1/14/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 3.0

"Si Enim Vera Ruat Caelum"
Karl, Jana, Helmut, Helga, Gunther
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Why do you want to sit alone

In gothic gloom

Surrounded by the ghosts of love

that haunt your room?

* * *

 

In a darkened room, far beneath the skin of a naive world, six assassins gather to make their plans.

It's been less than a day since they were removed from the prison they'd expected to grow old and die within, and given both a purpose and a promise. Since then they've been given a shower they could enjoy without fear of being stabbed, raped, or worse, and allowed to sleep in a proper, made bed for the first time in years. They've been feted and fed, groomed and geared.

And given back the things that made them who and what they once were.

They stand in the dark, now, gathered around a lit dais that provides all the information they could possibly need. They have their targets -- one for each of them -- and everything they need to know about them. 

All they have to do now is bring them down, one by one, and in return they'll be allowed to replace them.

It's an old game, by now, but there Terre Unifee is well-versed at this by now. Supervillains go into prison for a time, and then -- once they truly see the folly of not cooperating with the authorities, or at least understand its truly ugly consequences -- they are brought back out again. Their names are changed, their costumes altered, and sometimes their powers are transformed ever so slightly, just to make them seem to be anything but what they once were. 

And then voila,  Le Compagnie has a new hero. 

But this time, the game will have a small wrinkle. These six assassins -- jokingly codenamed Team Omega -- will be hunting their quarry as they once were, rather than newly-minted heroes.

The reason is simple: no one must know that brave Team Alpha has betrayed the TU, as that would be bad for public morale. Instead, it will look as though a conglomeration of old archenemies had teamed up to take them out and down. And that will give their hastily-organized replacements all the impetus to band together and deal with them, once and for all.

That they'll be dealing with themselves will be only a minor detail, thanks to some video trickery. But then, any of Team Omega who fail in their duty will be dealt with for real, and by the "heroes" they would have joined if only they'd been more competent, quick, or simply lucky. 

In the darkness the six confer and make their plans, and already their dynamics are beginning to congeal. They know who amongst them is the leader, the hotshot, and the fool. They know who wants the throne, and who prefers to counsel from behind it. 

And they know who will be the first amongst them to be offered up to their new masters, should a sacrifice be necessary...

Six faces, there in the darkness. All of them smiling. 

None of them kindly. 

* * *

"So what do you want to call this?" Yanabah asks, getting up off the bed and walking towards the bathroom, throwing her long, black hair over her shoulders as she does. Her silver jewelry sparkles against her bare, golden skin, glowing ever so slightly as the morning sun strikes it between the slats in the shuttered window.

"Do we have to call it anything?" Myron replies, still lying on the bed, unsure of whether to get up or not, but certain that he likes watching her walk away from him while naked.

"Jesus, make a girl feel good," she says -- not without a small smile -- as she cleans herself up.

They hadn't intended to do this, really. They had intended to go to ground, after Gosheven's warning. And they did mean to do it here, in this safehouse they'd established, well before the plan came fully together. 

But the sex? Well, that had just happened, really.

They'd been talking business, and then commiserating, and then really opening up. And then, all of a sudden, they'd just gone right at each other like teenagers -- hungry for what the other had, and uncaring of consequences, or what their future selves might make of this moment.

It was rough and tumble, bruising and swift. They all but ripped each others' civilian clothes off, uncaring of consequence. They rolled on the floor for what seemed hours, oblivious to the cold beneath their bodies.

And in the end, they collapsed into bed only as an afterthought. 

Myron aches all over. He has scratches up and down his back, thighs, and !@#$. And he feels so good he doesn't give a single flying !@#$.

How long had it been? It seemed an age since Winifred and he had found each other, back in September. Since they'd reached out and touched one another, their mutual sense of loss somehow completing the other.

Since she decided she no longer needed him, after she finally realized the true shape of that loss.

He loves her. He knows this. He still loves her, despite it all. He just doesn't know what to say, or if he has the right to say anything after everything that's happened. If he has the right to go to her and speak of what he feels, and how much he hopes she still feels it, too.

If he has the right to talk of love after so much time and distance, and so many missed connections.

Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't. But this night, and its lovely but hollow exertions, reminds him of the importance of making that effort.

"Thank you," he says, partly to Yanabah and party to the world. If she hears him she makes no sign, but somehow he thinks she heard it. 

And somehow he thinks it matters, after all.

 * * *

"So, 'Egrets,'" Karl muses, lying down in the back of the car he and his clone-sister, Jana, have rented in Canberra: "Is it significant, or not?"

"Ardea Alba Modesta," Jana says, looking down at her pad and turning around in the front passenger seat: "Eastern Great Egret. Spread all over Oceania, and tends to flock to the Top End."

"The northern territory?" 

"Exactly," she says, putting the pad down and smiling: "So, was the late President of this Great Southern Land planning on going up there on holiday, perhaps to watch some birds...?"

"...or was he doing something else up there?" Karl finishes the sentence, closing his eyes.

They've been parked by the side of the highway for some time, now. They find it's the best way to think of things, oddly enough. Something about the steady rhythm of cars and trucks going by allows them to think clearly.

And a few other things, besides...

"He looked like he was going to have some things shipped..." Jana begins

"... at least according to his records," Karl adds.

"But nothing up that way."

"It didn't say where it was going. Just that it was going."

"That's not at all suspicious..."

"... is it?," Karl says, opening his eyes up enough to wink at her, right at the same second she winks back: "Especially when the things he was having moved were all old things. Family heirlooms. Old books and treasures. All very precious and padded."

"As if he was moving."

"Yes, but with no destination. And no insurance, either."

"Very strange," Jana says, picking up her pad and considering: "And I see here he wasn't really putting any money around for the move."

"Something I missed," Karl admits: "So he's packing up old things, but not every thing. He's got them going somewhere but no mention of where. And he hasn't made financial planning, either, or made any attempt to protect his investments from damage."

"That sounds like... someone trying to save the family china while fleeing the house." Jana asks.

"Yes, I think that works," Karl says, opening his eyes.

"I've been learning new idioms."

"I see," he says, leaning up: "But I think in this case it's someone trying to sneak the family china out before burning the house down."

"I agree," she says, looking askance as a car passes them by: "The question is why."

"And where was he going to go?" Karl asks, tapping his chin: "It's not like he could just vanish."

"Depends on where he was vanishing to," Jana says, looking over his financial statements: "And maybe he had money hidden somewhere?"

"Maybe he did," Karl nods, looking out of the window: "Helmut, you should look into that. See if you can dig up some secret transactions or accounts."

Yes, I should, their absent brother replies after a second or two: That's provided there's a trail at all.

"Oh, there will be," Karl replies, smiling just a little: "This man doesn't strike me as a careful person. He was sloppy. He'll have made mistakes. The fact that he tipped his hand to his wife proves that."

"So Egrets is significant?" Jana teases.

"It is," he says: "And when we find out how, we'll be a step closer to figuring out what's going on here."

Several steps closer, brother, Helga chimes in from where she is: Just wait until you see what I've found...

* * *

"Well, you don't see something like that every day," the hero known as Orange Streak sighs, hoping he doesn't sick up in his brand new space suit.

"Come again, Orange Streak?" Mission Control asks, their voice crackling: "What are you seeing?"

"A big !@#$ mess, sir," the hero replies, hoping none of the black drops of what was a vacuum-sealed man's blood gets onto him.

He'd come up here -- approximately a hundred miles above Nebraska -- to check on the status of one of Le Compagnie's long-range spotters. Karman hadn't been heard from in four hours, which was all but unheard of for him. Once he'd missed his third message, they'd sent another flier up to look.

And he'd found... this.

Karman was one of those oddities no one liked to talk about: a human specifically bred for life in space, with all the gruesome and unfortunate additions and subtractions that such an existence would entail. He'd spent most of his career in the Air Force doing orbital missions that no one cared to publicize or acknowledge -- mostly repairing and rescuing military satellites, or sabotaging those of rival nations.

But, after the destruction of Wonderwall, and with the Space Service spending most of its time trying to fix the Sled, he was part of the TU's network of space defenses. For him, that meant he spent almost all his time up in the black, making sure nothing went from there down into the blue that didn't have proper clearance.

A lonely existence, to be sure, but he shouldered it like a pro. He had clearance to spend one day on and one day off, but he elected to stay up for weeks at a time, asking only that the same group of operators keep in touch with him, day after day -- one hourly message at a time, interrupted only by some kind of trouble.

So when he didn't respond to his hourly hail, they wondered if he was running silent. And when he didn't get back in time for his next one, they considered something might be seriously wrong. The third missed one had them scramble Orange Streak up, just in case.

And when the fourth came and went, with still no answer, the hero had rocketed up, well past the line the hero was named for, and went to his last known position to see what had happened.

That would be a murder at 100 miles up. 

A being bred for space, Karman had been sealed up from head to toe in a tough, hairless, and leathery sleeve of transparent flesh, and did not to breathe or eat. He gathered energy from direct sunlight, and excreted waste in the form of electromagnetic shielding. Those shields could provide him with flight capability, but also protect him from physical and energy damage.

So how it was that the man's head had been blown open like a cantaloupe -- anaerobic blood and brains floating around his body like a gruesome cloud of droplets -- was something that Orange Streak wasn't too sure of. Surely no ordinary projectile could have done such a thing with his fields up, as they almost always were.

And if it had been a projectile, where the !@#$ had it been fired from?

Orange Streak has no idea. All he knows for sure was that he's going to have to sit here, 100 miles up from Omaha, and wait for someone else to come by and take over for this poor sap who had, for the first time in his long and secret life, finally felt both useful and happy.

A horrible way to go, the hero supposes as he settles in for spotter relief duty. He can only hope an answer can be found -- preferably one that doesn't involve him being assassinated as well.

Hopefully he won't screw that up, at least. 

* * *

"Look, my American friend, it is a simple question-"

"And I'm telling you, I don't have an answer for you," the old New Man sighs, putting his head in his hands and wishing his accusers -- most of whom are his teammates in Le Compagnie -- would just take his word for it and let the matter rest.

"And why not?" La Femme Electrique says, leaning over the desk that their colleague is sitting at, in the far corner of their sumptuous facility at the Palace: "You are his father."

"Yes, I am. But I'm not his keeper."

"Look, try and understand our position," the harried security officer who's been leading this interrogation says, sitting down across from the older hero and doing his best to sound reasonable: "We have determined that his old teammates are traitors, engaged in a plot against the state. We're rounding them up as we speak. But he's been off the team for some time, yes? We simply need to know if he knows something."

"Something like why they've done this stupid thing," whip-thin and slippery Vaku says, semi-tactful as ever.

"Or if he's up to his arms in it," portly Stijena adds, not tactful at all.

"My son is not a traitor," New Man insists, looking up: "He has a prior commitment."

"A prior commitment to Team Alpha?" La Femme Electrique laughs: "Please, my friend. That is like having a prior commitment to Le Compagnie."

"That's like telling The Beatles you won't help with the reunion,"  Bely Rytsar rumbles from within his eponymous suit of armor, only to be disappointed when no one else cares about the allusion.

New Man sighs again -- deeper, this time -- and just looks at the security officer: "If I have to spell it out for you, you're going to feel really !@#$ stupid."

"Well, I fail to see-" he begins to object, but then New Man brings his fist down on the table. It glows purple as it falls, and shatters the thick, luxurious wood as though it were brittle ice.

"You all know me, or at least you should by now," the old hero says, getting up from his chair and looking at each of his teammates in turn: "I was with the Liberty Patrol in Korea. I was with Freedom Force after that. I was head of the COMPANY for a little while, there, too."

"This is known," La Femme Electrique says, crossing her arms: "Though, considering how your tenure in The COMPANY went, perhaps you should not admit to that too readily."

"Yeah, and what were you doing when the Imago were taking over the world, sparkles? Eating a baguette?"

"Excuse me, please," the security officer says, trying to interject before a fight starts: "Perhaps we should back up a step or two, here-"

"Perhaps we should remember, as I've been trying to point out, that I've been a Strategic Talent in the employ of the American Government, and now the world Government, for longer than you all have been alive, much less active," New Man says: "I know the drill. I know the lingo. And I know how things work.

"So when you ask me where my son is, and I tell you I don't have an answer for you? It means that even if I knew, I couldn't. !@#$ing. Tell you." he says, jabbing a purple finger at each of his main interrogators in turn: "And that means you should not be asking me. You should be asking the President's security team.

"And if they can't tell you either, well... I don't know what to tell you," he says, shrugging: "But if I had an answer, I'm bound to not tell you. And if I don't, then I can't. So you are all wasting your time with me, aren't you?"

He looks each of them in the eyes in turn. After a moment, they nod, shrug, and leave, with the security officer being the second to last to go.

Then it's just him and La Femme Electrique, who just smiles, and then turns to go. And he thinks he knows what that smile means.

It means she's finally found the proof she needs to show that this old, upstart American -- their special envoy, so that all nation members have a place on the team -- has more loyalty to his country than to his team.

It also means that, the next time push comes to shove, she can force a vote to have him kicked off the team, most likely to be replaced with someone more tractable, or more "on message."

But it could mean something even worse than that. It could mean that she might know -- or at least suspect -- that he's not telling the complete truth. It could mean she believes he does know where his son is, and what he's been doing all this time.

And if she finds out that's actually the truth, both he and his son will be !@#$ed for certain -- and a whole lot more, besides.

He sighs once more, and looks at what's left of the desk he just turned to wood chips, wondering if his career is going to be resembling that before too long.

"Secrets and lies," he muses, not really sure where one ends and the other starts, but all too aware of the importance of keeping them as close to his chest as possible.

* * *

So we know more now than we did before, Karl states, looking at the psychic projections of his four brothers and sisters at the mental meeting.

We do, the other four say, in unison, all smiling the same smile as they float in the dream-architecture they've jointly created to facilitate such psionic conferences. 

When ABWEHR went about making clones, down in the Ice Palace, they bred a lot of things into -- and out of -- their perfect Aryan children. In went obedience and beauty, out went defects and rebellion. And while there were mistakes made, and gruesomely dealt with, most of the time the breeding ran true.

But over time, other factors crept in. Copies of copies, they began to slowly develop more and more defects, most of which were weeded out in the testing process. Bad attitudes and digestive problems were amongst the most notable, and often took out a handful of clones from each batch.

But every so often an entire group of them would be tainted with some unforeseen variance -- some derangement of body, mind, or soul that no amount of accelerated Nazi science could have predicted or prevented. 

In the case of the last batch of clones, all rescued by SPYGOD during OPERATION: NAZISMASH, just two years ago, it was a talent for psionics. A talent the five remaining children slowly began to realize they had after months of living with Randolph Scott, and being his team.

A talent they elected to not share with him, or even SPYGOD, as they decided the best way to emulate their savior was to adopt his own talent -- keeping secrets at all costs.

Someday they'll reveal their powers, they figure. Someday they'll shock the !@$ out of Randolph and everyone else they've worked with. They might even manage to surprise SPYGOD, himself, provided he doesn't already know. 

But for now, their powers are best kept to themselves -- especially as they're proving to be so very useful in things such as this.

We know that the Presidents and Prime Ministers of Portugal, Bolivia, and Canada are also planning to move things, but not listing a forward address, Helga's thoughtform says, smirking a little: And in some countries where the Presidents aren't in on it, their trusted political assistants and advisers are.

We also know that there is a trail of money, Helmut says, holding up an echo of his omnipresent laptop: Secret accounts, all going to something called Champlain Entreprises.

And we know they're a shell company for something else, a nude Gunther adds, mid-pelvic-thrust: I'm still working on that angle, here in New Zealand. I'm expecting something, soon, once I finish helping this secretary remember. 

You do that, Jana chuckles, seemingly not at all shocked to see her brother making love in the course of outlaw journalism: And when you have that, we'll have another piece or two.

Hopefully we'll all know what to do with it, they all say in unison.

Hopefully they will, at that. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Se Vide Es (Pet Shop Boys) and having an Avery 5 Monks)

Missing Time: 11/28/12 - This Is What You Are - Pt. 2

"So that's the Nation of Atlas, huh?" SPYGOD said some time later, as the car came to a stop in a lot in the center of Jerusalem, overlooking the remade nation he'd just invaded: "Guys doing all the brute work, girls doing the smart stuff, and no kids?"

"Oh, most of the children are in school, right now," the frontseat Zalea Zathros explained, allowing her backseat self to continue making out with Tish: "But we've gotten a few of them up here, just so this can be seen by a suitable representation of the populace."

"You want to go for an all-in-the-family vibe when you try and kill me," SPYGOD snorted, lighting up another cigarette and looking out the window at all the people that had assembled there, in the lot. The eager look on their faces was !@#$ed unnerving.

"That's a rather crude way to put it, but, yes," frontseat Zalea admitted, opening the gull-wing doors on both sides: "If you'd be good enough to exit the vehicle?"

SPYGOD did, making sure to get a good look around as he did. It was a circular lot, fenced in, with some lethargic olive trees along the periphery. From here you could get a good view of things, and that was probably why she'd chosen this.

That and the center spot was probably in the path of several of her heat beams.

He'd figured that was going to be the end of the guided tour she'd been good enough to give him. All the way from Ashdod, she'd been going on and on about all the great things they'd accomplished since she'd revived the nation. All their societal and technological advances, all their plans for the future. All that stock-standard, gloating supervillain bull!@#$.

He hadn't been listening, though. He'd been looking out the world at the transformed cities, and remembering things that had happened there, both to and around him.

They'd passed a cafe where he'd once told Golda Meir's personal secretary to suck the !@#$ from his !@#$hole, over something that was still !@#$ing classified, all these years later. They'd gone by the building that now stood in the spot where Molchanie once ran their strategic talents program, before one of their own people had rendered it uninhabitable by normal humans. The bar where he'd toasted certain HAGANAH agents for catching up to a rather hideous Nazi war criminal in 1969.

(The sad street in Tel Aviv where BUSH had killed Geri and Johan -- the loss still heartbreaking, even after all this time.)

All those times, all that history -- all of it was gone, now, except as minor pieces in the minds of the frankensteined people that now labored to rework and perfect this transformed nation.

And with each mile -- as one Zalea had essentially kissed a mirror right next to him, while another kept talking and talking -- his stomach had become exponentially sour, and he found himself wishing he'd just done what he'd wanted to do, the moment he'd watched Zalea's televised announcement about what she'd done here.

Nuke the whole !@#$ thing from orbit, just to be !@#$ing sure.

* * *

Yes, and that would have helped... how, exactly? the Presence asks him, taking him through the day's events one step at a time: Just scattered their ashes and atoms, again? Sent waves of radiation down onto the neighbors? Made the world just that much more damaged, especially after what the Imago did to it?

SPYGOD tried to talk, but couldn't. It was all he could do to keep breathing, what with his lungs dissolving almost as fast as they could heal. 

You see, that's always been your problem, the Presence continued: They say that when all you have in your toolbox is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Well, all you tend to have in your toolbox is weapons. Even that sword you don't use, much, anymore? Imagine all the things you could do with that, if you'd just expand your mind a little.

A sour look from SPYGOD.

Oh, I know. Believe me, I know all the work you've put into the spy game, (REDACTED).  All those plots and plans. All those schemes and conspiracies. It's just delicious how much time and trouble you put into making that huge web of cause and effect, and all the little things that happened when one strand or another got pulled on.

But in the end, there's only one thing that can happen with you. One final solution... if you'll excuse the phrase, especially in these circumstances. And that's that, sooner or later, when everything else fails, there's just you, and a gun.

And some poor fellow who walks right into two bullets, right to the eyes.

The presence tapped his obscured peepers for extra effect.

Case in point, what's happened here today, it said, gesturing to the dead and dying: All these poor people. They had no idea what happened to them when they died, and had no way to avoid coming back. And then you come here, today, and all you can bring them is death. 

More angry looks, coupled with a few weak coughs as the bloody stream of lung-mush gets even worse.

Well, perhaps, and perhaps not. But you know what they say about shooting guns, (REDACTED). You fire off one just big enough, and it goes around the world and comes right back to hit you.

With that, the presence made a gun of its fingers and thumb: "Bang, you're dead," I think you said?

And what could he possibly say to that?

* * *

"So, how do you plan to keep the rest of the world out?" SPYGOD asked, looking off into the distance, towards Egypt -- seeing the far-off TU troops massed there, waiting.

"The same way we'll be dealing with you," some of the people closer to him replied, holding up their hands. As they did, a heat beam arced from a tall building, striking the ground right in front of one of the TU's hovertanks.

"Well, that's pretty effective," he admits, watching the TU's line move back, quick as it can: "But aren't you worried they'll ask for their people back?"

"What people?" other people asked, holding up compact video cameras -- all trained on him.

"Well, it wasn't just Israelis and Palestinians who were killed here, that day," SPYGOD said, looking around: "Lots of tourists, even then. I'm sure their countries would like their ashes back... however animated they might be-"

"We didn't return them to life," backseat Zalea admits: "Just so we could avoid that little problem, in fact."

"Well, that was !@#$ing smart," SPYGOD admitted, winking at the nearest camera.

"So what did you think of our new society?" the many people there asked as one: "Is it not glorious? Is it not everything we've promised?"

"It's contradictory bull!@#$," SPYGOD pronounced, playing to the cameras: "You claim you're following in Ayn Rand footsteps? That's bull!@#$. As much as I hated that !@#$, I have to give her credit for upholding the individual over the state. But here? There's no individuals. Just one person."

He points to the backseat Zalea as she exits the vehicle after Tish.

"Oh, that's not really fair," she said, coming closer to him and indicating that he should stand in the center of the lot: "We've achieved something unique, here. We've created a true over-mind. Many minds, all operating together, sharing ideas and memories, innovations and inventions..."

"All under your control," he insisted: "That's not in keeping with the idea of the individual being free from force."

"I think you're failing to see the possibilities."

"And I think I've listened to enough of my boyfriend's early Rush LPs to know you're full of !@#$, Zalea," SPYGOD insisted: "But then, most so-called Objectivists are, anyway. I don't know why you'd be any !@#$ing different."

"Well, I guess we can't expect intelligence from someone who gets his information from concept albums."

He just smiled at that, and then looked at Tish: "Well, let's see what I can find out from real !@#$ing life, shall we?"

"How do you propose to do that?" Zalea asked.

"Tish?" SPYGOD asked, turning to look at the reanimated woman.

"Yes?" the woman answered, stepping forward.

"Zalea says you're an individual, and you can think for yourself. Is that right?"

"Yes-"

"Then what's your husband's name?" SPYGOD demanded, stepping towards her and staring her in the eyes.

There was a moment of confusion, and then she answered: "Amir-"

"How old are your children?"

"Seven and... and..."

"What are their names?" he asked, watching her grow even more confused: "What's their blood type? What cartoons do they like? When's the last time you were !@#$ing proud of them?"

The woman stammered and looked around, uncertain -- knowing that the memories should be there, but just weren't.

"An individual, huh?" SPYGOD snorted, turning to look at the backseat Zalea: "She can't even !@#$ing remember the name of the man she's had two !@#$ kids with, lady. God only knows what else you lost along the way."

The crowd murmured for a moment, and then all smiled and golf-clapped.

"You keep bringing that point up, SPYGOD," they said in unison: "I fail to see why."

"Because she's not alive," SPYGOD insisted, looking around at the cameras: "You're all dead, all of you. This !@#$ took your DNA and brought you back, and she can !@#$ing slip into you like a hand into a !@#$ glove. But you died that day. Your soul's gone on to someplace else.

"And some !@#$ing !@#$ with a god!@#$ god complex is walking you around so she can have her big !@#$ utopia at last!"

"I think that's enough of that, then," backseat Zalea said, stepping forward: "We've been polite, even to the likes of you, but this is where the hospitality ends."

"I thought I still had three days before I stank like fish?"

"Oh no," Zalea said, putting an arm around Tish and kissing her ear: "All those years in that awful hole, never expecting to leave it? I swore vengeance against you, SPYGOD. And now I'm going to get it, and you're going to take it."

"Really?" he said, smiling: "You don't think I'd come here without a backup plan, do you?"

"What could you possibly do?" She asked, smiling just as wide: "How can you fight a foe made of people? Will you kill all these people, here and now, on camera?"

"Eventually," SPYGOD said, a glowing sword appearing in his right hand: "But first? I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, look," the crowd laughed, pointing in unison to his weapon: "The mighty man, hiding behind his penis extension. Do you think you can chop your way through all of us with that-"

Suddenly, they all stopped talking. Then they all cocked their head to the side, looking askance as they did so.

And then they all looked hurt and helpless, as if something precious had been taken from them by a thief too large to stop, too fast to chase.

"That'll be my TU strike team in Barcelona," SPYGOD announced, holding up the sword: "Next up is Minsk. Then Rio."

"No," they all gasped, and then twitched twice as each pronouncement came true.

"See, I know how this !@#$ing game is played, Zalea," SPYGOD said, his sword suddenly changing its shape -- becoming thicker and shorter: "You'd never have your remote bodies anywhere near something like this, just in case someone called your !@#$ bluff and decided to nuke your nasty !@#$ from orbit. So you'd scatter them far and wide, like always, and normally we'd never be able to find them all without a lot of !@#$ time and work, since the signals are so !@#$ faint.

"But that's when you're running maybe 50 bodies? Not a couple million. You need a lot of signal to make that happen. And while it's still too !@#$ing faint for most things to detect, well..."

He tapped his eye, under his eyepatch: "Let's just say I !@#$ing did."

The crowd got very angry, then -- infuriated tenfold with each new twinge as another hidden body died. Then they twitched one more time, and screamed in utter despair.

"That'd be St. Louis, right near the Arch," SPYGOD surmised, doing something with his shrinking sword: "The last body. You're on your own, here, Zalea. Just you and your meat puppets. All you little !@#$ing Frankensteins."

"We'll tear you apart, you pousti," they all shouted, taking a step forward -- hands raised to do the deed: "And then we'll kill a tenth of us, just to show the world their error."

"I think we can !@#$ing do better than that, Zalea," SPYGOD said, holding up a pair of small, metal canisters -- each no longer than a pop can -- and popping the top on each can.

"What is that?" the clones asked as they stopped, and took half a step back.

"That, Zalea, is what we !@#$ing call 'blowback,'" he replied, scowling: "Remember back in the day, when you needed !@#$ing money for your early operations, after we froze your !@#$ accounts? Remember those weird German !@#$s you met with, and the bio-weapons tech you gave them? The viruses that homed in on specific genetic markers?"

There's a gasp, and then they all held their hands up to their mouths: "You didn't."

"That's just it, Zalea. I didn't. You did. You gave ABWEHR the means to drop viruses on Israel that would kill anyone with any !@#$ing Jewish blood in them. Even the slightest little drop. And you even threw in the !@#$ Arabs, just in case they wanted to scorch the !@#$ing Earth and salt it when they were done.

"Well, maybe you forgot about it, mostly because even those Nazi !@#$s were smart enough to hold off on using them as a final straw. But they !@#$ing kept them, Zalea, just in case. And when we stormed the Ice Palace, last year? I !@#$ing found them. And I took them somewhere safe and hid them, planning to !@#$ing destroy them.

"But, you know, with everything that's !@#$ing happened? I just never got the chance."

"And here they are," he said, holding the opened canisters out, revealing that each one bears German writing, and a bio-hazard symbol interspersed with a swastika: "You've been breathing them in for about a minute, now. They should start working in another minute."

"What?" the crowd said, some of them looking very ill.

"Short version?" SPYGOD said, making guns with his index fingers as he continued to hold onto his deadly cargo: "Bang. You're dead."

And then he laughed -- long and black. 

The crowd was no longer leering, nor threatening. All the faces that were of one, menacing expression just a second ago -- as they surrounded SPYGOD where he stood -- now shared one of fear. All those hijacked bodies took a step back, and then another, holding their hands up to their faces.

All of those voices screamed "no" -- many mouths, one mind.

One soul that realized it was about to meet its maker.

SPYGOD dropped the small, metal canisters to the ground. As they pinged and bounced on the concrete, he wondered: how much blood has been spilled over its ownership?

None more than today, he realized, watching as his enemy started to die

He wanted to stop looking as the men, women, and children of an entire nation fell down dying around him, but he could not. He wanted to stop hearing their wet and ragged screams, but his ears betrayed him.

He had to see and hear this because there was no way to tune out or block it. Her could not, and dared not. It was his penance -- his karmic payment having to do such a horrible thing.

For a moment, he thought he was crying. But then he coughed once, then again.

Then he looked at his hand and realized there was blood, there.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$?" tried to say, but it all came out bloody and ragged, pieces of his lungs flying up into his mouth...

* * *

Did you even know your Great-Grandmother was Jewish? the Presence asked, looking at him as the stream of blood gets even worse, somehow: Or was that just not discussed around the table in your Catholic living room?

More coughing, more blood. Now maybe some tears to go with it.

Ah, I see. Your grandmother never talked about her. And, given how she was, you never asked her. That makes perfect sense, now, (REDACTED). Just another mystery in a family full of them.

Only now, that mystery is going to kill you, it says, looking away: And just how ironic is that?

It pats SPYGOD on the side of the head, and then leans in to whisper -- But before you die? We have Some secrets of our own, you and I. Big secrets. The kind that change destinies and shake the world.

And I'm going to make sure you live long enough to tell me yours before I show you mine.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pure (Gary Numan) and having... lung junk. Lots and lots of it.)

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 4

10:20 PM

"... and that's about when it all went wrong," Myron is saying, holding Yanabah's water bottle as Randolph stands nearby, rather fascinated by how this conversation has gone.

Not that it's much of a conversation; so much of it has been Myron talking while Yanabah just sits there, mumbling as she comes out of a bad drunk. But he gets the sense she's been listening, through the fug, and comprehending on some level.

"So, near as I can tell, that thing took my creativity," Myron continues, wishing he had a big !@#$ drink to go with this story: "Every time I've been screwed up, or screwed over? I've always thrown myself into some project or another. It's how I process it, or at least how I put it into the back burner until I can process it."

"That would make sense," Randolph interjects: "As long as I've known you, you've been tinkering with one thing or another. I guess you sitting all alone and doing nothing should have been a warning sign."

"Yeah, well, don't feel bad for not coming to help out," Myron says: "And I mean that, Randolph. The COMPANY sent some shrink and the only reason I let him in was because he threatened to have me !@$ing kicked out of my own apartment."

"Not like anyone'd let you into theirs..." Yanabah mumbles, looking up and over.

"It lives!" Randolph says in mock shock.

"Call the media," Myron chuckles.

"Too late," Yanabah sighs, pointing at Randolph.

"I'm off the clock, tonight," the reporter says, smiling weakly: "But I would like to hear more of this story?"

"Yeah, well, what's there to tell?" Myron sighs, handing Yanabah another small glass of water: "As soon as I realized what was wrong... well, as soon as someone made me realize what was wrong, I got up off my !@#$ and did something about it."

"That was the day before Christmas?" Randolph asks.

"It sure was. And I know you were busy."

Randolph coughs: "Yeah, you could say that."

"Weren't the only one," Yanabah says, casting a withering glare at Josie, who's been lurking just inside earshot this entire time.

"So I got back to work, catching up on my pile of projects. And, between that and some better social choices, and a lot of alcohol, I feel a !@#$ of a lot better."

"We got cursed, you dumb !@#$," Yanabah snorts, sipping at the water: "Can't drink your !@#$ way out of that."

"Well, here's the thing," Myron says, leaning in: "The deal was that we lost something precious, right? And that's what was animating that... thing in the White House. Right?"

"Right," Randolph says, nodding as he gets how this works.

"So the moment that thing wasn't in the White House, anymore? The moment SPYGOD did what he did? Where did those somethings go?"

Yanabah blinks -- once, and then twice.

"Then why the !@#$ haven't I felt better?" she asks.

"Same reason I didn't. I'd fallen so !@#$ far down without it that I didn't notice it was back."

 "You know, that makes a lot of sense," Randolph says, nodding: "Kind of like when you put a frog in a pot of water and slowly heat it up?"

The two of them look at him, and he coughs: "Not that I ever did that, but..."

"I think he's got it," Myron says, grinning: "So, all you have to do is figure out what it took, and then go looking for it. It's there, you just have to make it your own, again, somehow."

"You make it sound so !@#$ing easy," Yanabah sighs, spitting some of the water up.

"Well, it isn't. But it sure beats spending the party having to be forced sober."

"Or insulting people you don't know," Randolph adds.

"I know you," Yanabah says, giving him a very cold eye: "My Great-Grandfather told me about you."

"What did he say?"

She just smiles, taking the water out of Myron's hands and leaning back in her chair, perhaps a smidgen less drunk that she was: "Go and ask him."

Josie laughs at that. It's not a good-sounding thing.

"Well, on that note?" Myron says, getting to his feet: "I need to go find Skyspear and tell her what I learned. I'm sure she's stuck in some rut, too."

"Yeah,  well, I think that might be ending," Randolph says, pointing over to some of the other couches, where Mark and Skyspear are clearly not sitting together, anymore. Skyspear's got a hen party going on, and Mark's sitting all by himself, clearly dejected and looking around as if waiting for someone to come in.

"Duty calls," Myron says, looking down at Yanabah: "But you know, I never got a chance to tell you thanks for the Ice Palace. I wasn't in a good place, then, before or after we did that thing. But you came through on so many levels it's not even funny."

"Really?" she asks, just sort of looking up at him.

"Totally. I ever have to gamble the fate of the world on a suicide run into an ex-Supernazi base that's been taken over by aliens? I want you there backing me up."

"Because you secretly like me?"

"No, you're a nasty !@#$," he says, leaning in: "But you're our nasty !@#$. And I'm glad to have you on my side."

"!@#$ you, paleface," she snorts, flipping him the bird. But there's no edge to it, and he smiles, bows theatrically, and walks away.

"Nice guy," Josie says, coming closer: "You could do worse."

"Not my type," Yanabah sighs: "All yours."

"Not mine, either," Josie chuckles, looking at Randolph.

"No comment," he says, putting up his hands and departing the conversation.

"So, we cool?" Josie asks, making sure no one's listening.

"I think so," Yanabah says, not looking up at her: "But just for the record? Next time you !@#$ing toss me into the grinder without telling me what's up first? I will kick your sorry, pink !@#$ into the sky. And then I'll shoot whatever the birds don't eat."

"It's the nature of the grinder, Flower," Josie says, grinning and walking away: "Ought to be used to that by now?"

"!@#$ you," she mutters, glad the water's no longer fighting to come up when she sips it.

She looks around her, then, at the party she's been a stumbling wreck for most of. All the people talking, drinking, dancing, laughing. All the things starting, continuing, and ending.

The whole human drama, unfolding in miniature right in front of her, and she's been too !@#$ed up to handle it.

She remembers when she knew her grandfather / great grandfather / father was dead -- how she just knew he was in pain, then dying, then dead. She remember how all the pieces of her soul handled it, and somehow channeled their rage / grief / acceptance into one direction, and kept going. How she persevered, knowing she'd have time to mourn later, but needed to complete the mission now, or else his death would have been for nothing.

But she also remembers what a waste his funeral was, for her. How she couldn't handle being a part of it. How she stood on the outside of the circle while the rest of his family chanted and prayed.

How she couldn't even set foot in his house, or look at his grave from a distance.

His family -- her family -- had opened up to her. Anything she needed? Done. Anything she wanted? Brought. The People knew how to handle death, tragedy, and grief. They'd been dealing with it in overtime, ever since their lands got overrun, all those years ago.

How had she repaid them? Scorn, fury, and threats. And they got the message !@#$ quick, backed off, and left her alone.

Until she was ready for their help.

"Pride," she says to herself, looking at the water, remembering what Wayfinder told her that one time, after she'd killed and eaten those SQUASH idiots that'd tried to abduct him.

And, remembering that, she resolves to try and find it again, once her head no longer feels like something took a massive !@#$ in it. 

10:48 PM

"Yeah, well, that's how that goes," SPYGOD says, his features distorted slightly over the Nthernaut's projection: "He should have known better than to get involved with one of his own operatives."

"A sensible precaution," Faraj says, his hands behind his back as they converse: "But you must know that, in matters of the heart, not everyone has your... restraint."

"Are you saying I don't feel for my people?"

"Oh no, friend. I know you love them all. But there are many different kinds of love, and sometimes they wear each others' faces. Sometimes we don't know which is which until it's too late."

"Well, that's probably true," SPYGOD says, casting a glance at Straffer as he talks to folks he hasn't seen in far too long: "All the same, as long as I've known Ju-San, he's been mooning over that !@#$ alien robot. And the more he wanted her, the sloppier he got."

"And that's never happened to anyone else, ever," Faraj observes: "Not at all."

SPYGOD looks at him, knowing exactly what he means: "You !@#$ing suck, Faraj."

"I do indeed," the man smiles: "And receive few complaints."

"Question is, what the !@#$ are you going to do about Ju-San?" SPYGOD asks, taking advantage of the Nthernaut's optics to see where the man in question is, all the way across the floor (still dead to the world): "Man's got his !@#$ hands on all the big !@#$ things you're going to need when the !@#$ hits the fan."

"Not anymore," Faraj says, leaning in closer: "I've already made arrangements, in anticipation of this. The Organization is now under the control of the Space Service. Call it our Japanese Branch, if you'd like to. All their weapons and wonders are under our control."

"And Ju-San?"

"Also under our control," Faraj winks: "I think losing his woman and his job will force him into being useful, once more."

"You might want to be really !@#$ing  careful," SPYGOD says, looking back at Faraj: "He might not look it, but that man's !@#$ing dangerous. And that's saying something, coming from me."

"It usually is, but that has also been calculated," Faraj sniffs: "If he goes to his contacts, they will be neutralized. If he tries to take things back, he will be neutralized. And if the Organization doesn't like it, well, they're used to a total turnover every time their leader is dead or deposed. So this will just be business as usual, only instead of the head of the Japanese government deciding on their replacements, it will be me."

"And the President of the Terre Unifee."

"Provided I ask him in time."

SPYGOD just stares at him for a moment, and then smiles: "Man, you are one !@#$ ruthless son of a !@#$, Faraj."

"Would you trust the defense the Earth to anyone else?" Faraj asks, holding out his hand, quite pointedly, for a shake: "I'm not here to make friends and play games, (REDACTED). I'm here to make certain the human race lives to see this time, next year, at least. Any other consideration is secondary."

"And thank !@#$ for that," SPYGOD says, shaking it: "You do what you gotta do, man. I'll back your play."

"Good to know," Faraj says, and then -- sensing that he's hogged enough of the man's valuable face-time --  heads off to go talk to Straffer, who's in-between admirers.

"I hope I am not intruding?" someone asks SPYGOD, and he turns to regard the man: old, tall, and flinty, with a full, silver beard and thinning hair, dressed in a suit sharp enough to cut through steel. Black leather gloves. A wooden cane.

German accent. 

"Do I know you?' SPYGOD asks, a little uncertain.

"Aha! SPYGOD does not know all?" the man chuckles: "We have talked many times over the years, you and I. We just never met face to face, nor did I ever allow you to see mine."

"Jaeger?" SPYGOD says, almost disbelieving: "I thought you'd..."

"Oh, I did," the man says: "Officially. So far as my Government knew, I went down on the first day of the Invasion. The Imago's proxies blew up the building my organization was housed in when they took the Bundesrat."

"I wonder how they !@#$ing knew that?"

"They knew far too much, my friend. That much is clear. And I think this was a lesson I needed to learn. Even after all these years, some things are just never going to be as much of a secret as I'd like them to be."

"So why are you here, then?' SPYGOD asks: "Are you out of the game?"

"Oh no. I think it's time I played a new one," the old man smiles, extending a hand, somewhat carefully: "But before I did, I wanted to meet you face to face, this once."

"Why?" SPYGOD asks, extending a hand to shake the old man's.

"Because, the last time we did this, it was as enemies," he says, shaking it firmly, his eyes closed: "And now I hope we can be friends."

SPYGOD blinks. Twice. Then he gasps and almost takes a step back.

"You...?" he says: "Then... that wasn't...? We weren't?"

"I am still not certain about a great many things," the old man says, holding onto SPYGOD's hand: "Did we dream of that dinner? I never had a chance to ask my colleagues. We separated, not long thereafter."

"And we !@#$ing lost the Major the next day," SPYGOD admits: "And I never really asked my other friend..."

"But if you and I both remember it, then perhaps it was true."

"Perhaps," SPYGOD says, taking a step forward and putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "My god!@#$ contact in Die unsichtbare Direktion. All this !@#$ing time, and I never knew."

"You know you never did tell me what was so funny about our name," the old man says, winking.

"Eh, I don't think it !@#$ing translates well. But this is... wow. Jaeger. Wow."

For a moment they're both at a loss for words. Who hugs whom, first? Who can say, but before long they're embracing and laughing, like long lost friends. 

And maybe they are.

11:04 PM

"No, really, I can eat this," Rakim (sometimes known as Brainman) says, munching on the cheeseball from the somewhat perfunctory table of food, his long beard going up and down as he chews.

"But it's got bacon on it?" Shining Guardsman asks, looking quite out of place in his uniform and helping himself to some pizza slices.

"No, they're Bac-Os," the man explains, pointing them out: "I'd recognize that weird, cornflake-like texture anywhere, brother."

"So?" 

"So, they're not only vegetarian, they're also vegan," Rakim explains: "There's no bacon in them at all. Not even in the flavoring. They're Halal, Kosher, you name it."

"That's crazy," Shining Guardsman says, shaking his head: "Learn something new every day."

"Well, you can't say this party hasn't been educational," Blastman says, walking up and drilling Rakim with a stare.

"Cheeseball?" the man asks, gesturing to the badly-mangled snack food as the Guardsman decides to take his pizza and flee.

"Yes, you are," the hero says, scowling as he walks away.

"Hmmm," Rakim says, and has some more, wondering how long he'll need to ignore this stupid !@#$ before his former arch-enemy realizes what Rakim figured out a long time ago.

(A long time, he figures -- Blastman was never too bright)

"Anything good over here?" someone asks him. He turns to look at a lovely young lady, dressed in a red and white dress uniform.

"Oh, we've got everything," he says, gesturing to the table: "I was just explaining the virtues of this lovely cheese and bac-o ball, here, but I think the audience was more interested in the pizza they brought in."

"Oh, Sal's?" she asks, digging in to get a piece: "They went all out, didn't they?"

"I guess they did."

"Did you try some?" she asks between munches.

"Oh, I can't," he says: "It's got pepperoni."

"Oh, vegetarian?"

"Muslim," he says, smiling.

"Oh, okay," she says, nodding: "Well, you don't mind if I chow down, do you?"

"Of course not," he says: "It'd be a sad and lonely world if I couldn't eat with people who don't share my dietary restrictions."

"Oh, thank God," she says: "I've got some friends who get all up in my face about it."

"Now why would they do that?"

"Oh, I guess I'm hurting their feelings," she shrugs: "People are weird, sometimes."

"Very. I'm Rakim."

"Florence," she says, shaking his hand: "Red Wrecker when I'm on duty."

"Well, I used to be Brainman, but I'm trying to get away from that."

"Oh, you were..." she stops for a moment, and then nods: "You used to be a villain, once?"

"A long time ago, yes. It seems like a long time ago."

"So what changed?" she asks, getting another piece of pizza: "I mean, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Well, believe it or not, it was my hips," he says, smiling weakly: "I know for most people it's prison or a near death experience, but for me it was having my pelvis decide that my criminal lifestyle wasn't worth supporting, anymore."

"Really?" she asks, grabbing a chair and sitting down, and indicating that maybe he should do the same.

"Oh, it's okay. I like standing up, actually. I spent a lot of time sitting around. Still too much time, really."

"So, your hips?"

"Oh yes. They were painful. It hurt to sleep, it hurt to sit, to stand, to walk. It was pain all the time, everywhere. And the worst thing was that all the people who were supposedly my allies? The Legion? They just told me to deal with it myself."

"Didn't you have money?"

"Oh, if only! All my money went into my inventions, my dear. I was what you'd call a gadgeteer. All gizmos and cheap tricks. I had the Brain Computer to help me plan crimes, and all these tools to do them, but all the money went into making bigger and better tools, and fixing the computer every time it broke. Which was often."

"So no money."

"No. No money," he sighs, getting another cheese cracker: "And when I finally did have enough, it was all I had. And there I was, in the worst hospital in the city, dealing with the worst doctors and the worst recovery time. And that meant waiting around for them to be ready for you. Waiting to be healed up. Waiting for therapy. Waiting forever.

"And having all that time to sit around? To realize that all the bad choices you made brought you to a small, concrete room with bad curtains, and a succession of roommates you don't like who just wants to talk about all the petty things he's going to do when he gets back out? That's a punishment in and of itself. Worse than prison, really."

"So I realized, after they finally let me out, that this was one of those moments that I had to learn something from. And I did, I think. I decided to better myself, somehow, and for me that meant Embracing Islam."

"And then everything got better?" she asks, winking.

"No. I was still poor and living out of my secret lair with all my broken toys, but at least I had spiritual peace again," he says, smiling: "And then Mr. USA had to come bang on my door and get me back in the game, however reluctantly."

"And now you're a hero?"

"Well, I'm trying," he says, noticing that Blastman is still glaring at them from across the party: "I guess I'm as much of a hero as others are going to let me be."

She nods: "I think I'll let you be a hero," she says, somewhat sagely.

"Really?"

"Totally. A lot of the people I came up with, in this hero program? They went over to the other side on Christmas. Now I'm running with people I don't even know, half the time. No one's sure of anything, anymore."

"Well, neither am I," he admits.

"No, but at least you'll admit it," she says: "And that's a !@#$ of a lot better than some of these jerks in here."

"If I still drank, I'd drink to that," he says, grinning.

"Well, they won't let me drink, yet," she sighs: "But when I do? I'll have one for you."

And they shake on that -- fast friends in the making.

(Much to the chagrin of one onlooker, at least)


(SPYGOD is listening to Coming Up (The Cure) and having an Arrogant Bastard)

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)