1/16/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 5.0

The Tally So Far
Blastman, Yanabah, The Owl, Red Wrecker, Gosheven
Shining Guardsman, Brainman, SPYGOD, Night Phantom, Myron
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Up Against it

The Longer You Hate - The More That it Grates

Up Against it

Look Left Then Right - Then Run for Your Life* * *

The first thing SPYGOD's captors do -- after wrapping his head in a locked, metal half-mask, so he can't use that eye on them -- is to frisk him, and this takes a long while.

Under the watch of well-armored men with all-too-familiar flechette guns, they take every single weapon he has on him. The pistol. The other pistol. The other other pistol. The knives and stunners and grenades. The parts of the build-a-gun he has secreted all over his person. 

Each thing is taken, inspected, broken down, and put into a large box marked PREUVE. "Evidence."

At some point, someone points to his hands. He sighs and pulls something large, shining, and grotesquely swollen from thin air. It's his sword, except that it doesn't look like one, anymore. It looks more like a misshapen slab of iron dribbles, left over from a casting process. 

He does something to it, and it eases open, raining an untold amount of things down onto the floor like a surreal metal pinata. Guns and ammunition, knives and grenades, passports and evidence, spy equipment no one can readily identify, and a number of bottles of high-test alcohol. 

He shakes the shining, cancerous tree until they're all standing in a pile of bullets and bombs, and then, almost sheepishly, makes it go away. 

After that, they take his clothes. Someone throws up when they see what's become of his genitals. He laughs and gets a kick in his backside for his backtalk, but that just makes him laugh harder.

That's when the beating starts in earnest, which he knew was going to happen at some point. 

They start with their feet, and then work up to clubs. They swing at the meat of his thighs and upper arms, the backs of his legs and fingers. They crack his skull, and his ribs. Every so often someone kicks him in the junk, just because. 

This goes on for a long time -- maybe too long. Throughout it all he won't stop laughing, even when they graduate up to stun-batons and start !@#$ing him in the !@#$ and mouth with them.

Though how much of it is a sad, manly kind of weeping is debatable. 

* * *

"Stop being so !@#$ing macho about this!" Myron shouts at Yanabah as they run down yet another alley, trying to get away from the two costumed madmen that are trying to kill them. 

"It ain't about being macho, you dumb !@#$!" she shouts back, ducking behind a protruding pile of trash and indicating he should do the same, giving her a chance to reload: "We'll do better on our god!@#$ own."

"Says you," he replies, badly out of breath, extremely confused, and wondering if he has a chance of making it out of this.

Especially with him on his tail. 

They'd found them at the hideout they'd been at the last few days, bright and early this morning. If she hadn't been all grouchy from her period, and they'd actually showered together, they'd have caught them buck naked, instead of avoiding conversation and wondering about breakfast.

He was about to break the ice when she'd held up a hand. He'd almost snipped at her in return, but then realized she wasn't irritated with him. She had that look in her eyes, again -- the one that said she knew something was about to happen, but didn't know what. 

And that's when they struck.   

First there was laughter -- high, bright, and evil. They had just enough time to realize it wasn't the crazy !@#$hole who lived next door, and then bullets ripped through the window, narrowly missing them both. 

They ducked to the floor and rolled for their things, and as they did the room started shaking, as if an earthquake was happening. But then the vibrations became different, turning Myron's head into a mess of jangled nerves and painful teeth.

Which was the point when Myron got really worried. He knew that shaking, after all. 

He was about to say something, but Yanabah didn't feel like hearing it. She grabbed him by the arm and all but dragged him towards the bathroom, which they entered just before the wall the stricken window had been in exploded outward -- showering the room with large, sharp chunks of masonry and blades of shattered glass.

"It's him," Myron had kept saying, not sure how the !@#$ that could be: "It's him."

"!@#$ him,"  his partner in flight had said, punching out the cruddy, small bathroom window with a towel-wrapped hand, and then slipping through it as quickly as she could: "I know that !@#$ laugh."

"What does that mean?" Myron had asked, barely squeezing his frame though the window.

"It means he !@#$ing missed us on purpose," she'd replied, looking in every direction at once, knowing the attack could come from anywhere: "Which means if we're lucky, they'll just !@#$ing kill us."

"Oh," Myron had said, and then started running alongside her. A half-second later the maddening laughter started up again, and bullets raked the air around them.

A second after that, he realized he'd left his utility belt and weapons back in the room...

How long had they been running since then? Racing rackety-blam down alleys and backstreets, striding across busy roads and intersections? Ducking bullets and unable -- maybe even scared -- to look behind them as their harriers got ever closer, or seemingly vanished just to come at them from a different angle?

Myron had no idea. All he knew was that the crowded confusion of the city was no longer their ally. It was now their enemy.

"Alright," Yanabah says, looking down the way they've come, and then firing at something only she can see and hear.: "Here's how it !@#$ing is, Myron. They're hunting in a team. They've had time to !@#$ing plan this. They're figuring we'll stick together because that's what people like us do, right?"

"Right," Myron sighs, knowing where this is going. 

"So we split up, and they don't know what the !@#$ to do next," she explains, ducking back as bullets fly their direction: "That means they'll either go after each of us, and !@#$ing fail at it..."

"Or go after one of us," he finishes for her, nodding: "And that gives one of us a chance."

"You, I figure," she says, shooting back at the white-clad assassin that's scampering up their way, laughing as he comes.

"Listen, that other guy," Myron says: "Not that weirdo with the blindfold-"

"Friendly Fire," she says, ducking back as the weirdo in question fires back.

"The other guy. He's bad news-"

"Well, so am I," she says, looking at him over the tops of her glasses. There's something distinctly wolfish about her stare: "I thought you !@#$ing knew that?"

"No, I mean he'll kill you to get to me."

"You mean he'll try," she grins, looking around the corner: "But if they get you?"

"What?" he asks, wondering what she means.

"You don't remember?" she asks, clearly concerned.

"Remember what?"

"Oh, just run you dumb !@#$," she says, taking a step out of cover: "God. I'm already regretting !@#$ing you..."

"You are one nasty !@#$, Yanabah," he says as he runs away, already planning how to go to ground, and really confused about what she means. 

"Nastiest you've ever met, Myron," she grins, not really regretting a !@#$ thing as her quarry gets closer, and his bullets are no longer missing on purpose...

* * *

 "I am so very sorry," Lt. Vipond says as he hands Director Straffer a towel to wash up with.

"It's alright," the man says, wiping the spilled coffee from his face and the front of his shirt. The guard who did the spilling just smirks and then leaves the interview room, locking it behind him. 

"No, it is not," the man says, glaring at the door and then passing his own cup over to his prisoner: "You have cooperated with us. You are due respect for that."

"Cooperated," Straffer sighs, just sort of looking at the steaming cup of coffee in front of him: "That's a funny way to put it."

"Do you have another term?" Vipond asks: "The complexities of English still elude me from time to time."

"Well, let's just say I was persuaded to cooperate," the blonde man says: "I think that's as much as I'd like to say about it now."

"Mssr. Straffer, I hope you will be more forthcoming on other matters?"

"Oh, I do intend to," Straffer says, having a sip of the scalding liquid and smiling: "That's a good roast."

"We do pride ourselves on our refreshments."

"That's good. It's the little things, you know?"

"Oh, I agree," Vipond sighs: "This country! The coffee is too harsh, the pastries are too heavy."

"And the seafood is terrible."

"You see?" the Lt. says: "I knew we were men of a similar wavelength. Is that the word?"

"It works, yes," Straffer smiles: "So, you'll want to know why, but I'm leaving that alone for now."

"But there must have been a reason," Vipond presses, waving to another guard outside to bring him a replacement cup of coffee: "Here you were, planning and plotting with SPYGOD for all that time. And then, suddenly, you turn on him?"

"Well, not suddenly," Straffer explains, putting the coffee down and regarding it: "But..."

"Yes?" the Lt. asks after a time of sitting in silence.

"You see, when I fell in love with (REDACTED) at first, it was because I'd finally found someone so much like myself. He had his COMPANY, I had DAMOCLES. I was in charge of Deep Ten, he had the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. We were both so used to being men in high castles, looking down at the world and being in charge of all we surveyed. Having thousands of subordinates and hundreds of concerns, dozens of cases, God knows how many enemies. That's a lot to juggle, you know?"

"I can only imagine," Vipond says, quite genuinely. 

"Well, we were so similar, we could commiserate. And then we could confide. And then, before long, we realized we'd found ourselves staring into the eyes of someone who could truly understand who we were. It was like we were brothers, of a sort. And, well, things happened from there."

The man smiles a little, and then looks down.

"When did it go wrong?" Vipond asks, somehow knowing where this is going.

"It wasn't anything... well, that's not true," Straffer says, holding up a hand: "Something did happen that explained what words could never say. It's when he started seeing Gosheven."

"He did?" the Lt asks, blinking a bit: "It was an affair?"

"Not exactly. We always had an open arrangement. We didn't have to worry about disease, being who and what we are, and we always thought that it was better to indulge curiosity and our appetites than keep them restrained. It just kills so many good things, you know?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, at some point, before we got put under house arrest, they started having sex," Straffer explains: "I didn't even know it was him at first. He's a shapeshifter, so he could be anyone. The ladyboy he brought up. Some actor or singer. He started using him for fantasy sex, and I was alright with it, at first."

"What changed?"

"Two things. One day he confided in me that the only reason he was still !@#$ing him was to have a hold over him. And, to be honest, I kind of expected that was part of it. That's who he was, after all."

"And the other?" Vipond asks, finally getting his replacement cup of coffee from a different guard.

"One night, I came home early," Straffer says, steepling his hands before his face: "I snuck in, hoping to surprise him. That's pretty hard to do, you know. What with his eye and all. But this time I'd taken all kinds of precautions. Had a little help, too."

"Such as?"

Straffer winks: "Maybe that one you don't get to know about."

"Very well. Go on?"

"Well, I got into the apartment, and I heard that he was having sex. I was a little disappointed, but I figured I'd come this far, so I might as well see how far I could push it. So I snuck up the hall towards the bedroom, planning to just see what was going on."

"Not to interrupt?"

"No. That would have been rude."

"I see," Vipond says, indicating the man can continue. 

"Well, all the way up the hall, I kept thinking I knew the other voice. It sounded very familiar, but I just couldn't place it. Sort of like when you hear a song but it's so far away that you only get every other note?"

"Yes. That I understand."

"Well, I get closer, and it gets more and more familiar. And then I get to the door and look in. And there's SPYGOD, slamming into someone so hard it's a wonder they didn't put each other into the !@#$ hospital. And then they shift a little, and when the other person looks up... well, it's me."

Vipond blinks. 

"And that was, well... why would he be having sex with Gosheven wearing my face? He's got me. He doesn't need to pretend like he does with all those 80's rock stars he likes so much. Steve McQueen. Whoever.

"But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn't about me. It was about him. It was about him being able to separate his sex with me from his love for me. It was about him being able to detach himself from the situation. 

"And that's when it really began to dawn on me that we are all just pieces of machinery to him. Just cogs and gears in a big clock he can take apart and put back together any way he likes, time and again, just to make sure he likes the time of day."

Straffer stops talking, then, and looks down. He might be trying not to cry. Vipond isn't sure.

After a time of silence, the blonde man starts talking again: "So when I was... persuaded, I thought about it. And I realized that my love for him would never be anything more to him than just a part of the machine he's made of his life. 

"And, God help me, I felt the same way. Deep down, I realized that the fact that I was even taking that offer seriously was because I would do the same thing, myself. 

"And that's why I made the call and turned him in. Because I want my life back. And I want to matter again. 

"And if I have to betray the man who loves me, and that I love, in order to do it? I will."

With that, the room falls into silence again. 

* * *

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:

JANET BELANGER: "Sorry about that, folks. We just had some technical difficulties from our feed in Neo York City. But in other news, we've received news that an apartment building in Fort Stanton, on the south side of the Square Mile, has actually collapsed, after some rather strange events, early this morning. Jorge Yanz is live on the scene with the WJLA news truck. Jorge, what do we have?"

JORGE YANZ: "Well, Janet, this is a strange one. The building at 1400 Pomeroy Ave had been, and I'm quoting the locals here, an eyesore for almost a year, now. It had been decaying badly, practically falling down in pieces and patches. But every time people complained nothing got done. They say it was like no one could actually see it, unless someone knew what to look for, if that makes any sense?"

JANET BELANGER: "Well, I'm sure it makes sense to someone. What happened there this morning, Jorge?"

JORGE YANZ: "Well, it looks like time finally caught up with the building this morning. As you can see from here, it's just fallen straight down. All seven stories have collapsed onto one another. Witnesses said it was like something just cut its strings, and down it went."

JANET BELANGER: "That's... wow, Jorge. That's just devastating."

JORGE YANZ: "It is, Janet. You can't really get a sense of it from here, with the cameras. But the whole area, it just feels wrong, somehow. It's like something out of a story."

JANET BELANGER: "Do we have an estimate on how many people may have been in the building when it fell?"

JORGE YANZ: "Well, that's the miraculous thing, Janet. The firefighters have been going through it all morning, and they haven't found anyone. Apparently most of the tenants have left the place, and those persons who were still there were all out of the building this morning. They said it was like something told them to leave, so they did."

JANET BELANGER: "Now, you said there were some rather strange events?"

JORGE YANZ: "Yes, that's the weird thing. I've got one of the people who was moved to leave this morning here with me. This is Mr. Atlan, and he's... what did you say you did, sir?"

ATLAN: "I am the voice of the people, sir. God be praised."

JORGE YANZ: "Right, yes-"

ATLAN: "A voice, for those who can no longer speak."

JORGE YANZ: "Is that why you didn't leave this building, even when everyone else did?"

ATLAN: "Yes. When the marriage of opposites took place, the others rightly feared and left. But I had to stay and be the voice. It is my duty. God gave it to me." 

JORGE YANZ: "Okay, Mr. Atlan, can you tell me what happened? Before you left?"

ATLAN: "Before I left? Nothing. I merely heard the word from on high. A beautiful angel said unto me 'leave this place.' And I did."

JORGE YANZ: "What happened after?"

ATLAN: "I heard them coming from above. It was like the rolling of mighty thunder from on high, but yet not. And I felt them coming from below. It was like the churning of insects in the dirt, but yet not-"

JORGE YANZ: "Okay, but Mr. Atlan, can you tell me what you saw?"

ATLAN: "It was as it was written. The heavens opened, and the light shone down. And the ground opened, and the darkness rushed up. And as soon as they met halfway, at the top of the building, it fell down like a man accursed. God be praised!"

JORGE YANZ: "Alright, thank you-"

ATLAN: "And I beheld when he opened the sixth seal, and lo, there was a great earthquake-"

JORGE YANZ: "Yes, thank you Mr. Atlan. Thank you. Anyway, Janet, I know that sounds a little incredible. But other onlookers say there was a break in the clouds this morning, and a beautiful ray of sunshine was right on the building just seconds before it collapsed."

JANET BELANGER: "I see! Well, thank you for that, Jorge. I'm sure we're all glad no one was hurt."

JORGE YANZ: "Same here, Janet. I guess it's the little victories-"

HOODED BYSTANDER: "Hey! !@#$ her right in the !@#$!"

JORGE YANZ PUNCHES THE MAN IN THE FACE.

* * *

I don't understand the problem, the Nthernaut says, looking at projection of the fat, waddling tumor of a man, who's all but dancing in glee.

"You do not?" Minister of Justice Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud cries: "Oh, I am certain you must be joking with me, Mssr. Samuels. How can you not see the massive conflict of interest, here?"

I do not, the digitized young man says, calling up an image of his mother and his uncle in his hand, as they sit in separate cells: If they are accused of breaking the law, they should be detained, pending an appearance before a judge for arraignment. I can oversee that, and would do-

"You will do nothing of the sort!" the man exclaims: "They will be transported to the Heptagon, there to be questioned for their part in this nefarious plot to remove SPYGOD from his imprisonment. Once the full extent of their guilt has been determined, there will be more arrests, and more questioning! And then we shall have the full measure of this man's perfidy exposed, the better to convict him at his trial!"

You are rather taking a lot for granted, the Nthernaut smirks: The last I checked, much like America, the Terre Unifee believed that a person was innocent until proven guilty.

"And the last I checked, the law was upheld by officers, and not men and women in strange costumes."

Which does not explain Le Compagnie, sir, the digital boy says, smiling a little wider: But I take your meaning. I assume that you believe I may have something to do with all of this?

The smile on the fat man's face wavers just a little bit: "Well, no. I am not suggesting that at all."

That's certainly a relief, the Nthernaut says: After our last meeting, the other week, I was not sure if we truly did away with the notion that I might be aiding SPYGOD at this time. And now my mother and her brother in law stand accused of doing just that. If I were you, I'd be very surprised if I wasn't somehow involved, after all.

"Yes," the man says, ready as ever to lie: "Well, Ciel Rouge vouched for you. And the President was sincere about being allies, going forward."

And yet you don't trust me to look after my own family, the Nthernaut says.

"Young man, need I remind you of the importance of everything looking, as you say, above board?" the fat man says: "This may well be the trial of the century-"

I thought we already had that.

"Well, yes, but this will be quite something. Here we have the man who has protected the world for so long, or at least claimed to, turning out to be little better than one of the monsters he supposedly protected it from. Surely that must be handled with the utmost of care?"

I agree, the Nthernaut says, after a time: Well, I suppose we can overlook my concerns, going forward.

"Indeed," Jean-Jacques says, very glad his ruse appears to be working.

And I suppose, if you have any lingering doubts, Ciel Rouge can check me out? the young man asks: She will be coming to interrogate them, yes?

"Well, actually I think she's attending to something else," the fat man says, trying not to grin: "We have a different person here to work upon your mother. A specialist that's very thorough, very efficient."

Not torture.

"No, nothing of the sort! Simply persuasion. Gentle, at that."

Oh good, Thomas says, knowing he's in some serious trouble, now: I do enjoy dealing with professionals.

* * *

"Oh God," Myron says. It's all he can say.

He came to this room, in this !@#$ty uptown hotel, because he thought he could hook up with one of his other allies. He thought he and Shining Guardsman might be able to regroup and take the fight to their pursuers. 

He should have known better. 

He should have known that, just as those two human monsters found him and Yanabah that morning, and just as two other monsters had found Night Phantom and Blastman the other day, someone would find his ally. 

He's never seen the man out of his armor. He thinks about that, somewhat absently, as he sees the man writhing up against the wall -- crucified on a high tech cross made of floating pieces of what used to be his armor. 

"Get out..." Shining Guardsman whispers, hoping the fat man who's torturing him doesn't notice. Of course, he does.

"Well hello," the Technocrat says, turning around and fixing Myron with his protruding metal and plastic eyes -- like evil camera lenses, focused on Hell. 

"Hi," Myron says somewhat weakly, wishing he had even the smallest of his shake-guns on him. 

The fat man reminds him of the comic book store guy from the Simpsons, only even more slovenly. His SAVE MANIMAL t-shirt is filthy with stains he doesn't want to identify, as are his shorts. A belt full of deep pouches barely holds the latter up, their insides filled with circuits and wires that move with a life of their own. 

"You must be Underman," the Technocrat says, taking a long, deep slurp from the jumbo rainbow slushie he's holding in his left hand: "Well, not the real Underman. He's after you now."

"Yeah," Myron says, looking around for a weapon of some kind. Anything...

"And if I do the obvious thing, well, he'll kill me," the fat man says, chuckling: "He's got it in for you, buddy-o-mine. Something about how you turned states evidence on him, after you joined up with the good guys. I guess he was a little disappointed."

"Well, he'll have to live with it," Myron says.

"Run, Myron," Shining Guardsman says: "Please-"

"Yes, run," the Technocrat says: "I'm about to have some fun, now. This isn't for you to see. Unless you'd rather just wait here for your death to come?"

He grins. His teeth are rotten black and green posts in diseased gums. The bits of Shining Guardsman's armor that he didn't use to make the cross -- or the things that are skewering his hands and feet -- float up like angry snakes, ready to strike. 

And Myron crosses the room in three swift strides, brings up his fist, and smashes it right into the bridge of the man's nose. 

The effect is instantaneous. Every electronic thing in the room falls down and goes THUNK on the floor. It takes a half a second longer for the fat man to follow suit, though the groan he makes as he hits the ground is extremely satisfying. 

"Oh man," Myron says, cradling the naked body of his friend, who's even more frail than he'd supposed. 

"It's okay," the man says, whispering: "My suit... it's what keeps me alive. Can't move without it... barely breathe."

"What can I do?"

"You can't," the man says: "You leave now. Leave me. It's Game Over for me."

"No," Myron says, shaking his head: "We have to keep fighting. You know that-"

"You go," he says: "Take that fat !@#$'s phone. Call 911."

"No-"

"Yes. They'll make such a mess getting here you can slip away."

"Then I should stay-"

"You should go," Shining Guardsman says: "Let me go. It's okay."

"No It isn't-"

"Hey, It's only a game, right?" the man says, his eyes lightning up all of a sudden: "I think I remember..."

"What?" Myron asks, trying to think: "What do you remember, man? What?"

"Heh... Game Over, man," Shining Guardsman breathes. 

And then it is, and he's gone. 

"!@#$," Myron sighs, looking at the fat man's phone and wondering what he was about to remember. 

He thinks he hears laughter, out there. It's enough to make him get up and run like the Devil was after him. 

As far as he's concerned, he is. 

 
(SPYGOD is listening to Up Against It (Pet Shop Boys) and having a Positive Contact)

1/15/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 4.0

"Dancing in formation with a couple of boys..."

 Mark Clutch, Director Straffer, SPYGOD, The Owl
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

I'm an artist honey

you'll see me sometimes

making crazy pictures

out of music and rhymes

* * *

The sun came up some time ago, and is all but staring them in the face, but they don't care, anymore.

Straffer and SPYGOD are wrapped around one another in the remnants of the bed they broke, late last night. The sheet they're tied up in is in flinders, and soaked with sweat and other, less-seemly substances. They're wet and mussed up and gooey and maybe a little too warm. 

And they don't give a good god!@#$.

A shame about the bed, though -- they don't make 'em like that, anymore. It was one of those old, well-used showpieces made with sturdy, all-American craftsmanship, and out of good, solid wood. It had lasted a hundred years or so, and probably would have lasted for another hundred, too, if it hadn't been for that fourth bout of escape sex they had last night.

And once it collapsed right under them, they paused only long enough to laugh, and then go for bouts five and six. 

The room is the upstairs master bedroom of a small, old mansion, well into upstate New York. It was purchased ages ago as part of one thing or another, and then passed around various intelligence agencies as a safehouse, before it was creatively shuffled into nonexistence more than a few years back. Now the only people who know about it are spies who once stayed there, and most of them are in no shape to volunteer its whereabouts to anyone. 

Mark Clutch and Martha Samuels are downstairs. SPYGOD can hear them tip-toeing about, down there, amusingly-embarrassed at their host's sexual exuberance. Maybe that's something of a counterpoint to their own embarrassment, as they had a perfect opportunity to sleep in the same room, last night, but chose to remain in separate beds, yet again. 

"I give it a week," SPYGOD muses, chuckling.

"What?" Straffer asks. 

"Mark and Martha."

"Oh," his lover says, kissing him: "You know, they can take as much time as they want to. Or need to. They've been through some rough stuff, together."

"Yeah, but isn't that the !@#$ing best cure for it?"

"What, sex?"

"Well, that and a !@#$ton of alcohol. And some good Italian."

"I think I had some !@#$ good Italian last night."

"And this morning. Don't !@#$ing forget that."

"As if I could," Staffer smiles, leaning in a little closer and stealing a quick, probing kiss: "But maybe they're just going to be friends?"

"Naah," SPYGOD says, kissing him back: "She wants him. He wants her. And they !@#$ing know this. They're just !@#$ing dancing around the god!@#$ fire instead of jumping the !@#$ on in because..."

"Because of all the ghosts," Straffer says: "All the survivors guilt."

"Really? I thought it was because they're too !@#$ churched."

"Well, that too," his lover chuckles, kissing him back: "But you know what? I think they can worry about their own problems. I'm more worried about ours." 

"Do we have a problem?"

"Well, let's see," Straffer says: "We're both wanted criminals, having just broken out of that house arrest we've been languishing in for far too long. And considering our high profile, and how publicly we escaped, there's no way they can cover it up. Which means that, as we're lying here, every single intelligence agency, armed force, and strategic talent we don't have on our friends list is going to be hunting for us."

"And we've got a !@#$ plan."

"True, but it's a risky one. And there's a chance it might all come to nothing. One wrong move-"

"Even if it all falls apart, as long as I have you, I have everything I !@#$ing need," SPYGOD says: "I don't care about the world when I'm with you. I don't care about the games I play or the plots I make or bust. The whole !@#$ing thing can burn and go to !@#$ for all I care."

"You mean that, don't you?" Straffer says, truly amazed.

"I do," SPYGOD says, holding his lover as close as he can while still looking him in the face: "You're the sun in my morning and the moon in my evening. You're my guiding !@#$ing star, day or night, and all the !@#$ points on my compass. I begin and end with you. If I had everything, it would mean nothing without you. If I had nothing, it would mean nothing as long as you were there, with me, in that nothing. 

"And that's because you are my everything."

Straffer looks at him, trying not to cry. 

"Will you marry me?" SPYGOD asks: "When this !@#$ is over. Well, it's never over..."

"!@#$ yes," Straffer says, kissing him before he can say anything else.

And for a time there's some blissful silence, upstairs, so Mark and Martha can go about making breakfast without wondering if the ceiling's going to break, too.

But as they make bacon, eggs, and coffee -- and try to avoid talking about what they almost did last night -- they realize this is not the calm before the storm. This is the eye of the hurricane, deceptively serene and never wide enough.

And the terrible wall of wind is getting closer by the second...

* * *

"Aw, !@#$," an intern curses as he inadvertently tips over a tottering pile of maps, sitting alongside a number of other stacks on the center table of the Oval Office.

His clumsiness is rewarded with someone chewing him out, the bites as much French as they are English. The President has no idea who the shouter is, any more than he can really remember the name of the shame-faced intern, now banished to go be "useless elsewhere."

But he's beginning to feel as though he could join that now-retreating kid, for all the good he's doing here, this morning.

The office -- normally an oasis of calm within the building -- has been transformed into ground zero of the effort to find the fugitives, as well as punish every strategic talent that may have thrown in with him. Their photos have been thrown up onto three-dimensional projections along the walls, along with any information about their whereabouts, past associates, and recent dealings. Technicians with special gloves twiddle their facts and fallacies this way and that, throwing scraps of data to one another like softballs.

And in the center, where Mr. USA sits -- surrounded by the heads of Agencies he didn't even know existed -- the map of the United States of America is being carved up section by section, with the most likely whereabouts of each person on their list being indicated by some complicated method involving different colors of push-pins.

The gang's all there, if you know how to look. Myron and Yanabah, on the run together. Blastman dead and Night Phantom in the wind. Shining Guardsman in one of several locations, Red Wrecker seen in Dallas, Gosheven under lock and key under the Heptagon.

And, most heartbreaking of all, The Owl -- identified only by the kind of cloak that flying car was packing -- now a fugitive right along with them. 

"Groupe B-3 a Brainman en vue," one of them is saying, tapping one of the Blue pins in New Jersey, around Trenton: "Observons-nous ou d'attaque?"

"Est-ce qu'il parle a quelqu'un?" another answers, calling up Brainman's information on his pad. 

"Non. Non, il est l'emballage."

"What's he packing?" Mr. USA asks, knowing at least that much French.

"They say... clothes," the man says, raising an eyebrow: "Possibly getting out of town, as you say?"

"Dites-leur de ne pas attaquer, encore," Ben Franklin -- the only person in the room that the President knows, right now, other than Jess Friend -- suggests, taking a sip of his rather large cup of coffee: "Quelqu'un peut communiquer avec lui. Attendez jusqu'a ce qu'il soit l'emballage, puis attaque terminee."

"Oui," the other man agrees, and gives the order.

"What was all that?" Mr. USA asks, sighing.

"Oh, well it seems to me that if we have him under surveillance, and he's not engaged in anything time-sensitive, we can at least observe his communications. Someone may try to contact him. If so, we may learn more. And if not, well, we can capture him when he tries to leave, and that will be that."

With that, the Founding Father smiles, and adds a splash more cognac to his already-aromatic coffee, and has yet another sip.

"I'm glad someone here knows what's going on," Jess says, leaning over the couch and looking with some dismay over the reports coming in from the now-surrounded Sonoma County Ashram: "All I can see is a big !@#$ mess."

"Oh, it's always messy, my young friend," Franklin muses: "You should have seen what happened behind the scenes when Napoleon left Elba. Now there was a mess-"

"Which side were you on?" Mr. USA asks, more than a little curious.

"Why, the same side I am now, my good sir," the Founding Father says, smiling: "In a time like this, law and order must be upheld. The citizens must see that their government is doing everything needed and necessary to bring these men back to justice. Likewise, they must also never see the extent to which their government has failed them by allowing such a brazen plot to come together right under their noses."

"Hence this Team Omega bull!@#$," Jess sighs, really wanting to be as drunk as his boss is, right now, but afraid of what he might say if he were.

"So, law and order from a hero of the Revolutionary War," Mr. USA says, chuckling in spite of the dire circumstances: "Isn't that a little out of character for you?"

"Well, Mr. President-"

"Facilitateur national," one of the people there corrects him: "Le President est in Paris."

"So true, do forgive me," Franklin says, waving an unsteady hand: "It's the drink, you see. I do forget myself, even if I am, indeed, unforgettable-"

"You were about to say that being such a character, nothing is truly out of character for you," Jess interrupts, not entirely unpointedly.

"Yes," Franklin says, suddenly not so jolly: "And indeed, given time I can justify almost anything, save my own demise."

"Well, that's one way to look at it," Mr. USA says, wondering if he could borrow some of the man's cognac at this point.

"Ou est Gold Standard?" One of the others asks, not seeing her on the table.

"Oh, she's on a separate mission," the President-cum-National Facilitator says, shaking his head: "It's good. She's trustworthy."

"Not anymore, I fear," Franklin sighs: "I am very much afraid that if we have no eyes upon her, she is as suspect as anyone."

"Well, I don't know where she is at this point," the older hero sighs: "She's on a mission of the highest priority, and she's operating under radio silence. As soon as she checks in-"

"Nous ne avons pas le temps pour ces conneries," one of the others waves him off, rudely: "Apportez dans le Coreen. Le Chasseur."

"Who's that?" Mr. USA asks.

"Better you not know, sir," one of the other agents says, winking.

"It's too bad that both Wayfinder and Disparaitre are dead," Mr. USA sighs, looking at Jess: "We could clear all this up with just a few jumps."

"Yes it is," Jess says, nodding and looking at the file they're throwing up for Gold Standard. Her name, her life, her likes and dislikes, and all the other things no one should ever have known about them, save by those most trusted and intimate.

And wondering if anyone's going to be left off such a file when this is all said and done.

* * *

"It's not that we don't trust you, Mssr," Le Femme Electrique says, smiling through blue lips, crackling with sparks: "But, if I am being perfectly honest?"

"You don't trust me," New Man sighs, looking at the fancy letter she's just handed him in his room.

There's a few other member of Le Compagnie there, with her, for this unpleasantness. None of them are people he particularly likes, especially that white-skinned Helvete freak. All of them are smiling at his departure. 

"Not at all," she says, trying to appear as kind as possible, which just makes this worse: "It is simply that, until we can be sure that we trust you, we cannot have you on the team."

"Is there something I can say?" he asks, getting to his feet as proudly as possible: "Can I state my case to the others?"

"We voted, my friend," El Khadir says, crossing his burly arms: "You lost."

"You put me on trial without having me there, in other words."

"Such things are possible, through our charter," La Femme says, smiling: "If you'd read it...?"

New Man looks over at the thick document in question, over on his table. It's the size of the Sears-Roebuck catalogs he used to hand his family around Christmastime. And the print is twice as small as what he remembers it being...

"Yeah," he says, knowing there was no other way this was going to go down.

"You have a half an hour to gather your things and leave," the electric lady says, turning to go: "Helvete has been kind enough to offer to help you pack. I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about-"

The purple glow that flares up just then is bright enough to shame the Sun. The lady only has enough time to turn around before the wave of energy overwhelms her and throws her up against the wall. The half-dozen stooges she brought with her fall over like tenpins, and the moment one of them tries to get up -- and it would be Helvete -- New Man uses his last reserves of strength to bring both his hands down on his pale, smoking, psychotic head, laughing all the while...

"Did you not hear her?" Helvete asks, bringing New Man out of his angry fantasy: "You get your skit out of here or I will burn it. And then I will burn you."

"You know what?" New Man says, looking around the otherwise-empty room: "Why don't you just do that, son? It's not like I brought my good clothes to this !@#$hole."

Then he walks past and away the man, all but daring him to try and start something. For once, the freak doesn't, which means he was told to be very careful about this.

And New Man knows by who, and why.

"!@#$ all of you," he mutters as he leaves the Palace, wondering how long it'll take him to get home to America if he pretends to be a normal person and takes a plane.

And wondering if SPYGOD will finally come to him if he does.

* * *

"Oh thank God you two are finally here," the guard says, his face a mess of scratches and small bandages.

Both of the strangely-handsome animal control officers seem to bristle a little at that, though the guy behind the desk does not care. He all but jumps out of his seat to get out from behind his desk, and leads them back into the warrens of the detention center as fast as he can.

"So here's the deal..." the guy says, looking at the small, steel cage the long-haired officer is carrying: "Are you sure that'll work on this... thing?"

"Quite sure," the man says, his voice a delicious thing to hear: "It's just the thing for the job, as they say."

"Alright then," the guard says, walking them down the concrete stairs to the supermax cells: "This thing is not of this !@#$ing Earth, okay? It's an actual Demon from Hell, if you can believe that !@#$."

"We can," they both say at once, which is quite unnerving.

"Well, okay then. But it's mean on top of it. And it grew to the size of a bear, and fired a !@#$ machine gun at them. Took a hundred men a whole !@#$ hour to bring him down."

"We hear someone got him drunk," the other one says, his voice a kind joy in the mind.

"Well, yeah," the guard admits: "That too."

They walk to the end of the hall where the large cells are, and then the guard looks at the monitor for the cell. A large black cat sits in the corner, surrounded by empty bottles of high-test, Russian vodka, and soaked in its own !@#$.

"Behemot," the one with the long hair and the delicious voice says.

"Is that it's name?" the guard asks.

"Yes," the other one says, putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "You can trust us. Go back to your desk. We will deal with this."

"Um... okay," the man says, smiling, all of a sudden not caring about the proper paperwork.

(Or why the concrete walls in this place are suddenly cracking, just as the paint is starting to flake and fall from the ceiling.)

As soon as the suddenly-rubbery guard walks up the steps, one of the animal control people looks to the other, and nods. The other opens the cage, and then his partner waves a hand before the electronic locks, making them tumble open and away.

The smell that comes from the cell is so offensive that it could almost kill a human being. If the sweet-voiced one notices, he makes no sign, and comes over to Bee-Bee with something approaching reverence, or maybe pity.

"Oh, how you have fallen, my sweet," the Beautiful Stranger coos, gently picking the drunken, insensate demon-cat up from its foulness, and putting it inside the carrying case. 

"We should leave," Aaron says from the door, looking at the cracks underfoot: "We've been here too long as it is."

"What's one more useless institution gone to ruin in our wake, lover?" the demon says, languidly closing up the container and sauntering out of the cell: "So many more will burn before we are done."

"I'd prefer to avoid unnecessary deaths," the turned Angel scolds him: "This place is melting around us. I don't want it crashing down on a bunch of rent-a-cops."

"Well, it would teach them to find better professions in their next life," the Beautiful Stranger chuckles, but complies with his lover's concerns. As such they all but sprint up the stairs, and navigate the maze of desks and corridors that lead outside with a speed that almost reveals their true nature. 

And then, before anyone notices, they're not there, anymore.

It's a whole hour before the guard who led them down realizes that they never came back to his desk to fill out the transfer paperwork. He's cursing himself for being so stupid, but when he looks down at the papers he sees they actually are done, and signed. 

He blinks a few times, puts it down to the weird morning he's been having -- was he actually feeling gay for that one dude? -- and decides he should lay off the heavy breakfast burritos in the morning from here on out.

He's just not half the man he used to be, apparently.

* * *

"Look, please, I am an old man," Rakim -- sometimes known as Brainman -- says, holding up his hands as the TU guards surround him in his office, the lights on the ends of their rifles all but blinding him: "I swear I will not hurt you. Please just listen to me."

The noise that responds is barely human. It is a chorus of the worst sort of things a man could ever hear -- a dissonance of curses and commands, issued from a dozen different mouths, all jumbled up between "get down" and "!@#$ you."

"Please, I will not harm you," Rakim says, getting down on his knees as carefully as he can: "I have sworn an oath of nonviolence. If you are here to arrest me you must know that. I have sworn before God that I will not take a life, even in self-defense-"

"Shut the !@#$ up!" one of the ones in front says, bringing the butt of his rifle down on the old man's head. He doesn't even put up his hands to ward off the blow.

"Please," the man says as he lies there in a heap, counting the teeth that have broken out of his mouth: "Let me speak to you... please..."

"You!" a familiar, imperious voice commands as its owner stomps into the circle of bright lights. Its Lt. Giscard Vipond, of all people, and he looks very annoyed to be here, right now.

"Giscard, please-"

"Rakim, for your own good you must cooperate," the slight man commands, pointing a finger: "Myron? Yanabah? Night Phantom? Do you know where they are?"

"I don't know..." the old man breathes, holding up a hand: "I don't know where any of us are... I swear."

"You swear," the guy who used his rifle butt on the old man sneers: "Sure. I believe you, you !@#$ing sand!@#$."

"You be silent," Vipond says: "I will not have such words said in my presence. They demean the very work that we do."

"I..." Rakim says, reaching towards the man who just spoke: "I forgive you-"

No one's sure who fires the first shot, but it's hardly the last person to do so. Within seconds the old man's body is full of holes, and Vipond is screaming to stop, stop, please !@#$ing stop.

"You imbeciles!" he shouts, waving his hands around: "Why did you shoot him?"

"Well, sorry," one of the others who fired says: "I thought he was going for a gun with his other hand."

"Um, yeah," the one Rakim was forgiving says: "So did I, man. Totally."

"Mon Dieu,"  Vipond says, kneeling down just outside the widening pool of blood as Rakin twitches and tries to breathe: "He's still alive. Someone get medical help. We may be able to save him."

"But-"

"Do it!" the Lieutenant shouts, realizing his career is about to bleed out right along with this man if he dies.

"Giscard," the dying man says, tapping him on the leg: "Is that... you..?"

"I am here, Rakim," the slight man says, bending over to hear his weak voice: "Please, tell me. What do you know?"

"I know... nothing..."

"Come now, sir. Do not die with a lie on your lips. Tell me what you know..."

But by the time someone can come back from the transport with a badly-managed medical kit, Brainman is dead. Vipond gets to his feet slowly, a stunned look upon his face.

"What did he say, sir?" one of the guards asks: "Did he know anything?"

"He said... 'game over.'"

"Probably some stupid Muslim bull!@#$" someone snorts: "Assa-lamma rama ding dong."

"Actually, I think it may mean there's a bomb, here," Vipond says, which silences the laughter the last comment made.

He's lying, of course. But the idiots he was forced to accompany here aren't so smart as to realize it, and immediately !@#$ themselves running out of the building before it can explode. 

"God be with you," Vipond says to the man he was going to divest of his pay for not being in a firefight. He's too sad and ashamed to say anything else.

* * *

"Well," SPYGOD sighs, reaching onto the kitchen table and turning over the piece of paper that says BRAINMAN.

"Well, what?" Mark asks, uncertain.

"Well, he's out of this," Straffer translates as he gets up to get some more coffee, as well as turn off the device they just got this news over.

"Which is doubly !@#$ing sad, because he wasn't really in it," SPYGOD says, looking at the remaining names they've got on the table, gleaming in the noonday sun.

"What do you mean?" Mark asks.

"I was leaving him out. He had beliefs. I respected them."

"It's a sad thing," Martha says, nodding: "I was glad to see him turn his life around."

"Some turn," Mark snorts: "One day you'd have shot him for being a criminal. Then he gets shot for being a hero."

"Mark," Martha sighs, putting her hand on his: "Not helping, hon."

Her touch makes him calm down, if only a little. 

"This is war, Mark," SPYGOD says, tapping his fingers on the table and taking a pull from the whiskey bottle he's currently working on: "We knew that, getting into this !@#$. Or at least we !@#$ing should have."

"No one's ready to see their friends die, (REDACTED)," Martha says, looking up at him: "And we've had a lot of that in our family, already."

"I know, Martha," SPYGOD says, casting an eye at Mark: "Believe me. And I !@#$ing appreciate your being willing to stick your !@#$ necks out for me. Especially after everything else."

"Yeah," Mark says, sitting down and feeling stupid. Straffer hands him a fresh mug of joe and sits down, looking at the map of names.

There's silence for a time, punctuated by sips of coffee. SPYGOD kills the bottle, and then reaches over to take another. 

"So where do we stand from here?" Straffer asks, looking who's left: "We've still got some surprises."

"We do, yes," SPYGOD says, taking another slug from his new bottle and then grinning: "Quite a few. Big !@#$ surprises."

"Like what?" Mark asks.

"Well, if I !@#$ing told you, it wouldn't be a big !@#$ surprise, now would it?"

Mark's about to say something to that, but Straffer holds up a hand: "Here's the real surprise. We're going back to Neo York City. And soon."

"Didn't you just escape from there?" Martha asks, uncertain.

"Yes, but it's crucial to the !@#$ plan," SPYGOD says, grinning even wider: "We're going to do what we !@#$ing did during the Reclamation War, all over again, hon. We're going to turn the entire city into a big !@#$ no-go area for the TU. They're all getting !@#$ing turned out by your son."

"What?" she says, suddenly incredulous: "You mean all this time I was hiding from him...?"

"He was in on the gag?" Straffer finishes for her, smiling: "Absolutely."

"He has been from day !@#$ing one," SPYGOD confirms: "And I think they know that, too. That's why they did that whole stupid !@#$ thing with that electropath they busted out of jail, the other week. They're getting ready to shut him the !@#$ down."

"Or try, anyway," Straffer chuckles: "Good luck with that."

"I don't appreciate your being so cavalier with my son's life," Martha glowers: "Either of you."

"Oh, it's not being cavalier, Martha," Straffer says, holding up a hand: "Far from it."

"Your son is a !@#$ing power to be reckoned with, hon," SPYGOD agrees: "I'm not even sure he knows how !@#$ powerful he is. Or could be."

"That doesn't make me feel much better, somehow," Martha says: "Why didn't we know about this?' Why didn't I know?"

"Compartmentalization," SPYGOD answers, having another slug: "I don't !@#$ing know who's with who or where, right now. And neither should you. If no one knows the whole !@#$ plan, no one can spell it out if they get !@#$ing taken down."

"Except you," Mark notes.

"Even me," SPYGOD corrects him, pounding the bottle down on the table so fast and hard it's a wonder it doesn't break: "Right now? I got no !@#$ing idea what all's going on, out there. I got plans inside of plans, outside of plans, around other plans... !@#$ me, I got plans going on that I didn't even !@#$ing sign off on, and just made their own @#$ selves up out of good luck and better coincidences."

"Then how do you know they're there?" Martha asks, somewhat archily.

"Because SPYGOD. Knows. All." SPYGOD announces, tapping the patch over the Chandra Eye: "I know things even I don't !@#$ing know, sometimes. And these plans I don't !@#$ing know about is one of them."

"So, you don't know who's out running with who, even though you could, because of security concerns," Mark says: "But you do know that things you don't know, even though you shouldn't, because... magic eyeball."

"Pretty !@#$ing much, yeah," SPYGOD says, nodding

"That's... !@#$ing crazy," Mark says, reaching for the bottle and taking a slug, himself: "And you sound !@#$ing crazy saying that."

"This is all perfectly normal," Straffer says, winking and having some more coffee: "You think that's bad, you should see him write a shopping list."

Martha giggles, in spite of herself. Straffer chuckles. SPYGOD grins.

And Mark sighs, and has another hit -- just before SPYGOD jerks the bottle back, gives him a look, and finishes it off in one decided gulp.

Which is about all that needs saying.

* * *

Sanyangkkun isn't one for superlatives. He calls them as he sees them, which is part of his charm. Provided you could call being a drunken sociopath with poor personal hygiene and a taste for stalking -- with one very useful power -- to be "charming."

For the longest time, he's been something of an also-ran, in spite that one very useful power: the ability to track anyone around the world, given enough of their scent. And the fact that they let him toy with his quarry for a time was considered an acceptable tradeoff for his talents, as long as he understood they were to be brought in alive.

Sadly, the time needed to find the quarry has always been a factor, which made it more likely that others would get the job. That dour Frenchman who could find anyone, anywhere, and didn't like to take undue advantage of it for some weird reason, was an ongoing thorn in his side. And there were others...

But just his luck, the Frenchman was dead.

Apparently, there'd been some strange goings-on, up on the Sled that the Space Service had been putting back together. The way they say it, Disparaitre had seen something he shouldn't have, up there, over a week ago. And while they weren't sure what it was he saw, whatever it was made him shriek and scream, and then teleport himself right into the Sun.

So much for that teleporter. And so much for the competition.

(Especially since Disparaitre's equally-powerful double was, by all reports, a total basket case, sitting in his cell crying and trying to forget something even worse)

So now, whenever they need someone tracked, they just have to call a certain, poorly-kept Soju house in downtown Chong-Ju, and get hold of Sanyangkkun. By the time he gets up to Seoul, they'll have a scent package waiting for him, along with the person's last known whereabouts. 

And once he's flown there, and has a good sniff around, the quarry is as good as caught -- though how long it could take would depend on a lot of things. Weather, rain, competing scents... things like that. 

Still, he's a professional. He accepts his job and devotes himself to it. He hunts alone so he doesn't get distracted. He doesn't get drunk while he's working, or play around on the clock, except once he's got the prey in hand.

And he never overstates or understates times or conditions, because that truly smacks of impropriety. 

So the fact that -- while looking for this Antonia Crisp person, AKA the new Gold Standard -- he's had cause to say something truly profane and outlandish is cause for concern.

So is the fact that, just a mile out from his quarry, deep in the deserts of Nevada, he's seeing what he's seeing -- the sort of thing that makes sane, well-adjusted people stop, drop, and stare for hours.

He, not being sane or well adjusted, would say more, of course. Maybe even radio it in once he could wrap his mind around it. That's what he does, after all.

And he would, except that, seconds after he says those unusually profane things, something small and very swift-moving neatly uncouples the top of his head from its bottom, leaving messy red parts of what used to be a very talented brain all over the state line. 

One of the people responsible for that rather gruesome death then searches the body for any tracking devices. Upon finding his phone, the assassin decides to talk a long but necessary walk to the nearest roadstop, back they way the victim had come. There, a car with its window left foolishly open is quickly located, and the phone is tossed on in.

Only then does that killer allow for the luxury of taking a much faster journey on to the next destination, not bothering to watch the strange sight that stopped Sanyangkkun in his tracks before a bullet stopped him altogether. 

That sight rumbles past on US-95, and with no undue speed. Before long it's gone from view, and as luck would have it, the car carrying the Korean tracker's phone goes in the opposite direction.

It's days later before its found. By then, it doesn't matter, anyway.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pet Shop Boys (Electricity) and having a Without You I'm Nothing, courtesy of Evil Twin brewing)