Apotheoclypse Now: 10/17/16 - 10/23/16

"I'm Looking For a Man / Who Knows the Rules of the Game"

(Anubis, who is not taking your !@#$, anymore)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

1

* * *

So... that's him? one Watcher asks the others with her as they observe and participate in the Fiction they have written for the six people they've plucked from Bastogne, on Christmas of 1944: The uncouth one?

Yes, the one who brought them here says, pointing to the one who can make swords come from his hands: That is (REDACTED), as he was then.

He seems rather... unimpressive, one of the others says, observing a bit closer as he shoves a very large mouthful of the fine food they've created for this meal into his mouth.

His speech is tiresome, another opines, clearing the plates from the table: He seems capable only of annoyance and self-satisfaction.

And his attempts at humor are... lacking, yet another chuckles.

True, their guide says: But consider how far he came. How he grew and changed. Also what he did, when it was truly important to have one clear, far-seeing person to usher in the changes of the 21st century.

So what is the purpose of this lesson? the least shy of the Watchers asks: Are we to glean the future from his excessive profanity?

No, Shift says to his five apprentices: You are, under my direction, going to decide how the future is to be shaped, and why.

They look at him with some confusion, so he elaborates: This meeting we have constructed is not so much a contrivance as an intervention. If we had not acted, they would have killed one another, and the world would be without six of its most influential men.

But they cannot all survive, one of the Watchers says: They cannot all prosper. That one there, the one known as Heimdall? He dies in a Soviet camp, not many years from now.

Yes, but why does he have to? Shift asks: Why does he not live? Why does that other one? What is the purpose of their survival, or death?

The Watchers look to their silvery leader, and slowly begin to comprehend.

We must not see the weave of history, the least shy one says: We must understand the pattern itself.

Yes, Shift says, pleased to see his words are likewise understood: You must be with them, now. Examine their lives from all angles. See what was, what is, and what could be. Collaborate, compete.

And when you have learned what you need to see... well, I will be here to answer any questions you may still have.

With that, they all take their places behind the men they have each chosen to explore. They wear the faces of people from their past.

And then -- as (REDACTED) gets up to relieve himself -- they make contact, and the lesson truly begins.

But as Shift's most fearless student begins to explore the life, potential, and possibilities of her chosen subject -- the one called Major Force -- she happens to come across another life that has crossed his, and becomes much more interested in that one.

The shining, nighttime crusader of Chicago. The man who gives rise to an entire line of heroes -- stretching all the way into their present, and beyond.

The Owl, eternal.

And as she looks at him and his life -- public and private, recorded and redacted -- she realizes that she, somehow, has become a part of it...

She looks up to her teacher in alarm, only to see him looking back at her. His eyes are as sad as ever, clearly knowing what she has learned this day.

And in that white-hot instant of total understanding, she knows that this is not merely a lesson for her, but prophecy -- both beautiful and terrible...

* * *

It's Sunday morning, in Washington DC -- oddly still and quiet after the tumultuous week it's had to endure -- and the Interim President really, really needs a !@#$ing drink.

He looks at the man sitting across the Oval Office desk from him, as if he just heard the most incredible and outrageous thing ever. And in a way he has. 

"I..." he starts to say, shaking his head. 

"I know," SPYGOD says, leaning back in the chair he's parked his butt in, and adjusting his new eyepatch: "It's some !@#$ing crazy !@#$."

"Well..."

"I mean, I'm having a damn hard time believing this crap. And I was there. Hell, I even knew it was gonna !@#$ing happen before it did, and I still can't take it all in."

"And you're telling me that... this whole thing was all part of the plan?"

"Sort of..." the superspy defers, looking this way and that: "It's more like I was following a !@#$ing flowchart. This !@#$ing thing happens, then that thing !@#$ing happens, then this other thing is gonna happen, except that something else happens inbetween..."

"Uh-huh," the Interim President says, tapping the report the Director of the COMPANY handed him, a rather confusing half hour ago: "But you wrote the flowchart?"

"I think so," SPYGOD says, shrugging.

"Well, either you did or you didn't!" the man shouts, pounding his fist on the report and causing everything on the heavy desk to wobble, just a little: "Were you... were you drinking? Or worse?"

"Mr. President, let me tell you something," (REDACTED) says, leaning forward and pointing to the poor, abused report: "When you !@#$ing meet yourself from a couple months in the future? And the bastard hands you the keys to the damn future, and then tells you not to ask any !@#$ing questions, or tell anyone else exactly what the !@#$ is to go down? Especially since they might be about to die?"

"Or not die, as the case may be," the Interim President says, shaking his head: "You know how much a state burial at Arlington costs?"

"Well, look on the bright side," SPYGOD says: "Now you don't have to !@#$ing dig them a grave when they die. It's already waiting for them. Just slide them on in."

"I'm not sure I understand that either."

"What, burying them later?"

"No," the former Speaker of the House sighs, tapping the report: "The bit where the Mars force didn't die when we were told they did. And how they've been hiding all this time. And where those crabs were actually coming from...?"

"Well, it's like I was trying to tell you, sir," the superspy says, staring the man in both eyes with the last one he's got, and then leaning back: "All this past and future and present and !@#$ing flowcharts? If that isn't enough to make a man drink on the damn job, I don't know what will..."

"Yeah," his audience nods.

"Speaking of which...?"

"I had that bust taken out of here after the Apocalypse," the Interim President admits: "I guess I can't be trusted around emergency booze."

"Well, good damn thing I can," SPYGOD says, pulling a pair of flasks out of his coat, and handing one over: "Because I have the !@#$ing feeling you're going to want me to go over it all again-"

"Oh, absolutely," his Commander in Chief sighs, taking the flask with something akin to resignation -- and yet relief -- on his long face.

"And if so?" his guest says, popping the top of his with a well-practiced thumb: "Then we're both gonna need to knock back a few."

They take a snort in a weird kind of unison, which causes them both to chuckle a little -- something they clearly both need as much as the booze. 

And then, after a few more rips to loosen the mind and tongue, the Interim President takes a deep breath, drums the desk with his fingers, and says the fateful words: "From the top, then?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, taking another snort before he gets into it: "So, the Great Mystery was shot and killed with the whole damn world watching, which is when the !@#$ well and truly hit the goddamn fan..."

Monday: 10/17/16

"Okay, this is officially !@#$ing disgusting, now," Black Freedom says, wiping gobs of Gosheven off of her boots as she stomps through the crime scene: "What the hell is wrong with him?"

"He just saw his god die, Florence," Randolph says, trying to take pictures of the aftermath with a broken arm -- careful not to step too close to the dead: "If he needs to fall the !@#$ apart, I think he's allowed."

"How can this happen?" she asks, looking at the red puddle that was the Great Mystery, and the leather-clad woman who's been kneeling beside it since it happened: "What the hell kind of gun can kill a god?"

"Probably the same one that picked off those riot cops after the panic started," the Outlaw Reporter says, looking at the beheaded, over-armored police in question: "Which made them freak the !@#$ out and start shooting."

"Which made everything go the !@#$ downhill," Black Freedom grumbles, kicking a handy abandoned helmet: "God dammit! Why did I have to be so !@#$ing late to this? Why?"

Randolph could tell her that it didn't matter, really. Because once the Great Mystery was shot -- right in the heart, from the looks of things -- and began to melt into a horrifying, human-shaped pile of red goo in Yanabah's arms? 

Well, there wasn't anything one more hero on either side could have done. 

* * *

To Gold Standard's credit, she realized where the gunshot hadn't come from, and tried to stop things from getting out of hand. But the protesters, already on edge from the back-and-forth with the police, diggers, and Freedom Force, panicked and ran, assuming the worst. 

And as soon as the police were killed, well, the blue line did what it always did in a case like that -- assume everyone that was not them was involved, somehow. 

At which point they went from contain and control to cripple and confine, with terrible results. 

The shame of it was that, if it'd been just the police, Gold Standard could have turned things around. She could have literally pulled Gosheven back together and gotten him to spawn extra copies to do crowd control. She could have gotten Free Fire or Black Falcon to investigate where the shots came from, or done it herself. 

But Free Fire had his orders, and carried it out on the side of their fellow law enforcement. Before she could call him back he'd turned into a one-android rampage -- knocking protesters this way and that using his fists, feet, and the dull ends of his signature flame wheel. 

Thankfully he was aiming to subdue his targets, and just going for broken bones and serious sprains. But Black Falcon wasn't holding back. Something in his dark eyes lit up as soon as he saw that he had a clear reason to cut loose.

And that is exactly what he did. 

Randolph was so caught up in the melee -- a whirling dervish of camera and commentary, along with the occasional kick to a rampaging cop or protester -- that he didn't even see what was happening until the Toon hero came at him, fists and feet wet with the blood of others. 

"Worthless flesh !@#$!" the caped crusader shouted, bearing down on him. Randolph instinctively went for his handgun, only to realize that he didn't have it on him. 

(He'd left it at the tent with the rest of his weapons, just as Yanabah did...)

The gesture got him grabbed by the maddened Toon hero, who managed to break his arm and fling him over his head with the same fluid maneuver before going on to the next victim.

And the next. And the next...

And all Randolph could do, other than try and secure his busted arm as best as he could, was sit on his ass and continue to film, knowing that the whole world was watching this craziness unfold. 

And hoping, somehow, that their seeing it would cause things to calm down elsewhere, rather than getting worse...

* * *

"Unfortunately, it didn't  !@#$ing help," SPYGOD goes on: "The whole world saw that !@#$ go down. And what really stuck the !@#$ out was that someone actually managed to kill a god."

"Which is why our country exploded on Sunday," the Interim President sighs.

"And burned on Monday," the superspy agrees: "All these gods, thinking that the police had a !@#$ing way to kill them? Of course they panicked. Of course they flipped the !@#$ out."

"And you knew this was coming?" 

"I did, yes," SPYGOD says: "But here's the thing. I couldn't change it."

"Now that's... that I can't accept-"

"Sir, you !@#$ing watch television, don't you?" the superspy asks.

"Well, not as much as I'd like..."

"What' the one thing every show that deals with time travel !@#$ing teaches us?"

"That you shouldn't go back in time and try to change things," the Interim President says, nodding.

"Yes," SPYGOD says: "And by !@#$ing extension? If, by some weird damn miracle, someone from the future comes along and says 'hey, here's what's about to happen?' Then you don't change a damn thing.

"Even if it's gonna be !@#$ing painful."

"Well," the Interim President says: "A good thing we had people to help with that."

"Yes it was," the super spy says: "And people you all didn't even !@#$ing know about, at least until they all showed back up again..."

Tuesday: 10/18/16

"You will not continue this rampage," the glowing purple man says, pointing his finger at the five Egyptian mortuary deities he's addressing at the other end of the burning street: "This has gone on long enough. You will cease your actions, return to your homes, and think of how to make amends."

"Amends?" the Jackal-headed god sneers -- looking somewhat ridiculous dressed like some kind of gangster, complete with a ball cap and baggy pants: "Do you hear him, my brothers? He thinks to scold us like naughty children!"

"Well, that is much better than putting a god-killer bullet in our buttocks," one of the other four says, pulling out a golden gun that's festooned with Egyptian hieroglyphs: "What say we anticipate his actions?"

They all grin and pull out their guns. New Man looks at them, and allows them their moment of seeming triumph.

And then, as soon as they start firing, he sends Anubis and his posse of visceral protectors sprawling down the road, and tumbling into the nearby river.

This is St. Louis. The Arch has been turned into an ankh.

And the dead are walking...

* * *

"So tell me how they didn't die, again?" the Interim President asks.

"Well, that is !@#$ing complicated," SPYGOD admits, knocking back some more hooch: "But it has to do with what was !@#$ing sending those turd crabs to us, down that long damn hole in time."

"Which was the future?"

"Right. Where some small pieces of the Decreator had !@#$ed off to, after the pounding they took when Mars got liberated the first damn time. And there, in the future, they hunkered the !@#$ down, spawned, mutated, all that !@#$..."

"And then started coming back to us, here in the present."

"Right again," the superspy says, noticing he's drinking too fast and slowing down a bit: "Well, while our people were blowing the !@#$ out of them, and planning to go into that hole to close it the !@#$ down? There were other people on the other side, working on pushing those things into the hole, and trying to close it up from their end."

"What sort of people?"

SPYGOD smiles, somewhat ruefully: "Believe it or not? We have no !@#$ing idea."

"Really?" the Interim President asks, raising an eyebrow: "How is that even possible?"

"Well, my fiance tells me he could !@#$ing tell me..."

"Oh?"

"... but then he'd have to !@#$ing kill me," the superspy grins.

"Well then," the Interim President says, frowning somewhat: "I fear for our country's safety if you can't completely share intel."

"You're a married man, aren't you, Mr. President?" SPYGOD asks: "Isn't the key to a good marriage knowing when not to !@#$ing tell the damn truth?"

"Fair enough," the former Speaker says after a moment, nodding: "So, all other considerations side, there was a hole in time. And our people went in?"

"Not like they had much of a damn choice," SPYGOD chuckles, deciding that was worth a slug of the good stuff after all: "Not after how things went down..."

* * *

"How does it feel?" Winifred finally asks from her co-pilot's chair in the new and improved Drill Tank, looking at the weird, new arm that Myron's sporting.

"I don't know, yet," he says, looking at how strangely the skeletal fingers and thumb move as he fans them, this way and that: "It's like... I can feel them, and I can feel with them. But they're distant, somehow."

"Not as good as what they gave you there, huh?"

"No," Myron smiles, remembering that nice prosthetic their hosts set him up with -- and then, sadly, took back before they all returned to their regularly-scheduled lives: "Not at all."

"Hey Myron, this is Dragonfly," the white-clad, former assassin communicates with the drill tank: "You there?"

"Yeah, we're here," the former Underman says, wondering why she's talking with them directly: "What's up?"

"We're being asked to keep eyes out for Black Falcon," she says: "He took off after what happened at Standing Rock, and no one's seen him since."

"Good," Winifred frowns: "Hopefully he just crawls under a !@#$ing rock and stays there."

"Well, if you do see him? Keep it on this channel," Dragonfly requests: "He doesn't need to know we're after him."

"Any word on Yanabah?" Myron asks: "Randolph hasn't broadcast since Monday, and he didn't mention her."

"I think she's at the camp," Dragonfly says: "I don't really know. I... well, I was hoping you knew...?"

"Because we were in the future?" he sighs: "Look, Gayle, our guests had us housed in some seaside village and didn't let us see where or when we were. We were told some things then, and learned more when we got back to this time. But we didn't get told every little thing about what's going to happen, or what happens to everyone involved. Frankly, I don't want to even know."

"Yeah... I'm sorry for asking. It's just..."

"I know," he says, smiling: "It's okay. If we see that sorry suicidal son of a !@#$ we'll let you know, okay?"

The white-clad former assassin nods, and disconnects.

"You two... right?" Winifred asks, holding his hand.

"Just once," he admits, squeezing hers: "It was more stress relief than anything else. Our clones were both about to get taken off the board. Or we thought so, anyway..."

"Oh yeah," she smiles: "That's some crazy !@#$, man. You'll have to tell me all about it, someday."

"Why not?" he asks, leaning over to kiss her: "We got time-"

"What have we got, folks?" Josie interrupts, doing her best to coordinate the chaos according to the rather long flowchart she's working from: "We're supposed to be getting past Chicago by now."

"Chicago's taken care of," Myron radios in: "Slambang and The Sound got the south side under control."

"Excellent," she says: "Once they're back, you need to rendezvous with Transport 112. You're needed in Green Bay."

"Don't tell me," the former Underman sighs: "More restless native spirits?"

"Actually, Sumerian agricultural gods trying to barricade the city," the pink-haired clone replies.

"Why Green Bay?" Winifred asks.

"Maybe they thought it was green?" the clone offers: "Maybe they're Packers fans? Who the !@#$ knows?"

"My money's on the latter," Myron says, seeing that his two teammates are coming back: "Speaking of teams you hate to love, when are we going to !@#$ing calm everyone down by telling them we didn't shoot the Great Mystery?"

And Josie looks to SPYGOD, who looks back at her with that look. 

The one that says...

* * *

"You couldn't," the Interim President says, looking over the report. 

"No," the super spy admits: "And before you ask? Yes. I !@#$ing hated doing that. But there were other considerations."

"Such as...?"

"Well, the only reason the whole damn country didn't burn the !@#$ down in those couple of days?" SPYGOD says, taking another hit from his flask and leaning back in his chair: "It's because a number of the Gods were scared as !@#$ of official reprisal. They thought that we could kill them."

"So when the stupid ones got all violent and crazy...?"

"They did the smart !@#$ing thing and stayed the !@#$ inside and down,"  the Director of the COMPANY says, nodding as he taps the President's desk with his free finger: "So the only ones we had to put down were the ones who were going to be a !@#$ing problem, anyway."

"Yes, I'm looking over that," the Interim President says, marveling at the arrests made: "That's a lot of them."

"Well, good thing we've got someone on the team who can !@#$ing handle arresting a god," SPYGOD grins...

Wednesday: 10/19/16

"I cannot believe this indignity!" a very battered Anubis grumbles, being marched off to a hole in time and space -- his hands and ankles shackled by high-tech manacles.

"The irony is quite inescapable," Mister Freedom says, overseeing the prisoner transfer: "As are those chains. Please do not strain yourself?"

The Egyptian mortuary god grumbles, but shuffles off to his waiting cell.

"One down, a whole lot more to go," Gold Standard sighs, looking at the long line that her drones are herding towards the hole -- all overseen by one of the Revolutionary Men.

"There is always room for one more in Hell," the manacled Olympian says, smiling at her.

* * *

"How long are they going to be kept there?" the Interim President asks, looking at the rather long list yet again.

"Well, some of them need to !@#$ing stay there," SPYGOD says: "Especially that one !@#$ing freak from Baltimore. The one who was eating kids and !@#$ing out food for street people?"

The President picks that moment to turn very, very green.

"Easy does it, now," the superspy says, holding up a hand: "Deep breath. Slow deep breath."

"I... I didn't see that," the man says, shaking his head: "Did we... did he...?"

"We most certainly did not allow him into the !@#$ing country," SPYGOD insists: "He came in illegally before the Haitians showed up during that last damn hurricane. We were going to deal with his !@#$, eventually. We just didn't have time."

"But all that's taken care of, now?" the Interim President asks, somewhat weakly: "All those gods are locked up, and going to stand trial for what they've done?"

"Yes," SPYGOD lies, deciding not to get into the really deep details of the whole damn thing.

Especially seeing as how it might color his perceptions of certain individuals...

* * *

"You dare to stand against me!" the slithering snake-diety hisses at his assailant, deep within the darkest recesses of the Void -- a place so far from the light of the all-consuming maw that one can only see in shades of darkest black. 

"I do, yes," Senator Ted Cruz says, raising his fists -- bloodied with the ichor and entrails of several, now-dead entities, all sprawled out about his feet: "You're a monster that has no place in this world. And I'm the !@#$ing cure."

"How dare you speak to me in this fashion!" Yig-Damballah screams, rearing back to strike with its many, sharp fangs: "I will devour your soul!"

"As if," the man says, allowing the thing to think it's got the upper hand -- right until all its teeth strike his skin, and break into small, white pieces upon it. 

The toothless beast howls and skitters away, looking rather pathetic with its face broken and teeth missing. One eye stares off into the wrong spot as the other rolls about loose in its socket. 

And Ted Cruz says one more prayer for forgiveness, and then administers a two-fisted coup de grace -- beating the brains out of the proto-human snake god before it has a chance to heal. He punches with fists blessed by the God he used to pray to, every day, until the head of the thing is nothing but bloody pulp and pulverized bone.

Then he kicks its neck-stump for good measure, just to make sure it doesn't come back to life.

"Mr. Senator," he hears SPYGOD in his ear about ten seconds later: "I need you topside, fast."

"A moment, here, (REDACTED)?" the man scowls: "I just killed 34 gods with my bare hands."

"Which you've !@#$ing known you were going to do for, what, five years now?"

"Yes, but I'm not exactly ready for primetime," the Senator says, wiping venomous slop onto his pants: "I need a shower. Fifty goddamn showers."

"Yeah, well, make 'em !@#$ing quick," the superspy insists: "Our mutual opponent's about to get on the !@#$ing TV to make his case. We need you ready to give the other side."

"Right," Cruz says, looking at his messy hands: "Maybe just one shower?"

"Don't !@#$ing blow dry."

"I never do," the Senator chuckles, and turns to find Shift standing there, waiting to take him to where he's fated to go...

 * * *

"... which is why we don't have the internet, right now," the Interim President says: "Right?"

"I'm !@#$ing getting to that," SPYGOD says, downing his own flask for the hell of it: "Hang on, sir. Hang on..."

* * *

"Good evening, America," the Candidate says to the camera he's sitting in front of, in the rather opulent living room of his three-story Manhattan penthouse: "I really must apologize for intruding upon your normally-scheduled television and webcasts. But, seeing as how our historic, first ten-person Presidential debate has been called off due to a national emergency, I find this is the only way to get my message across, one last time before the election."

Loki smiles through the beefy-faced man he's riding, thinking of all the technological wizardry his servant's press-ganged into existence, here tonight, just to make this possible. Most of them look rather scared.

(The others are rather changed -- most likely by the magic eye his servant keeps locked away for safety...)

"Speaking of that national emergency, I am being told, as are you, that this is currently under control. We are told that the gods who were raging through our city streets have been dealt with. We are told they are being locked away, or otherwise punished, and that this will never, ever happen again. 

"We are being told that. 

"But I see the fires and I am not comforted. I hear the screams and I am dismayed. I see a dark world growing darker with each day, each hour, and I am not satisfied with their progress.

"And so I am certain you do not need to be a reader of minds to know that this truth they peddle is not something I choose to believe. 

"One thing you can say about my forthcoming Administration. You will always know what is foremost on my mind. And that is because I will tell you, without reservation or hesitation. 

"And I tell you now that this problem will not go away," Loki says, preparing the glamour to end them all -- borrowed eyes glowing a poisonous, bright green: "That you should be afraid. That you should listen to what I have to say on this matter, and with rapt attention, for mine is the only plan that will stave off this danger. Mine the only voice you should listen to, for comfort and direction. 

"Mine the only-"

"Sir?" the person behind the camera says, looking rather afraid.

The Candidate looks up at him, furious to have been interrupted in mid-spell, but soon realizing the fear on the man's face has a purpose: "Well?" he demands.

"The camera... it's working, but," he says, pointing to the television feed from the other room.

It's blank. There's nothing but a black screen on every channel they flip to -- eventually replaced by the ubiquitous NO SIGNAL indication.

"I think they've... they have, yes," one of the more willing participants in this says: "They fucking pulled the plug, sir. They killed all the broadcast mediums."

"And the internet!" someone else shouts: "Oh my god..."

"Hey," yet another one of his helpers says, pointing to the window: "Is it just me... or is it getting lighter outside?"

And before the Candidate can call to them to come back and attend him, they're all at the windows -- basking in the first proper sunset they've seen in weeks.

"Looks like something fucking shifted, sir," the SPYGOD of Alter Earth says, coming up behind his master and leaning down to speak into his ear: "What's the plan, now?"

And the Candidate glowers at him, but then looks askance.

He has no plan. None at all.

* * *

The sun's light flares, at least so much as the people of the world can see.

For the first time since the debacle on Mars, everything is bright and shiny again. No lack of light. No growing false shadows. Just the sun, burning and beautiful.

As the light shines, it begins to coalesce in various places -- in front of every television and computer screen in America, every iphone and communications device.

And it takes the form of the face of Senator Ted Cruz, long since thought to be dead and gone in the fighting to retake the red planet, all those weeks ago.

He smiles, looking out at the nation he loves, and speaks to it -- his words somehow traveling from the hard light projections that the reborn Raitha is creating.

"My fellow Americans," he says, raising his hands to them: "I'm sure you know who I am. I'm also sure you thought I was dead, which is something I'm probably never going to get tired of hearing.

"But I apologize for the confusion and distress. It was not my intention to deceive you, or cause you to worry. I was simply unable to tell you that I was alive, due to the nature of what happened to us, and where we were for all that time.."

He smiles again, and the world smiles with him: "But I have returned, now. And I do so in the proverbial nick of time, in several senses of the word.

"I return in time to help stave off this current crisis which has embroiled our nation. As I speak to you, the last vestiges of rebellion and strife are being dealt with. But I want to say to all Americans at this time to be understanding, as what has taken place is an understandable reaction to what happened at Standing Rock.

"When a movement attracts a leader, and that leader is killed, several things can happen. Sometimes the movement embraces peace, and turns the other cheek. And sometimes it turns to violence, and forgets itself.

"And none of us can say that we would raise a hand in friendship rather than a fist, unless we, too, faced this awful thing.

"And so I ask for understanding and forgiveness, in spite of the damage done. The guilty will be called to account, and put to work righting the wrongs they have done. I hope that, when they have made restitution, you will join me in offering them another chance.

"The same chance we would all want in their place..."

He pauses for a moment, and then looks humble: "Speaking of other chances, I would like to ask for one of my own. In the past I have said some very awful and untrue things about a group of those gods. I picked a fight with the Olympians, out of fear and ignorance, and also to try and gain an upper hand politically.

"I humbly and deeply apologize for this. I now know how good these people are, even though they seem strange and unusual to us. I have seen the good they do with my own eyes. I have witnessed what they can be when they work alongside us, as allies and friends.

"And I promise, from here on out, to be an ally and a friend to them, whether or not I am elected President.

"Speaking of which," he smiles again, a little less humbly: "I want it said now, and clearly, that I wish to still be the Candidate of the Freedom Party. But the party I left here on Earth, before my apparent death, is not the party I have returned to. Neither is it something that currently embraces my feelings, as they have changed in many other respects.

"As soon as the internet resumes service, in 24 hours or so, please go to our new website. There you will find a new platform, a new ethos, a new vision for America. I hope you will join me in embracing free markets and free destinies, and help us all to usher in an America where we can all join in.

"There are some things that are about to happen that will not be very pleasant. All will be revealed in time. But for now, please go about your day secure in the knowledge that this nightmare is passing, and soon a better, stronger dream will unfold for us all.

"Thank you for your time, and may the Gods bless our country..."

With that, the image fades. All over America people put their hands to their hearts, thinking that they have never been so uniquely touched by such a message. So uplifted, so ennobled.

So filled with hope...

* * *

"Which was, of course, when things really started to get !@#$ing ugly," SPYGOD explains to the Interim President, pointing to the report.

"Right," the man says, almost afraid to turn the page...

(SPYGOD is listening to Headhunter - Beefcake Remix (Front 242) and having a Freedom Lager)

Apotheoclypse Now: 9/5/16 - 9/11/16

"Punishes disclosure / And never gets rattled..."

(The Time AGENT)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

8

* * *

So, you want to know why we're still here, on this line, standing for our land, our people, our water?

I could just bull!@#$ you. I could just say we're too proud to bend. Too tough to fold.

Too strong to be scared by private guards and angry dogs.

But the truth is that, today, we know we are not alone.

Today, we were expecting more fighting, more guards. We were committed to non-violence, but we were ready to defend ourselves.

Things could have gotten ugly. 

But we remembered to pray, today. We prayed to our spirits. Our ancestors. The ones who walked the land before us, and the ones who will walk it forever and ever.

We prayed, and this time they didn't just send us their strength. 

This time? They came.

So if you're wondering why the feds are allowing an injunction, and why the private guards are gone, and why their dogs are whimpering like they got whipped?

Well, you just look up at that cloud, there, in the sky. The one that doesn't move. 

The one that looks like the face of an old man. The one with lightning in its eyes, and its mouth.

You hear the boom of thunder in an otherwise clear sky, and know that our spirits walk with us, today. 

So you let us have our water, our land, our rights. You stay away from our sacred land, and do not dig under it.

And you take your oil pipeline, and you shove it.

Because the thunder comes from lightning, sir. And you don't want to be standing there when it hits...

Monday: 9/5/16

Labor Day. Supposed to be the day we all !@#$ing put up our feet, crack a beer, cook a couple dogs, and do a whole lot of nothing to celebrate our tradition of American working practices, right?

Well, not here, son. Not anywhere !@#$ing near here, frankly. I got the whole !@#$ing COMPANY on high alert, after the last couple weeks, which means every available AGENT is doing double shifts, and two-timing duty stations on top of it...

Why? Jesus !@#$ing Christ in a go-kart going over goddamn Niagara Falls backwards in a barrel full of horse!@#$ and dead monkeys, son, have you been paying attention?

 First off, I got a ton of Gods all coming back to the world and wanting to !@#$ing set up shop like nothing's changed over the last couple centuries or so.  And for some !@#$ing reason, known only to those Gods, they all want to !@#$ing come to America. It's like some lousy modern fantasy novel coming to life or something...

And then I got a dead Japanese Prime Minister, blown away at the !@#$ing Olympics. Which wouldn't normally be my !@#$ing business, except I thought it was done by my evil twin from Alter Earth. Not that the Japanese, the Brazilians, or the !@#$ing Olympics people wanted to hear what I had to say.

Of course, it's just as well they didn't !@#$ing listen to me, as it was actually done by the !@#$ing Wandering Shadow, himself. I hear he hates me now, and actually tried to have me !@#$ing killed while I was still brainsmashed, a while back. 

But now he's got that damned alien supergun the Nazis used to have, and then the Soviets, and that I stole from them for safekeeping, only I gave it to one of our people and she got snatched by my evil twin, so he had it, only now he !@#$ing doesn't...

Confusing? !@#$, son, just wait. It turns out that assassination by !@#$ing proxy was just his funny way of saying 'hi,' and 'oh boy do I have a deal for you.'

That's right, son. Turns out my doppelganger's rightly freaked the !@#$ out about the god thing. Except that he's !@#$ing telling me he's got a way to kill them. And he wants to do a deal with me where he tells me how to !@#$ing kill them.

And in return I let him have Africa. Like this was !@#$ing Risk, or something. 

Got all that?

Now, on a more personal note? I got an outlaw reporter minus one eye because of that
!@#$ing bastard. And he's got some real !@#$ at home, waiting for him...

...

And I've sent a bunch of my heroes and turned villains off to !@#$ing Mars so my fiancee can turn what should have been an aerial bombardment into a full on ground war... underground, at that. 

And Myron decided to take !@#$ing Ted Cruz with them, since they're up against bits and pieces of the goddamn Decreator, which means one of the people who might be President is on what might be a one way trip to the red planet, with a bunch of supervillains along for the !@#$ing ride. 

And then, as if I didn't need any more !@#$ing !@#$ on my goddamn plate? I just !@#$ing found out that the daughter of the last President? The one my evil !@#$ing twin turned into a goddamn monster, just like him? 

Well, she's on the lam, now. Got the !@#$ out of the Habitrail that Mister Freedom's supposedly got locked up tighter than a drum. Somehow managed to talk her FAUST case officer into stepping into her cage, and she skinned him and wore him out like a !@#$ing human suit.

Big damn fun, son. I gotta tell you. 

So no, son. No sleep over !@#$ing Brooklyn, tonight. I'm pulling a triple shift watching everyone's double, so there's no rest to be had on the Flier until I got this god !@#$ settled, I know where my evil twin is, and Mars is back under !@#$ing control again. 

So if anyone wants to know if I got a comment about Phyllis Schlafly finally popping her clogs at 92? You tell them I said that I'd shake the hands of any good Anti-commie, but that as one of the people she wanted to deny marriage rights to? She can so take a big old suck off the Devil's pecker, as they say down in Texas. And choke on the load.
 
Now, if you'll excuse me, I got some !@#$ to do and less than zero time to !@#$ing do it.

Tuesday: 9/6/16
 
(From the Personal Log of Myron "Underman" Volaar)

Day two of a week long voyage and I just had to toss someone out the damn airlock. Not exactly my finest moment, but it was necessary.

That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. I figure if I stick to that story I'll eventually believe it, and not second guess myself into a perfect circle of blame and remorse.

The reason's pretty damn clear, though. I made a bad mistake while I was playing Suicide Squad with the Heptagon's prisoners, and brought along someone that had no damn business being on the team.

Someone who turned out to be more stupid than I realized. 

I thought I could work with Xhasm. I really did. I thought the time she'd spent down in the basement prisons had made her more cooperative, and more open to rehabilitation.

I really did, but I guess you don't know which way someone's gonna jump until they're just over 24 million miles away from the pale, blue dot we all call home, and deciding it's the right time to try and pull off a hijacking, or whatever the !@#$ she was doing.

I mean, in some ways, I can't blame her. We are heading into what well be a goddamn suicide mission. We are preparing to go down below the surface of Mars and attack things that eat conventional weaponry for !@#$ing breakfast.

We are going up against a steady stream of the last remnants of the Decreator, on turf that it's had the run of for quite some time now.

And while you can say we've brought along a great deal of firepower, and we'll be allying with the Aesir once we can get there... well, for some that's not enough.

It's not like I didn't tell her this. I told them all what they were up for, and what they'd be going into. I told them they could volunteer to take time off their sentence, or say no and continue to rot down there, in the concrete. Like I might have if a certain one-eyed maniac decided not to take pity on me.

(To this day I don't know why. I doubt it was my impassioned speech about freedom and exploration. He probably just thought I was a damn loser because I was an Eagle Scout.)

So I told them, and some of them volunteered. And, to their credit, most of those volunteers did not get involved with Xhasm's crazy scheme to try and take over the ship.

She had to know it wasn't going to go anywhere. Not with over 100 COMPANY AGENTS on board, all wearing ground combat armor and ready to throw down. Not with a number of heroes here, too, just waiting for an excuse to kick some ass. Not with a Presidential Candidate who can punch the Devil into near Earth orbit, either.

And to top it all off, we're heading to Mars in a massive lightship, with Raitha, herself on the prow. Did she really expect to convince an Olympian to heave to and let her commandeer the ship?

Like I said, stupid.

Of course, she had a plan. It involved the interesting, mostly explosive devices I brought her along for, and a few other things she thought of on the fly. I have to give her credit for ingenuity, really.

But I can't have a saboteur on board for something like this. I can't have someone encouraging the others to riot and try another go. I've seen enough bad Sci-fi TV to know what happens when you let someone live after an escape attempt.

So I told Rahine to form a hole under her feet, and drop her out into the black.

And then Xhasm was gone, flying behind us at half a million miles an hour. Normally bodies in space tend to orbit the ship, but we were going too damn fast for that, which was just fine by me because I really didn't need to see her lifeless, vacuum-pressed body bouncing along with us like some kind of grotesque pool toy...

...

Yes, I'm !@#$ing angry. I didn't want to have to do this. I thought we could all act like goddamn adults, here, for once.

But the last time something like this happened, I sort of let my guard down. I blinked when I shouldn't have. I trusted when I shouldn't have.

As a result, things got really damn bad. Zalea Zathros, one of the most dangerous evil geniuses in the world, got loose. It took SPYGOD forever to put her ass back in the damn box.

And I remember, after Israel, he found me, and made me buy him enough damn drinks to put a herd of elephants down under the table. Because what he had to do to stop her almost killed him, and he...

...

Well, he said some things. Things I'm not allowed to repeat, even to myself, on pain of death.

But one thing's for sure. The look in his eyes as he drank himself sober? The way he looked at me as I tried to apologize, and explain, over and over?

I never want to be looked at like that by anyone, ever again.

And I would space everyone on the damn villain team to keep that from happening. Even the ones I kind of like, in spite of it all.

Besides, now they know they can't !@#$ with me. So maybe all further attempts to get stupid will be nipped in the bud, which might save time and trouble later. So maybe it's a good thing the dumb !@#$ decided to get herself killed now.

Maybe.

In the meantime, I'm going to sit here, in my hard light cabin, have a few sips of this very potent !@#$ I brought from home for just such an emergency, and hope the rest of the trip goes a hell of a lot smoother.

And I don't have to become a worse monster than I appear to be, right now. 

Wednesday: 9/7/16

I'll say one thing about this backwards and broken world. It never fails to fucking amaze me.

Because just when I think I have it all figured out? That I have all variables accounted for, all slaves lined up, all helping hands at the ready, and all situations in hand? 

Well, that's when it all goes wrong. 

And the more certain my understanding was? The more it goes wrong. 

It's like this world was created just to fuck with me. I swear to the Gods.  

Case in point. No sooner do I deliver my offer to my wayward other, by way of that reporter he decided to adopt a few years ago, than the best thing I have going seemingly self-destructs on me. 

That would be the nigger, of course. The Wandering Shadow I turned into a madness junkie, thanks to the Eye of Horus, and gave the alien weapon to. 

Everything was fine when I left his mountain. But now, when I try to get back in? The fucking thing won't open for me. 

Which means one of three things, none of them any damn good.

One is that he's dead, which I fucking refuse to believe. Either that or incapacitated, which is more possible, but also not very likely.

Two is that he's cured himself, somehow, which I find even harder to believe. 

Three is that he's just gone out and not told me, contrary to my orders.

As the days have gone by, I think it's more likely the first option is correct. If he'd cured himself, he would have come to kill me. If he'd gone out, he'd be back by now, with the shivers coming on. 

So I have no Wandering Shadow in my arsenal, any longer. Which is not essential to my cause, now, but still would have made handling Africa once it was handed over to me a lot fucking easier. 

Meanwhile, I can't lean on the reporter and his squalid brood. They've left Prague, and are on a constant move. By the time I can scry them, they're already gone, which is highly sensible of them. 

Maybe I shouldn't have fucking told him that I knew where he was. Maybe I should have kept quiet, and paid them a visit when he failed to do what I asked, instead. 

I think coming home to find one of his children unencumbered by the iron rules of this sorry, sordid world, and putting their new freedom into practice on the others, would have gotten the point across very well...

But then, I do sometimes overdo it. I probably didn't need to eat his eye, after I took it out of his skull. I really should have just fucking stepped on it, or maybe shoved it up his ass and then made him eat it.

But I was hungry, still. And it was so juicy, and so sweet, just like so many things in this world...

How good a feeling it is to stand proud and tall, above it. To see it kneel before me and do my bidding.

Me, the son of a slave. A nameless, stationless lesser! Who could have guessed my face alone would mark me for greatness? 

Who could have said this nameless child, otherwise fated for a life of servitude, would one day hold the fate of two worlds in his hands?

I must always remember that. I must always have in my mind that I went from being someone's fucking property to being the most important person in those two worlds, almost overnight.

And no matter how bad things seem, I must remember that I planned for this. Even if I didn't know what was coming, I still have one more trick I can pull out of nowhere.

One more plan I can execute, as surely as any of my servants...    

Speaking of juicy and sweet things, and of servants, that cunt I set free a few months ago has freed herself, and now wants to rekindle our previous relationship. And that complicates matters even worse than not having the Wandering Shadow on my side, any longer. 

Not that I didn't enjoy her company, and what it provided. She was quite instrumental in making her sorry shithead of a father lose his mind, and play into my hands. And very useful in dealing with my wayward other, though she completely fucked up the job, as it turns out. 

(How hard can it be to do a simple cascading neuron failure? I showed her a dozen times on those prostitutes we failed to turn. Apparently she wasn't paying fucking attention, or else my other is made of sterner stuff than I credit him for.)

At any rate, the cunt is back. She sent me a note by way of the emergency channel we established before she let herself be taken. And now she wants to meet somewhere and talk strategy, and what to do from here, and how she can help me in whatever I'm planning now. 

To her credit, she'd guessed some of it. Not all of it, of course. No one has any idea what I really want, or they would never have sent me over here from my world in the first place. Not without some severe mental alterations, first. 

I think I will let this play out for a time. She may prove useful to me. And if she does not, she will provide quite the distraction as I get away. 

Meanwhile, I need to think about what to do now. I have not heard from my other, which means he has not taken my offer seriously. 

Which means I will have to up the ante, as they say here.

A good thing, then, that I fucking planned ahead. Because he is nothing if not slow and stupid. 

And I am nothing if not prepared for all eventualities...

Thursday: 9/8/16

(Notes of Randolph Scott, Outlaw Reporter)

The first thing I noticed, when I got to Standing Rock -- and got through their impressive guerilla security -- was the dining facility.

I know it sounds like a weird thing to fixate on, but there it was, dominating my attention. A kitchen some people set up, going all day and into the night, to make sure everyone who's there gets fed and taken care of.

I've been to mass protests before where there wasn't so much as a !@#$ing thought put into things like that. Everyone got wrapped up in the idea of sticking it to the man, or whoever, and before you knew it there was a sprawling mob with no coordination, no facilities, no nothing.

(The Bundy Ranch people's lack of snacks being an amusing example)

Not here, though. Not at all.

Not perfect, of course. Nothing is. It's hard to keep a crowd like this going without housekeeping issues. But they're sincere about keeping drugs, guns, and alcohol out, and keeping a cool head, in spite of what's going on.

Case in point -- they didn't just let me waltz in here and set up shop. They made sure I was who I said I was, and not some outside agitator sent in to cause trouble. I'm currently wearing two badges and a yellow wrist band, and they wrote on my rental car so no one messes with it.

I'm impressed. Very !@#$ing impressed.

Also more that a little unnerved, but that might be because there's a !@#$ing god over at the campfire, telling stories like it was another family campfire, or something.

Yeah, you heard that right. The gods are here, walking among their people, again. And considering how many tribes have a representative here, that's a lot of gods.

I can't really tell who's who, at least by sight. It's taking some practice just to see through the prosthetic, by itself. But I'm discovering that they shine at the edges, more than normal people do.

And sometimes, if you look at them long enough? They shift, just so. Like they were made of water.

Yeah, it's quite a thing. Which is one way to say this is !@#$ing amazing. And another say this is !@#$ing scary.

What's really scary? How these folks are just so accepting of all this !@#$. Like they're used to having this happen, which I know they were in theory, but not to this extent.

This? It's like someone took a Leslie Marmon Silko novel and turned it into magical realism. It's like something out of American Gods by way of N. Scott Momaday.

And I don't know whether to be amused or insulted that, in a campground full of activists, seekers, and gods, no one -- and I mean no one -- wants to talk to me.

Yes, I flew my flag. I'm the guy from THIS IS BULL!@#$. I am here to cover this situation, and help expose what's going on here, at a time when the national media would rather focus on a football player not doing the national anthem, or the latest load of !@#$ that imbecile who's running for President is saying.

But they don't want to talk to me, for some reason.

Not that I can really blame them for that. The bad side of having the press suddenly give a damn about their situation is having the usual establishment vultures show up, cameras in hand, and wait for someone to bleed so they can !@#$ing lead with it. It's almost like they want something to go wrong so they'll have a headline, a byline, and a chance for an award or two.

(And no, they don't want to talk to me, either. I'm something of a pariah, right now. The guy from Alternet's flipped me off twice.)

But the real people, here? The ones I've come to watch, and support? I want to scream at them. I want to jump on top of someone's shoulders and say "hey! I just tried to have that orange-skinned mother!@#$er assassinated! And do you know why? Because he !@#$ing kidnapped and brainwashed my kids! He had my girlfriend shot! Killed dozens of my friends in Toon Town, just to !@#$ with me!"

And I would, too. Except that we're not !@#$ing talking about that.

No, I'm not. SPYGOD's !@#$ing orders. And Velma...

...

I wanted to be honest with her. I did. He lied on my behalf, and I was going to tell her the truth. I was.

But then Karl and Jana and Helmut and Helga came into the room, looking like utter !@#$. And they told me something that Velma had begun to fear, and I hadn't even had !@#$ing time to suspect because it happened while I was away, in Kenya, trying to do that thing.

They're dying. My kids are !@#$ing dying, and there's nothing I can !@#$ing do about it.

* * *

It's ABWEHR's fault, of course. It always !@#$ing is.

My kids are clones, all descended from Martha and Joseph Goebbels. At some point she turned into some obscene baby-making shoggoth, and they'd get together and make supernazi love, there in the Ice Palace, and she'd !@#$ out dozens of fully-formed kids for the master race at regular intervals.

Which was fine for ABWEHR, seeing as how they were never going to use them as shock troops for the Fourth Reich. They were too busy researching ways to end the world that they never really put into action, and trying to get back at one another for dozens of years' worth of slights and insults.

So these poor kids got used as toys. They were screwed, beaten, and eaten, and not always in that order.

When the Ice Palace was liberated, there was one last group in the tank. They decanted while we were there. And SPYGOD, in something approaching wisdom and compassion, wanted me to be the one to look after them.

Why me? Why not. I thought it would make a good story to take these poor kids around the world and show them what they'd been missing. What they would have never seen.

And I did. And somewhere along the line they became more than a damn story. They became my family. My soldiers. My helpers.

My family.

 But the whole time, I knew something horrible. And that was that these kids came with a !@#$ing time limit.

The ABWEHR folks didn't really breed them for longevity, you see. It's like that NIN song, you know, you have a copy of a copy of a copy, and sooner or later it all breaks down.

So they had only years to live, really. And one day they'd start growing old, and begin to fail.

And what's what's happening, right now, while I'm in !@#$ing South Dakota.

* * *

Not that I had much choice in the matter. I literally got !@#$ing marching orders.

Velma handed me the camera and the ticket. It was her way of welcoming me back. It was also her way of telling me I was going to have to work to get back into this thing we made.

Not even a damn kiss. Just told me to go get the !@#$ing story, even if it killed me.

And yeah, it just !@#$ing might. Especially if what I hear is true.

They've activated the National Guard. Supposedly it's just to have people police the highways, but some fear it'll be to turn people away from coming at all. Which means supplies won't come, and the camp might falter.

And there's a good chance they'll come here to kick some ass if the Governor decides private guards with angry dogs can't stop the people. 

They're also talking about drones flying over, and as this state is one of the few where it's !@#$ing legal to let police fly armed drones into lawkeeping operations...?

Yeah. That sound you hear is the sound of things possibly circling the toilet on their way down.

But tomorrow's make it or break it. Tomorrow the Federal Judge might call a halt to this whole !@#$show, and halt all further work.

But then again, the Judge may not. And then it'll be protests and citizen action until it's stopped from higher up, or something ugly happens to force their hand.

And if that happens? I have a hard time imagining these American gods will stand idly by as their people are beaten and brutalized, or told that their ancestors' bones are just clay to be shaped, and dirt to be bulldozed.

Which means I might be standing here, camera in hand, as the cloud face in the sky brings down the lightning.

Me, I could use a good rain. It'd make me feel clean, again. It might even make me feel whole.

I just don't want anyone else to suffer because of my needs. I've had enough of that, lately.

I've had enough.

Friday: 9/9/16

(Yanabah's Private Journal)

Not every day I get to tell the Interim President to shut the !@#$ up and listen to me, but that is exactly what happened, early this afternoon.

Why me? Why the !@#$ not. But I guess there was a practical reason. The boss man always !@#$ing has one.

He drags my ass off Freedom Force duty this morning. I tell him we're already shorthanded, what with our heavy hitter on their damn way to Mars and all. He says shut up and get in the car, we're going to DC.

Now, when he says we're going to DC? That means the White House. And he never !@#$ing takes any heroes to the White House unless he needs us, either as an example or a peace offering. So of course I'm !@#$ing wondering if this is the moment I pay for what went down the other week, in Taos.

But no. He's actually got me along because I'm the only one who can really tell the asshole in the Oval Office what Taos meant. Because I'm the only one who's actually talked with Grandfather Thunder long enough to get more answers than questions.

So we drive there. It's his new flying car, which he says he got from one of the Olympians. It was their way of making amends for Moscow, and everything. Or maybe he's full of !@#$ and it's just something else. He's always lying.

He has no idea I know this, now, and I find this !@#$ing hilarious. The monster in me can tell when people aren't being honest. I can actually smell it on them, somehow. Big lies, little lies, half truths, they all have their own smell. And I know them all.

(Which is how I know he's also lying about his new eyes. He tells people they just grew back, but I know there's more to it than that. I just don't know what it is, yet. But I will.)

He talks !@#$  for fifteen minutes, and then we're over the White House. He spirals the thing down and parks on the front lawn and just gets out. He even has the nerve to toss the keys to one of the Secret Service Agents and tell him not to scuff up the paint.

Then we're in the White House, and I think it's the first time I've been in here since they used Grandfather Wayfinder to try and find SPYGOD, all that time ago. They were scared of me, then. Now they're not sure why I'm there, but that's okay. They let us keep all our guns, and in we go.

Of course, the President knows why we're there. He's got word the Federal Judge is going to tell the Lakota that the pipeline isn't going to stop. He just doesn't know what will happen next, what with all those Gods there in the camp.

Can SPYGOD do to them what he did to those Voodoo gods, last week? That's what he wants to know.

And that's when SPYGOD just chuckles, that way he does. He takes a step back and lets me have the floor. Calls me the expert in these things.

And I am, so I talk to the Interim President. I tell him exactly what he's facing, there. I tell him it would be a very, very bad !@#$ing thing if the gods that take their power from the people of this land, and from that land, were angered.

SPYGOD? He tells them there's nothing the Olympians can do in this case. The Voodoo people were coming here. The Spirits? They're already here.

(And that's a lie, too. I think he's playing a larger game, same as !@#$ing always. But it's what I want so I go along with it.)

What to do, then? Well, the Interim President doesn't want to call that judge and interfere. But lucky for us all I remember the Army Corps of Engineers didn't really get what you'd call timely permits from those pipeline people.

So the Interim President makes a call. By the time he's done, the Corps and a few other Federal things are ready to issue a joint statement telling the pipeline people to stop !@#$ing working for a while, until it all gets sorted out.

Of course, this means it won't get sorted anytime soon. The Feds are nothing if not wrapped in bureaucratic bull!@#$ when they want to be.

Which means we haven't won or lost, right now. It just means we're in a damn holding pattern.

But we can at least call it progress.

On the way out of the White House, SPYGOD leans in and delivers the !@#$ing punchline. He tells me to tell the Great Spirit that he just came through for him.

"Now it's his !@#$ing turn," he explains. And he tells me exactly what he wants in exchange.

I can't argue. It seems pretty !@#$ing sensible. But I do tell him that, from now on? If he wants to me to be a go-between, he's got to tell me the whole plan, well in advance.

He doesn't !@#$ing like that. I don't expect him to. But he agrees, however reluctantly.

And for once, when he opens his damn mouth? I don't smell a lie.

I'm calling that progress, too.

Saturday: 9/10/16

"Hey love, this is your fiancee, just checking in with you from Mars. If the picture gets a little weird, it's because we're having to veer around a lot, just to avoid getting hit by giant frozen balls of acid poop crab spit.

"I don't know if I mentioned this the last time, but the giant bastards have learned how to shoot their crap into orbit, now. There's giant frozen balls of acidic goop floating around up here, which means the pilots have to be careful not to fly too close, or the flakes around the balls unfreeze and start to eat the ships.

"So we parked in a higher orbit, just to make sure we have room to maneuver. We're also trying out various ways to nudge the balls out of orbit without unfreezing them, but so far that's been too dangerous.

"Since the crabs broke through our bottleneck, down below the surface, they've developed a definite pattern. They come up to the surface in groups of three to five, and start trying to hammer us. Then we send down lightships to strafe them, just to cover the Aesir's approach. And then, while they're shooting at Naglfar and the lightships, the gods smash their legs and deal with what's left.

"It's a good strategy, at least for now. So far they haven't caught on. I worry what will happen when they do, but I'm hoping our ground forces get here and break through before that becomes an issue.

"Anyway, what I really wanted to talk to you about was my communication with the Martians. Thank you very much for facilitating it for me. From what they said you had to yell down the phone for a while, so I hope you didn't have to burn too many bridges to make that happen.

"I spoke to their eldest, and he confirmed what I suspected. That area under the Lunar Planum has been known to be a temporally unstable location for quite some time. They say that, in ancient times, the elders would go there to talk to their ancestors, and receive visions of the past and future.

"And when they depicted it? They made it look like a ring.

"So I think we've found our culprit. There's a hole in time, down there, and it appears to be stable. Which means, to me at least, that it was artificially created.

"The real question is what's on the other end of that hole, and how strong of a grip the remnant of the Decreator's got on that side of things. That'll be one of the things the ground forces are going to find out. But when the moment comes? I'm going to be down there, with them, finding out.

"I know you're not going to talk me out of this, love. This is what I do. I'm the one who goes into the crashed spaceship, shakes the alien hand, and shoots it if needed. I'm also the one who pokes his hand into the anomaly to find out what's going on.

"And I can afford to lose a hand, as you know.

"So let's have none of you asking me if this is a good !@#$ing idea? Because you know all I can say is 'no,' followed by 'I'm doing it, anyway.' And you know why.

"And hopefully you love me for it. Because I love you for having to be the one to grab your gun, strap yourself to something fast and explosive, and fly it right down the throat of whatever giant threat to America's on the horizon, today.

"As for me, I was worried about you after our last communication. I know you can handle that backwards Earth asshole. But what you told me about the kids... well, that's got to be hard. Even if we knew it was coming, that's not something I think anyone can really be ready to face.

"I love you. I'm here for you. Hopefully we'll be able to do something about this. Hopefully I'll be home soon, and we can face this together, as we should.

"In the meantime, keep your fingers crossed that the ground forces do a fast job down below, and I manage to make it back to our time zone in a timely manner. Now that we actually have a wedding date booked in, and the deposit paid, I'd hate to have to miss it because of some weird Doctor Who bull!@#$, right?

"I love you. Be strong. Be amazing. Be you.

"And when you catch that other you? If you happen to blow his balls off? You step on one of them, just for me, and tell him I said hello.

"See? I made you smile, in spite of it all. That's love. And I love you.

"Bye bye from Mars, for now."

Sunday: 9/11/16

... punching punching kicking flailing end over end over head over barrel over and over and over again the two combatants struggle up and down the time stream over and under the water here and there then and now everywhere and everything the moment of birth the second of death and all points between...

* * *

"... the giant balls of what look like frozen sewage," Straffer says over the com system: "If you hit one, well, Raitha might be able to soak the damage. But I'd hate you to suffer an explosive decompression this close to the goal."

"I hear you there," Myron says, nodding to the Olympian in question -- spread-eagled on the prow of the massive lightship she's been maintaining since they left Earth -- who must have heard it, because she veers well clear of the crud in question.

"It'd be best if you just rendezvoused with Naglfar," Straffer says: "I'm sure you all want to get your boots on the ground, but-"

"I think getting out of here is all they really want, right about now," the former Underman says: "The ship, the planet, hell I think they'd take a long spacewalk right about now."

"Is everything alright?" the Director of the Space Service asks.

"Long story short? No," Myron admits, looking back along the length of the ship -- at one person in particular: "I'll tell you more when we meet. Quietly. In private..."

* * *

 ... moments and public encounters facts on record and unknown secret things the whole of a life the whole of two lives laid bare for each of them to attack and defend as they fall and rise trying to get purchase to gain advantage to feint to strike to dodge to cripple to end one another before they can even begin...

* * *

"...?" she asks, sitting next to the Outlaw Reporter, just outside the light of the largest fire, here.

"What do you mean?" Randolph Scott asks Yanabah, who's looking rather at home here, in spite of having no guns on her person.

"Last time I saw you, I was !@#$faced drunk and mean, and you told me off," she says, smirking at him over her dark glasses -- worn even at night, like something out of an 80's music video: "So here I am, and here you are..."

"I'm not drunk," the Outlaw Reporter says: "I wish I was, but you all didn't want any of that here."

"Yeah," she nods: "Looks like you could use some."

"I've had enough," he insists: "Enough wasted time, enough stupid !@#$. I need to do something worthwhile, here."

"Need to find the story, huh?" she says, looking over her glasses at him. Something about the hunger in those alien eyes gives him pause.

"Always," he says, steeling his resolve.

"Okay, then," she says, getting up and extending a hand: "Come with me, paleface. Let native guide show you the real !@#$."

He looks up at her, somewhat puzzled, but does as she says...

* * *

.. many things to his opponent and none of them are good they are hateful slithering things obscenities and threats and promises of ruin and degradation and decay the leering broken grin of the other Earth the eyes of death and pain he speaks of the rape of fathers the death of children the ruin of lovers and husbands and wives all done in the last seconds of his life as he lays broken and hopeless on the hard floor of time itself...

* * *

"... has been altered, in there," the UNSS scientist says to SPYGOD -- his face pale as he wipes sweat from his brow: "I don't understand what happened, sir. All we did was start disassembling her flying saucer, and as soon as we took the engine apart..."

"Everything went !@#$ing forwards, backwards, and blooey?" the superspy says, lighting up another one of the black cigarettes he doesn't even like as he sits behind his desk, and considers this.

"That's one way to say it. I was lucky to get out before the field enveloped the area. Anyone who goes in there gets torn apart by temporal forces. It's horrific-"

"Then stop !@#$ing sending people in there, moron," SPYGOD barks at him: "Seal the area off. Let no one go in."

"What do we do, then?" the scientist asks, too traumatized by what's happened to react to being yelled at by his Director's overbearing fiancee.

"Let me !@#$ing worry about that," the superspy says: "You got your orders, son. Do them. Yesterday."

He hangs up at that, sighs, and realizes he knows what this is, and what it means. 

He's known since he got his new eyes. Since he walked into that lake and found the time ship sitting there. 

Since he saw the weathered face of his mentor's old love, and had to cry with those new eyes...

He gets the White Phone out of his desk. He doesn't even have to dial it before the right person picks it up.

"It's time," he says to the God on the other end...

* * *

...over end over head over barrel over and over and over again the two combatants struggle up and down the time stream over and under the water here and there then and now everywhere and everything the moment of birth the second of death and all points between trying to get the advantage however slight in order to kill the other and while the Wandering Shadow won't hesitate the Time Agent wonders if there's some way this can be avoided some way to stop the inevitable some way to pull back from killing a man he's learned to respect while fighting now that he's seen his life and walked in his shoes and seen all he's done and learned even if he has become a powerful and mad dog on two legs and that's all the hesitation that dog needs to rear back and...

* * *

"... fuck..." the SPYGOD of Alter Earth says, sitting straight up in the bed he's stolen for the evening, looking at the wall with the sweat of a man who's just seen his own death.

"What is it?" the person he forced -- at least at first -- to have sex with him asks, not daring to open her eyes until he tells her he can look, again. 

He can't say, just yet. He closes and opens his eyes. Shakes his head to drive the vision out. 

But he can't unsee what he just saw. He can't remove the stray thread of what may have been dream or god-sent prophecy from his brain.

And for the first time in a long time, (DETCADER) feels something he does his best to engender in everyone he meets, friend or foe. 

Fear.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Untold (Front 242) and having a Devil Dancer)