5/5/61 - The Things We've Done Together While Our Hearts Were Young - Pt. 4

Main Photo: Chicago -1928
Jester of Justice, The Owl, The Wraith, Sky Commander, Mister Future
(Art by Dean Stahl)

 * * *

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Liberty Belle says, shaking her head: "They did get their orders from SQUASH?"

"That's what the multiple lady is saying, yes," Mrs. Liberty says, watching as the two surviving super-commies get packed into a COMPANY helicopter, awaiting a one-way trip up to The Flier, directly overhead.

(Krasnoye Koltso died as soon as Dr. Chaos went back to "normal," which was probably the best thing.)

"What else is she saying?" the small woman asks, patting one of the pouches of her utility belt. Shivering a little.

"The Crimson Assassin showed up at their headquarters in the middle of the night with orders, which he said came straight from SQUASH. They were told to drop everything, pack up, and get onto a submarine. Then, halfway through the journey, they each unsealed their actual mission briefs. And that was that they were to come here and create a believable diversion, but not actually attack the rocket, itself."

"Why the !@#$ not?" Liberty Belle asks, quickly growing impatient. Needy.

(Desperately hoping her old friend doesn't notice.)

"She doesn't know," Mrs. Liberty answers, doing her best to pretend she isn't noticing: "But the two-man rocket teams were a distraction for them to sneak onto the base, and then they were a distraction for Crimson Assassin. We were meant to think the danger was over, so we could go along with the launch as scheduled."

"And then he'd blow up the rocket from God knows where," the short heroine sighs: "So where the !@#$ is he?"

"They don't know, hon. He left hours before they did, and they weren't supposed to ask what he was doing. But he took the weapon he always uses for long-distance kills."

"The perfect thing to kill a rocket with," Liberty Belle muses, looking at the bag holding what's left of the ring-slinger -- now being carried towards another waiting helicopter, along with the sorry remains of Sovetsky Skorost: "And we have no idea where he is, do we?"

"No. Dr. Yesterday says SPYGOD does, though. He drove off in his car to go find him."

"So if we find SPYGOD, we find him. Great. Where's Mr. USA?"

"Finding SPYGOD," Mrs. Liberty says, smiling a little: "I figured we were good, here."

"I sure hope so," Liberty Belle sighs: "Alright then. Tell Corporal Flag to get his !@#$ over here. I want to know more about this mysterious janitor who saved his !@#$."

"You got it, hon," Mrs. Liberty says, hoping what her friend is using chills her out before he gets there.

"And find that useless speeder, will you?" the short heroine shouts after her: "I haven't seen him since I saved him from that red soviet streak of !@#$. He probably got himself stuck in a hole, somewhere."

Mrs. Liberty nods and keeps going. As she does, the helicopter carrying the dead Soviet supers takes off, and Liberty Belle watches it go, remembering the medical helicopters from Korea -- ever-ferrying the dead and the dying away from the killing fields.

She also remembers the time she met Krasnoye Koltso in battle, somewhere in Naktong. Only then he was six foot something, and built like a brick !@#$house -- not the scrawny, little guy she'd just seen zipped into a bag.

Maybe his weapon was too hungry for him to handle...?

"Masks," Liberty Belle sighs, taking a quick bump of a red and moving powder from the box at her belt: "They'll !@#$ing get you killed..."

* * *

"I just don't know why she has to be so darn mean about it," Swiftfoot says, putting his pants back on: "I mean, we're both getting something out of this arrangement."

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, looking at his watch and wondering how much time they actually have, now: "She's covering for you being !@#$ing queer. And you're !@#$ing covering for her being found out to be a big !@#$ ballbuster. I don't think that's a fair trade, Steven."

"So, should I tell her it's over?"

"Under no !@#$ing circumstances," SPYGOD says, giving the speeder that look: "As long as she's got a perceived hold over you, you've got a !@#$ing hold over her, too. Someday we might need it. Especially if she keeps using that Martian cocaine. That !@#$ will mess her up."

"She needs it for her throat-"

"Bull!@#$. She's hooked. And the only thing more dangerous that a junkie with powers is a junkie who happens to be a !@#$ing national symbol."

"You don't trust her?" Swiftfoot asks, putting his helmet back on.

"I !@#$ing trust no one," SPYGOD grumbles, getting up to get dressed: "Not her, not you. Not even my own !@#$ self, sometimes."

"Sounds pretty lonely," Swiftfoot says, now completely clothed and kitted out.

"It !@#$ing works for me," SPYGOD says, considering what to do now.

The Crimson Assassin is lying facedown in the grass, not ten feet from where SPYGOD and Swiftfoot had been coupling. They hadn't actually planned to have sex after this, but something about the moment had been too much for either them to resist. So they'd let that moment take control of them, and just hoped no one called or came flying by in the meantime.

(One good thing about sex with a speedster -- it's as fast as it is furious.)

As for what they had planned -- well, that had gone off pretty !@#$ well.

Swiftfoot was alone and at loose ends, back at the Cape. He was, therefore able to zip over to SPYGOD's location when he called, and then hide nearby. He watched SPYGOD approach the island and land. He also watched him be shot at, threatened, and then challenged by the Crimson Assassin.

And then, when the Soviet's count had reached zero, he ran across the water, zipped up onto the island, snatched the would-be rocket-killer's bullet from the air, and then took the wondergun from his hands. That left SPYGOD clear to dive to the ground, get his guns back, and put a bullet from each into the Crimson Assassin's brains -- dead-bang right through those sunglasses.

Again -- luck. Bright blue, obscene luck, still shining on mother's little (REDACTED). 

"So," SPYGOD says, putting his shirt and jacket back on: "Anything else to report?"

"Well, New Man's still chasing young girls, but then so's Dr. Chaos," Swiftfoot says, clearly not liking to dish the dirt on his own people: "No one underage, thankfully. But still-"

"One bareback rendezvous and we got !@#$ing superbabies, bad headlines, and a big !@#$ paternity lawsuit," SPYGOD sighs, picking the boxed-in-ball that Hǫfuð's turned into from where his speedy lover dropped it: "Whine about it to Belle. See if she'll get them to stop. Anything else?"

"Yeah, about Dr. Chaos... he's getting really darn weird, lately."

"What the !@#$ do you mean?"

"I mean he's spacing out more often. Says things all mixed up even when he's not using his powers. Stays under longer."

"Not good," SPYGOD muses, finally just shoving the box that was a wonderweapon into one of his jacket's deeper pockets, right along with the highly-peculiar bullet that Swiftfoot snatched from the air: "Mention something to Mr. USA. If the blue-haired !@#$er goes over the edge, he's the best to deal with it."

"Okay."

"And... has he said anything about me lately?"

"Who?"

"You know who," SPYGOD says, scowling a little.

"Um, no," Swiftfoot lies: "Not really. No."

"Alright, then," SPYGOD says, knowing he's being lied to but, also knowing why, deciding to let it go.

Instead, he moves over to the Crimson Assasin, and regards his cooling corpse. He thinks of how good it would have been to have actually beaten the !@#$ out of his man in something approaching a fair fight. How satisfying it would have been to have had a real duel with him -- maybe a harried, twilight chase over the rooftops of Berlin, each one just a careless mistake from taking a bullet to the back of the head.

Something like this almost seems like an insult to a worthy opponent -- one who'd been at least willing to give him a slim chance...

That reminds him. He kneels down, gently turning the fallen Soviet's head to the side so he can get a better look at his ruined face.

"Well I'll be !@#$ed," he says, suddenly realizing something very important...

"What?" Swiftfoot asks, clearly impatient to be going.

"Nothing," SPYGOD lies, turning the head back, and knowing what he has to do, now.

"So, what's the story, then?" the speedster asks: "Was I even here?"

"No, but you are now," SPYGOD says, going to his car and reaching somewhere under the dashboard: "I called you to come get me back to the Cape, since my car's !@#$ed. You got here to find me smoking a !@#$ cigarette over a dead !@#$ commie. Problem solved, day saved, and if you think I'm going to !@#$ing tell them any more than that..."

"... they're !@#$ing !@#$ out of luck," Swiftfoot finishes, shaking his head: "You're a tough nut to crack, (REDACTED)."

"You didn't do so bad, just now," SPYGOD chuckles, grabbing a few things out of the glove compartment and the back seat, and tossing them into a handsome, leather carrying bag he had under the passenger seat.

"Don't remind me. I'm still in pain after what that other guy did-"

SPYGOD interrupts him by taking him roughly by the collar and giving him one !@#$ of a kiss: "I'll kiss it and make it !@#$ing better, next time. Now how about you !@#$ing get me to the Cape before that stuck-up flying !@#$ comes by and catches us at it?"

"IThinkICanDoThaT," the speeder says, picking him up and carrying him away.

Ten seconds later the Aston Martin Spider goes BANG with the power of a half a ton of TNT -- all but vaporizing the surface of Bird Island, and incinerating the body of the Crimson Assassin right along with it.

* * *

After that, it's all just pieces to pick up, remix, and reassemble as though nothing had ever happened.

SPYGOD gets back to Cape Canaveral in plenty of time to catch the launch. He makes arrangements with the Flier to have the living Soviet heroes taken to the Heptagon for interrogation and confinement. He makes similar arrangements for the dead ones, though they'll be going somewhere entirely different.

(He also puts out an APB on Black Shadow, if only because he isn't assured that New Man really "dealt with him" this time.)

Mrs. Liberty and Mr USA take the opportunity to pose for publicity photographs with the others, which SPYGOD takes a perverse pleasure in not being in. He also finds amusement in how everyone's faces fall after the shots are done, and they have to face one another again, though that's a sadder, more awkward kind of humor.

After that, the majority of the Freedom Force gets onto the weird vehicle that Swiftfoot powers with his own motion, and zooms back to the Heptagon. Gold Standard shakes SPYGOD's hand, they settle on the when for their bet, and he flies back to Atlanta. 

Then Mr USA flies after him, doing his best to avoid looking in SPYGOD's direction. As such, he probably doesn't see SPYGOD flip him the bird. Or maybe he does.

Once they're all gone, he meets Agent Jerome "Jolly" Jones, and realizes he likes the bespectacled little nerd on first sight. He's competent and obedient, but not afraid to talk straight or insist on certain standards of behavior from his superiors -- which he does after the third time SPYGOD tries to get him to share a victory beer.

They shake hands and part well, though, and as he watches him leave SPYGOD decides he's found the one man he can trust to be his second in command.

(He doesn't even bother calling that brown-nosing twerp who's got the post now. Let Fredericks sweat a bit -- see what he does, who he calls.)

Then the Flier's gone, leaving behind a new car for him. It's just like the last one, only the new license is BTFU02, and the instruction manual indicates there's even more weapons under the hood than the last one. Excellent. 

They also left him a box of cigars in case he felt like sharing, which he most certainly does not.

* * *

Twenty minutes until the launch, SPYGOD parks his new car into what passes as the officer's lot. In the process, he angles it across two spaces so as to be at just the right position to catch the best view in the house. Some Captain walking by gives him a dirty look, but as soon as he realizes who it is, he hustles away without saying another word.

Five minutes later, an old, tall, black janitor walks on up to the car, and nods. SPYGOD nods back, and offers the man a beer, but his visitor politely declines.

"I heard you saved Corporal Flag's !@#$ today," SPYGOD says: "Thanks for that."

"He's a young fool," the old man says, his voice a lot more firm than his body would suggest: "He thinks with his fears, not his mind. He sees power as a thing to be had, not earned."

"Yeah, well, he's still learning," SPYGOD admits.

"He will fail to be anything more than he is unless someone teaches him better." 

"You volunteering, then?"

The old man considers it, then nods: "My classroom. My rules. No mercy."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, old man," SPYGOD says: "Anything else I should know?"

"The crazy one is going to be a problem," the old man says: "Sooner or later he's going to go so far out that he won't come back. Death comes closer every day."

"Anything we can do?"

"Kill him now."

SPYGOD sighs, looking at his beer: "That's what I !@#$ing love about you, Wraith. You know how to just come straight to the !@#$ point."

"You don't hire me for my looks," the old man says, smiling: "Have my student ready for me in a month. Don't expect to see him for a while."

"Okay," SPYGOD says: "Thanks again."

"Be seeing you," the Wraith says, making a curious 'ok' sign by his right eye with his right hand, and then walking away. He takes three steps and then disappears into thin air, as always. 

"'Be seeing you,'" SPYGOD muses, really liking it.

* * *

9:34 in the AM finds him watching Mercury-Redstone 3 carry Alan Shepard up, up, and away into space and history. He salutes the rocket with an open beer, which he leans back in the drivers' seat and sips at, pleased as !@#$ that, for once, being in the right place at the right time doesn't involve shooting or being shot at.

The car phone rings, just as the rocket arcs out of sight. He shrugs, belches, and picks it up: "Hello?"

"I take it you got my message," a voice he's only heard a few times before breathes into the other end.

"I did, yes," SPYGOD says, putting the beer down and looking this way and that, wondering if he's in someone's crosshairs right now.

"You are most welcome, my sweet enemy," the Dragon says: "I knew you would know what to do with it."

"I sure !@#$ing did," SPYGOD grumbles: "So what's the big !@#$ idea? I didn't think ratting the Ruskies out was your style."

"Who says that I did?"

SPYGOD blinks, thinking: "Wait, was Nikki telling the !@#$ truth? Was all this out of his !@#$ing control?"

"Clearly," the Dragon says, and not without some humor.

"So what was the big !@#$ plan, here? Did you have one of your !@#$ people pretend to be SQUASH, get them all on a sub, and then send them over here to provoke a !@#$ing war?"

"That would be foolish. Why would I then tell you how to find the killer?"

"I have no !@#$ing idea," SPYGOD sighs: "I gave up trying to !@#$ing figure you out years ago."

"That is disappointing to hear. I would think our relationship should be a wonderful puzzle for you to keep solving, every day we are at each other's throats."

"Yeah," SPYGOD replies, wondering what that throat might taste like. His lips. His chest.

His !@#$...

He shakes that strangely-delicious thought out of his head, just as the Dragon starts speaking again: "To that end? Let me make a suggestion. It was not the Kremlin, the KGB, or SQUASH. And it was not me or mine. But that leaves many other players on the field, some of which even you know nothing about."

"Yeah, that'll be the !@#$ing day."

"Everything is changing, my sweet enemy," the Dragon breathes: "The borders are moving. Allegiances shift in their wake. And not everyone is who or what they seem."

"What is this? Zen koan-a-go-go?"

"It is the model of the world to come. Be aware. Trust no one. And be careful where you step."

"Yeah, well... be seeing you," SPYGOD says, slamming the phone down: "Mother!@#$er."

He drinks another beer, grousing all the while. He thinks about what this all means, and decides he doesn't !@#$ing like it. Not one !@#$ bit.

So he decides to drive back up to DC. Tonight. And he's not going to bother saying goodbye, either.

"Running Scared" by Roy Orbison comes on the radio just as he leaves the base. Of course it would.

* * *

1/11/13
The Heptagon, Washington DC

"So that was Operation Mercury Maybird Boom?" Henri asks, almost incredulous as he scrolls down the report on his office computer in the Palace, in Paris. 

"That it was," Josie replies over the super-secure video-link line they're communicating over, in the strangely-stark Director's office in the Heptagon, in DC: "Our former Director had a really darn interesting way of putting things, if you ask me."

"I have to agree with you," the President's personal secretary says, turning down the American music he's been listening to (Steely Dan: Glamour Profession): "These Triple-Black cases you have been kind enough to help me with are just insane. Operation Easter Pizza? Operation !@#$ Your Mother? Merde!"

Josie laughs, running a hand through her short, spiky pink hair: "Yeah, they're a real hoot, some of them."

"And some of these Projects... Battle Apple? What's that-"

"Hey now," she gently chides, winking: "That's still need to know, Henri."

"Oh, alright. But tell me, what happened next? Operation Mercury Maybird Boom has not been given any addendum to indicate it was solved?"

"No, it wasn't," she says, looking at her copy: "They never found out what happened, there. Could have been an attempt to get rid of some of the People's Protectors that were too close to SQUASH, but that seems like such a dumb way to go about it. Why not just disappear them like they did to the others?"

"Did they ever get hold of Black Shadow? Maybe he could have provided some answers."

"We did, yes. And after we caught him we had him penned up with the other two survivors of that raid until Glastnost. But we never learned anything more from any of them."

"Why did you not hook them up to this... this N-Machine I see referenced?"

"Well, we considered it, but we decided they really didn't know anything we didn't already know. So we kept them around as bargaining chips for an eventual prisoner exchange. It just never came around."

"And when Glastnost came, still nothing?"

"No. All the SQUASH files they got around then were no help, either."

Henri sighs and shakes his head: "Well, I remember the Chinese and the Soviets were not friends by that point? Perhaps this was something Beijing did?"

"The Dragon said otherwise, but he could have been half-lying, again."

"Half lying?"

"Yeah, he always did that kind of nonsense. One truth for one lie. Quid Pro Bull!@#$"

Henri laughs again: "This is insane! C’est des conneries!"

"Well, that's the spy business. And you're just looking for more rope to hang SPYGOD with. You want some really crazy stuff, you should look a couple years later, after 1965. That's when things got really weird."

"Yes, I was looking at that. I suppose that is why a lot of the personal problems the Freedom Force was having were put on hold for a time?"

"Got it in one, Henri. Got it in one."

"So many loose ends, though," he continues, flipping through the links: "I see they never found the Crimson Assassin's weapon, which astounds me."

"Yep. We think it blew up along with him when he triggered his suicide charge. A lot of those super-soviets were wired to pop."

"I'm also curious about this Wraith person that Dr Chaos talked about while he was under...?"

"Mostly irrelevant," Josie shrugs: "You might want to check out what happened to Dr. Chaos, though. SPYGOD bears some real responsibility for that."

"Oh... I see what you mean," Henri says, his jaw dropping: "You know, we should talk to his son. Mr. Chaos? He is off at some Buddhist shrine, somewhere, is he not?"

"Yes he is. And I can get you in there, if you need to."

"Oh, you have been such a massive help!" he says, overjoyed: "You know, when I was told to work with you on this, I thought you were going to be stalling me. After all, he was your Director."

"Well, you have to know, Henri. I was the third banana, looking to never be anything more than third banana. Then the first and second banana got disgraced and killed, in that same order. And I'm a girl who knows which way the wind is blowing, you know?"

"I take your meaning," he says, grinning.

"So now, I'm in the Director's chair, in the Director's office. And I'd like to stay here a while, you know?"

"Oh, I agree. I really like people who are politically expedient!"

"Well, good," she says, leaning in a little: "Now, if you'll excuse me? I have to go get expedient with a few people down in the motor pool who keep forgetting to oil my car."

"Oh, haha!" he laughs, smiling at her: "Until tomorrow, then?"

"Until tomorrow," she says, turning the secure channel off.

The moment the screen goes black, her face falls: "What a little merde-weasel."

"Not much longer now, Josie," a familiar voice whispers in her ear: "You ready to do your bit?"

"Oh, am I ever," she says, getting up from her desk, straightening her padded, black uniform, and then, ever so carefully, reaching under the desk to press a black button that's hidden on one side of it.

The moment she does, a portion of her office wall creaks open. She walks over to it and opens it up the rest of the way, and then carefully closes it behind her.

Inside the wall is a dimly-lit, long-unused passageway, filled with old photographs and pieces of times gone by. Redacted team pictures, strange trophies under glass, missing bits of history -- all the secret things no one knows about, thrown up on walls that doesn't exist.

"Hmmm," she says, patting a photo of a group of heroes as she passes -- one from Chicago, 1928: "We were just talking about you, Mr. Lambordeaux."

"Be !@#$ing careful," one of the voices counsel: "The Wraith might !@#$ing hear you."

"Really?" Josie asks, hurrying a little bit faster now. All she gets in return is laughter, though, so she's not sure if her ghosts are teasing her or not.

She passes the boxes of lost weapons, the racks of missing plans. She wonders what all might be in that steel case, humming at the bottom of a pile of things.

(She wonders who Eisenengel was, and why the pathetic, withered skeleton in a small, glass box is wearing a NASA lab coat.)

At the very end of the hallway is a phone. It's an old, rotary-style thing -- black and full of cobwebs. She picks it up, taking care to wipe away the webs before she puts it up to her face, and dials a number she's been waiting to use for a while.

"Hello," she says to the person who picks up on the other end of the Black Telephone: "It's time. Are you ready?"

"I am," the person on the other end says, her voice sounding just a little too eager.

"Alright then. I'm going to give you a location, a number, and a combination. You will memorize them. Rendezvous with your transport chief, go there, look for it, and get into it. You'll know why I've sent you for it when you see it."

"And what then?" she asks.

"Then," Josie says, smiling just a little: "You're going to take that thing and kill a few superheroes, just for me."

The ghosts behind her chuckle a little at that.

It has begun. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Devil or Angel (Bobby Vee) and having irony beer, since they don't make real Blatz anymore)

5/5/61 - The Things We've Done Together While Our Hearts Were Young - pt. 1

Freedom Force, May 5th, 1961
At Cape Canaveral for Alan Shepard's historic spaceflight
Back: Mrs. Liberty, Swiftfoot, Gold Standard, Dr. Chaos, Mr. USA
Front: Liberty Belle, Corporal Flag, American Lightning, New Man
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * * * * * * * * * 
 
"Remember, it's not enough to make history - 

you've got to arrange for someone to record it for you."

The Wind From Nowhere, J.G. Ballard (1961)

 

 * * * * * * * * * *

The wind blows across Bird Island, again, bringing with it the crisp, earthy smells of a Florida afternoon. It makes the trees sway and creak. Wild grass ebbs and flattens to mark its course. 

And, at its center, SPYGOD and the Crimson Assassin face one another from twenty feet away -- each ready to kill the other.

The tall Russian adjusts his grip on his wondrous weapon, making certain his foe's eyes are square in his crosshairs. SPYGOD looks at the guns he'd dropped by his feet, wondering if he can get to them in time.

The wind blows once more, and the Russian starts to count, ever so slowly.

Three... 

Two... 

One... 

And then-

* * *

"Oh, you have got to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD spits into his Freedom Force communicator as he gently disentangles his left foot from what's left of a man's backside.

Normally, he wouldn't be so gentle about it -- especially considering what this dark-red-wetsuited Russian Superspy had been saying, here in this gas station restroom, before he kicked the man's tailbone up into his sternum.

But the shoes are handmade Roger Viviers,!@#$ it, and he's not losing them to a Soviet !@#$hole if he can help it.  

"I wish I was, (REDACTED)," Dr. Yesterday sighs over the communicator: "We've got confirmed sightings up and down the coastline. SQUASH operatives are coming in from the shore, south of the Cape, and setting up weapons. And I'm sure you can guess what they're after."

"Half the !@#$ing free world knows by now," SPYGOD replies, pulling his foot free with one final, wet squick. The costumed fellow screams at the pain, but quickly shuts up once SPYGOD kicks him at the base of skull with his other foot -- propelling him right through the toilet stall wall, shattering him against the tile wall, and dropping him down into the commode.

"What was that screaming?" Dr. Yesterday asks.

"Had to flush the !@#$ toilet. Found a commie in the bowl."

"What?"

"Oh, never !@#$ing mind," SPYGOD shouts, running out of the Union 76 station's men's room, grabbing the pocket scope he always keeps on his person, and looking up the Florida coastline, seeing exactly what his ally was telling him.

There's a high-tech, collapsible pontoon boat, just up at Satellite beach. It's just like the one he saw land here -- at Pelican Beach park -- as he was making his way north, this morning. And when he went to investigate, and realized that the two men who'd come ashore weren't here for a full tank, he'd decided to pull off within range of his pocket scope, and see what they were up to.

One hastily-assembled, super-sophisticated soviet missile launcher later -- aimed due north, no less -- he realized the time for watching was over. So he'd driven up, weapons blazing, and eliminated the threat. Then it was just down to trying to get answers out of the one guy who'd had the sense to run into the station's outside washroom to flee his fate.

One ultra-brutal !@#$-kicking -- along with a rather rough poison-tooth removal -- later, what SPYGOD had learned had made him rather upset, to put it mildly. Not only because of what he had learned, but also because of what this !@#$ simply did not know. 

And as any spy could tell you, that's what sinks the fleet.

"Did you call the !@#$ troops in, yet?" he shouts, putting his scope away and getting ready to act.

"Mr. USA and Mrs. Liberty were already at the Cape. Gold Standard's airborne from Atlanta. Swiftfoot's bringing the others from DC, but it'll take a while to get them assembled-"

"We don't !@#$ing have a while, Bob. We got commies trying to stop the launch. And if they're out here, attacking in the !@#$ing open...?"

"Then there's someone inside, doing the real work," Dr. Yesterday realizes.

"!@#$ right," SPYGOD says, heading for his car, which is parked right next to what's left of the other operative, and their weapon: "And we only got a half an hour to stop this !@#$."

"Oh dear."

"You got that right! Tell our people at the Cape to lock it the !@#$ down."

"Already on it, (REDACTED)."

"Get in touch with Patrick and get their defenses up-"

"Who's Patrick?"

"Patrick Air Force Base, you !@#$ing twit. It's on the !@#$ way, and they'll get to them before I do."

"Alright-"

"And call the !@#$ President and tell him to call Nicki and tell that bald rat bastard !@#$ to call the whole !@#$ thing off if he knows what's !@#$ing good for him-"

"What am I, your secretary?" Dr. Yesterday sighs: "Don't you have someone at the Heptagon to make those calls?"

"Oh, I got that new guy they !@#$ing saddled me with, Fredericks or whatever. He's !@#$ing useless. You call the President."

"Well, okay-"

"And while you're at it? Tell your brothers to get it ready to go."

There's a moment of silence, then: "Are you sure? It hasn't been tested, yet. Anything could happen-"

"Yes. And it's called 'Freedom Force Fails in Flaming Fiasco,' right across the front page of the Daily Trumpet. Do you want to !@#$ing read that tomorrow while you're having your coffee, Bob?"

"No, (REDACTED), I don't."

"Then get Frank and Hector out to the port and tell them to fire it the !@#$ up," SPYGOD commands, taking care to step over the burned, still-crackling body of the other Soviet operative as he leaps into his shiny, matte black Aston Martin Spider: "I think it's time to show those Soviet clowns what American science can !@#$ing do."

He guns the motor, reverses over the lump of charcoal that used to be a man, flips the radio back on, and drives North for Cape Canaveral at top speed, ready to execute every last !@#$ing commie saboteur he sees along the way.

"Rawhide" by Link Wray plays on his radio. Afterburners kick his maximum speed from 90 to 150 MPH. His license plate reads BTFU01.

And it's 6:51 in the AM, just 29 minutes from launch...

* * *

SPYGOD really hadn't expected to have this kind of morning, but then he never does.

He'd been down in Key West, earlier that morning. That was after spending most of Thursday scouting launch locations for a special, one-man operation; the sort of thing he wasn't going to !@#$ing tell anyone else about, if he could at all help it. You don't just kill a foreign dictator for revenge and leave a paper trail, after all.

(Especially now they've got some brown-nosing schmuck watching over his every move, just to make sure he "sticks with the new program." !@#$ that.)

His cover consisted of making advanced arrangements for a certain double-agent, to make sure he'd have a smooth transition from the mainland to Havana after his upcoming "suicide." This involved getting a safe house updated and ready for Old Man (aka Ernest Hemingway), as well as preparing for his arrival. However, it also meant keeping an eye on the Cuban vampires, and making note of the nasty places they gathered when they came ashore to carouse, gambol, and drink yankee blood in the place they still refer to by its old, Spanish name: Cayo Hueso -- the Island of Bones. 

After a night of having to watch nightmarish things he'd just as soon light on fire, along with their subhuman, blood-addicted toadies, he was happy to move on to his own, personal errands the following day. After a few checks on locations he'd spied while traveling, he relaxed with drinks and some exquisite al fresco sex with a well-built Asian man-boy who waited tables at an oyster bar in Old Town. A few hours of that had left him spent and sober, yet unable to sleep, so he crept out of the fellow's house once he succumbed to slumber, climbed into his car, and drove back up the Overland, planning to make it up the coast in time to watch the launch.

He wasn't worried about the event, initially. Yes, the first American in space was going to be a big !@#$ deal. And, yes, it would be the sort of thing that might bring any number of jack!@#$es with a cause out to stop or sabotage it. But there were already going to be some members of the Freedom Force there, doing both PR and security, and if they couldn't handle it, well, he'd eat his hat.

(That and Mr. USA had made it clear he'd rather SPYGOD didn't cut in on his show, this time.)

But now he's !@#$ glad he didn't see if that round-bottomed peach of a man-boy wanted to go for another round, after all. He'd have felt really !@#$ stupid if he'd learned of a successful SQUASH operation while he was !@#$-deep in some oyster boy's !@#$hole. And he'd have felt even worse if it was against something this high profile.

And that was the old SPYGOD luck at play again -- the same obscene fortune that'd gotten him this far, and continued to surprise him. If he hadn't been alternating between speeding and slowing down? If that erratic trajectory hadn't brought him to this stretch of road, just now? If he hadn't noticed that pontoon?

(If he didn't already have a backup plan for something exactly like this in place...?)

No. No sense examining it. No sense second-guessing it. Clearly he was meant to be right here, right now, doing one of the things that only he can do.

If there's one consolation -- other than not having Jack get on his case about something -- it's that he was meant to be killing the idiots SQUASH had sent. So he takes extra care to annihilate every last one of the mother!@#$ers his car comes across as he races to the Cape, hoping every other order he'd put into play is also being followed.

Some days it's good to be a superspy. If his luck holds out, this will be yet another one of them.

And if not, then maybe today's when he learns that luck isn't everything...

* * *

"The Soviets?" Mr. USA sighs as he runs after Mrs. Liberty, heading for the control center's nearest exit: "Really?"

"That's what they're saying, (REDACTED)," she shouts back over the alarms, taking a little pride in running ahead of him, at least until he can take to the air: "Frogmen with rocket launchers, down the coast. SPYGOD's taking care of them, now, but he thinks that they're just distractions."

"He would," the hero grouses, knowing his old rival is probably right about this: "Same plan as always?"

"Same as always," she says as the door comes into sight: "You go high..."

"And you go low," he finishes, allowing himself the luxury of skipping just ahead of her, opening the door for the lady, and then whooshing up to the skies to see what the holy heck is going on, here.

As he scans the horizon, he can see a couple fires, further south from here. Narrowing his eyes, he quickly discerns the cause: a speeding, black sports car, firing incendiary rounds at every two-man squad of would-be saboteurs.

SPYGOD seems to be enjoying this, if the look on his face is any indication as he mows down yet another group of them. But he's not moving fast enough, and there's more up the way.

"Mr. USA, I presume?" he hears someone day, over his communicator. He smiles, knowing who it is.

"Gold Standard! I'm really glad to hear your voice."

"I'm about five miles out. Be there in ten seconds. What do you need me to do?"

"I've got the skies over here. You go south, and help SPYGOD knock out enemy emplacements along the coastal road. Look for pontoon boats. Two man squads-"

The whoosh of his gold-armored friend takes the voice away from him, just for a second. The man-machine flies by with all the power of a jet engine, giving him a thumbs-up as he does to indicate he understood. And then he dives down, preparing to attack from the north as SPYGOD sweeps up from the south. 

"All well and good," Mr. USA says, looking at the rocket as it stands by the construction gantry, waiting for the order to go: "But where's the real threat?"

"You see anything up there?" Mrs. Liberty asks, already standing by the rocket and looking around: "I've got bumpkiss down here."

"Not sure," he says, making a circle around the rocket and looking down, wondering what he's not seeing...

* * *

"Of course, Doctor Power would be away today, wouldn't he?" American Lightning says as the Swiftcar pulls up in front of the control area.

"Eben's got a life too, Robert," New Man says, jumping out of the open seat behind the conveyor belt Swiftfoot runs on to power the weird, smoking contraption (something like ten seats connected to a free-rolling, steerable track): "And other responsibilities."

"Like you'd know about responsibilities, Charles," Dr. Chaos snorts, brushing his blue hair out of his face and putting his tophat on: "Give it a rest-" 

"Codenames, folks," Corporal Flag chides his fellows: "We're on the job, now."

"Yes, we are," Freedom Belle says, taking charge before someone else can: "Swiftfoot, reconnoiter the area's edges. Look for anyone set up for mischief, and then get back here to me."

"YouGotItHon," Swiftfoot stammers, and then speeds off to do what his girlfriend has instructed. 

"The rest of you are going to pair up, go inside, and see if we can locate any saboteurs," the short, severe-looking woman says: "New Man, you're with Lightning. Corporal, you and Chaos go left. We'll go right."

"Why?" Corporal Flag asks, clearly not wanting to be in with the man dressed like a stage magician.

"Because it's your turn to make sure I don't atomize the structure while dealing with the bad guys," Chaos chuckles: "Jerry."

"Hey, now," the Corporal sighs, but quickly realizes he's a step behind the others, and not likely to catch up if he doesn't hustle.

The others don't like him much -- he knows this. Part of it's because, out of all the others, he's the only one that got to keep his wartime name as he actually was a Corporal; everyone else got the "Lieutenant," "Captain," and "Sergeant" taken away from them after Korea. And part of it was the fact that he came in during Korea, as a replacement for American Flag, who bought it during the push back from Pusan.

But the real reason is because, no matter how hard he tries, he just can't get a hang of how to take control of a mission. Everyone else seems to have it down pat, but whenever he opens his mouth to lead, everyone else just sort of brushes him off, leaving someone like Mr. USA, Mrs. Liberty, or Liberty Belle to step up and get things done.

(That and American Lightning, which is twice as galling. Who was that Negro to tell him anything?)

One of these days he'll get it right. He knows this. But until then, he's just going to have to eat !@#$ and wait for his chance. 

Maybe today it'll come at last. 

* * *

"Well, about !@#$ time," SPYGOD chuckles, watching as balls of fire explode up ahead of him, in the distance.

It's like a line of bombs hitting their targets, back in Europe. A golden streak flies just ahead of the blasts -- a huge, !@#$-eating grin shining behind its faceshield, its gilded hands giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up as it rockets towards his ally's car.

"Thanks for the assist, Ed," SPYGOD hails him over the communicator, just as he spins the car out to bring it to a halt in front of some bewildered beachcomber's summer house: "I think I !@#$ing got them all down here. Can you see any more?"

"Not now, but I'll go further down just to see if you missed any."

"Fair enough. And when you're done with that? Go right the !@#$ up and see if you can see anything past the coastal shelf"

"What should I be looking for?" the gold-suited inventor asks, just as he rushes over SPYGOD's position.

"Well, these !@#$holes didn't paddle all the way from !@#$ing Albania, did they? I bet there's a sub, parked just off the drop-off-"

"A bet, eh? Well, I'll wager dinner at Delmonicos that they just island-hopped up here from Cuba."

"Sure, but you're picking up the !@#$ drinks tab either way."

"You've got yourself a gentleman's agreement, good sir," Gold Standard chuckles, arcing up to see if he's won or lost this one: "Over and out."

"Too !@#$ing easy," SPYGOD says, leaping out of his car and looking back where he came from: "We saw them because we were !@#$ing meant to see them. And I bet they don't even !@#$ing care if we blow up their transport..."

He goes back into his car, reaching under the passengers' side of the dashboard to find the phone. A special, otherwise-hidden aerial goes up, and he places a call to the Heptagon.

"Home Seven here," his new subordinate says in his dreary, tired voice.

"This is Superguy One, calling in," SPYGOD says, using the ludicrous callsign the brown-nosing, DoD-appointee desk-monkey insisted he employ in the field: "I need some !@#$ing field advisement, and I don't have all god!@#$ day-"

"Sir! I've been trying to get hold of you since yesterday-"

"Never !@#$ing mind that, now, !@#$face."

"Sir, I don't think I got that last bit-"

"That's my new callsign for you. Like it?"

"Um, well-"

"Thought not. What's !@#$ing going on up there in Foggy Bottom? Did my messages get relayed?"

"Oh, you mean the ones you didn't trust me to relay for you, sir?" Fredericks says, not trying to disguise his bitterness: "Well, as far as I know, the answer is yes. The White House put me on hold forever, which means the President's making that call. And there's word of that ridiculous waste of taxpayers' dollars being put into a countdown at the port, so there's that-"

"And what do you have for me?" SPYGOD interrupts, watching as squad cars from Patrick AFB come zooming down the road at long last: "Did we receive any !@#$ing intel whatsoever that this was going to happen?"

"No sir, not an inkling-"

"I find that really !@#$ing hard to believe, !@#$face."

"Well, it happens to be true-"

"So what did you want to tell me?"

"Sir?"

"You said you were trying to get hold of me all day yesterday. Why?"

"Well, it's nothing I feel secure talking on an open channel about, sir."

"Anything related to this?"

"No, sir."

"So, what, you just found it !@#$ing annoying that I went off the radar for a day?" SPYGOD seethes: "Are the people you're reporting to really that concerned about where I !@#$ing go and what I !@#$ing do that you'd rather play babysitter than keep an eye out for the sort of !@#$ you're supposed to be looking out for? Like, oh, I don't know, !@#$ like this?"

There's nothing but silence on the other line, and SPYGOD realizes what that means. 

"Then this is how it !@#$ing goes, !@#$face," SPYGOD seethes: "The next call I get on this phone had better be some really !@#$ed good intel on what's really !@#$ing going on, here. Because I refuse to believe that SQUASH would try and pull something this !@#$ing amateurish off. Bulgakov's too !@#$ smart for that. Agreed?"

"Well, yes-"

"So either this is all a big !@#$ distraction for the real operation, or something's seriously wrong in Moscow. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir," Fredericks says, knowing how this is going to go.

"So I want that intel, !@#$face. I want it yesterday afternoon. Or I want your !@#$ reassigned somewhere I can't !@#$ing find you. Got that?"

With that he hangs up, disgusted. Then he parks his !@#$ on the extremely-warm hood of his car, pulls out a long !@#$ cigarette, and has a significant drag off it as he watches a troop carrier pull up to deal with the mess he just made, a quarter of a mile back.

"What are you !@#$ing up to, you commie creep?" he asks his far-away, wheelchair-bound nemesis, wondering if this crazy caper really has his stamp on it.

It's just after 7, now. Only 19 minutes to go...

(SPYGOD is listening to My True Story (Jive Five) and having a !@#$ton of Blatz.)

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Yanabah) - pt 2

By all accounts, whatever its past -- or maybe because of it -- Richmond, Virginia is a beautiful city.

Though the city may have been all but leveled during the Civil War, it's come back up from the rubble and ashes to become a near-perfect mixture of old and new. Picturesque, historic buildings share the same space as more recent constructions, without either seeming out of place. It's calm and peaceful, efficient and clean, and tranquil to the point where even the most cynical of visitors -- if they listen to the true stirrings of their heart -- would perhaps think of moving there, someday.

It's everything you could want in a State Capitol, and that's what makes this day especially sad.

By the time the Neo York City crew gets to their landing zone, just outside what's left of the State Capitol Building, itself, the immediate area has already been wrecked beyond recognition. The buildings are on fire, the streets are shattered, and heavy objects are flying through the air like rocks thrown by small boys. The calm has been broken by the sounds of sirens, shooting, and screaming.

Lots and lots of screaming.

The secessionists have taken the Captiol area, using the muscle of the turned Strategic Talents and leftover Legion Supervillains to hold and enforce their position. The Governor has been abducted from his mansion, along with his family, and is being held at the nearby Museum of the Confederacy. All available emergency services are too busy fighting fires and dealing with the wounded to mount a real rescue, to say nothing of rolling the armed belligerents back.

And -- just to make things worse -- a large number of the police have joined with the attackers, sensing that a chance to grab hold of their long-denied neo-confederate destiny has come 'round at last.

As for those in costume? They preen and pose, strutting upon the smoldering mountains of rubble like cockerels in near-human shape, and cheering like beasts baying over a kill. The ones long-known to be villains have merely revealed themselves for what they've always been, however hidden or dormant those personae were. And the so-called heroes have shucked their assigned uniforms and codenames for things more befitting their new, chosen identities.

Meanwhile the true heroes of the day -- the ones that held true to their oaths and their station -- lie dead or broken around them, lashed to signs and bolted to walls as warnings to some, and examples to all.

The appearance of much-needed, strategic intervention does not signal the end to the conflict, but merely a different stage within it. Speedsters whirl around the slow-moving, only to be outflanked by other, quick-moving types, and lured into near-endless races of doom. Powerhouses trade blows and fling weighty objects at one another, hoping to wear their defenses down. Those that can fly turn the sky into a protracted dogfight, those with strange offensive powers draw at fifty or more paces, and those with more interesting abilities find their foils and test them.

And as the colorful and the costumed rage on earth and in heaven, the real work gets left to those whose skills lie within darker avenues.

Call them the shooters, if you must: you wouldn't be the only ones. They're the Strategic Talents whose powers and abilities lie not within altered DNA or grossly enhanced bodies, but in their aptitude for ranged combat -- the magic that happens in the space between their eye and index finger. On a normal day, in any other fight, they'd be using their signature weapons to bring down their overpowered foes, knowing full well that they could take what damage they could do -- or maybe not, as the case may be.

But here, today, they are under orders to stun, only, if only because the eyes of the new world are watching.

And so, while the proud and the powerful clash loud enough to shame thunder, the sneaky and underhanded quietly  unleash their F-guns on the enemy combatants. The chittering, swirling rays of orange and purple that overwhelm the senses of anyone caught by them, and bring them down in seconds. Lines of traitorous police officers fall collapse where they stand, still trying to use their now-useless authority. Waves of hidden survivalists and secessionists are likewise brought down to the earth, as even their well-padded boltholes and improvised cover will not protect them from this.

And as they fall down, they are quickly disarmed, disrobed, and left tied up for eventual collection.

That accounts for most of the shooters, but in any battle there are always exceptions. One of those exceptions is stalking through the burning buildings and shattered ruins, carrying two large guns filled with ammunition meant to be used on the new breed of superhuman. Her orders are a simple-sounding task -- one she is uniquely suited to handle, given both her skills and temperament.

Find the new supers and kill them, no matter what.

Yanabah's been on the ground for exactly ten minutes. In that time she's shot no less than three of these turncoat newbies. Each time, she's carefully aimed for the eyes, making sure to put a spent uranium bullet through each pupil, the better to blow their brains out the back of their heads.

Because, while supers may be dense of skin or fleet of foot, eyeballs are hard to armor or protect, and brains are as fragile as a first kiss.

She's been careful, of course. She hasn't engaged anyone who's currently tussling with another Super, just to make sure they don't get any more blood on their uniform. And she hasn't shot anyone in such a way as to get the slaughter on camera. She finds a worthy target, slinks into position, takes careful aim, fires twice -- once from each gun -- and then slides away before anyone realizes where the shots came from.

Three volleys, three corpses, zero sightings -- so far, perfection, and she should be proud.

But as she creeps along, watching her fourth victim as she pummels one of her colleagues down, and preparing to line up that perfect, paired shot that will end her, she can't help but wonder why she isn't feeling more -- or even anything at all. Her heart isn't racing, she's breathing normally, and every time she pulls the triggers (and watches the front of their face blossom violently) she doesn't experience any of the emotions that she should. There's no joy, no pity, no hate, no revulsion.

It's as if she's moving through a scripted introduction for a videogame she's played a million times, and knows too well to be excited, anymore.

Something is missing. Something is wrong. Yanabah knows this, assuredly, but she can't figure out what's happened. And as she ends the life of her fourth victim -- blowing her up and back the second she stands up from her now-unconscious victim -- it's all she can do to go find victim number five, and hope that the answer presents itself in due course.

That's what her father/grandfather/great-grandfather would have told her, she's sure.

If only he was here to say it. 

* * *

"You know, you might want to put that gun somewhere else," Wayfinder says, looking the strange-looking Russian fellow in the eyes.

"No, my friend," the SQUASH operative says, re-adjusting his grip on the very large, Soviet-made pistol -- its barrel just out of the hero's reach, but aimed right at his forehead -- "I am thinking I will keep it on you for as long as we are talking, here. I think it will persuade you we are being serious, and should it not, perhaps I will aim it at your daughter."

Yanabah growls. It's not a pleasant sound, and the two large men standing on either side of her raise their guns reflexively, wondering where that came from.

It's the mid-eighties, and they're in a !@#$ty, chain hotel in southern Iowa, of all places. The COMPANY had them flown in to help with a rather curious missing-persons case -- one that resolved itself a little too neatly for anyone's liking. And, after it was done, the group paid them for their time, and then put them up here for the night so Wayfinder could get some rest.

Only there were three Russians waiting for them when they checked in.

One of them seems to be able to phase through objects, if their rather disorientating rush through the wall is any indication. He's the one doing most of the talking. The other two seem to be standard heavies, complete with staid, Soviet stares and handguns large enough to kill an elephant at 50 paces, and a lack of conversational skills.

But one of them brought a big, heavy briefcase. And Wayfinder knows enough to know what that means. So he knows he has to play for time, at least for now.

Yanabah stands there, dressed in the same kind of work shirt and jeans that he does. Only now she wears the silver and turquoise jewelry, all around her neck. It's both therapy and restraint, at this point.

(But they don't need to know that, do they?)

"So, this case we were working," Wayfinder asks: "That was your doing?"

"Of course," the man says, grinning to reveal a mouth full of bad, brown teeth: "We needed to get you out of hiding, and so we have. How convenient that you must always rest after such an exertion! So we brought you here, where there is only one hotel, and laid in wait."

"I'll tell them to be more careful, next time," the man says, rolling his eyes.

"Except that there will not be a next time, not for your COMPANY, anyway," the Operative announces: "We have a waiting transport. You will come with us, and get on board. You will travel with us back to our space, and we will use your unique skills to our purposes."

"Like !@#$," Yanabah spits: "I don't think you could afford him."

"You see?" the Russian says: "This country is all about money. There is no vision, here, my friend. You seem to be a man who understands about vision?"

"I also understand about freedom of choice," Wayfinder says, leaning up against the dresser. The Russian clears his throat and re-aims the gun.

"It's okay," Wayfinder says: "Just resting. I'm not really able to do more than stand here and talk, if you're scared."

"You will come with us," the man says, apparently not very afraid: "This is a surety. If not for your own sake, then for hers."

The two heavies pick that moment to raise their guns and aim them at her heard. Yanabah growls again, but has made no move to take her jewelry off. Maybe she's thinking they can get out of this without her having to kill them.

Wayfinder realizes there probably isn't, though, and -- cursing himself for doing so -- begins to bring the conversation down a darker, more doomed path.

"And if I say no?" he asks, standing straight up.

"Then we kill her," the man says: "Slowly, in front of you. We have privacy and time. You will watch the whole thing."

"She knew the risks when she signed up," Wayfinder says: "And I won't betray my people for anyone."

(He sees the look on her face. She's aware of what's going on. She's pleading with him not to do this -- not to make her go backwards, to what she was -- but he's steadfast in this.)

"Well, we have also brought the Machine," the Russian says, cocking his head towards the briefcase: "It will be crude, and painful, but we will ensure that we will have a map of your mind, and how it works. Not as good as the real thing, perhaps, but enough to replicate it surgically."

Yanabah growls again -- deeper and lower. The Russian's starting to wonder what's going on here.

"And I suppose you'll make her watch?" Wayfinder asks.

"Oh yes," he says, no longer as sure of himself: "If you wish to go that route, I am certain we can let her hear you scream."

That's done it, then. There's a clinking, almost wet sound as the jewelry falls from her neck and hits the floor. And then there's that howl that has no business coming from a human mouth...

Wayfinder's outside of the hotel room before the screaming starts. He hears a gunshot, maybe two, but then nothing but wet noises. Rending and ripping, tearing and chewing.

The howl that makes his blood run cold.

"Yeah, it's Wayfinder," he says into his communicator, which -- if he'd been thinking -- he would have found a way to tap the moment he realized they'd been ambushed: "We need help. We got held up in our room by three Ruskies. SQUASH Agents, they said. Yanabah's dealing with them right now, but...

"Yes, Yanabah," he repeats as something heavy gets slammed into the wall, just before a new wave of screaming erupts: "Maybe give us a couple hours before we go in, but you better get people here now. I think there may be more of them, nearby. They spoke of a waiting transport. Maybe check the nearby airfield, any airstrips within a ten mile radius..."

The screaming gets too loud to talk, then, so he turns it off and goes back to watching the door.

They had the curtains closed. They're being soaked with blood spatters. He can almost imagine the scene inside the room, right now: pieces of Soviet agents flying all over the room, the wet squelching noises.

The feeding.

"Creator, forgive me," he prays, knowing that this might just take her therapy all the way back to square one, but not knowing how else he could have ended that. Sometimes you just have to use what's there, and make amends later.

That and hope the cure wasn't worse than the disease.

* * *

Not far from the State Capitol, there's some buildings that haven't been set afire, yet.

Some of them are the Museum of the Confederacy, where the Governor's being held, and a firebreak has been established to ensure his safety (until it doesn't matter, anymore). And others are just outside the conflagration, at least for now. No flaming cars, wayward bolts of lightning, or gouts of fire have been lobbed their way, just yet, and any eyebeams have been focused on targets closer to the actual fighting.

So when trio of (mostly) bruised and battered secessionist supers use it to try and escape, they're reasonably sure they're safe in one of those alleys, for now.

"Man, that sucked," a tall, well-muscled woman in a red and white suit says as they walk along: "I can't believe we actually thought we could win."

"Shut it, Red," a long-haired man in black, riding leathers -- covered in Confederate patches -- and a pitch-black, handlebar mustache commands: "You knew there was a risk, here. This is just a battle, not a war."

"They say we're losing," a skinny, blonde man in purple and white says: "I hear the West Coast already went down in flames-"

"Just a temporary setback. You watch. I bet they're pulling the reserves out, now."

"And we're bravely sneaking away to meet them?" the woman says, turning to smirk: "Face it, bro. We got hosed."

The man in black takes a swipe at her, but she parries the blow with something approaching a languid gesture and leaves him to nurse what may be a broken wrist.

"Truth hurts, Confederateer?" the kid in purple and white asks.

"I told you, it's the Black Rider!" the man insists, stopping to stick his finger in the kid's face: "And the South is going to rise again!"

"Yay, racism," the kid sigh.

"Sneer all you want, Purple Haze, but this is a White Man's nation! And the sooner you get with that-"

"Remind me again why we shacked up with losers?" the woman in red interrupts, amused to see the steam rising from their supervillain's head as he walks right through him.

"Orders, hon," the kid says: "And not the kind you can ignore-"

He'd have said more, but then twin bursts from a pair of well-used 50 calibers turn the woman's head into a wet mess, making further conversation irrelevant.

"What the !@#$?" the Black Rider says, ducking behind some trash cans and looking around the alley. The kid just stands there, staring at what's left of his fellow hero on the ground.

Another pair of shots ring out, and the wall behind the kid explodes out at eye-level. He just stands there, looking in the direction they came from, and smiles a little.

"You know, there's a reason they call me Purple Haze," he says, turning just slightly invisible: "That isn't going to work too well on me, whoever you are."

"Where are they coming from?" Black Rider asks: "Can you see?"

"If you shoot that !@#$er, I'll consider us even and let you live," the kid says, taking a half-step away from him.

There's laughter at that, somewhere up the alley. It's not very comforting.

"You little !@#$!" the villain says: "If you weren't untouchable, I'd-"

"Run," the owner of the laughter says: "Now."

He does just that, without saying another word. He gets about as far as the other end of the alley before a single shot gets him, right in the !@#$. To his credit he keeps running, but the howling and pain echo for quite some distance.

And then Yanabah comes out of her hiding place and walks up to the kid in purple and white.

"You're the one who was killing people like me, back there," he says, looking at her.

"I was, yes," she says, smiling, her guns still pointed at him.

"How many have you gotten?"

"With your friend, there? Twelve."

"And I'm going to be lucky thirteen?"

"Well, you're the last one," she says, lowering her guns just a little and cocking an eyebrow: "I guess I'm going to have to try something different with you, since you got phasing powers and all."

"You don't seem afraid of me," he says, dropping into a defensive stance: "Do you just not think I can hurt you? Is that it?"

"Passing through things isn't much of a power," she says, putting the guns away and pulling out a rather large knife.

"Oh, but I can do more than that," he says, grinning as he moves his hands past each other in successive, sliding motions: "Imagine someone reaching into your chest and squeezing your heart valves shut. Or maybe just punching into your brain after passing through your skull. I can do a lot of damage, lady. And all I have to do is touch you."

"Yeah, about that," she grins, putting the blade up: "You come and try, wasichu."

"Now that doesn't sound like a nice word."

"It's not," she says, and lunges forward.

The man just stands there, his arms outstretched, expecting her to pass through him. Imagine his surprise when the knife slams into his breastbone, breaks on through, and cleaves his heart.

He tries to speak, but coughs up blood. He falls to his knees, disbelieving. And the moment he does, she lets go of the blade, pulls out her guns -- faster than anyone should be able to -- and pulls both triggers.

Only one goes off. Shooting the racist idiot must have emptied the clip, clearly. And so the kid falls down with one ragged hole where his eye was, and yet most of his head intact.

"Oh, right," she says, looking for a fresh pair of clips as she realizes the blade's slipped position a little "Phasing powers. But I bet I can shoot all day, wasichu. I got nothing but time, now."

"Why...?" he whispers, his mouth full of equal parts blood and air.

"Orders," she says: "Not that I owe you an explanation, you little piece of !@#$."

"But we're... following..."

"What?" she asks, looking down at him: "What are you saying?"

"We're following orders... also..."

She scowls, leaning down just out of the range of his hands: "Whose orders, pal? The Legion? The Secessionists? They don't count, you little !@#$. You had your own orders, and they were given to you by the COMPANY."

"So were these..." he says, the life fading from his eyes: "SPYGOD... told us..."

"Told you what?" she demands: "What did SPYGOD tell you?"

"To help... revolution... said it would come, and we'd... need to help it... join with Legion... fight the power..."

"Bull!@#$," she stammers, watching him die: "That's bull!@#$! You're lying!"

"No..." he insists, almost choking on his own blood: "SPYGOD... ordered us to... defect..."

She looks at him as he says this. She remembers what Wayfinder told her about the last words of the dying, when lies have no profit, anymore.

She realizes that everything this man had said is true.

It doesn't stop her from blowing the top of his skull completely off the second he dies, but she's screaming when she does it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cold Warning (Gary Numan) and having a Betrayal Imperial Red)

12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - Epilogue

Let's swim to the moon, uh huh
Let's climb through the tide
Surrender to the waiting worlds
That lap against our side 

Moonlight Drive - The Doors (1967)

* * *

How best to describe what happened next?

It was as if the world had been holding its breath for two years, afraid of being heard by something terrible that had suddenly appeared. And then, just as suddenly, it could finally exhale, and take a deep, relieved breath of sweet, clean air.

The terror was over. The horror was gone. And the world would never know why or how.

True, some lasting damage had been done. The undead swarms created by the Red Queen stayed in the world, in spite of what had happened to her, and went on to cause numerous problems throughout Eastern Europe. Likewise, a number of demon-machines that were active when their misshapen master went back The Pit were also left behind, and either found new masters or went feral. The Holy See would never be quite the same again, thanks to certain obscene suggestions made over the telephone, and any number of strange, occult experiments would come back to bite the Soviets in the !@#$ for years to come.

(There was also a rash of dream-poisonings, some time later, when an overlooked pallet of bootleg Russian vodka was unearthed in Chicago, of all places)

But by and large, things returned to normal.

The barrier between Earth and Hell became strong, once more. Moscow no longer had a blood-red etheric glow, almost visible to the naked eye. Rogue magicians empowered by the negative vibes lost their mojo, would-be diabolists no longer enjoyed an unfair advantage, and the so-called Church of Satan (formed the same night the Supreme Six came through) lost any real sinister edge it may have developed as certain mysterious members dropped out of sight.

The shadows became less ominous. The light became that much more golden. The sunrise was truly gorgeous, once more, and the stars shone brighter at night.

SQUASH continued to be a problem, of course. There were more thaumathematical hi-jinx, ridiculous attempts at spiritual sabotage, and the like. But, by and large, it had had its last hurrah; it would never attempt anything that grand and dangerous ever again, either because the Kremlin simply would not allow it, or because its now-emasculated leader lacked the conviction.

Of the remaining members of the "Super-Lucky Six" -- as they would later call their fortunate band -- they maintained some degree of contact. Dr. Krwi and SPYGOD became better allies, and then friends, however tempered with tough love. Jim Morrison also aided the COMPANY on a few notable occasions, mostly involving strange magic and large parties. It's said that he and John were seen together in New York City, now and again -- talking philosophy in dark clubs or just tramping it up in the worse ends of town.

Doctor Power, on the other hand, remained somewhat aloof. He'd help SPYGOD out on a case or two, given his work with the Freedom Force, but wouldn't stick around long thereafter. He was also notoriously bad about taking phonecalls, much less answering them.

In fact, on the one, very memorable occasion that the other four got together, late in 1970, to stop something else from coming through into our plane, he was strangely nowhere to be found. It was as if there was something about what the six of them had done that he wanted to avoid revisiting at all costs.

Or maybe something in the future was concerning him.

* * *

July 3, 1971
Paris, France

It's early in the morning, and the Lizard King is getting ready to walk on down the hall.

He stares at the ceiling in his bath, his eyes unfocussed, seeing further than he should. His mouth is on fire with the blood he's just vomited up, and his nose still aches from all the heroin he snorted, this morning.

Pamela's in the other room, asleep. She begged him to call a doctor, the last time he puked, but he told her no. He said to just go to bed and sleep -- he'd join her, soon.

Of course, that was a lie.

He's known for some time how this song was going to end. He saw it before, down in that weird, domed room under Moscow. Every time the Demon Magician, Voland, threw the red fire at him, this moment in time became more certain a thing. More real.

It was just a question of how he would get from there to here, was all.

Not that he'd really been all that careful, between then and now. How could he? There was so much to do, the last few years. All those fights against the darkness, all those struggles against menaces too weird and insane to deal with.

(All those problems with the image his handlers helped him make...)

No. He can't think about that, now. He can't hate poor Ray-Ray or John, or anyone. There's no time for hate, now.

Not now that it's almost over.

He's known for for some time that the end was near -- little hints, here and there, that the world was beginning to reject him. The look of his bloated self in the store windows of Paris. His troubles with breathing, or moving. The spasms and the hiccups.

The blood he kept spitting up between drinks.

Even today, out with his old friend, Alain, that mustachioed demon had been mocking him. There'd been a laughing man with a crazy mustache on the way to the restaurant, laughing as he walked on down the road. There was the chance forming of hideous, prophetic words from noise when they went back out for another drink. And there'd been that leering face from that !@#$ movie he's watched with his woman, earlier in the night. "Pursued," it was called.

(Of course it would be, wouldn't it?)

"You know what you have lost here, Lizard King," Voland had sneered, just three years ago: "I'll see you in The Pit yet."

But the joke was on him, now wasn't it?

He wasn't put on this world to just die and go up or down. He was put here to go across, over and over again -- time to time, place to place, maybe even world to world. He was put here to be here when he was needed, and then charged with moving on when it was time.

And now -- now that his body was tired and used up, and someplace else needed him more than our world did -- that time was fast approaching.

So no. No hate. No regrets. No should have, would have, could have beens. No fear. No tears. Nothing to look forward to, here. Nothing to hold him back, anymore.

Nothing but the promise that his soul made, all those years ago, when he was young and fresh and had no idea of the great secret the world was keeping from him. Not until that trip from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, and the dead Indians on the road.

Not until he saw his life reflected in the death of someone else, and the endless spirit came to claim him, adding his face to the ancient gallery.

A line from that movie echoes in his mind -- almost something he might have written, himself, once upon a time.

"Out back there was some cattle bones. All of a sudden I couldn't breathe, and then as I walked around the side, I came upon some unmarked graves. If that house was me, what part of me was buried in those graves?"

No part, really. This failing vessel is only flesh. There is nothing here to take with him, where he is going, except maybe a small remembrance of times gone by, and friends he spent those times with. The ones his future selves will remember. The ones his past selves knew were coming.

The moment, singular and eternal, that no demon can even hope to occlude.

So Jim Morrison looks across the worlds, and smiles at what he sees there. Another boy, looking his way, with eyes just like him. A man-child with a mind ready for the experience of the lifetime, and a soul empty and waiting for a promise.

His face ready to take its rightful place in the gallery.

Jim shuts his eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out.

And then he walks on down the hall. 

* * *

There is no question that Colonel Bulgakov is dead -- and good riddance to him -- but what is not readily known is exactly how he died, or when.

It's generally accepted that he died at some point during the dissolution of the Soviet Union. It may have been in the early years, after the Soviets finally decided they'd had enough of SQUASH, and left them out to dry. It may have been near the end, as its former super-agent Boris Yeltsin -- who'd made certain they were no longer available at the table -- became a hero during the attempted coup.

As for exactly what happened? Well, one must realize that, in all such matters, truth is highly subjective. There are any number of accepted stories, all of which carry the requisite SQUASH poetry. And there are any number of reasons why this, that, or the other theory is more likely than its cohorts.

And one overriding reason why none of them really work. 

So, in spite of how amusing it would be to believe that he was dragged screaming and alive off to The Pit after a final summoning gone wrong, we should remember that he was too good a thaumathematician to have that happen to him.

(We should also remember that, following the debacle of 1968, he had someone else do the summoning for him.)

And, in spite of the deliciousness of believing that, the night SQUASH's replacement came fully online, he was crushed under several tons of rock and concrete when the Beehive was destroyed without warning, we should also remember that he had any number of escape routes, and means to avoid serious injury.

(Plus, if anyone could have crawled out of a cave-in and come back, it would have been him.)

And while one can't help but be amused at the notion that whatever dark bargain he made in order to escape death, all those years ago, just ran out of time, and he had to pay the bill at last, those who knew him have often said that was never a barrier. In fact, they say the deal had actually run out some time before, but he'd always found a way to extend his stay on the Earth by a decade or so.

(There always were so many young and foolish thaumathematicians, ever-so-willing to assist the Colonel in a "late night experiment.")

So no. None of those stories are adequate or sufficient. None of them account for the fact that, though he could be a stupid fool at times, and so arrogant that he had no idea when he was committing the most disastrous of mistakes until well past the point of no return, he could always find some way to get out of it. Even if that escape was aided by his enemies, if only by accident.

But the fact remains: Colonel Bulgakov is dead. One can only hope that he died in a manner befitting the amount of woe and ruin he caused the world -- especially his own country, when all was said and done.

And good riddance to all of that.

* * *

John vanished, as they always figured he kind of would.

It was back in 1997, during that one weird thing some people call a Crisis, and others call The Opportunity. He was helping contain the structural reality damage in Trenton, of all places, and he stepped out of sight to do something. He must have done it, because the repairs held, but he never stepped back, either.

No last words. No goodbyes. No cryptic remarks. Just the utter absence of a man.

(Not even Wayfinder could locate him. He said it was as though he'd just never been. And that spooked the old !@#$ like you wouldn't believe.)

SPYGOD's dealt with a couple other Grey Men since then, all wearing the same kind of weird, film-grey coats. None of them care to say where John is. When he asks them, they just ask "which John?" and then smile.

(Bastards)

But every so often, when he's alone or maudlin or both, SPYGOD gets the feeling that John's nearby, somehow. Even with the Chandra Eye, he can't see him, but he can feel him, somehow. And he can feel he's telling him to get a !@#$ grip on himself, because nothing ever got solved by whining about a !@#$ thing, now did it?

And he would be !@#$ing right. 
 

* * *

11/4/2012
Rezscow, Poland

The sad thing was that, if he'd just called Doctor Krwi at his !@#$ safehouse when he realized he needed him, this could have been avoided.

Around the end of October, SPYGOD realized he really needed to talk to his vampire hunter ally. He'd been avoiding it for a time, because they'd had a serious misunderstanding towards the end of the Imago Occupation.

(In other words, SPYGOD had been a !@#$ing jerk, and Krwi had called him on it)

But needs must as the devil drives, as they say. So he'd started calling him, using the line he'd had before the Invasion. But he wasn't picking up.

So he got his people on trying to roust him from whatever hole he'd dug himself into. He'd made threats and promises, and delivered on some of both. And his subordinates scurried this way and that, searching for a man who was very difficult to find when he did not want to be found.

He'd been using his cellphone, which could usually get him anywhere, but that cellphone had been burned some time ago. But there was another number, somewhere in SPYGOD's possession, that led to a safehouse in scenic Rezscow, where he liked to hide out between killing runs.

And if SPYGOD had just called the old man there, when he'd realized he needed his help, Doctor Krwi would probably still be alive.

But he didn't. And on the 4th of November, SPYGOD got a call from one of his COMPANY Agents, out in Poland, telling him to get on a transport and come to south-eastern Poland as soon as he could.

He needed his boss to come and tell him if the sorry, bloated, and hideously-mangled body he'd found in what appeared to be a vampire hunter's stronghold was, in fact, the man he'd been looking for.

Sadly, it was him. Doctor Krwi had been dead for at least a week, maybe longer. And he hadn't died easy or well from the looks of things.

He'd died slowly, and in pain -- a lot of pain, from the looks of him. One wouldn't expect any less, given the number of horrible and sadistic enemies the old man had racked up over several decades worth of fighting the bloodsuckers. Indeed, he'd often joked that, when they finally got him, he'd be lucky if they just tortured him to death instead of giving him the bite, just to get revenge.

(He'd also said something about having enough garlic in his veins to marinate a whole herd of cattle for stew, which was how he planned to avoid that threat.)

But that wasn't what got to SPYGOD -- seeing the man he'd called ally, then friend, then pain in the !@#$ in that sorry state. That wasn't what made him go insane with anger and tear the place apart. That wasn't what made him burn it to the ground when he was done, and stomp back to his transport ready to kill the next person, place, or thing that even looked like it was going to look at him funny.

No. It was the fact that, when he looked at what was left of the old man, he realized he'd been raped. To death.

And then he realized by who.

He didn't want to go into details. He didn't want to tell anyone what he knew, for fear of word getting out. The trial had already gotten that cat out of the bag, but he didn't need anyone to know just how active the culprit was in the world.

All he could do was give the old man the dignity of making sure his body could in no way, shape, or form be revived by his true enemies. It's what he would have wanted, and all he could have done for him.

But as they flew back to America, and every mile on the way, SPYGOD was forced to realize that he knew. He knew, !@#$ it.

He knew that, if he'd called the old man, they would have talked about this little problem with what he'd been feeling in the White House, lately.

If they'd talked about the little problem, Dr. Krwi would have known that he was in America, and not Poland.

If he'd known he was in America, and not Poland, he wouldn't have opened his door up and let his murderer in, because he would have known that something was fishy.

And if he hadn't opened his door up and let his murderer in, he wouldn't have spent the last however many hours of his life being !@#$ed in every single hole he had, plus a few more that his attacker decided to make with that blessed sword the old man used on vampires.

Every mile on the way home, he realizes this. It makes him sick. He tries to drink it away but it doesn't help. He wants to smash things but then he'll just have to swim home, and haul his Agents besides.

All he can do is tell himself that he's done being careless, now. He's done with failing to anticipate this danger that's out there, loose in the world.

And when he finally finds his Alter-Earther, he's going to do things to him that will make what he did to Dr. Krwi look like an overly-firm handshake.

Oh yes. He will.

* * *

 

There's also the matter about a conversation that took place between Doctor Power and SPYGOD, not too long after SPYGOD found out what happened to Doctor Krwi. In fact, it took place after a very fateful and tragic Thanksgiving at the White House, when SPYGOD had to deal with the source of that nasty feeling he'd wanted Doctor Krwi's help with. 

"Dealing" meant bringing in a special gun, which resulted in a very unfortunate death. It also meant that whatever political and personal currency he'd cultivated with the President of the United States of America -- both during and after the Invasion -- was completely gone.

And it also meant that, given how Doctor Power was responsible for what happened, SPYGOD had no !@#$ing compunctions whatsoever about making good on his long-standing threat to take Doctor Power's namesake away from him.

It was quite an impressive conversation, really, but there was only one way it could end. And that was with SPYGOD striding out of the Doctor's sanctum with a former superhero in tow, and telling him how and where to get help for his serious problems.

Not the greatest end to one of the few remaining members of both the Liberty Patrol and Freedom Force, one might say. But it wasn't really his end, either. Just another serious bump in a lifetime full of them.

That is, however, another story for another day.

* * *

As for the Hell Blazer -- no one's entirely certain what the entity formerly known by that name is doing, down in The Pit. 

He has not made contact, ever, and he does not answer when called. Not even Doctor Power could ever summon him up. 

It's almost as if he didn't want to talk to anyone. 

Some say he's biding his time until he can break the entire operation. Some say he's gone bad, like he said he would, and that the increase in vampire attacks is his doing. But you can never trust Demons, as they tend to tell you exactly what you want to hear.

SPYGOD still keeps his gun handy, just in case.

* * *

There's also the other four members of the Supreme Six to consider, down there in The Pit.

They are not happy demons, those four. They scream and howl at the barrier between worlds, scrabbling to get out and away. They dream of atrocities and grand unmakings. They promise pain and pleasure, knowledge and experience.

And they would burn the world, if they only had another chance to get out and play.

Will they ever have it? Who can say? A year doesn't go by that some !@#$head with more old books than sense doesn't try to raise them from their prison, the better to curry their favor. Sometimes these idiots even manage to raise one of them, though not fully and never for long.

But so long as the Hell Blazer doesn't care to move, and Behemot is stuck in our world, calling up the whole gang to effect a great and terrible change just is not going to happen. At all.

But still they try, because they're greedy and short-sighted and mad and stupid. And still they die, because they almost always get Voland, himself, and he's still really !@#$ed off about losing out on Morrison. And still nothing really happens to change the balance between good and evil, light and dark, and up and down in our world.

Hopefully it stays that way. We have enough problems as it is.

* * *

And what of Behemot, then?

The demon cat has lived in Neo York City, with SPYGOD, ever since the events of 1968. He drinks between three and five bottles of high-test, liver-rotting vodka a day, and goes through a can of high-quality cat food every so often, when he remembers he needs to eat, too. He used to spend most of his days sleeping on an AK-47, but when that was lost SPYGOD got him a better gun, and now he sleeps on that, instead.

Once a member of the Supreme Six, he is now known as Bee-Bee, as his owner won't have "Commie" spoken in his house.  If he misses being a prince of Hell, he doesn't show it. He seems content to laze around, and seemingly aspires only to stay drunk, or maybe get it on when his biological urges send him off to tomcat.

He will not come when called. He tolerates no petting or belly rubs except once in a great while, and then only from SPYGOD.  And no one !@#$s with that cat.

No one at all. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Best of Tchaikovsky and having a number of drinks for absent friends)