe he just went off somewhere to be alone?"

"I think something worse than that. The other day, I saw your Green Man looking at him, when we were having our meal. It was not a pleasant look."

Mark nods: "I understand your concern. But for what it's worth? I don't think he could even hope to harm Man of Steel. They're not even in the same power class."

"Perhaps, my friend. But I have heard some very frightening stories of what that man can do."

"Well, I'll keep an eye out," Mark says, putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "But we've got some gifts to send to the real world, and you've got a war to fight."

"This is true," the man says, putting his hand on Mark's: "Hopefully I will see him at the staging area, then."

"God be with you all," Mark says.

"And with you, my friend," the Lion says, embracing him quickly, and then heading on his way, further into the treehouse, and higher up, onto the floors that they were warned not to go into for fear of their collapse.

One floor up, he finds Green Man, sitting by a window and looking out, as if he were contemplating something. He thinks to say something to the man, but thinks better of it, and turns to go. 

"You know, I think your religion is complete !@#$," the man says, just before the Lion can move away.

"Excuse me?" the Lion says, turning to look back at him.

"Islam. I think it's !@#$. I think the same thing of all religions, really. I don't believe in invisible sky fathers and the like. I never have."

"Perhaps not," the Lion says, fighting the impulse to beat the man for what he just said: "But I know in my heart that my God believes in you."

"I know," the Green Man says, and the Lion can see he's been crying: "And that's what !@#$ing scares me."

"The world is going to be at war, soon," the Lion says, taking a step closer and looking down at the man: "Are you going to fight with us? Are you going to fight for your son?"

"Yes," Green Man says, turning away to look out the window, again: "Yes, I do think I am."

The Lion looks at him for a moment, wondering why he seems to be chuckling at that, and decides to leave him to his strangeness and blasphemy. God will find a use for him, too, here and now or in the hellfire.

Up another floor, he goes through the hatch they've put down to keep the large, prehistoric spiders that have invaded these abandoned, upper floors from coming down. He sees there are footprints here, in the dust and detritus, and a number of smashed arachnids. 

And he knows this is not a good sign. He knows he should go back down and get more of his friends and allies. He knows that there is true danger, here. 

But still he goes forward. Perhaps God wills it. Perhaps it's just his nature.

Three more floors up, on a level that's more spiderweb than wall, he finds the answer to one of his mysteries. Crocodile lies dead on the floor -- his mighty jaws ripped apart, his beautiful voice stilled forever.

"Oh God," the Lion says, stepping back.

"Yes?" a voice asks from right behind him.

The Lion spins around, somehow knowing who he would find. And there he is -- Man of Steel, his metal hands coated with blood, his face fixed with a hideous smile.

"You... how could you..." the Lion stammers, stepping backwards.

"It had to happen" the metal-skinned man asks, holding his hands aloft: "Would have happened sooner, but SPYGOD did not come here. Now he will be made to come. He will want his weapons, and when they do not come to him, he will come to them."

"You are in league with the enemy?" the hero rages: "How could you be? You saw what they did to your own country! Your own people!"

"Care not for them," Man of Steel says, his form rippling and changing: "Never have. Nothing but meat. Destroying Imago necessary to join you. Joining you necessary to join with SPYGOD. Now he will come here. Now he will be destroyed."

"In the name of God-"

"God?" the thing the Lion thought he knew screams as his body unfolds and turns inside out, shiny steel falling away and being replaced by brass, giant horns raised up to the sky: "God is here, meat. There is no God but Moloch.

"And Moloch needs no messenger."

And then there is only the hellfire.

(SPYGOD is listening to Windows (Missing Persons) and having a cold Taiwan Beer)