1/11/13 - Les Hommes de Pourpres - (Les Trois Grands) - pt 2

"MMM," the older man says, taking a happy bite of the weird, oreo-filled concoction in front of him: "Now this is what I call a pie."

"I'd sure hope so," his younger dining companion says, not looking very enthusiastic about his own: "If you thought it was a shoe I'd be worried."

"No, it's just that I got really sick of those pies they have at McDonalds, these days."

"Oh, those pieces of !@#$," the young man agrees, noticing that the Burger King's dining room is just a little less occupied than it was before: "You remember when they used to fry them?"

"I do I ever. Those were so good."

"Hot apple pies, cherry pies. Every so often they'd have something else instead of the cherry."

"Do you remember what the others were?" the older man asks, taking a last, loving bite of his dessert: "I mean, now they've got pumpkin and whatever, but I don't pay attention, really."

"Me neither. But I remember I used to get a couple hot apple pies to go, take them home, nuke 'em in the microwave for a couple seconds, and then put them on a big bowl of vanilla ice cream and call that dessert."

"Oh, that sounds really good, son. When did you do that?"

"When I was a kid," he tells the older man, not without a little bite.

"Right," the older man says, trying not to sigh: "When did they stop frying them?"

"Sometime in the 90's. All that health-conscious bull!@#$. They stopped using beef tallow for the fries and stopped frying their pies."

"That's right. The fries haven't been nearly as good since."

"No, they haven't," the younger man says, and hopes they can just be silent for a while.

* * *

"What do you mean by 'be quiet?'" Abdullah Ismail asks, looking at the very thick, ultra-official stack of documents he's been asked to sign.

"Just that, really," the well-dressed prison official says, putting his hands on either side of the sheaf and scooting them towards Abdullah, just a little bit more: "You keep your mouth shut about what's happened, and you go free, and stay free. So long as you don't do anything else, of course."

"Or talk about it."

"Well, naturally," the man says, waving a hand over the stack of paper: "You can be quiet, can't you?"

Abdullah raises an eyebrow, and then winces, rubbing his sore head with the less-painful side of a broken hand. Apparently he all but smashed them both against a wall at some point during his soon-to-be-brief captivity, here in the dungeons of the Police Nationale. But he can't remember a thing about it. 

He remembers being in his friend's darkened apartment. He remembers the horrible things he discovered there. And he remembers one of Les Trois Grands beating him unconscious.

But past that? It's all bits and pieces. A dream of a snake-faced woman who meant him harm, a lady in red who was concerned for his dreams, and a nurse who poorly tended his wounds while whispering poison into his ears. Then it's just hate -- waves of blinding, utter hate he hasn't experienced since he encountered a childhood friend who'd gone jihadi on him after graduation.

And now, this morning, he wakes up in pain and confusion, and barely has a chance to come to grips with any of it before guards come in, wash him and dress him, and gently but firmly bring him into this stark, small room (barely enough space for the desk and the chairs they're all using) and ask him to fill out... this. 

"'I was a victim of mistaken identity,'" Abdullah quotes, looking halfway down the top sheet: "'This was due to my being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I acknowledge my error, and absolve the Terre Unifee, and its agents, of all culpability in the matter.'"

"Yes," the official says: "And it goes on and on like that for several more pages, before the really dense legal things come up. But in a nutshell? We are sorry we mistook you for a terrorist. There were extenuating circumstances and we didn't have a lot of time to deal with them-"

"Obviously," Abdullah snorts: "Punch first, ask questions later."

"It happens."

"Yes, and mostly to Beurs."

"We acknowledge your pain and suffering," the official goes on, clearly not wanting to discuss that side of the issue at length: "And we are willing to recompense you for them at a fair amount. But if you discuss our ongoing security efforts, you may jeopardize a number of other operations currently in play against the real terrorists, and that would create problems."

"So I sign this merde, walk out of here... well, limp out of here, and don't tell anyone why I have a broken leg, cracked ribs, and a face that looks like a punching bag, and that's that?"

"Or you stay here, locked down, until our current security crisis is over."

"Which will be never."

"Well, I refuse to be so pessimistic," the official says, dying for a cigarette: "I fully believe that, one day, you all will realize how good you have it here, in France. I also believe that you'll come to understand that the best way to integrate is to accept the discomfort of those you're integrating into, and work harder to prove yourselves to them."

"So we can't have equality and freedom until you see us as brothers, is that it?"

"Well, look, you can't just expect everyone to get along from the start. There's always going to be this sort of thing, in any society. And protesting and being angry when we make mistakes? Well... that doesn't help."

Abdullah Ismail just looks at the man. He thinks of his friends, beaten and fingered by lazy, racist cops. He thinks of the constant racist taunts and suspicious looks from the people on the streets. He thinks of how his more pious friends can't wear hijab or prayer beads to work, and how their children can't wear them to school. 

And he thinks of the awful smile on the man in white armor as he called him a negro and beat him like a dog. 

Somehow, Abdullah gets the strength to stand up, tip the table over, and send the sheaf of papers every which way. He also maintains the strength to scream, and fight with the first two guards that come rushing into the room. And he doesn't stop struggling until someone succeeds in putting him in a choke hold -- knocking him out and down.

Down into the darkness of his broken, half-memories, in which some things are finally beginning to make sense.

* * *

"I guess we're all let down by our childhoods, eventually," the older man says: "I can remember when you could have a quarter last all day. It'd get you a movie, a couple candy bars, and bus fare. Now, they won't even get you a half an hour on a parking meter."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You go most places, you're lucky to get ten minutes."

"I thought you didn't have to worry about things like that, anymore."

"Why?"

"Well, being an official hero and all? I figured you could just park wherever, and put a little sign on the dashboard saying 'on business,' or something."

"If only," the older man says: "And you should know. Didn't you read that phone book the TU sent when it absorbed us all?"

"No. I think it's still sitting on my coffee table. My real coffee table, that is. Not the one I'm using now."

The older man nods: "How long do you think you can retain your cover with the Scarlet Factotum?"

"With the crazy red robot? Indefinitely."

"Really?"

"Sadly, yes. She's angry as !@#$, naive as !@#$, and so fixated on her big plan to conquer the world that she's !@#$ing missing the forest for the trees, not to mention half the continent."

"What about her allies?"

"Those morons? Well, one of them's just there for a paycheck. As soon as the !@#$ hits the fan, he's gone. The others are a leader who's better as a follower and a useful idiot who can't even die correctly. So long as they think I'm down with the program they won't stick their noses in too deeply." 

"Do you think you can rein her in a little? Keep this from getting as bloody as it could be?"

The young man looks at his father, and then slowly shakes his head: "I hate to quote movies, dad, but I'm afraid there will be blood. The good news is that, if our latest intel is correct, a lot of it's going to be supervillains killing supervillains. But no one's walking out of this with clean hands. You knew that, right?"

"I know, yeah." the older man sighs, having a sip of the coffee he got with the pie: "I just keep hoping for a miracle, you know?"

* * *

"!@#$ing stupid meatbags!" METALMAID screeches, pounding her fist into a nearby wall. It breaks around it like it was made of glass, and she just stands there, amazed at her own strength.

"Well, look, I know it looks bad," the Sound says, waving a pad up as he follows after her: "And no, I'm not happy we lost three operatives in one go. Especially not Nefartiti. She was !@#$ fine-"

The Pusher coughs into his fist, and the Sound grits his teeth and gets back on subject: "But the mission was accomplished. They uploaded the information we needed. We now know a lot more than then we did before about how their super structure works."

"Super structure," the Pusher nods: "I like that. Very catchy."

"I could care less about {quote}buzzwords{endquote} right now," METALMAID hisses: "What I care about is the fact that they probably know what we were looking for."

"Well, we can't be sure of that," the Sound says: "I mean, she was supposed to tell her meat puppet to trash the computer he was working on so no one could tell what files he accessed."

"But do we know if he did that?"

"Well, no."

"And why do we not know?" METALMAID growls, looming over the Sound as if she was about to bite his head off at the neck: "Because they had to kill that {quote}meat puppet{endquote} prematurely. We don't know what he did or didn't do. And that means that our operatives could be walking into a trap!"

"Well, yes," the Sound says, and then wisely turns himself into noise as she tries to rip him apart.

"Oh for God's sake," the Emperor of Pain sighs, coming onto the sorry scene: "Can't you not try and kill your subordinates for bringing you bad news? It's bad for morale. Even I can tell you that."

"It's okay!" the sound says, his voice strange and echoing as he loops around his homicidal boss: "I've got this..."

"Best to let her let off some steam," the Pusher says, very quickly putting an arm around the older villain and leading him out of the room before she tries to kill them, too: "That and I think it's time we talked about what we'd been talking about earlier."

"Right," the old man nods: "Especially now that her boyfriend isn't around to crawl up her nose."

"Indeed," the well-dressed man whispers, imagining a much larger dollar sign as he gets ready to make a much better deal. 

* * *

 "So, we're all good?" the younger man says as he and his dining guest leave the fast food restaurant, heading for the parking lot.

"Yes," his father says, not quite sure when to break off and head for his own vehicle: "You tell us what's going on, and I'll make sure you skate away from it all when it's over."

"All of it," the young man insists: "Because when they make their move, the TU's going to come down on them like a pile of bricks, and I don't need them messing with me, either."

"Aren't you going to come back to us, son?" the old man says, a little confused: "After all we've done with the new group. All we worked for?"

"Eventually," he replies: "But not until we're free again, dad. I can't work for the TU. Not really."

The old man sighs, and then nods: "I'll... do what I can. I just... I miss you, son."

"I know," the Violet Demon says, giving New Man an unexpected, big hug: "Just don't think badly of me. Whatever happens. Please just remember I did what I had to, okay?"

"Okay," the old man says, overwhelmed by this sudden gesture from his long-estranged son. And for a time, they just stand there, holding one another. 

And then it's over, and the young man is heading off to his car, getting in it, and driving away without looking back. 

"Did you get all that?" the old man says, looking to the empty space to his left as he heads back to his own vehicle.

"I did, yeah," a disembodied voice says, keeping in time with the older man: "Sounds like he's got it well in !@#$ing hand, if you ask me."

"I don't like this, (REDACTED). I don't like my son being in that nest of vipers."

"I do," the voice says, and New Man can almost imagine him lighting up a phantom cigarette to accompany it: "He's well !@#$ing suited for this kind of work. He's got the right !@#$ attitude for it, and if anyone tries to !@#$ with him, well, I'm more worried about them."

"But can we keep him safe?" the hero asks as he puts a hand on his car door, as if steadying himself: "Can we save him from prosecution if it all comes out? All those things he told me..."

"I heard him," the voice says: "I heard every one. And you of all people ought to know that we can !@#$ing get him out of it. Even if we have to pull a vanishing act, he'll be in the clear."

"You promise me that, SPYGOD," the old man hisses: "You make a god!@#$ promise to me right now that he walks free and clear after all this, or else..."

"I promise, (REDACTED)," the voice says, and New Man can almost imagine him putting a hand on his shoulder: "Free and clear, one way or another."

That seems to reassure the old man, and with that he nods, gets into his car, and drives away as well.

"Of course, that all depends on whether you and I can get away free and clear after all this is over," another disembodied voice adds.

"Jesus !@#$, hon," SPYGOD snorts: "You think I don't have a plan for that?"

"I know you do, lover," Straffer says: "I know you got fifty of those things. I helped you pin them up on the fridge, remember?"

"I do, yes. That was a !@#$ interesting evening."

"I'm surprised we didn't break the refrigerator."

"We did."

"We did?"

"Yes. They !@#$ing fixed it the next morning while you were still zonked out. And they just put all the magnets and sticky notes on the new one, just like they'd found them."

"All well and good. But we've got to get at least one of those plans to work."

"That's why I've got fifty, this time."

The one voice laughs: "You're horrible." 

"I am, yes. !@#$ing horrible." 

"And the repairmen didn't notice a thing, huh?"

"Nope," SPYGOD chuckles, kissing his ghostly lover in the middle of the Burger King parking lot: "How very !@#$ing French of them..."

* * *

The day recedes into night, night slowly gives way into day, and then it's another early morning in France. And in a brightly-lit city that refuses to sleep, certain inhabitants move about -- watching as important events take place.

Abdullah Ismail staggers back home to his apartment, a brutalized but free being. Apparently nothing he could do could convince them to keep him in prison longer than necessary. They didn't even try to hold him to that merde agreement they initially asked him to abide by.

Zaid and Samir were not so lucky, but something was clearly wrong with them. They spoke like monsters when Abdullah tried to reach out to them on his way out, raging in unreasoning hate and anger rather than fear or friendship. 

(Apparently, whatever had been done to him was not as powerful as what was done to them.)

But as he walks up the cracked, burned steps to his building, fumbling for the keys with a broken hand, he wonders how many eyes are watching him, right now. How many police wanting to bust him for breaking wind, much less "stirring up trouble."

Oh, they've got trouble now. All the trouble in the world, if he's got something to say about it.

And, Inshallah, that trouble will finally bring about something good. 

As he goes back into what remains of his life, he is, indeed, watched. A white knight stands on a building, nearby, looking down at him in anger. Wondering why they let him go, and told him to back off. 

Foudre Blanc is wondering a lot of things, actually.  

But one thing he doesn't have to wonder about is the most important things of all. The secret is safe. No one knows anything about what he's done, or how, or why. And in a week, once The Maker has made what they will need, and all eyes are fixed on the trial of SPYGOD, all the recent excitement will be overlooked. 

All he has to do is wait, and be calm and careful. Things he should be able to do.

And yet, he keeps going back to that horrible night, on that horrible day. The day his face was destroyed. The day he learned how little wealth and power actually meant. 

The day his lover was destroyed by human monsters, and all he could do was crawl towards her, a wreck of a man, and comfort her in her last moments on this world. 

"Destroy them," she whispered weakly as he held her: "Destroy them all."

And so he would, one way or another. He swore it then. He upholds that promise now. 

Forever and ever until the last breath leaves him, he will destroy them all. 

As he swears eternal vengeance, yet again, he is himself watched. Ciel Rouge lurks nearby, wondering if the man she arranged to have freed will give her fallen comrade a chance to hang himself before her, or else make him more reckless in his movements -- more scared. 

She knows the truth about him, now. But to gain the trust of others, she must have proof. Hopefully this man will help provide her with proof, but not even her Others can say for certain. 

All she knows is that she must act, and soon.

Meanwhile, far above the three of them, Tempete Bleu is once again up above it all. He sits upon his throne of spacejunk, overlooking the world, watching the sun rise over the Earth.

Or so he says.

He doesn't watch the sunrise while he's up here, floating above the world. He doesn't watch the stars, or the Moon, or the sled, or any comets or meteors that might be rushing on by.

He doesn't look at anything at all.

He just sits there and imagines the world as he would make it -- especially now that he knows who and what he is. The sweeping changes, the small alterations, the inevitable breaking of people, places, and things.

The bloody, blackened ruins he'll leave in his wake. 

He thinks through each and every thing from start to finish, large to small. Then he goes through them again, over and over until a crimson blueprint lies before the eye of his mind

And he smiles to think of what we would think of that world, if he gave us leave to speak our minds.

Or planned to let us live in it at all...

(SPYGOD is listening to Love in C Minor (Cerrone) and having a Melange a Trois)

12/23/12 - Mr. USA - A Square of Hell - pt. 2

11/3/12

"So, what do we think?" the President asks his cabinet, waving at the large stack of papers in front of him. Everyone else around the table as a copy of it, and most of them seem to be regarding it with the same look the average person does when offered liver for dinner.

"I don't know what to think," the Secretary of the Treasury says, and is about to say more when the Secretary of Defense bangs his fist down and scatters his pages around the table.

"I say we tell those Frogs to shove this !@#$ back up their little green !@#$holes," he announces: "I didn't give my sweat, blood, and flesh to the enemy just to sign up with some !@#$ world government."

"Joining would have its advantages," the Secretary of State says, mellifluous as ever: "We'd be part of a larger organization. We could shoulder the load for rebuilding-"

"We'd be lackeys," the badly-scarred man insists, rising from his chair: "We would no longer be able to say 'no' to another nation. We'd be forced to at least consider it."

"And considering how well that worked at the UN," the Secretary of Commerce points out: "We'd be screwed."

"I don't know what to think," Mr. USA says, shaking his head: "On one hand, yes, we'd have help. But whenever someone offers you help with one hand, you have to be careful of what's in the other."

"I bet you know all about that," the Attorney General snorts, shaking her head.

"What do you mean, madam?" the hero asks, not so much as turning to look at her.

"I think you're smart enough to know what I mean. You just don't want to admit how badly you screwed that up-"

"Hey now," the President says, holding up a hand: "We don't need to bring that up-"

"The !@#$ we don't," the Attorney General says, turning to glare at the two men: "Don't you think it's a little strange how, less than a day after the man in charge of the secessionist movement commits suicide by superhero, this... Terre Unifee comes out of nowhere and offers to save the world from its problems? Did we even know there was a Terre Unifee?"

"No we did not," a voice says, and all heads turn to look at the corner of the room. SPYGOD is standing there, smoking a cigar that no one saw him light.

"Well, this is a surprise," the President says, gesturing to one of the more dumbstruck guards to get him a chair: "I didn't think you were interested in these meetings."

"I'm not, no," he says, sidling up to the table and throwing his legs across the chair the guard brings him: "But we have a !@#$ing issue, here. And I wanted to talk about it."

"Okay, who the !@#$ are you, and what did you do with the real SPYGOD," the Secretary of the Treasury asks, which brings a few much-needed laughs. SPYGOD doesn't so much as smile in return, and instead taps the nearest pad of paper.

"I think I made my views on this clear to the good people of America-"

"Which I'd rather you hadn't," the President says, looking at him: "At times like this, we need to present a unified front."

SPYGOD looks over at him, and notes how the man doesn't so much as flinch. So he nods: "Point taken, sir. I will refrain from doing so in the future."

"But that does bring up a good point," the President says, still looking at him: "One of the issues we're facing, right now, is how we're going to keep all the promises we made to all the nations who went in with us during the war for independence."

"Can we really call it that?" the Secretary of Education pipes up: "There's already a War for Independence."

"I sure as !@#$ don't want to call it World War III," the Secretary of Defense snorts.

"How about the Reclamation War?" Mr. USA says, looking around the table: "Because that's what we did, ladies and gentlemen. We reclaimed our planet. And it's something to be proud of."

"Agreed," the President says: "And, now that this... Reclamation War is won, we have to pay off our war debts."

"And you think that signing on with this Terre Unifee would abrogate our debts?" the Secretary of Commerce surmises.

"Or at least put them off for a considerable amount of time," the Secretary of State adds: "And considering the shape we're in, right now? That can only be a good thing."

"Provided our new masters don't make us pay up, anyway," the Attorney General says: "And let's not forget that we don't know jack about these people, anyway-"

"They're what's left of Direction Noir," SPYGOD says, tapping his cigar onto the nearest pad of paper: "The organization that oversaw France's strategic talents, after the War. It turns out they were !@#$ing stockpiling their supers in case of an international emergency."

"Like being taken over by aliens?" the Secretary of Defense asks.

"Yeah, funny !@#$ story, that," SPYGOD continues: "But a story for another day, I think. Bottom line is that the guy who's running the Terre Unifee is Henri Valentin Geraud, brother of Charles Geraud Geraud, who was running Direction Noir right up until the Imago used him for target practice on 3/15. And they're both descended from someone who we really !@#$ed off back during the War. So I have to wonder if we're going to be played straight if we sign on."

"And do you think it's possible they're behind our problems with secessionists?" the Attorney General asks: "The ones your friend, here, just happened to inflame a few days ago?"

"That is totally uncalled for," the President says, putting a hand down on the table: "Lisa, I know your concerns, but-"

"It's not impossible," SPYGOD interrupts: "But while I agree with the Attorney General that the timing on this is !@#$ suspicious, I think our problems are genuinely homegrown. And if someone is !@#$ing pulling the !@#$ strings, I don't think it's the French."

"Any reason why not?" the Secretary of Defense asks.

"Because it's too !@#$ neat and tidy," SPYGOD answers: "Direction Noir was always a !@#$ing joke. The fact that they've waited until the right moment to play this big !@#$ card of theirs is just the broken clock getting the right time of day by accident."

The Attorney General looks between him, the President, and Mr. USA, and then nods: "Very well. I retract my statements and apologize. I am clearly letting my frustrations get the better of me."

"So should we consider this proposal, or tell them to eat snails?" the President asks, smiling a little: "I'd like to hear my trusted advisers weigh in, yay or nay."

"That's not me," SPYGOD says, winking and heading for the door: "A moment of your time when you're done, Mr. Vice President?"

Once he's gone, they take a vote. And while it's not exactly what the President wanted to hear, it at least pushes the question back another day.

* * *

"So what did you want to talk about?" Mr. USA asks later, in his office. He still hasn't really moved into it, yet: boxes and bags are still lined up between the door and his desk. They haven't even bothered to post guards outside it, yet.

"The other day," SPYGOD says, looking at the door they just closed: "At that compound up in Montana."

"I've been over it a million times in my head," Mr. USA says, sighing: "I was set up, (REDACTED). I know it."

"I agree," SPYGOD says, coming over and sitting down on the man's desk: "Question is, who?"

"I don't know," the hero says, reaching into his desk and pulling out a bottle of Scotch he keeps for such occasions: "I doubt it was the secessionists. They've got some smart people with them, but this was..."

"Too neatly choreographed," SPYGOD finishes his thought, taking the bottle of scotch and pulling half of it down in one go: "They must have known that man selling them the explosives was a Federal Agent. They planned to be followed. They had the explosives all wired up and ready to go. They had bullets that could kill strategic talents."

"And they knew I'd be coming once I learned who was in that compound," Mr. USA says, reaching over to take a small nip off the bottle before handing it back.

"Which means we got foxes in the !@#$ henhouse," SPYGOD says, finishing the bottle and neatly depositing it into the man's trashcan: "But where in the henhouse? Sympathetic small town police? One of the Bureaus?"

"Your superheroes?" Mr. USA asks, dreading having to ask that question at all.

"What do you !@#$ing mean?" SPYGOD asks back, clearly not pleased to have heard it. 

"Who says they're all on the same page?" the old hero asks, leaning forward: "You've had them on the shelf for a long time, before you activated them-"

"The COMPANY was monitoring them. Any of them went off the rails, they got !@#$ing smacked back into shape, or they got dumped."

"Okay, so what happens when the COMAPNY isn't there to watch them, anymore?" Mr. USA asks, tapping his fingers on the desk: "All those months after the Imago took over, when it was just them, and the world, and a big secret? Who's to say they didn't fall in with the wrong crowd, or develop their own opinions? !@#$, who's to say they didn't have those opinions to begin with? I don't think your trainers made a habit of asking them if the right side won the Civil War, or anything like that?"

For a moment, Mr. USA thinks SPYGOD is going to !@#$ing hit him. But then his gaze softens, and he slowly nods, and looks back at the door.

"You're right," he says: "And they would have been involved with that operation at all levels."

"And who's to say that young man and woman that were shot and killed weren't set up?"

"Or that they were the traitors, and this was just someone's way of crossing the !@#$ 't' before they sent the !@#$ing letter off," SPYGOD sighs, getting up from the desk: "Well, I'll just have to have that !@#$ing looked into, won't I?"

"Yeah, well you better hurry," Mr. USA says: "If they've gotten into the supers, we have a real !@#$ problem."

"We may have more than one," SPYGOD says, looking at the door, and then heading back to the desk: "I've been concerned about someone else."

As Mr. USA watches, he grabs a pen and a scrap piece of paper and writes KEEP TALKING. 

"Who's that?" Mr. USA asks, leaning forward.

"The Attorney General," he says, adopting a more conversational tone: HAVE YOU BEEN FEELING LIKE YOU'VE BEEN BEING !@#$ING WATCHED?

YES, Mr. USA writes back: "What about her? I mean, she's a little rude..."

HOW HAS IT FELT? I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, HERE. "A little rude? Nasty little !@#$ talked to me like that in front of the President I think I'd have made her eat a chair."

Mr. USA hesitates a moment -- "Oh yeah, I remember when you did that, once. Poor guy had to have his jaw completely restructured..." -- and then writes LIKE THAT ONE TIME IN THE WAR, WHEN YOU-KNOW-WHO CALLED UP A YOU-KNOW-WHAT TO ATTACK US.

SPYGOD looks at him, and slowly nods: THAT'S WHAT I'M !@#$ING AFRAID OF. ARE YOU FEELING IT RIGHT !@#$ING NOW?

Oh yes, he is. He points to the door, just knowing that they are being listened to. 

And all too aware that whatever's been giving him that feeling is what's doing the listening. 

SPYGOD nods -- "Well, if you want me to make her eat a chair?" -- and writes I'D BETTER GET DR. KRWI. MEANTIME, YOU KEEP AN EYE OPEN AND YOUR MOUTH SHUT. OKAY?

Mr. USA nods: "I don't think that'll be necessary." 

When he does, SPYGOD tosses the piece of paper up, at which point it smolders, catches fire, and turns to ash well before it hits the desk: "Too bad. You know how much I like getting away with that sort of thing."

"I think we better keep that to ourselves," Mr. USA says, blinking: he had no idea SPYGOD could do things like that. 

"Okay, well, you change your mind?" SPYGOD says, looking at the door. The terrible feeling is no longer there, but whether it got bored and left, or realized it was onto them, is something that will have to wait for a while. 

And then SPYGOD's opening it, and looking up and down the hallway. No footprints, no physical traces. 

Just the fading sense that something evil was standing here, listening to them talk.

11/17/13

"Please tell me what do to, here," the President is sighing into the phone.

"I really don't know, sir," Mr. USA says: "I just don't."

They're talking after a really bad day in court. The Vice President of the United States of America has admitted that, for decades, he allowed someone he thought was SPYGOD to tell him what to do -- more accurately, what not to do -- on pain of his wife and children being killed. As a result of his inaction, horrendous crimes were committed, numerous people were killed, and the steps were laid towards the successful invasion of the Imago.

Needless to say, things do not look very good, right now -- politically or otherwise. 

"How's everyone else taking it?" the President asks.

"Some surprisingly well, some... not so well. I don't think The Owl's going to forgive me anytime soon, and New Man's really angry."

"I don't blame him. I'm really angry."

"But you do understand?" Mr. USA asks, looking out of the window at the dark skies over Paris: "You do know that I was scared for them. I thought I was dealing with the real SPYGOD, here, and you know what it's like when he's set against you..."

"I do, yes," the President says: "And you and I both know what you did to make up for it... well, that goes well beyond the beck and call of duty."

"But we both know that we can't tell anyone about it," Mr. USA nods, sadly: "Some thing have to remain a secret, and that's one of them."

"Is there a reason why?"

"It's... complicated, sir."

"Oh don't give me that!" the President shouts: "Don't you dare give me that! I've got the Speaker of the House calling me every five minutes, trying to get me to dump you and appoint a replacement. And you know who he wants me to nominate, don't you?"

"One of the cabinet members you took on to make him happy," Mr. USA says: "Probably the Attorney General."

"Oh, he's already dropped her name a few times. And that's saying nothing of the press, and believe me, they're already all over me because of this secessionist thing, and what that crazy supervillain !@#$ just did in Israel, and-"

"Sir, calm down," Mr. USA says.

"What?"

"Calm down, sir," the hero says.

"How dare you say that to me-"

"I dare because I'm the man who's supposed to say that to you. That's what you appointed for me, remember?"

There's silence for a moment, then he hears the President mumble "Okay."

"Okay, now, take a deep breath. Think. You're getting wound up, and that's exactly what they want you to do. They want you to lose your cool."

"Oh, I already lost my cool. The only reason I'm not turning this phone back into oil is because I'm trying to be respectful to someone I respect."

"And I appreciate that, sir."

"I just... I need you to give me a reason not to lose that respect."

"Then how about this," Mr. USA says: "You tell the press that... I was mind controlled."

"What?" the President shouts: "Are you !@#$ing kidding me?"

"Sir, it happens all the time, and in a way it was true," the hero sighs: "In fact, if I think about it, I can believe this person was using hypnotic suggestions on me the entire time-"

"Oh, please. You can't be serious."

"I am serious. This person was a very capable and dangerous man, sir. And he still is."

"Yes, and when he hears that-"

"He'll come out of hiding," Mr. USA says: "And then we can finally get him. And then we can explain that my going public with what happened was all part of a ruse to get him out so we could get him."

"And after that, we can tie anything we want to on him," the President says: "Because it's probably true."

"Exactly!" Mr. USA continues: "Heck, he's probably guilty of things a million times worse than we even know about. And while what we're accusing him of isn't entirely true, and not even remotely honest..."

"... it'll keep us afloat until the next crisis comes along," the President continues. 

"And when that crisis comes

The President is silent for a time, and then takes a deep, raggedy breath.

"And in the meantime?"

"I'll talk to the press tomorrow, before we reconvene, and play up my part in this," he says: "You wait until then, and then give your side of it. Say that you didn't want to say anything about this to anyone earlier because... !@#$, I don't know. My family's privacy. National security. Ongoing operations. Anything you can think of."

"I can think of a lot," the President says, all those training sessions in lying with SPYGOD coming back to him, now: "Okay then, that's a plan."

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. President-"

"But just so we're clear?' the President says: "This is it, (REDACTED). This is the last time I'm going to play spin doctor to get you out of trouble you got yourself into, however long ago. I can't afford to be covering for you at the same time I'm having such a hard time covering for myself."

"I agree, sir."

"So if there's anything," the President says: "And I mean anything, that I need to know about, that you know and I don't? I want to hear it right now, sir. No lies, no cover stories. Is there something I should know about my Vice President that's going to come back and bite me in the !@#$ a month, a year, or four years from now?"

And Mr. USA thinks: does he tell him, here and now, what he knows about what happened in Antarctica? Does he tell him what happened to his family, down there, at the hands of the thing that was pretending to be Dr. Yesterday?

Does he tell him what SPYGOD now knows, and is going to have to act upon before too long?

"No sir," he lies: "I think the slate's clear now."

"I sure hope so," the man sighs, and then hangs up.

And Mr. USA can only pray he hasn't made another terrible mistake, right now.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cameras in Paris (The FIXX) and having a Pelforth)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 6

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a great city, recently risen above the waves.

It is a strange thing, that city: a single structure containing echoes from the architectures of all the world's great and long-lost civilizations. Aztec pyramids are surrounded by Greek columns, and rows of creatures akin to the Sphinx of Ancient Egypt stand guard over hanging gardens richly laden with strange fruit. The overlapping walls of Great Zimbabwe form a seamless, seemingly-endless labyrinth in the spaces between structures, their halls endlessly patrolled by the deadliest of sentries.

By day, the city shines strangely in the Sun, as though it were front-lit before a raging, black storm. By night it glows from within, its colors cycling in time with the many giant, white cubes around the world.

And sometimes, in those twilight moments when no human is anywhere near its eerily familiar pyramids and walls, glowing and misshapen things go in and out of its interior -- slipping through the air from the city to the massive, metal dragonfly that hovers above it, and then back again.

Inside that city dwells the great mystery of the Imago, themselves. It houses the massive enigma they have enslaved an entire world to protect. And it is also their weakness, for the secret is the answer.

And whomsoever answers it correctly will destroy them all.

Above that city, in the metal dragonfly that was once the COMPANY's Flier, the faces of most of the beings that have controlled the world for the last seven months are in deep consultation. One of their number -- the one they called The Sight -- is missing, as his incoherent screaming was too much for them to bear.

But even without him, and the powerful service he provided, they are still a force to be reckoned with.

How have they done this to The Sight? their hidden Leader asks, her voice sibilant and wet: What has happened to our eyes and ears on the world?

I think I know, leader, The Motion interrupts, his voice betraying how busy he currently is: Some time ago, there was talk of having a way of turning the entire Internet off. The so called "kill switch." Having an actual switch wasn't feasible, except maybe in the United States, so we, and by we I mean me, put together a package of very powerful viruses that would go all over the world wide web in seconds and destroy the networks. 

So why did you not make certain our networks were safeguarded against this threat? the Dragon asks, burbling up from the pit of neural circuitry he lounges within, deep inside the Flier.

I did. That was one of the first things I did. 

And yet the Internet is dead, and our friend blinded, The Dragon chides him.

Look, I did what I could. But this code is amazingly more complex than what I created-

Can you fix what has been done? The Leader asks.

Maybe not until we're ready to leave the planet, quite frankly, the Motion sighs: This is a mess. And I don't have time to deal with that mess right now-

Speaking of time, the one they call The Fist says, looking down from Deep Ten: I have the projectiles they've launched locked on to. They aren't warheads, and they aren't aimed at the platform. I think they're meant to launch satellites into geostationary orbit-

And there can be only two reasons for them to do that, The Motion interrupts: They're either going to set up a new, secured form of communications we won't have immediate access to, or they're going to send some kind of a jamming signal.

Can they do that? the Leader asks, sounding concerned: Do they have the know-how to do this?

We know that they do, my leader, the Dragon says: The one known as Underman used it on 3/15 to temporarily disable our technology. He has been missing for the last few months, but I doubt he has been idle.  And it would be a logical thing for him to improve upon his previous works.

And if don't have the ability to send a counter-signal through the Internet, anymore, they could knock us down like tin soldiers, The Motion says.

We could still send a counter-signal through Deep Ten, The Fist says: We could send it the same way we're sending our teleporter signals. But by the time we got it working, who knows how many of our power stations they might disrupt? And we'd need that power to send the signal.

Then we'd better shoot those things down quickly? The Motion says: And we'd better get our spy cameras up and running. There's thousands of people all over the world who have our eyes in their head. It's time to use them.

Agreed, The Dragon says: And perhaps we should also target the area around the power stations, while we are destroying the missiles. Their shields can be changed to match the harmonics of the particle cannons, and the deflection would cause a greater amount of destruction on the ground.

I'd be all for that, The Fist says: In fact, I've had a targeting solution planned for such an eventuality.

And speaking of that, the Motion says: While I'm sending out more Specials to mop up what survives the blasts, should we just activate the Extermination Order?

There is no need for that, yet, the leader says: We will need their energy and power in the months ahead. We must rebuild our elevator, and redouble their efforts to build our escape vehicle. 

We could do that with only a tenth of the population, The Fist says: And they'd be a lot easier to control-

It is never wise to throw a valuable resource away simply because it has proven a bit more cumbersome than anticipated, The Dragon opines: One can always find another to help carry the burden. But once the heavy load is gone, it is gone, and there will be no getting it back.

Plus, to be honest, we've still got a lot of converting to do, The Motion admits: Consider my idea withdrawn, at least for now.

Very well, the Leader says: Fist, you may begin. But you must also utilize the spy network, and be prepared to fire upon any sign of resistance. If they were planning on sending up a network to jam our technology, then they must also have forces ready to mobilize. They must be destroyed.

It will be done, The Fist says: And I could be wrong, but I just saw an explosion on the Moon, close to where their base was. May I fire at it a few more times, just to be certain?

That seems a wasteful expenditure at a time like this, The Motion sighs: What are they going to do? Throw moon rocks at us?

I leave that decision in your hands, the Leader says: You all know what you must do now. Do it with the knowledge that I love you all, and that we shall soon be through this crisis, and then back on our way to The Day. All you need is love.

All you need is love, The Motion repeats, preparing to adjust where he teleports his soldiers, and making ready to get them out of the way of their big guns.

All you need is love The Dragon says, sliding his consciousness back into the endless, contemplative loops of thought and memory he spends his time exploring.

All you need is love, The Fist says, targeting all six rockets and the Moon in his first volley, just to be certain. 

All you need is love, The Leader breathes, confident her beloved servants will yet save this day.

And then there is silence in the Flier, yet again, occasionally broken by The Sight trying to come up from his current state of blind panic. As he cries and screams for help, he wonders why no one answers him. Where is the Dragon, who is all-present? Where is the Leader, who says she loves him?

Will no one save him in his time of need?

* * *

"Oh you have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD says, looking up at the roof of Lady Gilda, and listening though it.

He didn't need the Toons to tell him the rockets were away. He could hear them, even all the way across the Pacific Ocean. He could hear them taking off, and could sense when they entered the upper atmosphere. He even felt the world shudder just a little bit as they raced out of it, and prepared to do what they'd been sent up to do.

And that's how he knows something is wrong on the Moon.

There should be a jamming signal coming from there. There should be a harsh, whining vibration, sluicing through the void and being picked up by Deep Ten's communications arrays. There should be a quiet but inescapable voice speaking to its computers at their deepest levels, saying "lay down your arms and surrender."

There is not.

He did, however, hear a loud thump from up there, right around the time he was trying to hear the signal. He felt the bass drum in his chest, and knows that wasn't just an overloaded device frying its circuits, or a blown fuse.

He knows the feel of an explosion. He knows the tactile sensation of a metal object stuffed with explosives one might make in secret, out of leftover scraps of material and chemicals stolen from a disused lab. He knows the taste it leaves in his mouth when they ignite and expand.

And he knows what happens when they're used to take out a pressurized environment...

"We've lost the !@#$ signal," he announces to his forces, wondering who that brave, doubtlessly-dead soul he just lost on the Moon could have been: "Deep Ten is still !@#$ing live. I repeat, Deep Ten is still live."

"What does that mean?" American Shield asks, doing his best to hold off the Specials that are all but overrunning his position.

"It means we're a few !@#$ seconds from !@#$ing needing plan B," SPYGOD says, quickly looking over his cheat cards: "Doctor Power, I need you mobile as of ten seconds ago. Mister Ten, stand by with the Dignitary. All allied forces, get ready to move. And all Supers..."

"Yes?" Mrs. America asks: "Do we have the go-ahead?"

"Converge on secondary targets," SPYGOD says, reaching for the bottle of the stronger stuff his cat has knowingly hidden until this very moment: "Total destruction."

There's cheering by some of his Strategic Talents at that order, but they don't know what he does. He can only hope that, once they learn what he's having them do, they can forgive him.

And maybe they can one day learn to live with that much death.

* * *

At that very moment, all around the world, thousands upon thousands of people begin to die.

Given that the world is raging against its captors, their deaths go mostly unnoticed, except perhaps by those who know them well. Even then, all those observers know for certain is that, for some reason, the dead stopped doing whatever they were doing, and stood or sat perfectly still for exactly ten seconds.

And, after that those ten seconds were done, the dead turned and walked away, heading somewhere else both silently and without emotion. They stopped rioting and looting, and came out of hiding. They walked from their homes or offices, abandoning their families and loved ones.

They got out into the streets to observe what was going on there. They walked behind the angry and idealistic crowds as they charged into Specials, and observed the less noble as they used the confusion to smash store windows and take what they wanted. They spied on hidden forces as they occasionally tipped their hand and came out to see what was going on, themselves.

They watched and listened, still as statues. They did not speak, or respond when spoken to. They could not be deterred or shooed away.

And they stood there until they either collapsed from exhaustion, or were knocked down or killed by stray bullets or sudden dangers.

Later, as the human cost of global revolution would be tabulated, it would be remarked that all these walking dead were people who lost their sight on 3/15, and had had their eyes replaced by the Imago as an apology. But by then, the damage was done. 

And there was simply no way to stop what was coming.

* * *

"Oh God, please help us," Mark says, trying to get up as the devil crashes into the buffet room, fire gouting from its eyes and mouth, its pathetic passenger's eyes still alive even though its body is wrapped in flames.

"Pathetic," Moloch hisses as it strides through the smoking ruin that used to be doors, shrugging off the numerous bullets and blasts from all the guns being pointed in its direction: "Would you kill a metal god with iron and steel?"

"We'll !@#$ well try, you !@#$," Myron shouts, jumping behind some crates of unpacked equipment and aiming for the thing's burning eyes: "No further! You !@#$ing hear me? No further!"

Moloch laughs, rears back, and launches a fireball at the crate Myron's hiding behind. He leaps out of its way just in time to avoid being disintegrated along with it, dropping the gun as he does.

"Let's get it!" one of the SPYGOD SCOUTS shouts, and leads a desperate charge, hoping to cover Myron and their wounded. They run and scream and fire, trying to find the weak spots in the creature.

But if it has any, they do not find it.

Somewhere in the doomed firefight -- as Moloch finds their weak spots all too well -- Winifred realizes that the machine is ready to operate, again. They could evacuate the room, and get poor Thomas back to the real world, if only they could keep the monster at bay long enough to let it warm up and activate. 

If only...

"Skyspear," she says, looking at the African woman, who's clearly wiped out: "How much control do you have over your teleporting ability?"

"I could carry the monster with me, yes," she says, trying to get up from the floor: "But I might not have the strength to return. It's too heavy-"

"I was thinking about the floor," Winifred says, pointing at Moloch's feet.

"Oh," Skyspear says, and, taking the teen's meaning, begins to jog over to the raging, brass beast hoping it doesn't notice her as it tosses fireball after fireball at its attackers, and slaps their burning, melting bodies across the great hall with unbidden glee.

"This slaugher is pointless," the brass beast snorts, turning its sights on the broken form, wrapped in a blanket, over by Mark: "Bring Moloch the boy, Thomas. Operate the machine to send a signal to SPYGOD. Do these things and Moloch shall spare your lives."

"No chance," Mark says, reaching over to shield Thomas with his own body: "You won't be getting any help from us."

"We shall see," Moloch says, getting ready to snort out another fireball. But, just before it does, it realizes that the woman who could appear and disappear is at its feet.

"Hello," she says, jabbing her hands into the wooden floor -- splintering it like matchsticks, and grabbing hold of what's left.

"You dare?" Moloch says, his breath singeing her eyebrows.

"Goodbye!" she shouts, and vanishes, taking a good chunk of the floor it was standing on with her.

Moloch shouts and reaches out, trying to regain its balance. It fails spectacularly, and tumbles down through the hole, breathing fire all the way. There is a spectacular crash, followed by another, and then another, and then...

"Oh wow," Myron says, getting up to the smoking hole and looking down: "How high up is this treehouse?"

"About a half mile," Mark says, making sure Thomas is okay: "But that thing's fast, Myron. Get that machine ready to go."

"You got it," the man says, taking off his bloody, broken sunglasses and going over to get the machine going: "Everyone who's hurt? Grab someone who's knocked out and get onto the platform. We're getting out of here, now."

He doesn't have to tell them twice. The survivors get onto the platform, dragging the badly wounded and knocked out behind them. A few of them have the good sense to organize a proper stretcher for Thomas, and one of the Scouts makes he's getting enough oxygen. 

Skyspear appears a second later, holding a large, medical-looking thing in her arms. She's able to take two steps before falling to her knees, bleeding from her nose. Mark hobbles over to her, taking the machine from her and handing it off to someone else.

"Thank you," he says, wrapping his arms around her: "What can I do to help you?"

"I will be fine, soon," she sighs, smiling at him with bloodshot eyes: "God willing."

"I think we're gonna be okay," Mark says, looking around and wincing at having just said that. All around are the dead and dying, their bodies burned and broken on the floor like wreckage from a bomb. 

Mark closes his eyes and prays for them, wishing this victory could have come at less of a human cost. As he does, strange, thumping noises can be heard. 

"What was that?" Winifred asks, holding up a hand.

"Not the machine," Myron says, looking around as the device in question begins clicking and clacking, preparing to go.

"Was that Moloch hitting the ground?" Mark asks, but then realizes the sound is coming from the hallway. 

And it's footfalls -- heavy, thumping. 

Metallic.

"Fools!' Moloch shouts, its voice echoing down the hallways: "What is a body to a god? So long as there is metal, Moloch is immortal."

"I need another three minutes," Myron sighs as the machine slowly thrums into life: "Please just keep him back that long!"

Winifred grabs the gun Myron put down and aims it down the hallway, for all the good it might do. In that moment, Myron couldn't love her any more. In that moment, she wishes she could tell him the same. 

"Oh !@#$," Mark says, holding Skyspear close as she starts to cry in frustration and fear: "Oh dear Lord, please help us..."

But the only god that chooses to act in that moment is Moloch, and it chooses to laugh.

* * *

All around the massive, trans-Lunar weapons platform known as Deep Ten, hatches slide open, and scores of large cannons protrude. Their movement gives the ring the appearance of a spiky leather cuff -- the sort of thing a rock and roll god might wear on stage to avoid looking wimpy under the lights.

And then, one by one, they swivel around on their mounts, so that they are no longer pointing outwards, as they were intended to do, but inwards, at the Earth.

The Fist -- the being masquerading as Director Straffer, however imperfectly -- sits in his grand control room, looking through a massive, glass and steel window, down at the blue and green gem that this truly amazing place once guarded.

And as his robots move around him, going from station to station and preparing to fire, he cracks his knuckles and ponders the best place to write his name -- his true name -- across the face of this world, just before they abandon it to its fate.

"Activate program B-4," he orders, sipping at the martini one of his robots has brought him: "Start with the lunar surface. Might as well get that out of the way, first."

The entire station vibrates and hums as the cannons build up to charge. It's a wonderful feeling -- almost sexual, as if he was about to come.

"I wish I could just vaporize it all," he muses, hoping that the Leader didn't hear him, but knowing that it means nothing to her, anymore.

And with a wave of his hand as he sips on a Martini, he condemns the world he hates to slavery, followed by oblivion. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Agent Orange (Depeche Mode) and having a !@#$ing !@#$ beer)

7/3-7/12 - The Gate is Straight, Deep, and Wide - pt. 5

You know, son, when I realized that I was actually !@#$ing immortal, and not just long-lived, anymore, I had a few nights when I lay awake, staring at the !@#$ing ceiling, and wondering what life might be like in the far, far future.

It was the 60's, and I was between missions, and I couldn't get that one !@#$ing  'in the year 2525' song out of my !@#$ head. And I wondered, if I lived long enough to see the year 9595, what would it look like? Would any of my friends be there with me? Would I actually have a !@#$ing purpose, or would I be some weird-!@#$ creature in a zoo for Martians, or something?

Would I really want to be there?

Well, son, it's the year three billion and change, and this parallel future Earth's interpretation of Jim Morrison and I are fighting like madmen to save what's left of this !@#$ed-up ball of dust from angry, walking cities carrying a techno-virus, localized entropy gone bad and rotten, and a decidedly non-Christian form of Jesus Christ.

All at !@#$ing once, no less.

The good news is that, even in this world, Jim's still got his sword and his his combat magic, and a keen focus that he didn't used to have, back in our world. The better news is that he was able to magic me up some big !@#$ing guns that don't seem to run out of ammo, much less miss.

(Even better news? He found me the world's last stash of tjbang sticks, and boy do I feel !@#$ing good right now to be chewing on a handful.)

But, as you might guess, there is bad news.

For one thing, the Moon's about to crash into the Earth, right over our !@#$ing heads, courtesy of a really !@#$ing weird thing. For another, an army of killer angels is flying here to destroy us for you-know-who, courtesy of His having returned at the worst possible !@#$ing moment, ever.

And, last but not least, and most !@#$ing pressing, we're running out of room to fight the !@#$ bio-automatons the anti-city we've just landed in is sending out to capture and convert us.

"You know," Jim says as he throws a wave of white-hot fire from the flat of his sword, boiling several cyborg brains in the process: "I really don't like this scene, man."

"Yeah?" I reply, firing away and relishing the utter lack of recoil on these things: "What's !@#$ing wrong with it, other than the obvious?"

"Expiring these people, man. They're just victims in all this. It's not really their fault this city got hijacked and decided to eat them all up."

"You got that !@#$ right," I tell him, nailing another wave of battle-borgs right in the groin, and watching with no little satisfaction as the blasts make their legs violently separate from their hips, dropping them to the ground like maimed cartoon characters: "But I think they'll !@#$ing thank you for it, later."

"They'll probably be the only ones left," he laughs, pulling off some complicated sword- and spell-craft to try and clear us a path so we can be done with this !@#$ faster. But we've got miles to go before then, waves upon waves of frenzied borgs to fight through, and I can see the !@#$ing waves of killer angels from here...

He sees the angels, too, and then something in him changes. The worry and concern are gone, suddenly, as though someone turned those feelings off from inside his skull. He half sings, half speaks a poem that I know all too !@#$ing well:

Bird of prey

Bird of prey

Flying high

Am I going to die...?

And then leaps behind me, watching my back with his sword and sorceries so I can blast our way through the waves with these lovely, big !@#$ing guns his magic has provided for me. With that change in tactics (which, to be honest, I should have !@#$ing thought of first) our way just got a little !@#$ing easier.

Will it be enough to succeed? !@#$ed if I know. But as the moon comes down so low it almost looks like we can reach up and write "!@#$ YOU" in its surface dust, I remember that Jim is never more !@#$ing magnificent than when the odds are stacked against him, the stakes are all-or-nothing, and the end is well and !@#$ing nigh.

So there's really no way we can lose this one, is there?

* * *

Did I mention this was turning out to be the craziest skull!@#$ing I ever embarked on? 

I don't know if it was the radioactive mares milk I was slugging, the Mongolian Shamans, the dead they whistled up, or that spectacular session of ghost-!@#$ing that I and my best ever frenemy had, back at the campfire. But I came to in this strange future on an alternate Earth, and here's Jim Morrison (More, as he's called here) to ply me with strange wine and listen to my numerous troubles. 

Of course, there's a trip involved. Ours takes us over a nearby Anti-City, slowly stalking its way to Yul4n-B4tt4r, and a close scan of its layout and defenses. Jim tells me it's part of the !@#$ing plan, too, but he's still figuring out what that plan is.

Not that he has a lot of time, by that point, given the Moon and the Angels and Jesus !@#$ing Christ, back and wanting to reign in blood. But there's a certain ritual about these kinds of things, as I've found out time and again with him, and he's not eager to disrupt the magic just to adhere to my sense of urgency in the face of the Moon coming in to crack this Earth open like a !@#$ing egg.

"You just got to be, man, you dig?" he tells me, pouring me more of that weird, bubbling, black wine as we rocket past the last line of the Anti-City's defenses and hurtle back into the deserts, well clear of its ability to harm us: "We're engaging in sweet subterfuge of the rules of the world, here. Every step we take from here on out is predestined for greatness, but only if we remain aware that the dance is half choice, half chance. You go too far one way or the other, and it's all over, man."

"You know I never get tired of hearing you tell me to calm down and follow your lead," I tell him, clinking my glass against his.

"'Gotta love your man,'" he sings, and I laugh black bubbles, unable to control myself. 

"Was I like this, then, too?" he asks, once I've stopped almost choking on dinosaur poop grape wine: "Back in your time, I mean."

"You were !@#$ing amazing," I say, having a heady swig: "Or he was, anyway. How do we talk about you?"

"He is me, he was me, he will be me," Jim intones, gesturing to the controls of the hover platform so as to make it slow down, change course, and take us towards his desert stronghold: "Many mortal lives, one immortal day. Into this house we're born, into this world we're thrown. Ever and ever, amen."

"So how do you know who's who?"

He laughs: "When the sun's at the horizon, do you know if it's morning or night if you don't know which way you're facing?"

"Good point."

"Yeah," he says, easing us down into the dunes: "Except I think this is night, here, man. The Moon's got something to say about that."

* * *

So what's this Jim like, then?

Well, son, he's Jim, after a fashion. His hair is lighter and straighter, worn down just past his skinny hips. He's got darker skin, maybe from somewhere on the Indian Subcontinent, and he's a head taller and quite thinner than he used to be. Wider nose, maybe. Thinner lips.

But it's the eyes, son. The eyes are exactly the !@#$ing same. Heavy and portentous, with a depth you could get !@#$ing lost in forever, and smoldering hot enough to catch even the coldest of hearts on fire.

He's wearing some weird, light robe that goes just past his ankles, high-tech sandals that seem to be synched up with all the electronics I've seen so far, and a green tabard that's part armor, part Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Every so often the brocade re-arranges itself, either to let him move easier or because it's adjusting to the differences in temperature, humidity, and exertion. 

He's also got enough metal in his ears to weld a !@#$ing Heathkit television together. Gold, silver, copper, brass, and a few other alloys and elements I'm having a hard !@#$ time identifying, all looped and stamped and dangling from every available millimeter of skin.

Oh, and he sounds almost exactly the same, too. His accent's a little off (Minneapolis by way of New Delhi, I'm thinking) and some of his slang's made up of weird Indian colloquialisms and concepts I don't have a reference for, yet. But the basic cadence and rhythm is almost exactly what I remember: slow and halting but yet strangely sure at times, and quick and winking at others. 

And he still sings like a !@#$ing angel, which is nice, seeing as how we might wind up having a fight a whole !@#$load of them, this day.

* * *

The change in tactics works like a charm, and before long my guns have cleared us a path right down the gullet of the anti-city, and straight towards its tall, beetling control center.

Of course, getting in there is going to be one big !@#$ing party. Between the fact that it's !@#$ing out battle-borgs like it's got angry metal diarrhea, and the way it's growing iron tentacles to try and grab us for a conversion job, this really is a case of going headfirst into the mouth of the !@#$ing lion to try and eat its heart out.

"We need to shift, man," he says, preparing some sort of more complicated spell as we go forward: "I'll tell you when to jump. You still remember how, right?"

"Yeah, I think I'm not gonna !@#$ing forget that one time in Reno with your band anytime soon."

"Ha," he says: "I'd almost forgotten about that. Those were some times, man. They still okay?"

I don't have the heart to tell him the truth, now that we're up to our !@#$ing clavicles in post-humans with bad attitudes, long silver talons, and brain-filled Cuisinarts for skulls.

"They're alright, man," I lie: "But the last reunion tour sucked !@#$."

"So did our last album," he says, unleashing a bright, pulsing light from his hands: "Jump!"

And we do.

* * *

Jim's stronghold can best be described as a massive, high-ceilinged, neo-retro-absurdist-Italianate mansion that someone had the good taste to completely bury under the dirt and sand.

The ground !@#$ing opens up as we approach to let us in, like invisible hands were digging us a massive grave, and then filling it in just behind us as we glide down into the front foyer of his place. And I can almost feel the oppressive weight of the earth above, leaning down on the roof and walls, and actually cracking through in places as little falls of dust and rock tumble down, their rustling echoing off the white and gold walls.

The place is filled with classical, white marble statues in varying degrees of togetherness. It reminds me of a scene from that stupid, weird-!@#$ movie where James Bond was running around in a red diaper and shooting psychic hippies, only without the strange need to choke the living !@#$ out of my guide.

"I've been working on saving as much of the really good old stuff as I can," Jim explains, walking us up the massive stairwell to a large hallway, which is also jam-packed with as many !@#$ing statues as could be in there, plus about ten more.

"What did you do with the bad old stuff?" I ask.

Perhaps in response he smiles, pulls out his magical sword (which is always right in front of him, even if you can't see it), and promptly decapitates what I hope to God isn't the Venus de Milo.

"Don't worry," he says, smiling, and putting the sword back where he keeps it: "It'll grow back, eventually."

As we walk away, I see that it does. The !@#$ing head on the floor turns to a cloud of steam, and then vanishes. Then a cloud of steam appears where it had been on the statue's neck and begins to reform there, where it had been.

Nanotech, maybe? Son of nanotech? Who can say? But this age has already impressed me with its almost casual miraculousness.

And scared me !@#$less, too.

* * *

Case in !@#$ing point? The tower we just teleported into is a meat machine, and we're dodging the blades as we go.

Leave it to whatever crazy-!@#$ electronaut decided to recreate this city in his or her own, insane image to put the city's central processing unit right under its control center. Does he stride around the parapet up there, watching people get conveyor belted into machines on his !@#$ing coffee breaks? Jesus !@#$.

Lucky for us, our sudden appearance gives us about five !@#$ing seconds to orient ourselves and come up with a new !@#$ attack plan before the machines over the conveyor belts turn right around and started try to fling us into the giant pen of victims at the other end. Unfortunately, there are a !@#$ton of machines, and only the two of us, not to mention all the poor victims of this city's hijacking that need a !@#$ing rescue, right about now.

So what do we do? Look at each other and laugh, and then start fighting again, we two killers on the road.

Fight our way past the borgs that are running off the other end of the reassembly line, all oiled and shiny and ready to kick !@#$ for their master. Fight the steel tentacles and iron waldoes that are trying to trip us up or hold us down. Fight through the lines of slicing blades, cutting beams, circuit printers, and other implements of reconstruction that should be remaking the anti-city's victims, but are trying to take us down, instead.

Fight off the floor and up the parapet, launched up by hover discs and magic spells, slashing up and shooting down and then changing the game around when we experience different obstacles, or weirder adversaries.

This is how we do this, son. This is how we win.

* * *

Of course, when he tells me the plan we're going to win with, in the first place, I have to not !@#$ing laugh, because it's quite literally the craziest !@#$ing thing I've ever heard. 

(And, considering some of the crazy-!@#$ schemes yours truly has come up with over the years, son, that is !@#$ing saying something.)

So what does Jim do? Lean back in the deep, cushy chair he plopped into when we got into his "office," which is just a large room full of teetering, vertical stacks of old books, outcroppings of comfortable chairs, and what seems like a fire in the center but is really the holographic interface for his mansion's AI, and smile at me.

"Look, Jim," I say, having more of that weird, black froth he's been plying me with: "It's not that I !@#$ing doubt your sanity, but are you !@#$ing crazy? That plan's got more holes than a wheel of baby swiss."

"I miss cheese," he replies: "All the mammals are gone, now, and the stuff they make and call cheese just isn't the same. So I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Have a really big piece for me when you get back," he says, closing his eyes: "On my way, I'm going to imagine you biting into it, and taking your time to savor that everyday miracle. I'll take that thought with me, gladly."

"And that's another problem. Do you really think that'll get me back? I still don't know how the !@#$ I got here?"

"I do," he winks: "And when the time comes, you'll remember."

"Really?"

"You see, you're too hung up on the specifics, (REDACTED)" he says, leaning forward and talking with his hands: "Sometimes you just have to club the basics of the plan together, and let it evolve on the go."

"That usually leads to sloppiness, and being sloppy gets people !@#$ing killed."

He smiles: "And there you are, man. Why are you so afraid of that?"

"Of not getting people killed?"

"Of getting yourself killed."

I cough: "Jim, maybe you're forgetting? I can't !@#$ing die."

"I know. And I can't stop being reborn, maybe. But you do have limits, (REDACTED). I've seen them happen. And you are afraid of them."

What can I say? He's got me !@#$ing cold. "Okay, yeah. !@#$ it, I am afraid. But I wouldn't be human if I wasn't."

He shakes his head: "They had Samurai in your world, right?"

"Yeah."

"Those men were fearless of death, man. And that's because they were already dead. The moment they took up their swords to fight, it was as if they stopped breathing, and were nothing more than the will of their leaders. They sought out death, then, because it would mean that the spiritual reality they had accepted would finally meet the physical, and they could rest in peace. But until then...?"

"Yes?"

He smiles, and pours himself more of that weird, black wine: "Until then, they dared do anything, because death was no longer a barrier. They had transcended it, dig? They had walked through that door. And they weren't the only ones who learned that trick."

"So how does that save the world, today?"

"We remember the first rule of assassination," he says, getting up to pour me some more of that froth: "You can kill anyone, anywhere, at any time, so long as you do it without fear, and without worrying about your own life. As soon as you realize that your life was made forfeit the moment you made a plan to end someone else's, anything becomes possible."

"Who told you that crazy !@#$?" I ask him, scowling.

And he smiles, pats me on the shoulder, and points a finger in my face. 

And he's right. I did. A long time ago, in a dusty, dark bar, early in his career. And he sat there, looking at me like I was !@#$ing crazy, but somehow understanding on a level that was just below the surface, working in secret behind those amazing, dark eyes of his.

So now the student's become the master, and he's schooling me like a Trainee during Hell Month. Not a great feeling, let me tell you, son. But it's Jim, and he knows what he's talking about, and always has (even when it seemed like he didn't) so I'm happy to follow him into his madness, again.

I just have to hope I don't have to dig that second grave, today.

* * *

"You won't... you can't..." the Electronaut is insisting, getting weaker by the word.

He's in ten pieces on the floor, smeared and sliced and burned by all the power that Jim and I could direct his way. We didn't even give his sorry, metal and flesh !@#$ a second to gloat and monologue before all but tearing him to !@#$ing flinders. 

And yet his misshapen, too-many-brains-for-one-!@#$ing-skull head is still looking at us, and still talking. The weird, 80's progressive rock album cover metal suit he's wearing is trying to staple his body back together, but Jim's got his pieces warded from one another, so !@#$ that.

"We can, we will," I tell him, firing my guns down into the floor below, making sure the machines following us don't get any !@#$ing ideas. A few more shots free the prisoners in their pen, for which they're grateful, but they sure as !@#$ better get moving, because this !@#$ train's about to start moving.

"I think I've got it together, over here," Jim says to me, over by the central control nodule the Electronaut jumped out of when we got up here. He's ripped it apart and reassembled it in a new, strange configuration, and most of the lights and screens floating around it are lighting on and off in time with Jim's computerized sandals. 

"Will it work?" I ask, shooting a few more times at the Electronaut's sorry head as I stride over. It goes skidding across the floor, losing teeth and circuits as it goes.

"Well, if it doesn't, this is going to be a really weird trip," he laughs: "You ready for your bit?"

"As I'll ever be."

"You have it, right?"

I smile and pat my pants pocket: "I got it."

"Good. Now remember, as soon as I leave, I can't concentrate on the guns, anymore. You'll have to go it alone."

"No great problem," I lie, and clap him on the shoulder: "I wish we had more time."

He just smiles: "Time's all we'll have, soon, man. You get back and do your thing. You'll see me soon enough, after that."

"I'll... I'll look forward to that," I say, and head for the parapet. I don't want to look back because if I do, I'll probably get all !@#$ing misty-eyed or some such, and I really need to have my !@#$ing butch on, right now. 

"Hey, (REDACTED)?" he shouts after me.

"What?" I ask, looking down and seeing the masses of angry borgs trying to climb up to get at me.

"Just remember, the way out is the way in."

I look back at him, but by that point he's turned around and is convincing the anti-city to do the thing he wants it to do. I can't tell if he's !@#$ing me, or dropping one final pearl of wisdom. It's always hard to tell with him.

Of course, he's singing:

Take him by the hand

Make him understand

The world on you depends

This life will never end

Gotta love your man... 

And it's so beautiful and perfect that it makes me want to cry. But if I cry, I'm going to run over and hug him. And if I do that, I'm going to fall down and thank him for giving me the gift of this day, and these battles, and his simple wisdom that's finally kicked me in the !@#$ing !@#$ enough to be able to go home reborn, and take up my plans and my guns and go save the !@#$ing world again...

But there just isn't time. There never !@#$ing is. 

So I leap over the !@#$ing parapet, down into the teeming masses of borgs, and hope the magic guns hold themselves together just long enough to get me the !@#$ out of this !@#$ anti-city before it converts for space travel, and launches itself towards the !@#$ Moon. 

Cause that's the plan, son. And if you think that sounds !@#$ing crazy, just wait until you see the rest of it go down. 

(SPYGOD's listening to Riders on the Storm (The Doors) and having more of that weird !@#$)