12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.1

11/18/12

It's an early morning in Paris, right after the !@#$ hit the fan, and SPYGOD watches his man get dressed from their large hotel bed.

He's not exactly pretending to be asleep, but he's not saying anything, either. He just likes to watch Straffer as he puts his clothes on -- methodically hiding his lovely, new body with each piece of clothing. Black socks, loose plaid boxers, tightly-pressed grey pants, a shirt so dark blue it's almost black.

And then the tie -- that tie. The one that practically screams 'I'm in !@#$ing charge, here, and don't you ever !@#$ing forget it.'

His Space Service tie. The one he wore every day on Deep-Ten.

"So you are taking them up on their !@#$ offer?" SPYGOD asks, a little piece of his heart falling away like a chunk from an iceberg.

"I think so," Straffer says, carefully selecting a jacket to go with the ensemble: "That'll depend on how things go, today."

"In court?"

"No," he says, making his choice -- excellent, as always -- "Today I see what we still have to work with, out there. Who we can rely on, who's on the fence, who's completely out."

"So you have !@#$ing thrown in with them," SPYGOD sighs, sitting up.

"It makes sense, hon," Straffer says, turning and kneeling down, so they're at the same eye level: "The Space Service was an always intended to be an international effort. And right now, whether we like it or not, the big international player is the TU. They're making the connections and getting the resources-"

"Aw, !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, putting a hand over his face: "Christ on a !@#$ing rocketship-"

"Hey now, lover, you know it's true," Straffer says, poking his man in the chest: "I don't like it any more than you do. I'd rather America was in a better position to get a planetary defense system back up and running, again, all by itself, and lead the others. But right now, with everything that's going on back at home, and the problems we're having there, we might need someone else to take the lead for a while-"

"!@#$!" SPYGOD shouts, slamming his other hand into the headboard. It breaks like balsa, causing the bed to shiver and lose some of its balance.

"Is that on your card or mine?" Straffer asks, after a moment. The way he says it completely defuses the moment, and the two men laugh, however ruefully. 

There's a slight silence between them, and then SPYGOD sighs, mutters, and admits: "I don't trust these !@#$ers."

"I know."

"We've !@#$ing talked about this."

"We have, yes."

"So why do you want to !@#$ing throw in with them, knowing all that?"

"I don't," Straffer says, getting up and sitting next to his lover on the bed: "But it's the only game in town, right now."

"It's going to be a rigged game. You !@#$ing know that."

"I know that. But I also know that, sometimes, the giant has to be kicked in the !@#$ to get off its seat and lead."

"What do you-"

"You know what I mean, hon. You were there for it, remember? The Space Race? We blink and suddenly the Russians have a satellite in orbit, and then a man in a can floating around the world?"

"I was a little !@#$ing busy at the time," SPYGOD sighs: "But yeah, I !@#$ing remember that. The whole !@#$ing conversation changed, then."

"Right. And we got off our butts and surged ahead, just so we wouldn't have a red Moon and a communist-controlled NEO. And look what happened?"

"A couple decades of us versus them in !@#$ing orbit, followed by a bunch of !@#$ about Star Wars when we !@#$ing inherited Deep Ten. And then, after the Soviet Union collapsed, we got a decade or so of shaky cooperation-"

"And that's what we need, right now," Straffer insists: "Cooperation. All the nations we can get together working to make us ready for what's coming. Unless you're planning on going up there in the mother of all jetpacks and trying to shoot (Unintelligible Concept) down all by yourself?"

"It's !@#$ing tempting."

"I know," Straffer says, putting a hand on SPYGOD's chest: "But it wouldn't work, and you know it. Not everything is solved by shooting it."

"What if I get a big enough gun...?"

"God I love you," Straffer says, smiling: "You really would go and try, wouldn't you?"

"For America? For my friends and my people? The man I love?" SPYGOD asks, reaching up and running his hands through his lover's hair: "I would. Even if it !@#$ing killed me a million times over, I'd say I got the better part of the deal."

"Then let me do this," Straffer says: "This can't be any worse than that."

"It'll be !@#$ing imperfect as !@#$."

"I'm sure. But this is one of those times when you need an imperfect thing to work perfectly. That means you need the right people in the wrong places. And unless you can think of anyone better suited to make those !@#$ers do one thing right, when it matters the most?"

SPYGOD has nothing for that, so he nods: "And you're the best !@#$ right person to be in this wrong place at the right !@#$ing time, I guess."

"You better more than guess," Straffer says, bending over and kissing him for all its worth. And for a moment, there's no world, no politics, and no oncoming space monster -- just the two of them.

That moment must end, though, and it does so leaving SPYGOD wanting more. Especially today, when he really needs his man beside him with the others, and in Court, and when deciding what to do about the nasty and complicated situation in Israel.

But by the time he can think of something else to say, his lover has gotten ready, kissed him goodbye, and headed out the door.

* * *

 "You are ready, Msr?" the man in the dark blue uniform asks as Straffer walks out of the hotel. As he does, he straightens up and tosses away the balto he was smoking.

"I am," Straffer says, extending a hand to shake: "It's good to meet you, Disparaître."

"We have met before," the man says, giving the hand a careful shake: "You may not remember me."

"Well, you'll have to remind me," Straffer says: "We have a whole day to-"

"I do not like to talk too much," the man interrupts: "Nothing personal."

"No problem," Straffer says, having already figured as much: "I'm ready if you are."

"Have you traveled like this before?" Disparaître asks, putting a hand on Straffer's shoulder.

"Actually no. What's it like?"

"Confusing, at first," the man hedges, a slight smile at his lips: "A little frightening, perhaps. It takes longer than you think, and sometimes people think I have lost them. But I never do, and there is nothing to fear. Trust me."

"I think I do," Straffer says, putting his hand on the man's shoulder in turn: "Let's go recruit some astronauts?"

The man nods. There's a bright light, and then nothing. 

And so it begins.

(SPYGOD is listening to Do What You Can, For Peace on Earth (The FIXX) and having a l'amalthee)

12/26/12 - Randolph Scott - No Words But the Truth - pt. 5

12/7/12

"A date which will live in infamy."

There's no other way to say it. Not a one. Not if you've been paying !@#$ing attention, anyway.

(Or at least have an eye for unfortunate historical coincidences.)

At 9:35 AM, EST, the President of the United States stood in front of the Washington Press Corps, neatly wedged between two Strategic Talents: Mr. USA, who happened to be our Vice President, and Tempete Bleu, who happens to be France's best-known hero.

He thanked everyone for coming, as usual, and then launched into a speech that was, at least for the first five minutes, one of the best things I've ever heard come out of his mouth since the Reclamation War speech.

He spoke of our nation, proud and unbroken. He talked of how it had been tested during its history, time and again. He paid tribute to those who had fought and died to keep it safe, and those who had lived and toiled to keep it free and prosperous.

He reminded us of what we'd come through, lately. How we'd all been "broken on the wheel of others' ambition, and rolled down a steep hill to global catastrophe." He spoke of how we were nearly destroyed, both as a planet and as a species.

And how, as a single planet, we fought back and won.

All well and good, but then he began going further along that line, stepping further away from our comfort zone.

He said that, after having come together, and achieved mighty things as a single, unified planet, we had all gone back to being small and divided once more. He said that we had been so badly damaged by what our oppressors had done that getting back up again was going to require "that single strength, total and complete, wielded in such a way as to bring us from our knees to our feet, and from the ground to the skies, once more."

And maybe there were one or two people, there, who didn't know where it was going. But as soon as the token goon from FOX News started praying to Jesus (and the Secret Service hustled them out of the room), they all wised up.

Which meant they were all silent as ghosts when the President of the United States of America announced, then and there, that he was taking up the offer of the Terre Unifee to become its President.

He had not taken this step without a great deal of thought. He had considered other means, or so he said. He thought that America was strong enough to deal with its own problems, and come out stronger for it. He thought we could go it alone, and be an example to the rest of the world that self-reliance could carry the day.

But then he realized that this was selfishness and pride talking, not sense.

"As one world, we threw off our aggressors. As one world, we took our lives back from an enemy older than our recorded history, and more powerful than we can imagine, even now. As one world, we made war and won it.

"And, looking at our problems, and our challenges, and the dilemmas that faced not only America, but all other nations in the world, I had to ask 'What else could we accomplish as one world?'

"And once I began to realize what the answers were, I also realized that it was foolishness and vanity to deprive my fellow Americans of these great answers, and to, in turn, deprive the rest of the world of what our nation has to offer this world."

So he did it. He accepted the offer that the interim President of the TU had made to him, and took over its Presidency, effective immediately. 

And his first act as President of that body? To accept America's joining of that "noble body," courtesy of the new President -- the former Vice President, Mr. USA, who is apparently becoming our "national facilitator," whatever the !@#$ that means.

There were no Congressional leaders present. No Speaker of the House. No Senate Majority Leader. No Supreme Court Justices. Not even a !@#$ing Cabinet member, which is hardly surprising at this point.

Just two men, a podium, and the eyes of the world watching as our great Republic effectively disbanded its Federal Government, and handed its reins over to a world government.

There were a million questions, but none of them were answered. All they got was the speech, and the announcement, and a promise that -- whatever our crumbling Federal government has failed to do, or would not even try to accomplish -- help and aid would be coming as soon as possible.

Our rights are going nowhere, or so they claim. Our freedoms remain. All the TU are going to do is help, and who doesn't want that?

Someone started booing. I'm not sure who. But by the time the call was picked up, and people started shouting questions instead of asking them, the people who could have answered those questions were long gone.

All that was left were the reporters, and they had a stupefying story to report back home.

I never thought I would live to see this day. I never believed I would see our country admit that it couldn't take care of its own !@#$ problems. I never imagined that this President -- any President -- would effectively surrender his or her nation over to a third party, even if he was then going to be in charge of that third party.

Are we all Americans, now? Or are we citizens of the world, whether we would or not?

Do we still have the right to think and speak? Can we protest this? Is there anyone we can call to get this reversed if it doesn't work out?

And how long do we have to wallow around in broken promises and uncertain expectations before we get to tell them to shove their help where the sun doesn't !@#$ing shine?

I don't know. I feel sick. I feel like punching things, or people.

But the flags are coming down all over the nation, and being replaced with that !@#$ty, designed-by-committee travesty that the TU hands out to its signatories. Some collection of colors that mean nothing at all to anyone.

A rag with no !@#$ing history, except for what's in front of us, here and now. 

History? On December 7th, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Some say we knew it was going to happen, and most agree that we knew it might happen. But everyone can agree that we knew war was coming, whether we were ready for it or not.

Those bombs and planes brought an isolationist nation, scarred and broken by the Great War, back into the world, again. It got us into a conflict that would otherwise have ended with an enslaved Europe and shackled Asia. It turned us into a global power, and set us on a collision course for a long, cold war with an wartime ally turned ideological enemy.

That day made the future. Maybe every day does, but if you had to peel history back, day by day, like an onion, you'd find December 7th, 1941 right around the center -- stinking and rich.

Now, on a different December 7th, we're back in the world again. Only this time we haven't just rejoined it in order to save it, and ourselves.

We've surrendered to it, instead.

I never thought I would live to see this day. I'm not sure I want to. Everything I've ever known and believed and taken for granted has been thrown down to the ground, shattered like glass on bricks.

My ship in a bottle, smashed and ground underfoot.

But I've got to keep going. I've got to keep !@#$ing talking over the noise. Because it's who I am, and what I do.

And because I've got the biggest !@#$ing mouth for the job, right now.

God help America. God help us all.


(SPYGOD is listening to Woman on a Train (The FIXX) and having a La Fin Du Monde

12/26/12 - Randolph Scott - No Words But the Truth - pt. 4

11/26/13

And then it was all over, except for the fine details.

I've been in Paris for the last two weeks, watching what can only be called the Trial of a Civilization -- both in terms of what it is, and its magnitude. Never in human history, recorded or otherwise, have we had the duty, or the right, to put an entire civilization on trial for its actions against us.

Hopefully, after this, we never will again. 

I've been in the courtroom, watching it happen. I've been out in the streets, afterwards, talking with the people who couldn't be there, or really shouldn't have been allowed in. And I've been pouring over the testimony and depositions, the evidence and conclusions.

I was there the day we got to hear what is, without a doubt, the most horrifying testimony to come from from a defendant's mouth, ever.  I was there when we heard just how small and inconsequential we are, in the galactic scheme of things, and how far we have yet to go.

I was there when the truth about what happened to the American President was told, and the existence of Alter-Earth -- and, by extension, the SPYGOD of Alter Earth -- made public for the first time ever. I was there when America's greatest and finest Superhero came clean about having been blackmailed into inaction for decades by that man, thinking he was actually SPYGOD.

And I was there when SPYGOD got on the witness stand, and admitted to authorizing a war plan that resulted in the deaths of billions of children, in order to deprive the Imago of their energy reserves.

(An admission that, it is said, may land him in that same courtroom at a later date.)

I was there. I saw. I listened. I made connections and looked them up. I went out and asked people what they thought, or what they knew.

And now here I sit, three days away from an ultimate reckoning, and I have to ask myself a very tough question: Do I think justice was served?

I'll have to wait three days for the sentencing to be certain, of course. But at this point, based on what I know, I'd like to say yes. I want there to have been a final, satisfying conclusion to everything that's happened. A way to say that we got through this terrible, truly-worldshattering event with at least our basic human dignity intact.

A way to say that everything we have suffered -- both as individuals, and as a species -- has at last been answered for.

A way to say that justice for what we have lost has been achieved.

But I know that I can't. I cannot say that justice has been served, here, today. Not by any standard we care to uphold, anyway.

I think we have only served the cause of revenge.

Why would I say such a thing? Well, that should be !@#$ing obvious to anyone who's ever been in court, much less read about it. And ayone who's sat through the process of jury duty, or actually gotten through to serve on one, should know where I'm going before I get there.

Because what's the one thing they always ask you, after your name and profession? What's the one sure way to get out of jury duty, if you really feel like being a shirk?

They ask you if you personally know anyone in the case, or are a party to it. They ask you if you have any kind of a personal stake in what's happening, in that court, and cannot render a fair verdict.

And if you answer "yes," then you're out of the pool right then and there. Do not pass go. Do not lose however much money and time because of someone else's problems.

Walk out the !@#$ Courtroom doors and be free, for now. 

So consider the following statement: the Imago took over our planet.

Consider that they left no part of it untouched or untransformed. Consider that they changed our entire way of life and doing things, and saw to it that we either didn't notice, or no longer cared.

Consider that they warped our perceptions and our sensibilities, and told us that it was all for the best and that we should be happy -- grateful, even -- and just accept this new way of thinking and doing.

And consider that, all the while, as we were being happy little busy humans, they were using us as raw material and a slave labor force, the better to build them a rocket ship to get the !@#$ off this planet before a really nasty thing comes to destroy the world.

Consider all those things, and then ask yourself whether we could render any kind of a fair verdict on these Imago.

Yes, they plead Guilty. Yes, the outcome was never in doubt. Yes, everything we heard and learned just emphasized and underlined the reasons why it was right for them to plead guilty in the first place.

But there was no impartiality at work, in this trial. There was no detachment from the personal. There was no divorce from injury and suffering.

There was no fairness, and therefore no fair trial.

What else could we have done? I don't know. Apparently, just about every alien race that lives amongst us, here on Earth, left either before or during the Occupation. Some left of their own accord, and some were apparently forced out while we weren't looking.

(And many say that it was this approaching, cosmic doom that they fled, and not the Imago.)

But I can't help but think that there had to be some other body that could have adjudicated this. Some higher court or arbiter that could have looked down upon the facts and rendered a totally fair and impartial judgment.

Some force, beyond our petty concerns and injuries, who could have seen the whole thing from afar, and been moved to find a righteous verdict.

But none came forward. None appeared. And if anyone involved in this injurious farce of a trial sought them out, I have no idea, and may never.

All I know is that, in spite of the cheers and the jeers, and the cathartic "human scream" that was uttered in that courtroom when the sentence was read, we have only gained revenge, this day. I can only hope that, for the sake of posterity -- if not our souls -- the sentence they mete out in three days' time is much more real.

Those we lost deserve it. We deserve it.

And so do the Imago.

(SPYGOD is listening to I Will (The FIXX) and having a Kanterbrau Biere de Noel)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 4

"Then here are our needs, and our conditions," Doctor Power says to the presence, here with them. Floating outside their bodies. Amulet held high, eyes crackling.

(Strength is gathered. New strategy formed. Confidence is high)

"This body needs to be reanimated. It must be reanimated so as to look like it did in life. It must be reanimated to act as it did in life."

(The terms are spelled out exactly. Nothing left unsaid. No room to wiggle.)

"The deception must be so good that even its own family cannot tell that anything has happened. It must not do anything suspicious. It must not say anything suspicious."

 (Further clarifications are always necessary. The Abyss is full of rules lawyers. That's how most got to Hell in the first place.)

"The body will be reanimated until such time as we say we no longer need it to be. After that, you will retain no further hold upon it. After that, you will seek no further hold upon it."

(Because the Fallen rarely leave well enough alone. Always another deal. Always an attempt to make one.)

"This is what we require of you. In return, you may require of us one thing. It must not be permanent, nor spiritually, mentally, or physically damaging."

(They always start with souls. Then they want your mind, hoping to cause insanity. Then your body, hoping a handicap will force another deal.)

"Those are our needs, and our conditions. They are fair and just. Will you agree to them?"

(A long wait. It seems like hours go by. And then-)

* * *

"Let me explain what's really happened, here," Myron says, looking at each of the tall beings in turn: "You made three big mistakes, throughout your time on this planet. And as a result, you're not in any position to Attend to us."

"You overstep yourselves!" the one with the torch hisses: "We have no time to hear this nonsense-"

"You have all the time in the world," Myron insists: "We heard your story. You will now hear ours."

"And if we do not?" the One Who Attends asks: "We can stop this at any time we choose-"

Myron quickly pulls his gun out of his holster and holds it to his temple: "Then I tell these people, here, to do what I'm doing. We will die, here and now, and you will have failed to Attend to anything. Will your code forgive you for this?"

The trio take a step back, and Myron smiles, and continues:

"You see, your first mistake was coming to this planet. You picked a world where there was no real life, true, but you didn't count on evolution. And you, of all people, should have realized that a planet like this would eventually get life back on it. Maybe you should have picked Venus or something-"

"Um, there are people on Venus," one of the team members says.

"Oh, sorry, forgot," Myron shrugs: "Well, !@#$. You should have !@#$ing picked Mercury or something. It'd get a little hot but hey, nothing you people can't fix, right?"

He smiles, but the smile is not returned.

"Please continue," the One Who Stands Between insists: "I would hear more of this."

"I will, but first I want to hear you say that you agree with my reasoning," Myron says: "I want you to understand and recognize that I have a point, or this means nothing."

From the expression on their faces, he can tell the trio realizes he's turned the tables on them.

"I agree with your reasoning," the one with the Torch says.

"As do I," says the One Who Attends.

"And I," the One Who Stands Between says: "Please continue."

"Alright. Now, your second mistake you've already admitted to. You underestimated the Imago and how hard they'd fight to get out of here. They sacrificed themselves to create enough energy to help one of them escape, and it did. And everything that's gone wrong on our world over the last year is because of that."

"We have admitted to this, true," the one with the torch says: "But what is our third mistake, then? Being powerless to help you in your time of need? Confronting you for your crime, here and now? If so, we will reject these so-called mistakes out of hand-"

"Neither of them," Myron interrupts, the handle of the gun slick with his sweat: "Your third mistake was the worst of all. You had the perfect opportunity to make up for those two mistakes by doing one simple thing. And while I think we all know you could have done it, you didn't do it.

"You didn't tell us what had happened."

* * *

I have considered your request, the Fallen responds. Her voice is like a foghorn in their souls. It promises doom.

(Vibrating painfully. Eardrums breaking. A speaker full of glass shards.)

Before I say yes, I would know why she is so important. What is she to you, this person? Why would you risk so much to deal with us?

(A sensible question. But a hint of menace, there. A beehive in the treehouse.)

"If you can look into our hearts, you know the answer," Doctor Power insists: "We came here to save her. We failed, and so we are desperate."

(The truth, yes. But not the whole truth. And he knows she knows this.)

But you fear failure, in this case, the demon says. You know that, should this battle be lost, the war would end. You know that all depends on total success, for all of you.

(And there's the truth. Failure would have many consequences. Many of them for him.)

"That is true," Doctor Power says: "Many things hinge on her returning to the world, safe and alive. But you will have your payment, either way, so why is that important to you?"

(The wrong question, at the wrong time. The Knight leaps off the board. Failure.)

Because it means that I may now ask whatever I want, the demon coos, growing large enough to envelop the four of them: Should you refuse me, you fail everyone. And no one else will deal with you, now. 

(A slap in the face that shatters bones. The feeling of falling. And when she speaks again, it's like ice in the brain.)

 

* * *

"What do you mean?" the one with the torch asks: "We had no way to contact you-"

"Bull!@#$," Myron spits: "You could have found a way to talk to us at any time. All you would have had to do was get one of your guards to initiate contact."

"Guards?" the One Who Stands Between asks.

"Yes. The things you have prowling the inside of this place. The things you have outside, keeping people from getting too close. We called them DEROS, and we've known about them since World War II. But they were out there earlier, weren't they? Looking for your escaped prisoner?"

The trio are silent, and then the One Who Stands Between nods, solemnly: "This is true. We sent our servitors out to find our charge, and bring it back. We searched until we could search no more, and then, thirty or so of your years after the breakout, our charge took control of our servants, and came back to free the others."

Myron nodded, tightening his grip on his gun: "And everything that happened from there... well, you were all powerless, and I can't begrudge you that. But if that !@#$ got out of here in the 30's, and you got taken over in the !@#$ing 60's? Well, that was thirty years you could have found a way to contact us. You could have told us what was coming, and what we were up against-"

"And what would you have said?" the one with the torch snorts: "You forget, we know how you are, as a species. The best you would have done would have been to ignore us. But you would have wanted our technology, and when we offered you friendship you would have betrayed us-"

"Maybe," Myron admits: "But you should have tried. !@#$ you, you should have tried! And now... Jesus Christ, how many are they saying now...?"

"Maybe two billion," the team leader says, seeing where he's going with this: "Between who they killed before, all the people who died on 3/15, everyone they got rid of during their rule and all the people who died when we took the planet back. Israel. Yeah, two billion. At least."

"That's one person in three, dead," Myron says, shaking: "Parents who won't see their kids anymore. Kids who are orphans, now. Whole cities and towns wiped the !@#$ out. 

"And... you know? I'm a smart guy. I'll admit it, no shame in it. But even I can't visualize a billion. A hundred? Sure. A thousand? Okay. And maybe even a million I can figure. A million dollars buys an artificial island the !@#$ Gulf off the coast of Dubai if you talk to the right guy. 

"But a billion?" he says, shaking his head: "I can't conceive of a billion anything, much less a billion people. But now there's two billion dead.

"And all that?" he asks, pointing at them with his free hand: "That's on you. All of you. Because you could have told us what was loose in our world, and you didn't even try.

"And now? Now here we are, trying to salvage something... anything from this !@#$ing place, just so we can have some kind of a silver lining from all this? Just so we can understand more about our enemy? And you're !@#$ed off at us because we had no idea you were down here? 

"I mean, you let us go, right now? I make a phone call, and we leave, and no one comes back. No one. We can do that. I can !@#$ing guarantee it. Look in my mind if you don't believe I can, or will-"

"I know that you would," the one with the torch says: "But there is still the issue of-"

"The Lesson of the Lost Money. Yeah yeah. !@#$ you. How about the Lesson of the Three !@#$ Big !@#$ing Mistakes You Made That Cost Us A Third of Our !@#$ing Population?"

He shuts his mouth at that point, and just looks at the One Who Stands Between. The barrel's at his temple. His finger's on the trigger. 

And then, without him having to say anything, every other member of the team does the exact same thing. In solidarity, they show that they would rather die, here and now, than be administered "Attending" by such a hypocritical bunch of teachers. 

Together, they stand as one.

Waiting.

* * *

"So... what happened?" the psychologist asks. He's leaned up against a wall, on the other side of the room from Myron. 

"Well, I'm here..." he says, shaking his head as the fuzz finally leaves it. 

"I know that, but-"

"We reached an understanding," Myron says, looking up at him and smiling: "I think that's the best way to say it. The !@#$ put something into the body. In return, she took something from us, and then we went back into ours."

"What did she take from you?"

"I don't know," Myron sighs: "None of us did. I got the sense she wanted the most precious thing we had, but... !@#$ if I know what that was."

The man nods: "And then what happened?"

"Well, while we were all lying there, writhing and puking like we were coming down from a !@#$ fever, Doctor Power whammied our heads so we wouldn't !@#$ing remember any of this."

"But that didn't last."

"No. I don't think it was meant to, so if something went wrong we'd remember in time to fix it. Or maybe it was supposed to last, but he didn't have the power to make it permanent. He was running on !@#$ing empty by that point, to hear him tell it."

The psychologist nods: "And, of course, we can't ask him, now."

"No. We can't."

There's some silence, then. Myron coughs and tries to lean back, and then winces as he cuts his !@#$ on a fresh patch of broken bottle.

"So you know," the psychologist says, steeping his hands in front of his face: "I've been thinking. You said you think she wanted what was most precious to you? There's a lot of things that could be, and I'm not discounting your soul-"

"Gee, make me feel better, why don't you," Myron sighs.

"But if I had to guess? I think she took your personality away."

Myron blinks and sits up a little: "What do you mean?"

"Well, all your files? Everything I've ever read about you? I can see that you've been down, before. And with good reason, from time to time."

"Oh Jesus, I've been down before," Myron says: "You should have seen me after Zalea Zathros escaped, down in Costa Rica. I was a !@#$ing mess for days."

"And what happened?"

"SPYGOD kicked my !@#$. What else?"

"Did that help?"

"Well, maybe a little. But I think..."

The psychologist smiles: "Go on, Myron. You think."

"I think... I know. I got given something to do. Something important. And as soon as I was doing it, I was back on my feet again."

"Right, exactly," the man says, pointing to him: "And from what I've read of you, since then? When things go bad, you dive into some major project, and then you're good again. You feel good about yourself again. Having a challenge makes you feel like you have a purpose, a place in things."

"Yeah..." Myron says, blinking: "You know, that's right."

"But this time? This time, you haven't challenged yourself. You've just fallen down. And when people have tried to give you something to do? You just tell them to !@#$ off and leave you alone.

"And now..." the man gestures around the room: "Here you are."

Myron nods, some vestige of himself coming back into his eyes: "So what did everyone else lose?"

"Well, that's a !@#$ good question," the psychologist answers: "Maybe you should find out?

"How do I do that?"

"Well, maybe you could start by getting up off the floor?" the psychologist asks, taking his own advice: "Take a shower, have some coffee? When's the last time you got something to eat?"

Myron blinks and looks around: "You know, I don't... what day is it?"

"Tuesday. The day before Christmas?"

"Oh, !@#$," Myron says, and starts laughing. The laughing turns to tears, and then laughter again. And then nothing but deep sighs and shaking his head.

"You know, after all that !@#$?" he says, looking down at his hands: "After all that, I told myself this was going to be one !@#$ of a Christmas. I was going to have turkey and all the trimmings. Go see my mom, invite over Winifred and her family, get Randolph and his kids. !@#$, get SPYGOD there, too, if we could. Just have a big !@#$ blowout.

"And instead, here I am," he snorts: "Drunk in broken glass."

"Well, sounds like you got your work cut out for you," the man says, grabbing his briefcase: "I'm heading for my family, Myron. I suggest you find what remains of yours and see what you can do. After that shower, of course.

"And then? I suggest you meet up with everyone you were with, that day in the Ice Palace, and see if you can't figure out what you lost."

"Yeah," Myron says, knowing all too well what remains of his family, real and otherwise, and having a bad suspicion of what his comrades have lost.

"And thank you," the man says, looking back before he leaves the apartment: "For finally telling me."

"And to all a good night," Myron replies, waving goodbye. As soon as the man's out the door, he turns the wave into the bird.

"!@#$er," he sighs, wondering where the !@#$ is phone is, and who's left to call, and who would listen. 

Outside his window, it's started to snow. He looks outside at it, and remembers the last thing the One Who Stands Between told him, just before the one with the torch (whose proper name he never even learned) let them go.

"I think you, too, stand between," he'd said. But before Myron could ask if that was good or bad, they were all up in the chamber, where they'd began. All the other teams were back up there, dazed and confused for their ordeal.

And the hole in the floor was gone, as though it had never been.

"Never been..." Myron says, thinking of what he'd had with Winifred. Thinking he knows where the phone might be. Where she is. If he should call.

The snow keeps falling, even after he makes his decision. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Reach the Beach (The FIXX, dub remix) and having an Anchor Steam Christmas Ale)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 3

There's silence from the trio of tall aliens, for a time, as they look intently upon them. Every so often, Myron gets the feeling like something's rooting around in his head -- moving mental furniture about to look at the carpet, perhaps -- and then nothing. 

"If you've got a plan, now's the !@#$ing time," the team leader whispers to him.

"I do have a plan, yes," Myron says, looking up at the one with the staff's face as he looks back at him: "But let's hold on for a second-"

"Very well, then," the One Who Stand Between says, looking at them: "Let us be clear. You, like those who have come here before you, have transgressed against us." 

"You have come to this place to take what is ours," the one with the torch hisses.

"We realize you did not know that we were here," the one with nothing in her hands explains.

"But that means nothing," the one with the torch cuts in: "The Lesson of the Lost Money."

"So you should reflect upon that, in your time here with us," the One Who Stands Between says: "That is what will decide how long you must be attended to."

"By attended to, you mean imprisoned," the team leader insists.

"No," the One Who Stands Between says, putting his head at a weird angle: "Your concept of prison is a cruel thing, meant to keep those who do wrong to others from doing more wrong to others. It does not teach that those things were wrong, except through punishment. It does not redeem, except by accident. You would be ill-served by prison."

"You will be taught," the one with nothing in its hands says, holding them up in a welcoming gesture: "Please come to us. Come to me. Let us begin your attending to."

"And then I will decide if you have learned enough to leave," the one with the torch states.

"How long will that take?" one of the other team members asks.

"Time is meaningless inside of the Attending," the one with nothing in its hands explains.

"But if you need to know how long you will be here, with us... that depends on how well you learn what the One Who Attends has to teach. It may be only five of your years. It may be fifty. Five Hundred."

"Um... we don't live to be 500 years old, sir," Myron points out.

"You will not age with us," the One Who Attends explains: "We will be patient. We will be kind."

"But you will learn," the one with the torch insists: "And until you do, here you must remain."

* * *

"I don't know you..." Doctor Power says. Holds spirit image of amulet up, between his face and hers. "Where is Niginaza of the Basalt Bed?"

(Figure of red light. Dark markings on eyes, eyebrows, cheek, chin, lips. Foulness.)

What will you give me to know? The voice mocking, hissing. Laughter just below it, like heavy coins dropping into a terrible, slimy pool.

(The feeling of being roped into a bad transaction. Evil salesmen. Dirty uncles.)

"You will tell me what I wish to know," the magician insists, his eyes crackling with energy: "I speak with the authority of the planes, and the angles, and the words which must not be ignored. Answer me!"

(Thoughts like fire. Images in the mind. Power and will and perfect authority...)

Very well, though you will not like it, the red-litten woman says. Leans forward, as if to kiss the amulet: The social structure has changed, O mortal man. Those who led now serve, and those who served now lead. 

(... which shatter like ice on the hard, frozen ground. A drop into the chasm. The abyss licks its lips)

"And where is she?" Doctor Power insists, seemingly not phased by this news: "When the structure changes back she won't forgive your rudeness towards me."

(One more step in this direction, then a jump to the right. Strategy change. Chess in Hell)

She is nowhere you will find on a map, and in no shape to answer your calls. A black grin hangs in space. You will deal with me, now. And I desire much from you.

(Four minds are as one, floating in Hell. "We're !@#$ed, aren't we?" "Yes, I think we are.")

* * *

"Myron," the team leader hisses as other members of his team starrt to panic: "A plan would be !@#$ing nice, right about now!"

"Wait," Myron says, talking a step forward and holding up his hand: "So let me get this straight. We're guilty of having trespassed against you by coming here, even if we didn't know you were here."

"Yes," the One Who Stands Between says, patiently: "The Lesson of the Lost Money."

"Alright then. Who are you, and how have you come to be here?"

The three beings look down at him: "Do you truly not know this?" the one with the torch asks.

"You were in our heads. You tell me."

There's the sensation of mental chairs being tossed around the room, again, and then nothing.

"You do not know," the one with the torch says: "Not fully. And we see this."

"But, again, the Lesson of the Lost Money," the One Who Stands Between insists.

"!@#$ the lost money," Myron says: "You owe all of us an explanation for this bull!@#$, and you are not going to pass any kind of judgment on us until we have it."

"The choice is not yours to make!" the one with the torch hisses.

"Don't you have a parable saying that a fool can't judge a wise person?" Myron asks

"Yes, but I do not think that you think we are fools," the One Who Stands Between says.

"Maybe not, but you haven't proven it to us. And until we know for sure that you aren't some vindictive !@#$ers who'd rather be angry at us for exploring your empty place, instead of being angry at yourselves for letting it get empty in the first place, your Attending isn't going to mean a !@#$ thing to us. And then we'll be upset and unwilling to learn, and this whole thing's going to take longer. Won't it?"

There is silence amongst the three tall beings, and after a few seconds Myron repeats his question: "Won't it?"

"There is wisdom in what you say," the One Who Attends says.

"He's playing for time," the one with the torch insists.

"But we have already told him that time is meaningless, here," the One Who Stands Between admits, holding his head at a different, but also strange angle: "Very well. We will prove ourselves to you. We will tell you our story."

And so they do.

* * *

Doctor Power nods, doing his best to not show his fear. The others are not fooled, though. They know this is not what he was expecting.

(School friend's house full of unfriendly strangers. Grandma after a month in the rest home. End of security. One less possibility.)

As he prepares to speak, their minds all touch. They see him as a young man, ambitious and driven. They see his willingness to do anything to command the powers of the past.

(Late nights in dark, hidden libraries. Forbidden books read by the light of ill-made candles. Each one a step on the stairway to Heaven, or Hell.)

They see him as a hero, starting out. He makes a name for himself, with what little power he has. Power attracts power like moths to the torch, and soon he gets offers.

(Questionable suitors and strange deals. One bad idea leads to another, each one paying for the last. Digging a hole.)

In the end, too many hands ask for too many things. He cannot be a hero and do what they ask of him. He pours over his books, looking for a solution.

(One final deal, superseding all others. One entity to belong to for all time. Scanning the want ads, stomach sour and falling.)

And then, he finds her. Old book of forgotten names and misunderstood beings. Niginaza of the Basalt Bed, queen of all sorcerers. 

(!@#$-queen of magic, known to the proto-Sumerians. Buried all traces of her out of fear. Best left alone.)

He gathers noxious and mewling components. He learns a dead and blasphemous language. And at the black of the moon on the last of the year he brings her forth to make one final deal.

(Terrible deeds done in secret. Too much blood to wash away. Almost a relief when he thinks it doesn't work.)

Of course she listens to her story. Of course she agrees to what he wants. Of course he agrees to hers, terrible as they are.

(And now he is !@#$ed, completely and irrevocably. His soul bound to hers by magic. A chain on the heart.)

And so he has served man for decades while secretly serving her. Dark deeds, here and there, where no one saw. Sacrificed supervillains, cast live into the abyss. 

(No one would miss them, anyway. Better treatment than in prison. Had it coming, all of them.)

And SPYGOD? He knew. All along, he knew. He let this happen because he needed that power. 

But made it clear that it was to be kept under control, or else.

(And now, here in this moment, a chance to show him. To thank him. To prove himself.)

And it's all gone terribly wrong.

* * *

The story takes some time to relate, given its length and intricacy. Each one of the three beings tells it in equal measure, picking up in the middle of a sentence from the previous speaker, in wave after wave of tranquil, beautiful prose. 

They tell of how they lived, and the things their civilization had done, and observed, and endured. They tell of how the Imago came as conquerors, not understanding how poorly-outmatched they were. They tell of what happened, then, and the steps they took to ensure that their Attending would be safe for all parties involved. 

They explain how the Imago were to be observed, over the ages, and eventually considered rehabilitated. They admit that their charges were able to break one of their number free, after a time, and that this one eventually came back to free the others. They acknowledge that, once this happened, they were powerless to do anything but sit here, in the dark, as their former charges used their facilities powers (and external guards) for their own uses.

And they explain that theirs is the last outpost of their kind, now that their own civilization has ended. Only the three of them remain, and their duty -- a sacred thing in their culture -- is all they have left.

Not long after that is said, the story is done. The three are silent for a time, as if meditating on the weight and gravity of what they have said. 

And then, the One Who Stands Between strikes the ground with his staff. Once, twice, three times. 

"Our tale is told," the One Who Attends says.

"Our truth is proclaimed," the one with the torch declares.

"You have heard our ways, our past, and our reasoning," the One Who Stands Between says.

"Thank you for that," Myron says, nodding: "I speak for all of us when I say that we appreciate knowing this."

"It is what the situation demanded," the One Who Stands Between says, holding his head at the first weird angle: "We could do no less if we desired to be open and honest. But now, you must also be open and honest. Tell us, can you honestly wonder if we are fit to decide what happens next?"

"No," Myron says, standing up: "I think you are fit-"

"Myron!" the team leader shouts, getting in the man's face.

"But I don't think you have a legitimate claim to Attend to us," Myron continues, staring the man down and then looking up at the tall beings: "If anything, I think we should be Attending to you."

"What do you mean?" the one with the torch says, stepping back as if gravely offended. 

"Do you have a lesson for leaving an exploded bomb in a field?" Myron asks.

And, before the One Who Stands Between can respond, Myron steps forward and saves everyone.

(SPYGOD is listening to Parabol/Parabola (Tool) and having a Final Absolution)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 2

10/22/12

"What the !@#$ are we looking at, sir?" the leader of team 11 asks as their rocket sleds descend into the hole, marveling at the sides of the tunnel they've entered.

"I don't know, but it's beautiful," Myron says, resisting the temptation to reach out and touch what he sees.

The sides of the rock tunnel were smooth and featureless, to begin with. And then, all at once, carvings blossomed out: an endless, spiraling procession of giant, epic figures with interlocking hands, looking out at them. Tall humanoids dressed in simple, hooded robes, all shining under the lights from the damp and the wet.

"Are they supposed to be the Imago?" one of the other team members asks: "I heard the inside of the Flier was one big museum piece."

"I don't think so," one of the others says: "From what I heard, those were all nasty looking. Kind of like if the Nazis had been around back in ancient Rome, and made temples and gardens proclaiming how !@#$ cool they were. This seems... kinder?

"Yeah," Myron says, looking at the smiling eyes on the figures: "Definitely. Gentler, too. Almost welcoming."

"Which doesn't reflect the fact that we're in a prison," someone points out.

"No, it doesn't," Myron says, looking at his scanners. The tunnel continues down as far as the probes can see. Still no sign of the other teams.

And that worries the !@#$ out of him.

"Can we slow down a little?" one of the people on one of the other sleds asks: "I'd like to get a better look at these statues."

"No, the clock's ticking," Myron says, looking up from the scanner: "When we find the others, we'll send up probes and have them do a visual map, okay?"

The other person's about to protest, but then shouts an alarm. Myron blinks and looks back at the scanner.

And then he realizes what happened to the other teams.

* * *

The first clue Myron has that She's coming is when something licks him, right behind the ear.

It's nothing, of course. Just a trickle of sweat, making its way from his scalp down to his neck. Only to be expected, given how hot and stiffling this room's become, all of a sudden. 

And cramped, too. Now that the lights are getting dim, and all he can hear is the sound of Doctor Power muttering prayers over the amulet, it seems that the four people standing over the dead body are the entirety of the world. 

He's never heard prayers like this, before. He's never done anything like this, before. He's trying to concentrate and not think of anything other than his "Intent." 

And trying not to think of the fear and hopelessness he saw in Doctor Power's eyes when he told them what they were going to do...

He looks up for just a second, wondering if that man's face is still contorted with the weight of what they're embarking upon. When he does, he sees that the room has gone completely dark, except for the four of them. He cannot see the walls, he cannot see the light from the adjoining room, where the others are. 

And in the darkness between, he can see things moving...

* * *

When he wakes up, Myron is disorientated and wracked by a nasty headache -- the sort you get from hanging out with SPYGOD for the evening, and trying to keep up.

He slowly opens his eyes, and looks up at an expansive, domed ceiling. It's easily a hundred feet above him, and dimly lit. He can just make out movement, up there, but the details are unclear. 

He rolls over, wincing at the brain behind his eyes, and sees that the other members of his team are nearby, dealing with the same discomfort.

"Everyone okay?" he asks, and gets a staggered series of grunts and moans in return. Someone vomits by way of an answer.

"Everyone here?" he asks, trying to get to his feet.

"I think Smith tried to jump out of the sled when he saw what was coming for us," the team leader says, holding his head with both hands: "I don't know if that thing got him or not."

"What the !@#$ was that thing?" someone asks, getting to her feet: "It looked like a giant ball of Jello."

"It was," Myron says, shuddering at the memory. He looks around the large room they're in, and sees no trace of the massive creature that rushed up to catch them on the way down -- its bulk large enough to cover the diameter of the tunnel, itself.

He also sees no trace of their sleds, or the equipment that was on them, which worries him. But they still have their personal belongings, which include their transponders, recorders, and weapons. And he'll take that as a positive development.

Especially when he hears something coming towards them.

Three somethings, actually: tall, robed beings that look exactly like the statues they saw in the tunnel. One carries a staff, one a tall, burning torch, and the third appears to have nothing at all.

And as they come closer, they seem to get larger -- much, much larger.

"Everyone up," Myron says, putting a hand on his pistol -- but not drawing it -- "We've got company."

* * *

There's a trickle of sweat, again, right behind the ear. Only this time there's pressure behind it. Rasping. Flicking.

A terrible smell, like the breath of a sick tiger at the zoo.

Myron gasps but keeps thinking of his Intent. Doctor Power was very insistent that they keep that at the front of their minds. If they didn't, this might not work.

If they didn't, what was coming might enter the wrong body.

The rasping continues. It's at his other ear, now. Then the back of his neck, his knees. Alternating, then all at once, as if he was being molested by tongues, or a cruel octopus.

I know you, a voice whispers in his ear, slimy and wet: You thought no one saw you, that time in the shed. You were eight. How old was she? Five?

Myron closes his eyes, trying not to think of that. One of those things that happen as a child that no one wants to admit to, but everyone knows everyone does.

Oh yes, just harmless fun, the voice goes on: Just kids' stuff. That's what you told yourself. But you never talk about it to anyone, do you? You don't tell your friends about the times you played doctor when they ask what you did as a child, do you?

Every really wonder why?

His intent. He keeps saying it to himself. Over and over and over-

She's dead now, Myron, The voice accuses: Prostitution. Heroin. That afternoon in the shed changed everything. She's dead, now, and it's your fault.

And she'd like to thank you.

And then-

* * *

The one with the staff strides well ahead of the other two. Its yellow, slitted eyes are large in a vaguely-reptilian, blue head, and its hands have opposable claws. As it comes closer, they see that it's at least fifty feet tall. 

"Holy !@#$," one of the group whispers. Someone else starts crying. A few of the team are clearly afraid, but hold their ground as best they can.

"I mean you no harm," a voice sounds out -- its measured tones interspersed with a strange, sibilant hissing that starts before it, and ends some time after it. 

The being gets within a few feet of them, and then stops, resting its staff on the ground. The other two beings halt where they are, and wait.

"I am the One Who Stands Between," it says, the movements of its mouth not matching the sounds that they hear: "It is important that we understand one another, so that what happens is understood, and accepted."

"What's going to happen?" the team leader asks, stepping to the front of the group.

"That has yet to be determined," the alien says, looking at him: "The others who preceded you are being attended to. You may be attended to, as well. But first I would know you."

"What do you need to know?" Myron asks, stepping beside the team leader: "We come in peace, if that means something."

"That we understand, my pouchling," one of the other two aliens -- the one with nothing -- says.

"But we would know why you have come at all," the one with the torch says, the flames making its face appear stretched and grotesque.

"Please let me ask them," the One Who Stands Between insists: "Remember your place."

The other two say nothing in reply.

"I apologize for their rudeness," it says, softly: "But please understand our position. We have not performed our duties for millions of your years. And now, here you are."

"We apologize if we've trespassed," Myron says, cutting off the team leader before can respond: "We expected this to be a deserted place. The beings that came from here have committed an act of war against us. We were seeking to understand where they came from."

"You also sought to steal what we have,' the one with the torch announces: "Admit this, and we can begin."

"Can it really be stealing if they expected this to be a deserted place?" the One Who Stands Between asks: "The Parable of the Shuttered House."

"Yes, it can," the one with the torch replies: "The Lesson of the Found Money."

Myron looks between the two of them: "Are we... we're on trial, here, aren't we?"

"No," the one with nothing in its hands says, holding them up towards the group: "You are being attended to."

"But first, we would know why," the one with the torch says, holding it up higher and angling it towards them: "Attending means nothing if all parties do not understand why it is being done."

"Yeah, we're on trial," the team leader says, taking a step back.

"Actually, I think we already lost," Myron sighs.

* * *

-there is a horrible pulling sensation. The egg that drops from the broken shell. The eye that's eased from its socket. 

The drawing forth of the soul from the body, entire and complete. 

(Roughly, oh cruel octopus.)

Myron sees himself from outside himself for the first time. Like a video of him sleeping an old girlfriend took for her art project.

Him but not him, somehow.

(Haven't talked to her in years. Bad breakup. Weirdness.)

Swimming in the tide of the air. Trying to get back to himself, if he can.

A silver cord, leading from his soul to his navel. 

(Must protect it. Read that issue of Adventure Comics.)

The others are also outside themselves. Myron sees Doctor Power, Mr. USA, Yanabah. 

Sees their true selves, recoils without knowing why. 

(Protection. Things we're not meant to know. Masks have power for a reason.)

Things beyond the four of them are clear now. Great black things, like lizards with too many legs, but no beginning or end. 

Spiraling endless, over and over, slithering and wet.

(Trapping them. Keeping them from leaving. The plan all along.)

Sees the body, between the four of them. There is nothing inside of it, and nothing outside. 

Dead and dark, on the floor.

(A light patch floats by it. The phantom footprint left when her soul leaped away.)

 
Something is coming. The smell of tiger breath. The onrush of foul thoughts. Red, hazy light from all angles.

(Heady, chittering laughter. A flock of insane birds. Cockatoos.)

You have called, the voice he heard announces, as something forms in the red. I have come.

State your desire, and I will name my price.

(SPYGOD is listening to Reflection (TOOL) and having a Hell Hath No Fury)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 1

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Myron looks up at the well-dressed, sweet-smelling person who's sitting at his kitchen table, talking to him. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and stinks of bad sweat and sour alcohol. His bathrobe hasn't been washed in forever.

And a cloud of despair floats over him, like stinky lines over a cartoon character.

"I do," he finally admits, putting his head back down on his kitchen table. There's barely enough room on it for all the beer bottles he has to shove aside to do this.

(And as for the messy floor in this darkened room...)

"Well, I'm listening."

"I know. But you don't understand."

"What don't I understand, Myron?"

"I want to talk about it. Really, I do."

"Well, I'm here-"

"I can't," he says, looking back up through red eyes: "I !@#$ing can't talk about it. That's what's !@#$ing killing me, here."

"If you're worried about certain... things coming to light, I should tell you they're already out into the open," the person says, leaning in close: "No one is going to threaten you for telling me. No one is going to harm you, or fire you. All that's done, now. It's just you, me, and this room that you haven't left for too long."

"I know," Myron says: "I know all that. But I... I just can't, okay? I saw... I saw. I was !@#$ing there. And I can't talk about it. Not now. Maybe not ever."

The psychologist nods, puts his papers back in his smart, leather briefcase, and gets up.

"Just so you understand, though?" the man says, turning to look behind him before he leaves: "This is our last conversation. I'm no longer assigned to you."

"What?" Myron says, sitting up a little.

"The COMPANY doesn't exist, anymore, Myron. I'm... well, I'm not certain what's going to happen, now. I'll probably be given an assignment in this Compagnie that the TU have created to replace it. But I'm not sure. They might just give me the boot."

"Then why the !@#$ aren't you out running up your COMPANY Card?"

"Who says I'm not?" he replies, smiling: "It's the day before Christmas. I have things to be and places to buy. So if you don't want to talk...?"

Myron looks at the man for a second. He weighs the options about throwing an empty beer bottle at him, just as a final !@#$ing mark of contempt. But then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and decides not to end this that way.

"I appreciate you trying," he says.

"I'd appreciate you trying," the man says, taking a half-step back towards the table: "I'd appreciate you actually taking steps to get out from under this rock you've crawled under. I'd appreciate you taking a !@#$ bath once in a while, or maybe eating a bowl of cereal instead of drinking its fermented components down by the !@#$ twelve pack."

Myron smiles: "I got to you?"

"Officially? I don't care. I'm not !@#$ing supposed to. For all I'm supposed to care, you could wipe your !@#$ with mashed potatoes and try to hump the vacuum cleaner and I'm just supposed to take notes and make sure you don't hurt yourself."

"The vacuum cleaner probably would..." Myron mumbles, wondering if he even has a !@#$ vacuum cleaner.

"But as a human being?" the man goes on, gesturing around: "As one person to another? Jesus !@#$ing Christ you've gotten to me. I'm disgusted at you. !@#$, I'm disgusted for you. I've never seen someone just... fall, like this."

"Have you talked to the COMPANY Director, lately?"

The man glares at him. Myron smiles.

"You know," he says, reaching for another beer, and finding that -- oh thank God -- it's still unopened: "This one girl I was seeing, for a while? She saw something that really !@#$ed her up. It messed her up @#$ good and ugly, broke her !@#$ brain like a wine glass.

"But she dealt with it by pretending nothing was !@#$ing wrong. She worked like mad, !@#$ed me red and raw, late at night, just carried on, either making sure to not remember or not letting herself remember. I guess there's a difference?"

"There can be," the psychologist says, slowly putting his briefcase down on the floor.

"And then, one night, it came to her," Myron continued, opening the twist-top and having a slug: "I don't know why. Maybe it was just !@#$ing time, you know? But she remembered it all. And she was ready to talk about it. And then, well... she didn't need to work like mad, she didn't need me, anymore. It was all out and done."

He takes another slug, and cradles the bottle: "So, I think maybe I'm not ready to remember it, yet. I think I don't want to face it. I think I would rather crawl under a !@#$ rock and watch bad TV, now that I can, again, and just... not deal with it."

"And this is not cowardice because...?"

Myron looks at the man: "Because if it was okay for her, it's okay for me."

"Well of course you feel that way," the psychologist says, shrugging: "I mean, you were getting some because of it-"

Myron screams. He throws the bottle at the man. Then he charges out of his chair, ready to punch that smug, well-meaning face until it looks like he feels.

He doesn't get that far. His !@#$ falls straight onto the floor the moment he hits a nasty, wet spill and he goes down into a field of glass bottles. It's only luck -- or maybe a thick bathrobe -- that keeps him from having more broken glass cuts than he gets.

The man towers over him as he lies there, weeping and whimpering.

"I didn't come here to listen to you cry like a kid with a skinned knee," he says: "I came here to find out what !@#$ing happened in the Ice Palace, that day."

"You already know!" Myron screams, wiping blood off his chest and knees: "You already !@#$ing know! Why the !@#$ do you want me to tell you!"

"Because you're the only one who can really tell us what you went through," he says, kneeling down and getting his face an inch away from Myron's: "I know what SPYGOD said, and what the !@#$ President said, and what that !@#$ magician would probably say if we could !@#$ing find him.

"But you're the one who's broken," he says, putting his hands on Myron's shoulders: "You're the one who saw it and repressed it the hardest. You're the one who held on for as long as he could, through the trial. And then, after what happened at the White House..."

He doesn't want to say. No one really does.

"So you need to !@#$ing tell me, because you need to say it to yourself in a way that means something," the psychologist goes on."You need to get out of this hole you dug for yourself. But you can't get out if you don't climb.

"Can you climb?"

Myron looks at him, and then-

10/22/12

-smashes down on the communicator button: "Come on! Answer me! Can you at least climb out of there? Can you !@#$ing climb?"

The only answer from Team 10 is static.

"!@#$!" Myron shouts, tossing the communicator at the stone floor of the top chamber of the Lost City. Its breaking echoes all around, momentarily enveloping the sounds of heavy machinery that have been dominating this area since his team moved in, three days ago. They have small hover-pods, drone swarms, powerful excavation equipment, anti-gravity isolation cubes -- everything you'd need to explore and exploit an alien city.

Everything but luck, it would seem.

"So what do we do?" the leader of the next team asks, looking at the massive, circular hole in the floor that the last five just vanished into. They've been suited up and ready to go all this time, but he's clearly not caring to follow their lead.

"I'm all for cutting our losses," the leader of the team after that says, shaking her head and kneeling by the lip of the hole: "We got all the Imago, right? We don't need to go any further-"

"Wrong," Myron hisses, grabbing his gear and getting ready to go down: "We need to get our people out of there, and then we can cut our !@#$ing losses."

"Sir, be reasonable-" she's about to say, but then he just stares at her, and she shuts the !@#$ up.

"Reasonable doesn't apply, here, people," he says, looking at her, and then at everyone else: "Reasonable went out the !@#$ window the moment this thing came up out of the Pacific. Reasonable is in !@#$ing Bora Bora having a drink on the !@#$ beach and a moonlight swim. It's just us and whatever reasons we bring to the !@#$ table.

"And I say my reason is that we leave no one behind. Ever."

"There may be no one left to leave behind, sir," the leader of Team 11 says, clearly hating to take Team 12's side: "We don't know what all's down there. The !@#$ probes don't work after a certain depth, and reports have been confusing at best. And this was a prison-"

"Didn't you ever !@#$ing see 'Escape from Alcatraz'?" Myron snorts, all suited up and ready to go: "And didn't I mention I used to be in charge of a prison, once?"

No one has a good answer to that.

"You, what's your name?" he says, pointing at Team 12's leader as he puts on his sunglasses.

"It's Lt. Mekkelson, sir-"

"Your name is now Lt. Chicken!@#$," he snorts: "Isn't that right, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir," she says, standing up and snapping off a salute: "Lt. Chicken!@#$, reporting for duty. Sir."

"Lt. Chicken!@#$, your orders are to stay up here and tally up everything that wasn't a loss. Call the Heptagon and tell them I'm going down, personally. If I don't physically make it back up here, then you call this a loss, and tell them I said not to send anyone else down there, even if they hear from me, or anyone else. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I mean that, Lt. Not until I'm back up here do they send anyone down, and even then they better crawl up my !@#$ fat !@#$ with a DNA sniffer to make sure it's !@#$ing me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," she says, still at attention.

"One more thing. There's a black box in the main gear stowage. If it starts blinking, then there's a button in it. Press it, and get the !@#$ out of the way of the massive storage box I brought with me. Is that also clear, Lt. Chicken!@#$?"

"Yes, sir. All clear. 100%. Like crystal."

"I sure !@#$ing hope so," he scowls, turning away from her: "Because you just earned a lifetime of !@#$ from me, just now. I might give an opportunity to work it off, but until then? You're Lt. Chicken!@#$, in charge of cutting losses."

"And what are we doing, sir?" the leader of Team 11 asks, taking a step forward: "We're ready to go-"

"Team 11? You're with me. We're going down in the pods and running the probes ahead of us once we're inside. Bring the viewers with us. Their signal might not be getting out of there but I'm willing to bet they'll work fine for us inside."

"Yes sir," the leader of Team 11 says, snapping his fingers at two of his men, who get the equipment in question.

"We go down at least an hour," Myron says, heading for the team's brace of open-air hover-pods, like sci-fi rocket sleds with the engines on the bottom: "If we find the previous teams, we get who we can, record what we see, and get the !@#$ out. If we find no one, we record what we see, and get the !@#$ out. The moment it goes weird or nasty? We get the !@#$ out. No heroics. But we're not giving up until I say we're giving up. That clear, everyone?"

"Yes, sir!" the rest of the team says, getting into their sleds, each one made to handle three people. Two men get into Myron's, and strap themselves down to the sides.

And then the four sleds are up, and off, and going down into the large, dark hole in the floor that swallowed up the other teams.

As they pass through the lip of the entrance, Myron can't help but think that maybe he should have stayed back up top. Maybe he should have just taken the leader of Team 12 seriously and called it off. He should have cut his losses and run, and told SPYGOD that they wouldn't be getting any tech salvage or intel from this thing the Imago broke out of, however long ago.

He could have, and maybe he should have. But that wouldn't be him, now would it? Not anymore, anyway.

The circle of light above them gets smaller with each second. The stone tunnel they're floating down becomes damp, and the air within it starts getting heavy. He can sense the strain on the engines, and knows how this might end.

But then the smooth walls of the tunnel become something else -- something he didn't see up top, because all the probes stopped transmitting, and the sled cameras wouldn't broadcast, and the descriptions were only every fifth word, at best.

And as he looks at what they've flown into, and feels the sense of the unknown come back to him -- the thrill of adventure that he's missed for so long -- he can't help but think of that fateful day, not too long ago, when he was called upon to embark on another, further adventure. One at the South Pole, in the Ice Palace.

And what happened because of it.

And what he had to do...

* * *

... well," Doctor Power says, looking down at the broken body on the floor: "There is something I can do, but-"

"Then do it!" Mr. USA shouts, balling up his fists: "We didn't come all this way to fail! Not like this-"

"We didn't fail," Yanabah insists, gesturing to the screens: "We won, didn't we? We got the Imago. The war's over. We beat them."

"But we lost this," Myron sighs, looking down at the dead body: "And boy, if we'd just been a little sooner-"

"Well, we weren't," Mr. USA says: "But if there's something we can do? Something..."

"But... the cost," Doctor Power sighs: "You don't know what you're asking. I shouldn't have even said anything. This... this could be really bad."

"Bad is us coming this far and failing," Mr. USA says, putting his hands on the old magician's shoulders: "If we won back the world, and yet couldn't save her, SPYGOD's victory will be for nothing. The relationship he's built with the President will be over, again. And... you don't want to know what happens next."

"You might not want to know what happens if I do this."

"I think we can take that chance," Myron sighs: "I mean, what? Does someone have to die for her to live? Are we all !@#$ed to !@#$ for even watching, or something?"

Doctor Power looks at him. He looks into the other room, where Skyspear has taken the other two to help them calm down. He hears them weeping and wailing, their hearts broken, their minds shattered by the brutality they've witnessed here, today.

He makes his decision.

"Get me room," he says, pulling something out of his coat. Something that's on a chain around his neck.

"Oh, thank God," Mr. USA says, going to move tables out of the way: "I knew there was something-"

"God has nothing to do with this!" the magician shouts, not looking in the old hero's direction: "This is... this is a bad thing I'm doing here, (REDACTED). A terrible thing. I can only hope that it'll buy us time to try something different."

"Wait," Myron says, getting up: "What exactly are you going to do, here?"

And then, through eyes suddenly red and shaking with fear, Doctor Power tells them. He tells them exactly what he is going to do, and how, and why. 

And then, !@#$ them all, they agree to let him. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Question (The FIXX) and having a Black Magic)