1/5/13 - METALMAID: Und wird von millionen Augen angeguckt - pt 1

In the north of Kansas -- nearly bisecting the state, and almost close enough to blow a kiss at the border of Nebraska -- there's a small town called Lebanon.

It's not much to look at, really. Less than 250 people, living in a small grid formed by six main streets and surrounded by farmers' fields. No heavy industry, no major chains.

Not even a !@#$ McDonalds.

Its one real claim to fame is that it's the closest actual habitation to what has been declared the geographic center of the contiguous United States of America. (As opposed to the one that includes Alaska and Hawaii, down in South Dakota). It's even got a plaque to prove it.

Every so often some weirdo romantic on a far-fling road trip will come by to see it. They'll stop for a time and take pictures, and maybe get a coke from someplace in town on the way back. But more often than not, they just drive on by.

After all, Lebanon, Kansas may be the literal heart of America, but if you can't gas up or get a !@#$ Big Mac there, then who wants to know?

Which made it doubly weird when, right about 6 AM this morning, the entire town was taken over by supercriminals.

It was quick, almost surgical. One moment everyone was going about their Saturday mornings -- chores for some, television for others, sleeping in for the lucky few -- and then every single man, woman, and child fell down writhing in intense, skin-crawling pain.

The kind of agony that keeps you nailed to the floor, and won't let you so much as cry out or call for help.

Most of its victims blacked out immediately -- unconsciousness their only salvation. But some stayed strong and tried to stay awake, for all the good it did them. And, in return for their pains, they got to watch as a weird procession began to arrive in the center of town

The sort of parade no one ever wants to see, all of them heading for the Methodist Church.

There were strange rides with stranger riders. Darkly-themed vehicles disgorged men and women in costumes that matched the motif of their cars and vans, while others pulled up in curiously nondescript things that may have been stolen a state or two ago. A hideous man with a face like a tarantula stood athwart a giant spider, while another fellow garbed in a clown's motley was carried upon a palanquin, itself borne by a legion of wind-up, lifesize toy soldiers.

They made sure to park quite some distance from one another, and to enter the church at different times.

There were those that flew in, held aloft on billowing wings or jet packs, or maybe just their own, innate powers. Black, iron angels and fliers with their capes. Some who appeared from nowhere, and some who might have walked or shambled from halfway across the country.

There was even a one who made herself whole and entire from one of the locals' cars -- the beat-up, white Ford turning into a reasonable (if overly large) facsimile of a human woman.

Anyone with a sense of history would have recognized some of those individuals, either in old newspapers or recent television reports. At the very least, their sinister costumes and nonconformist get-ups should have told those hardy souls that these were people up to no good.

But, by that point, most of the stricken had collapsed into blissful unconsciousness. So they didn't have a hope in hell of hearing what took place there, or seeing what came after. And maybe, when all was said and done, that was definitely for the best.

For when supervillains gather to parley, the best course of action is to be still and silent, like a stone. 

* * *

In the main part of the church stands a wide selection of the mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

They're a singular lot, this congregation. Some of them wear old costumes, some new. Some look like they just escaped from prison, or got out of a hospital (medical or mental, maybe both). Others seem to be wearing plainclothes, though not without some kind of small sign that they aren't quite normal.

(And some are just incapable of wearing anything at all.)

Faced with such a collection of the off-kilter, the natural instinct is to buddy up. Some of them seek out old friends or colleagues, or at least people that seem less strange or dangerous, or maybe of a similar kind of danger. Some remain apart and aloof, perhaps wondering if there's some catch, here.

And for all they know, they may be right.

After a time, a larger, unintended reunion of sorts takes place within the meeting. It starts with two thunders recognizing each other out of uniform (Red and Green respectively), and then hugging and laughing, perhaps a little tenderly, given their recent injuries. After that, more of the turned heroes begin to come forward, figuring out who they must all be, either in plainclothes or their new disguises. The knot of traitors and oathbreakers begins to take over the floor from the honest thieves, murderers, and would-be world rulers.

And that's when the humor in the room turns a little sharp.

Territory is staked out and held as factions start to form. The line for punch and cookies gets outright dangerous. Someone vanishes on the way to the ladies', with a list of suspects too long to be practical.

And people really begin to wonder what the !@#$ they're all doing there, today.

Sure, they got invitations. Sure, they know this is supposed to be an important meeting of people in their unique lines of work. Sure, they got busted out of jail, or woken up from comas, or whatever, by the overly-talkative guy in the shimmering costume.

(Is he really called The Sound? What kind of a !@#$ dumb name is that? And who is he, anyway?)

But past that, they have no idea. This could be a sales pitch or a setup -- a massive opportunity or an equally-massive trap. Risk or reward, life or death.

Or maybe both at once.

So they talk to friends, colleagues, and allies old and new, warily eying one another while waiting for the heavy, green curtain on the other end of the main room to part, and this story to truly unfold.

Hopefully it will be worth whatever complications ensue if an answer isn't quickly provided.

* * *

"Is that arachnid-faced !@#$ here, yet?" the old man wrapped in a voluminous, blood-red robe asks, his features a warped, glowing knot behind a simple, black domino mask.

"Yes, he is," a blonde man in a sharp, black suit and muted, green tie says, looking out at the 'congregation' through a hole in the heavy curtain separating the stage from the main area of worship.

"God, I hate that !@#$er," the old man sighs: "The last time the Lord of Spiders and I were in the same room, all hell broke loose."

"I've heard," the man in the suit says, adjusting his tie: "There's always some old fogey at Outland who wants to tell the story when they do an unofficial, group history panel."

"I bet they never tell you who threw the first punch, though?'

"No, they don't," the man says, smiling: "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tell me."

"Really?" the old man asks, looking a little confused.

"The legends are always better than the truth," he explains: "That's what I tell my clients, anyway. But that's... well, neither here nor there."

"Go on, please."

"Well, let's put it this way," the Pusher says, turning to look at the old man as he strains to keep everyone in town who isn't with them out of the picture: "Say you want to go into our line of work? Chances are good you're some boring person with dreams too big for your abilities.

"Now, people like you, Lord of Spiders, some of the other folks here? They have powers, or maybe they found a way to create them with gadgets and things they stole from high tech labs. But most people who think this is the way they want to go, career-wise? They don't have those things, or access to them.

"Back in the day, they'd have gone into being henchmen. I'm sure you remember the type? They always did what you told them, but you had the idea they'd steal your tricks if you have them half the chance?"

"I do indeed," the old man says: "Had to put a number of them under, in fact."

"Exactly. But this is a whole new era. It's all about independent operators, now. No huge armies of goons dressed alike. Just one person with his or her own thing, maybe a sidekick or an apprentice, or even a partner. But other than that, well... good luck getting into that gig."

"So there's people like you to sell them their powers," the old man says.

"Exactly," the Pusher says, raising a finger: "And when I do, I tell them to never say they bought it from me. Never admit they had to fork over a few hundred grand to get where they were. Always tell people the greatest story they could ever think of. Heck, for a few extra benjamins, I'll even help them write it.

"And that's because the legend is always better than the truth. Truth is inconvenient and messy. Sometimes just plain boring.

"And if you wanted boring, you'd still be working at the big box grocery store, wishing you could fly into the bank branch you walk by every day and take it for all it's got."

The old man laughs, and then cuts his mirth short so as to avoid losing his concentration: "You're a card, Pusher. I like you."

"Thank you, sir," the Pusher says, genuinely honored to get something approaching a complement out of the Emperor of Pain, himself.

A man in a weird, shimmering costume walks through the curtain as though it isn't there, and coughs into his fist: "Hey, is she ready to go, yet? The natives are getting kind of !@#$ing restless."

"She's still making herself presentable," the Pusher says: "But if you want to interrupt her, well..."

"Eh, I don't think so," The Sound says, holding up his hands: "Just saying. We got some really !@#$ volatile folks out there. That idiot super-racist with the squeaky voice is getting on everyone's nerves, and the !@#$hole with chainsaws for hands is just looking for an excuse-"

"And so am I," the woman in question says, stomping out from where she's been hiding, her glare harsh enough to silence a hurricane.

She's freakishly ugly, this woman, and wearing a gauzy, practically see-through crimson dress that would look a lot better on an insane, drug-addled transvestite hooker, or a pop starlet. A lop-sided, white plastic crown of a hat is perched above her strange, black hairdo, and her feet are practically strangled in weird, spangly high-heels that make her even taller than she is.

And on her chest, the mark of the Scarlet Factotum. 

"How much longer can you hold this town?" METALMAID asks The Emperor of Pain without looking at him.

"As long as you need, my dear," the old man says.

"But in terms of practicality, we probably have an hour before someone drives by and wonders what's going on," the Pusher adds.

"And maybe fifteen minutes before there's blood on the floor,"  The Sound says.

"Well, let's not leave them waiting for another," the Slaughterbot says, looking at herself in a handheld mirror one last time: "Are we all clear on what we're doing?"

"Hey, trust us, Scarlet," the Pusher says, smiling and adjusting his tie, yet again: "We got this tied up with a bow."

"I don't like trusting you human germs," she admits, putting her mirror away without looking at the man: "But... I will admit, you have come through quite a bit. All of you."

"Then let's do this before I lose control of my !@#$ bowels," the Emperor of Pain grumbles: "I never remember not to do this on full colon...."

"Alright then," she says: "Sound? Get our {quote}guest{endquote}-"

"Scarlet?" the Pusher gently interrupts: "Ix-nay on the quotes, remember? It throws people off."

"Right," she sighs: "Sound? Get our guest ready. And we'll... get this show on the road. Right?"

"Right," the Sound says, disappearing through the back wall as the Pusher gets ready to throw open the curtain.

And then there's just the audience beyond, all hushed into silence by the sight of their hostess.

She looks at them, smiles as the Pusher has taught her, and begins to speak

(METALMAID is listening to Das Model (Kraftwerk) and having some punch and pie)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 4

The trip from Lex's Bar back to the dealer's room, arm in arm with the Violet Demon, seems to go too short, and yet take so long. They're both talking a mile a minute, and finishing each others' sentences, but verything they're saying to each other goes in one of METALMAID's audio-receivers and out the other.

The feeling is what matters, here. And all she's feeling is that, in spite of her long-standing and utter hate for anything even remotely DNA-based, she's finally found someone she can trust. Someone to call an ally, and a friend.

(And maybe that L word? Maybe?)

Is she being foolish, here? Does she care? Should she care?

Does her initial plan matter? Can she kiss and kill? Can she really see sharing a world with someone who wants to play with it like a toy when all she wants to do is stomp out humanity in the name of the late Doctor Morbo? 

Her programming is telling her one thing. Her feelings are telling her another. In the conflict between the two, she's lost on a heady wave of ones and zeros, positives and negatives.

Black and white are starting to mix into grey, and for the first time since the night SPYGOD !@#$ed the Television, high on weird, science terrorist drugs, she feels like her world's expanded out to infinity. Like a child's toy sailboat with a broken string, she's been blown out into the middle of a wide, deep lake, and could literally go anywhere from here.

Anywhere at all.

The freedom is so giddy and giggly that she's barely aware that he's asked what the !@#$ all that screaming and shouting is. It takes a massive explosion before she realizes that something's amiss.

And then another, equally massive explosion before she realizes that it's one of her massive explosions.

"Those are my Slaughterbots..." she says, knowing the sound of a pack of mini-missiles going off on a single target.

"Oh, you have more than one product line, here?" he asks.

"Scarletbots, I mean," she covers: "It's the oil."

"Of course," she thinks he's grinning behind the devil's mask: "I wonder if someone started a Donnybrook?"

She doesn't know what the !@#$ that means, but as she and her would-be buyer/collaborator/victim hustle into the dealer's room, she has the sickening feeling that her sailboat has just been sucked down into a whirlpool of !@#$.

* * *

Early in METALMAID's career, back when she was simply 900 K-14, she was present when a supervillain summit went horribly, terribly wrong.

It had been a good idea, at least on paper. Doctor Morbo and a few of his older cohorts decided that, in the wake of the postwar bloom of science terrorist outfits -- like SQUASH, HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, The Legion, and the like -- independent operators like themselves were getting muscled out. And the fact that they spent a good deal of their time fighting and scheming against each other, rather than the science terrorists, Strategic Talents, The COMPANY, and the law, was really wearing down their resources and time. 

To try and overcome this problem, Doctor Morbo invited his allies -- and a few of his more sane and reasonable rivals -- to one of his stronger castles in the hopes of creating some kind of compact between gentleman villains. He had hoped to make a governing body with membership drives, rotating leadership, a merit and demerit system, a transparent and trusted enforcement arm, and a common goal that all but the most insane, genocidal, or selfish could agree to: the quiet and total conquest of the Earth.

It was a complete fiasco -- and one that remains largely unexplained, even to this day.

Was it Mister Foulness who'd made the first languid, slithering, and complex insult, or The Lord of Spiders? Was it Duke Bloodmoon or The Human Scream who'd thrown the first, uber-fatal punch? And who brought actual weapons into the fray -- Steel Corsair, the Steamqueen, or the Emperor of Pain?

Did the henchmen cause it, or just die like the good and true servants they were? Was the food drugged, or the wine poisoned? Did certain outside elements throw in a ringer, or launch a mentally-controlled human bomb into the mix?

No one could really say for certain. All that METALMAID knew was that, by the time she was summoned off patrol to deal with the mess, 3/4 of the room was dead or dying. And Doctor Morbo was sitting in his tall, iron chair, coated in others' blood and squishy flesh bits, and crying into his gauntlets as his hopes for a better future bled out in front of him.

Such was the depths of the event's fiascosity (as the late Doctor would have put it in his badly-mangled English) that he became something of a pariah figure amongst his colleagues for the rest of his life. But even they realized that the central idea behind the meeting was quite sound. In fact, a few of the survivors would later meet -- most notably without Doctor Morbo -- and hammer out an agreement that would lead to the creation of the Brotherhood of the Righteous. 

A few years after that group's founding, another, more successful summit was held by those who'd not been invited to the other meeting. However, this one was held in a neutral location, by a neutral party, and the science terrorists were admitted as surprise guests to give "their side of the story." As such, all attempts to undercut or work around them something of a moot point. 

However, thanks to the omnipresent and firm hand of the black-masked, anonymous persons who convened that summit, the histrionics and ultra-violence of Doctor Morbo's attempt was thankfully avoided. Furthermore, the attendees actually had a !@#$ good time, even if no progress to a solution was made. In fact, the meeting bore enough positive fruit that someone influential said "We should do this again, sometime!"

And so they did. They invited even more people, and charged them for attendence. They had entertainment, and lectures, and vendors. They had film festivals and screenings, panel discussions, and even a service by the First Church of Jesus Christ, Supervillain.

Five years later, they started calling it Outland, and such was its forward momentum that it lasted for decades without significant interruption. Even last year's near-total destruction of the event -- and Imago's conquest of the Earth -- hasn't stopped its backers from convening it again, just later than usual.

Which means that, in spite of the horrible, screaming, burning, bloody mess that METALMAID is seeing it will probably be held again, next year.

There will just have to be more safeguards in place in the dealer's room -- especially around the weapons dealers.

* * *

"Can someone please tell me what's happening here?" one of the black masked volunteers is asking. He's missing an arm and has lengths of intestine slowly pulsing out of a sizable hole in his lower abdomen. He's so in shock that he doesn't even try to use his one, good arm to put them back in, preferring to ask a stupid !@#$ing question over and over again, stumbling through the flaming junk that was the dealers' room.

The room is on fire, shot to !@#$, and splattered with corpses. It looks like most of the dead were fighting one shared enemy at the time, given that they died facing a central direction, and have weapons in what remains of their hands. The others are people who were caught in the crossfire, or tried to stop it. Scattered survivors try to help their friends away as quickly and unobtrusively as they can, but no one is even attempting to attack the victors of this slaughter.

That would be the 20 Slaughterbots that METALMAID brought with her, who are seeing to their re-armament and repairs in short, exacting shifts. 

"What. The. !@#$ing. !@#$ing. !@#$. Happened?" METALMAID shrieks as she plows through the dead, dying, broken, and burning, heading straight for V-16: "I told you to {Quote}mind the store{Endquote} while I got changed, not blow it the !@#$ up!"

"Forgive this Unit," V-16 says, gesturing to a costumed fellow who's examining one of the slightly-damaged Slaughterbots as it repairs itself: "Our buyer wanted a demonstration of our capabilities before signing the deal."

"You..." METALMAID starts to say, and then, sees that the costumed fellow is the one with the high-tech monocle who'd been so dismissive of them, the day before.

"I see that your claims are quite true, Ms. Scarlet Factotum," he says, standing up and brushing off his pants: "My name is Doctor Kyklops. Perhaps you have heard of me. Doctor Morbo and I were allied occasionally, between the wars."

"That's... nice," METALMAID hisses: "If you wanted a practical demonstration, I think we could have arranged for a less... explosive one."

"Ah, but where better to test your claims?" he asks, stepping forward: "Here, in this room, with the best weapons that can be offered, we have a crucible. That which is false is burned away. All that remains is the truth, and the truth is that you have some very nice warbots, Ms. Factotum."

"I can't disagree with that," the Violent Demon says, finally catching up with METALMAID: "It must have been one amazing fight, sir. I applaud your audacity."

"Yes, thank you," he says, adjusting his monocle and looking at the purple and white fellow: "Excuse me, young man, have we met?"

"I'm the Violet Demon, sir," he says, extending a hand: "I'm actually quite an admirer of your work. Your lightning gun is still a marvel, even in this day and age. In fact, I think I bought one of your third series-"

"Ah, yes," Kyklops says, waving away the offered hand: "I do not do autographs. But, perhaps, once I reconquer the world from these upstart fools, I shall have room in my service for people with excellent taste."

"That would be an honor, sir," the Violet Demon says, putting his hand away as graciously as possible.

"But, to the matter at hand?" the doctor goes on: "Ms. Factotum, I will be very happy to pay your price, and more, in exchange for your services. I am told you can bring more than a hundred such robots to bear?"

"I can, but-"

"Then I would like to take half of these into immediate service, with the remainder to be delivered within the week. My plans are quite time-sensitive, you understand?"

"I do, however-"

"Ah, you are concerned about payment? I understand, and applaud your shrewdness. I can pay 100 billion Euros in untraceable Bearer Bonds, half of which I will give you this very day, the remainder, upon delivery of the rest, and more to be given if I need more. Shall we say seven billion for each additional?"

She's about to say that the sale's off, and she's already found a buyer, but then the cold light of reason and her ultimate plan finally win out over the gibbering, happy parts of her brain that this Violet fleshbag awakened. And she realizes that the man who's offering to buy her services fits expertly into her three categories: he's wealthy enough to afford her, dedicated enough to take on Imago, and foolish enough to be easily disposed of once the world has been taken over. 

Also, he's a massive, stuck up !@#$.

Still...

She turns to the Violet Demon, trying to figure what to say to this strange, compelling person -- the first flesh germ she has not hated -- now that she must disappoint him. She does not have the programming to say that she's sorry, or express regret, or even understand why she's so !@#$ing angry, right now. All she knows is that they could have had something, here and now, in this place, and now it's been squashed like a bug by unforeseen circumstances not entirely under her control.

Thankfully, he looks at her and nods: "This isn't the first time I've been !@#$-blocked, hon. Just would have been one of the best."

"I wish I knew what to say."

"I do," he says, putting a hand on hers: "We will work together, one day, Scarlet. Maybe as equals?"

"I'd like that," she says, letting him take her hand up to his mask and mime a kiss: "I really would."

He tilts his head, maybe making a real smile behind the white, false one, and hands her a purple, heavy stock business card with no writing on it: "It's got communications gear in it. Keep it try and safe, and if you need to contact me, speak my name directly into it. I'll find you."

"I will," she says, holding the card in both hands as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

"Then until next time," he bows with a flourish: "Oh, Doctor? Sir? I'll tell the black masks that it was the !@#$hole selling lasers across the way with the rainbow suit and no manners. It'll give you enough time to get out of dodge, anyway."

"Yes, that would be most... helpful," Doctor Kyklops says, waving him off: "Good day to you, young demon."

The Violet Demon nods and makes the Vitarka Mudra at him: "Be seeing you."

Then he's gone, halting only to regard the eviscerated black mask as he finally falls to his knees, topples over, and dies.

And, long before the black masks descend on the conflagration, so are they.

* * *

The initial handover -- which takes place at Kyklops' impressive sea-saucer -- goes very well, if very !@#$ quickly. 

Something about what just happened has METALMAID very !@#$ing jumpy, and as she bids goodbye to V-16 (and gives him very quiet and explicit instructions) she can almost feel the approach of some lurking doom. She's barely cognizant of the doctor making strange, antiquated come-ons in her direction, or the promise of more money faster if she can deliver the balance of the Scarletbots in time.

"Be sure to tell your company that I am delighted that they sent such a comely salesperson," he says, running a finger down her arm and kissing her hand: "I hope to do more business with you in the future."

"I shall do that," she says, taking the bearer bonds and going: "And yes, we will."

All the while back to her sub, she thinks of all the wonderful things she's going to do to his aging, weakened body once he's served his purpose. She wonders what would happen if a monofilament wire was unspooled into his raging, hard !@#$, and then twirled around his no-doubt shriveled prostate. After she shoves his monocle up his withered, puckered anus, of course...

She's so intensely involved in her revenge fantasies that she almost doesn't notice the telltale, whiteboard sounds of the Imago teleporting in. By the time she realizes that Outland is under attack, she's just outside of her submarine, and hustles in just before they turn their attentions to the "parking lot."

And by the time they think to scuttle their victims' means of transportation, the sub is running deep and silent, and heading as far away from what promises to be an epic slaughter as its engines will take it.

* * *

Later, in Zalea's lair, she sits and stares at the purple card. She thinks of what might have been, and maybe what should have been. And she realizes that she's being foolish, and that things have worked out exactly as they were supposed to.

Really.

"The Imago got the television, again," the Zalea closest to her complains: "Said they broke up a really bad knot of evil. People who were in league with that thing coming from outer space to kill us. Was that where you were?"

METALMAID looks at her and smiles, putting the purple card someplace safe and special: "Never mind where I was, flesh germ. How are we equipped to handle making a hundred more robots?"

"Well... if we could get in the parts, maybe we could do three a day if we work around the clock-"

"We're going to make five a day," she insists: "Make more of yourselves if you have to. Sleep less, work more. I don't care if you melt at your workstations. We need another army and we need it now."

"Okay," Zalea mumbles, walking away to deal with the cloning: "You don't have to be so rude about it..."

METALMAID just smiles, looking at the larger-than-life sculpture of Doctor Morbo that one of the Slaughterbots made for her in her absence. His sneering mask commands her attention and obedience, and his gauntlets are raised to the sky in total subjugation of all living things.

"'I use the best, I use the rest,'" she whispers, running a hand along it. Was that a line from his book of maxims, or a line from a pop song? She doesn't remember, anymore. All she knows is that all the wisdom in the world can be found in that sentiment. 

She will use this Dr. Kyklops fool. She will take his money and make her army. She will let him use it until they have victory, and then kill him.

She will win. She will conquer. 

And nothing, and no one, will stop her.  

(METALMAID is listening to The Robots (Kraftwerk, by way of Eugene) and thinking she tastes victory in the air.)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 3

Of course, the spiked oil selection at the darkened, faux-mahogany bar is horribly limited, but METALMAID orders the best off the top shelf. The obese, big-talking slaphead running the place -- who is, by all accounts, quite queer for machinery -- takes one look at her downcast expression, and wisely leaves her to her funk.

He does, however, leave her the bottle after the third refill. 

As she sits there and drinks on Zalea's dime, she wonders if she should have had business cards printed out or not. She also wonders if she should have employed some of her Slaughterbots to walk the floors and drum up business, and if that would even have been !@#$ing allowed by these black-masked flesh fascists.

(Is she showing enough leg, or not nearly enough? Should she offer illicit favors or threaten to kill them?)

There's some large prt of this Outland that she's just not grasping, somehow. Maybe she should have done more research into this "selling" thing, beyond what she saw on the commercials that ran between poor, brainwashed Zalea's television shows. Maybe she should have employed subliminal messages in her floor videos.

Maybe she should just blow up half the!@#$ing convention with her {Quote}Scarletbots{Endquote}, and offer a discount to the survivors, now that they've seen what the product can actually do.

Maybe she should have another drink.

* * *

By the time she's finished the bottle and moved on to the next one, it's 2 AM on Sunday, and she realizes that the convention only has one more day. That jolts her brain awake, right there, but it's going to be a while before her legs follow. 

!@#$ good stuff, this oil. It's like it was refined by the ancient machine-Gods of Sumeria, and buried alongside their techpriests in the tombs of old; supplies to keep the honored dead comforted through their journey through the indignities of rot and rust.

Her head will doubtlessly feel like SPYGOD looks after a bender, tomorrow, but it can't be !@#$ing helped, now.

So she sits at the bar, drinks herself blind, and listens to the people around her. She hears them bemoan how much this Outland sucks, or doesn't. How so-and-so isn't here, but those other annoying people are. Wondering why this panelist cancelled and where the !@#$ they got the replacement from. 

Wondering why SQUASH isn't making a comeback, now that just about every other science terrorist outfit is dust in the wind. Wondering why they called off the all-nude swim, this year, and what would happen if it happened, anyway.

Really wondering who the mystery guest of honor's going to be, and not wanting to wait until the speech at the closing ceremony to find out. (All kinds of guesses, and METALMAID knows almost all of them from reading SPYGOD's files.)

She doesn't realize she's scraped her claws across the faux-mahogany until there's fake wood curled under them. She sighs, puts an elbow down on the damage, and drinks some more.

* * * 

Flying high on the luscious, smooth funereal oil of Babylon, it's few hours before she realizes the devil's joined her for a drink.

Or a devil, at any rate. This one's wearing a purple body suit with white highlights, boot, and gloves. A horned, white devil mask hides his face, and his chest is emblazoned with a white, grinning skull with ram's horns.

"I'll have a shot of the snake whiskey, please," he says, pulling his mask up just enough to be able to drink.

"You know that !@#$'s a little poisonous?" Lex asks him, cleaning his glasses.

A nasty grin: "I know. But is it poisonous enough?"

Lex sighs, pours the guy a shot, and takes his money first. The fellow pounds it down, slaps the wood, gasps, and hands back the empty glass.

"Okay. Grey Goose if you got it, any old IPA if you don't. And keep 'em coming."

"What's an IPA?" METALMAID asks, not really wanting to get into a conversation with this person but suddenly not able to resist asking a question.

"India Pale Ale," he answers, visibly glad to see the bartender's got the goose, after all: "Nice and hoppy. I find it helps with the poison."

"So you're not immune?" she snorts, wondering how long it'll take the dumb !@#$ to die, and if she should help.

"No, not really," he explains: "But the trick is to kick your body into overdrive trying to get the alcohol out, which makes the toxin dissipate faster. It's like riding the edge of the abyss with your toes just hanging onto the edge of the surfboard." 

He chugs the bottle down, gently places the empty thing on the counter, and signals for another.

"So I hope you don't mind if I spend the next ten minutes talking to myself about all the great ideas staring into the abyss is giving me. I'd talk it over with my convention friends, but they are all absent, sadly."

"Couldn't make it?" She asks, not quite sure why she's humoring this crazy flesh germ.

"Well, if they're lucky, they just ran afoul of the same navigational problem everyone else did, and they're stuck in Osaka or Christchurch for the duration, or something."

"And if they're not lucky?"

"Dead," he says: "Or vanished. The Imago aren't big on leaving remains to mourn over."

"So they may have ran afoul of our new {Quote}masters{Endquote}?" she spits: "If so, good for them for trying."

He considers her for a moment: "I take it you're not happy with with current situation, either?"

"Not in the slightest. I'm actually hoping to try and deal with that little problem. Just..."

She could say more, and part of her wants to, for some weird reason. She decides not to, at least for the moment. She smiles instead, and has some more oil.

"'Just'," he repeats, downing another bottle: "I saw your display in the dealers room. I didn't think arms merchants could afford to have an agenda, other than money?"

"Let's just say I have {Quote}long term goals,{Endquote}" she replies, using the best buzzword she can think of: "I think the phrase is {Quote}I use the enemy{Endquote}."

"''And I is An-ar-chy,'" he sings, grinning: "I like me a metal woman that likes it old school."

And she smiles and sits closer, not having a !@#$ing idea what the !@#$ he means, but realizing she may have just made a convention friend, here.

And maybe more. 

* * *

The conversation goes a lot easier from there. She lets her guard down, ever so slightly, and in return he gladly -- if somewhat quietly -- tells her everything he knows, has conjectured, or wants to test out about the Imago.

He says his name is the Violet Demon, and generates a few dancing balls of purple fire from his gloves to accentuate the moniker. He bills himself as a "global transmutationist," interested in changing the world through economic alchemy, social engineering, and applied terror. He claims he's pulled off numerous "happenings" that, while blamed on other people or groups, were actually his doing, and succeeded in making key changes in certain small countries.

He was planning on working his way up the ladder to the United States of America, but Imago's appearance on the scene has severely crimped his plans. So, naturally, he wants them out of the picture. He just needs to find the best way to achieve this.

"You see," he says, painting images in the air with a fine line of purple flame: "They have armor, and they have shields. They also have very high levels of strength, and I wouldn't be surprised if they have energy weapons as well, though we haven't seen them in action, yet."

"Well, their shields aren't worth !@#$ in hand-to-hand combat," she offers: "I killed one the other day by shoving a monofilament wire into his mouth. Maybe they're no good against physical threats?"

"I've seen them work against bullets and fisticuffs, though. Maybe they have to put the shields up, or else modulate between energy weapons and physical weapons?"

"Perhaps."

"But what I'm getting at," he says, making more notes in the air with the flame: "Is that they are using a lot of energy as it is. And on top of that they can teleport, which takes some doing and a lot of power."

"So do you think the energy is being beamed into them?"

"I do. And I think I know from where."

Apparently, there's a place in the Pacific, somewhere, that no one has returned from since 3/15. Those who have gotten close enough have spoken of a great, pyramidal structure that's risen out of the water, and floating above it is a massive, metal insect that sort of looks like The COMPANY's old Flier if you squint your eyes just right.

At night, the metal dragonfly shines brighter than the sun, illuminating that part of the Ocean for miles and miles. And if one views it at that time, one can see Imago traveling from the pyramid to the dragonfly and back, and floating around both things like strange, colorful moons.

So, it's Imago's doing. And there's a lot of them there. And, though it's possibly circumstantial, the hypothetical energy flow from there could be what's causing so many navigation errors in that area of the Pacific. Since the GPS satellites are gone and done with, ships are having to rely on compasses and magnetic-based direction finders to locate themselves, and if there's that much energy coming from the place, it could be fouling up their readings. 

"So if we could disrupt the flow of energy...?" METALMAID says.

"... we could disrupt them. If I'm right."

"And even if you weren't, you'd still deal them a massive blow."

"Especially since my idea of disrupting involves a very large explosion," he says, making his purple notes turn into a giant, rumbling fireball.

"I think I like this idea," METALMAID says: "But you'll need some help getting close enough."

"I certainly will," the Violent Demon says, downing another IPA in three gulps: "I'll need a fearless and well-armed army to distract them long enough for me to provide that explosion. And then I'll need them to provide clean up when they're helpless and flopping around like fish on the shoreline."

"You'll need railguns and mini missiles," she says, leaning in close.

"Big fists and diamond tipped chainsaws," he adds, leaning in closer.

"And a pelvic sonic death cannon."

"Oh, I love those."

She smiles, tosses money at the bar, and loops her arm into his: "Mr. Violet Demon, I would like to make you an exclusive offer..."

(METALMAID is listening to Anarchy in the UK (Sex Pistols, remixed by dj trikinosis) and having that yummy old oil)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 2

An extremely busy four days later, on the 24th of August, METALMAID and a contingency of twenty Slaughterbots are in one of Zalea Zathros' submarines, and heading for Polynesia.

The purpose of this outing is to travel to the small island of Tikei, which was abandoned quite some time ago for reasons no one can really explain. And if they push the sub's engines hard enough, they'll get there just in time for the opening ceremonies of this year's Outland, and, therefore, be in excellent position to dominate the sales floor from the start.

Outland, for those not in the supervillain community, is the annual gathering of costumed crooks, master criminals, science terrorists, would-be world conquerors, and the nearly-endless legions of people who would like to sell them things. It's the sort of party where GORGON, HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, The Legion, the Brotherhood of the Righteous, and what little remains of SQUASH all come to rub elbows, compare notes, trade taunts, and maybe make a deal or two. Old hands school newbies, wanna-bes star-!@#$ celebrities, and the panel discussions are to die for.

Sometimes quite literally, depending on the topic.

The convention, which convenes in a different location every year, normally takes place in May. Given that SPYGOD !@#$ing blew it up, last year, and that GORGON -- now Imago -- has taken over the world this year, and clearly does not want any competition in that regard, reconvening the gathering has been quite an ordeal. But its' mysterious, ultra-anonymous founders have a reputation to uphold, as they once swore that nothing, short of the total annihilation of all life on Earth, would stop them from putting it on every year.

(The fact that some of their guests, attendees, and merchants are actually wanting to achieve that annihilation, or are willing to sell the tools needed to bring it about, adds just another level of hilarity to an already surreal convention.)

METALMAID's plan is simple: in the guise of THE SCARLET FACTOTUM, creator of the Scarletbots, she will offer an exclusive contract to a super villain with world-conquering goals that meets her three, careful criteria. Those criteria are, in increasing order of importance, wealthy enough to afford her, dedicated enough to take on Imago, and foolish enough to be easily disposed of once the world has been taken over.

She wants to get there just after the pre-fab structure went up, so as to get in just after the massive security measures are put in place, and just before the opening show. This will not only give her a fighting chance for a good space in the dealers' room, but will also give her a chance to see and be seen, and possibly make some contacts and mention her wares with suitable candidates.

Unfortunately, a wrong turn around Tuvalu puts them badly off course. So, by the time they get to Tikei, dock, unload, and find a good spot to park their robot-piloted submarine, the opening ceremony's already over, and the dealers' floor -- which operates on a strict "first-come, first served, first-situated" policy -- has already had its best locations snatched up.

Thankfully, the spot METALMAID ends up with is not anywhere near any other merchants selling armies to would-be world conquerors -- robot or otherwise. But they do wind up in the middle of a long row, which means anyone who gets to them has already run a gauntlet, and may not be as interested in what she has to say. And they're directly across from a very noisy salesman of very flashy laser rifles, whose rainbow-hued floor show pulls away attention that should be going to METALMAID's kiosk, instead.

(He shoots her a look every once in a while. It's the look that says "I got your customers, !@#$." METALMAID just smiles back and thinks of how nice it would be to use his worthless, fleshy frame as a target in a live-fire demonstration of her new and improved Slaughterbots.)

Undaunted, she sets up her kiosk -- mostly consisting of "Scarletbots" holding signs and video screens -- and begins to sell her wares to the jaded, disinterested, and bored. 

And the annoying. The very, very annoying. 

* * *

"Step up, worthy buyers, step up," METALMAID says, gesturing to a group of costumed convention-goers who give her a second look, sometime around 4:30 on Saturday afternoon: "Are you tired of dealing with weak, fleshy henchmen and soldiers? Are you weary of giving commands that are not followed, either due to fear or incompetence? Would you like to pack the most bang for your buck on two legs, or treads? We at SCARLETWORKS have a solution for you-"

"Those are Slaughterbots," one of the costumed fellows announces, using a fancy monocle to look at the head and chassis of 400 H-03, who's being one of her top models.

"You are mistaken, kind sir," she says, showing him a little leg (not that her scarlet dress leaves much of it, or anything else, to the imagination): "These are-"

"Young lady, I had the distinct displeasure of working with the late Doctor Morbo on a number of joint ventures, back in the day," he says, straightening up and putting the monocle away: "I would recognize his crude and slipshod technology anywhere. These are Slaughterbots."

METALMAID bats her nearly-black eyes at the fellow: "Now sir, you're not being reasonable. Yes, it's true, we did base the external appearance on Doctor Morbo's classic design, but we have improved a great deal upon their offensive capabilities. As you can see from these videos...?"

She waves to a television screen that V-16 is helpfully holding up, which shows scenes from back at Zalea's repurposed lair, and the numerous weapons tests that they conducted there, over the last month. Mini-missiles fly, rail guns eat up armor plate, diamond chainsaws slice servant robots in half, and monofilament wire turns one of Zalea's clones into soup in a skin bag.

"Ah, the pelvic sonic death cannon," one of the unimpressed fellows' cohorts says: "I remember that one. Quite good, really."

"So phallic and disgusting," another says, sighing and sipping at her overpriced latte: "I always thought he was a massive !@#$ing pig."

"Maybe if he worked smarter, rather than harder, he'd have had more time to date and be acquainted with the fairer sex?" the monocle man says, turning to go: "Ah well, a pity. But thank you for the stroll down memory lane, Miss... Scarlet Factotum, was it?"

"What sort of a servile name is that?" the latte lady asks: "Does SCARLETWORKS think so little of its product that they let some scantily-clad tart hawk its wares at a convention like this?"

METALMAID's smile drops flat. Her eyes go from black to red. She erupts into a deadly jumble of weapons and advances on the woman, ready to tear her limb from limb--

"Excuse me," one of the black-masked, extremely anonymous Outland staff says, interjecting himself into the fray: "I'd like to remind you that your weapons need to be peace-bonded throughout the convention floor? Now, if you'd like to settle this violently, you can sign up for a match in the Murderdrome, later. But we'd really like to keep the floors from running red, here. It kind of impedes the green, if you know what I mean?"

METALMAID blinks, "exhales," and retracts all her weapons back into herself: "I think we can let this one go. Unless this fleshgerm wants to try her hand at offensively defecating in my direction, later?"

Latte woman -- who quite visibly soiled herself, just now -- is already heading for the restrooms with one of her cohorts in tow. The Monocle man just smiles, nods to her, and walks away.

"METALMAID," V-16 says: "This unit should inform you-"

"SCARLET. !@#$ING. FACTOTUM." She corrects him, not bothering to wheel around.

"Forgive this unit. Scarlet !@#$ing Factotum-"

"Just... just Scarlet Factotum, please, V-16."

"Forgive this unit. Scarlet Factotum, this unit should inform you that you are no longer professionally dressed."

And no, she isn't. Her dress is in tatters around her, showing off every inch of her weirdly-shaped, human-seeming body. And while there's obviously no ban on nudity here -- half the demonstration staff at most of the booths are either nude or next to it -- it's not quite the corporate image she was going for.

"Well then," she says: "I am going to {Quote}change into something more businesslike{Endquote}. V-16, in my absence, you are in charge."

"Yes, Scarlet Factorum. But this unit has a question."

"Yes?"

"What is this unit supposed to do?"

* * *

A very angry half an hour later, METALMAID finally gets to her convention room, changes into a new, stunning, scarlet number, and heads back to the Dealer floor. But, on the way there, as she passes the marquee with all the panels and presentations listed on it, she realizes that she may have overlooked a possible venue for selling her services.

CONQUERING THE WORLD ON A BUDGET seems promising, at first. However, once she gets a chance to talk, and does not take the hint that people didn't want to get a sales pitch instead of a question, one of Outland's black-masked, anonymous staff is tapping her on the shoulder and politely suggesting she should either be quiet or be gone.

Undaunted, she tries to make similar pitches at ROBOT ARMIES FOR BEGINNERS, MECHA OR MEAT?, and THE SEXUAL POLITICS OF WORLD CONQUEST. Each time, she makes her pitch as soon as she can. And, each time, someone from the staff all but pounces on her as soon as she gets to the good parts.

She's about to go into THE HISTORY OF FAILED WORLD CONQUERORS, but no sooner does she head into the room than no less than four members of the staff are there, in front of her, making the sensible suggestion that she may want to skip further panel discussions if she wants to remain at the convention. And, as much as she'd like to rip these !@#$holes limb from limb, she realizes she can't do that now.

So she turns around, walks away, and sits down in a busy corridor, trying to calm herself. But then a large gaggle of noisy, already-drunk conventioneers go by, and they're all wearing I SURVIVED OUTLAND 2011 shirts. The shirts all bear an unflattering caricature of SPYGOD on them, and this makes her want to kill them.

All of them.  

She raises up on her legs, trying to decide between monofilament wire injections or that oh-so-offensive sonic death cannon. But no sooner is she ten feet from where they're headed (the pool? is it naked swim time, already?) than another black mask appears in front of her, arms crossed.

"Are we having a good time, Scarlet Factotum?"

She stops. She smiles. She bats her eyes at him.

"I don't !@#$ ugly robots," he says: "And I don't appreciate having to hear about all the trouble you're causing."

"I do apologize," she says, starting to calculate just how much mega-death she'd have to commit, here and now, in order to show this flesh germ who's boss and beat a hasty retreat before they found some way to turn her off like a lamp: "It's my first time here."

"Don't make it your last time," he says, leaning in close: "You know, we don't really kick people out of the con."

"Oh really?"

"Oh yes, really. You see, there's never enough victims for some of the entertainments we provide, here, and clone screams all sound the same after a while. So if you push us too much, we negate your powers, toss you into a cage, and then come get you when we need you.

"And you are really. !@#$ing. Pushing it."

"I see."

"No, you don't. The only reason you haven't been zapped and bagged already is because our numbers are way down, thanks to SPYGOD taking out half our !@#$ing clientele and the other half being !@#$ scared of Imago coming in and breaking up the party. So there's a chance, just a chance, that maybe you'll learn some manners and not keep this stupid !@#$ up. But if it were up to me?"

He glares at her, and she calculates the mega-death needed again, and then once more. While she's doing that, he pulls a large, jet black booklet out of his suitcoat: "You got one of these informative pamphlets when you checked in. The rules are in the front, and they're pretty short and simple."

"I'll read them when I-"

"You'll read them all, now," he says, shoving it into her hands: "Aloud. In front of me. And I don't want to hear you skip a word."

She looks at the informative pamphlet. She looks at him. He looks at her. And in that dance of eye motions, she realizes that:
1: He's !@#$ing serious
2: She'll have to kill him to get out of this.
3: She'll have to kill the rest of them to get away from that, and-
4: She'll have failed in her mission.

So she opens the booklet up, and gives the best, most exact reading of the rules that she can. She does it with just enough zing and panache that he knows she's trying to make light of it, but not so much as to appear too flippant, and run the risk of being pressganged into the entertainment cages.

He likes it. In fact, he likes it so much he makes her do it again. And by this time, they have an audience of other black masks, old hands, amused newbies, and some of the people who told her to shut the !@#$ up when she was monopolizing their panel discussions.

And they want her to read it again. And again. And again. 

* * *

By the time the joke's gone old, it's Midnight, and she no longer feels embarrassed, angry, homicidal, or genocidal. She's so mentally worn out that she doesn't even notice that she's talking to herself, and that even the staff member who started her reciting from the informative pamphlet has left her.

People are heading off to room parties, dances, costume contests, orgies, organized manhunts, and the like. The Dealers' floor goes around the clock for people who want to attend crazy sales and the like, but she really feels no desire to go back there, tail between her legs,

Instead, she'd rather take a page from her hated {Quote}master{Endquote}, SPYGOD, and go have one !@#$ of a drink at Lex's.

It's all she can do to avoid crying into her informative pamphlet on the way.

(METALMAID is listening to The Robots (Kraftwerk, by way of Senor Coconut) and having one big !@#$ing thing of oil)

10/23/11 - (AGENT S) Chamber Zero

(OBSERVATION LOG - ZERO CHAMBER, LANGLEY)

(DATE: 10/23/11 - TIME: 2:30 - 3:00)

(PERSONS PRESENT: DIRECTOR CIA, AGENT S)

AGENT S: Reporting as ordered, sir.

CIA: Thank you. Come in, please.

AGENT S: Thank you, sir.

CIA: Have you ever been in here, before, (REDACTED)?

AGENT S: No sir. This is my first time.

CIA: But you've heard of it?

AGENT S: Everyone's heard of it, sir. The room with no corners.

CIA: No corners, no ears, and no eyes. We can say anything we need to in here and no one will know of it.

AGENT S: Useful to have at times.

CIA: Very useful, Agent S. Do you know why I brought you here?

AGENT S: Well, I know I didn't slip up recently. And I know I'm not in any trouble. So either you're going to surprise me with something unpleasant, or you're going to give me an assignment that no one needs to know about.

CIA: Or both.

AGENT S: An unpleasant secret assignment, sir?

CIA: Probably the most unpleasant thing I'll ever ask anyone to do. But you're the best we have for this sort of thing, (REDACTED). Your... talents make you extremely suitable.

AGENT S: Talent, sir. Singular.

CIA: Oh, more than just one, (REDACTED). I've seen your files. I know what you can do. That's why I'm giving this to you.

AGENT S: Who will I be impersonating, sir?

CIA: Well, that's entirely up to you, Agent S. But it's for one purpose. I want you to infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to SPYGOD, and find out what he's actually up to.

AGENT S: Of course, sir.

CIA: ...

AGENT S: Sir?

CIA: Did you hear what I asked of you, (REDACTED)?

AGENT S: I did, sir. And I know you were serious. So am I.

CIA: Anyone else would complain they'd been handed an impossible mission.

AGENT S: Any Agent who complains about an impossible mission needs to find a new line of work, sir.

CIA: You really are old school, (REDACTED).

AGENT S: Very old school, sir. Can I ask why we're engaging in this?

CIA: You can ask.

AGENT S: Sir, with respect, if I'm going to perform this task to the best of my abilities, I need to know as much as I can about why. If there's things I don't need to know in case I'm compromised, that's fine, but I need...

CIA: Yes, Agent S?

AGENT S: I need a starting point. I need somewhere to begin.

CIA: How much do you know about SPYGOD?

AGENT S: I know he used to be Sergeant Storm, back during World War II. I know he was in the Liberty Patrol, when he wasn't off fighting the Cold War. I know he went into Korea before the war and was involved in the whole mess that caused the Liberty Patrol to disband and The COMPANY to form. And since then, he's essentially been The COMPANY, for better or for worse.

CIA: And which do you think it is, Agent S?

AGENT S: I think I'd like to know what you think, sir.

CIA: There are those of us who consider it to be for the worse, Agent S. There are those of us who want him out of his position. I am one of those persons, and I would like you to help me find the evidence I need to see him gone.

AGENT S: I see.

CIA: So what do you think, (REDACTED)?

AGENT S: With all due respect, sir, what I think is irrelevant. I have my orders.

CIA: Do you at least understand why?

AGENT S: I think so, sir. I heard about the mess in Neo York City with him running around and getting killed, all those times. That can't have looked good.

CIA: Did you hear about him being in Libya, just before the Colonel was killed?

AGENT S: I heard there was a rather interesting article up on Alternet this morning, sir. I haven't had time to read it yet.

CIA: Well everyone else already did, (REDACTED). The intelligence community is furious. NATO is embarrassed. The UN wants an explanation. I think the President's about ready to start moving to my side on this.--

AGENT S: But something is holding him back from the brink.

CIA: Yes.

AGENT S: And you think that SPYGOD's got something on him?

CIA: Or they're in cahoots on something. He does get a lot of private time with the President.

AGENT S: He does run The COMPANY, sir. What we are to the FBI, The COMPANY is to us. Maybe times five or ten.

CIA: I don't care, Agent S. I want him gone. We cannot afford to have our country's Supers in his hands any longer.

AGENT S: So I infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to him, and find out everything we need to know.

CIA: Yes.

AGENT S: And what if I don't find anything at all? What if he's just operating on a level where what we see as chaos and disorder is just a long game with a lot of chaff?

CIA: Then you find out something we can use.

AGENT S: I see.

CIA: This is the matter of the highest national security, (REDACTED). We have no way of knowing how badly he's !@#$ us with that Outland stunt, but it's almost a certainty that our enemies are on the move.

AGENT S: You know he's friends with DAMOCLES, sir. That could make things difficult if push comes to shove.

CIA: Don't worry about that, Agent S. When the time comes I will have that space cowboy in hand, too.

AGENT S: Very well, sir. I accept the assignment.

CIA: Good. We'll discuss what you find here, in this room. Any information you need will be read or watched here and here only. As far as anyone knows, you're investigating terror mosques in Albuquerque.

AGENT S: Very good, sir.

CIA: And if you're caught... you know what to do.

AGENT S: I won't be caught, sir.

CIA: I hope not, (REDACTED). For all our sakes. This has to work.

(TRANSCRIPT ENDS)

(AGENT S is listening to Seen and Not Seen (Talking Heads) and drinking mystery punch)