1/19/13 - Nataraja, Mother!@#$er - pt.3

"If The Radiance Of A Thousand Suns Were To Burst At Once Into the Sky..."
Alter-Earth SPYGOD
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Barcelona in the early afternoon. Blissful. Unaware.

The Sun is shining. Clear blue skies. Laughter

A glowing, gold ball flies away from Neo York City.

About to arc up, and head into deep space.

Across America, the TU surrenders, one and all.

Guards dropping their guns, hands over heads…

… save for one in New Jersey, who’s got the device.

He laughs as it turns on, expecting to win.

* * *

The Sagrada Familia, tall, kingly, and sprawling.

Miles above its spires, something strange appears.

“What the !@#$ is that?” SPYGOD asks the pilot.

A bolt of blue lightning is heading their way.

Josie and Straffer smile to see it all going so well.

So far there's no casualties, all is on schedule…

… then the Nthernaut screams. His forms fall apart.

And Neo York City shakes, clear down to its core.

* * *

“Oh my lord,” New Man says, seeing what’s happened.

“Can you call him? Tell him to teleport it again!”

Confusion at Team Omega’s hidden headquarters

“What the !@#$ is going on?” Cataclysmo roars.

 “I thought I had more time?” Ben Franklin asks, uncertain.

“Is it over? Did I do something wrong?”

Tempete Bleu curses SPYGOD, for making him rush.

A proper apocalypse should be deliciously slow.

* * *

“I can’t raise him,” the Sound says, grimly.

“That thing was sweating uranium. He's probably dead.”

“No need to panic,” Underman says, unconcerned.

“If the TU goes down, we don’t have to join them.”

“You know what you did,” Shift says: “But that's past.”

“It's time for you to fulfill your part of things.”  

He calls on his new powers, festering deep inside.

Fires a bolt of writhing, black fire at the golden sphere.

* * *

The Russian nuke begins to fall down to Earth.

The teleporter flailing alongside, skin red and bumpy.

“Well, that’s darned unusual,” the Colonel says.

Zips to the left to avoid whatever that !@#$ was.

“What the !@#$?” Straffer spits, seeing the Nthernaut vanish.

“Thomas? What’s wrong? Are you okay…?

… radio silence greets his questions.

The Nthernaut is quiet. The glowing blue projections are gone.

* * *

Brains turned to mush, he’s already dying.

And if the fall doesn’t finish him, the nuclear payload will.

The blackness changes course, strikes them starboard.

There's a horrible smell. Everything goes dark.

“All-Stars, head to Jersey,” Josie orders.

“Something’s gone wrong with Nthernaut. We need containment.”

The TU guards whoop and holler, thinking they’ve won.

Someone takes charge, orders a lockdown.

* * *

“I told you, it’s too late,” the Pusher laughs through broken teeth.

“Might want to change vacation plans.”

“I’ve already got us fake IDs,” the Technocrat announces.

“I figured this party wasn’t going to last.”

“Then, is this the beginning of the end…?” Ben asks as Shift gets in.

“Relatively speaking,” the silver man says.

Tempete curses, seeing the Chakram shake it off.

He’ll just have to get his hands dirty, after all.

* * *

“Shut the !@#$ up,” Red Wrecker hisses, stomping his pelvis flat.

“Get me live, now,” New Man commands.

“I like a man who thinks ahead,” Underman says, nodding.

He’s about to give an order, then his head explodes.

“Drive me to Paris, three days from now,” Shift says, pointing.

“And remember, you knew this was coming.”

Rushing in to meet the ancient spaceship, he remembers its secrets.

Soon he’ll squat over its ruined hull.!@#$ on its engines.

* * *

“This is New Man, calling all strategic talents. Please respond.”

“We have the mother of all code reds, here and now.”

The woman in red leather steps from shadows, Hǫfuð in hand.

Shoots four more times. Grins behind her mask.

Ben nods, knowing all too well what this is.

But he made promises, once, and cannot now break them.

His fists won’t so much as dent this !@#$ thing.

Tempete Bleu shrieks in rage, his human visage melting.

* * *

End over end, the weapon falls towards the church.

Its loose parts curl away, creating a cloud of debris.

“That is him,” SPYGOD says, astounded.

“I always knew there was something !@#$ed up about that frog.”

A bone-white AASS truck makes its way to Jersey.

In its rear view, the city begins to change shape.

“What have I done?” the TU guard asks, suddenly uncertain.

The device begins to glow in his hands.

* * *

Whipping this way and that, closer and closer

People on the ground see it coming, wonder what it is.

“Not my first Antichrist,” the pilot shrugs, making yogic gestures.

“Won’t be my last, either, or so I’m told.”

Certain skyscrapers fold and twist on themselves.

Remolding, shifting. Become antennas, shooting upwards.

The guard screams, overcome by white energy.

The device is gone. So too, is he -- below the waist.

* * *

The call goes out, but the response is slow and sad.

No one is ready to deal with something like this.

 “Yes, I’ve sanctioned them,” Red Queen calls in.

She winks at Disparaitre, who's hiding in the shadows.

The Bugatti stops in Paris, three days in the future.

A woman in red appears. Nemesis. Ben gulps.

“I’ll kill you, bastard!’ Tempete Bleu howls.

“I’ll rape this world to death! I'll use your skin to wipe my !@#$!”

* * *

Commands turn to raging, then back into pleas.

Le Compagnie refuses to even pick up their phone.

“And I’ve got Glimmer, like you asked,” she says.

Holds up a glass bullet. A living star rages within.

“Sister,” Shift says, waving the teleporter towards them.

“Ride with this man to the past. I must remain here.”

Something not unlike a windshield wiper knocks him away.

Sreams in white-hot agony. Spirals out and down.

* * *

Closer still. Less than a minute from impact.

People finally realize it’s a bad thing. Scream. Run.

“I better finish his !@#$ off,” SPYGOD says.

Makes appropriate gestures. Divine guns come online.

The towers are now tuning forks. Turning. Humming.

The white light flies from New Jersey…

… and disperses into the city. Energy becomes sound.

 A signal radiating outward. SLEEP NO MORE.

* * *

Directly below, the Sagrada Familia empties.

Screaming crowds run around a Bugatti, oddly parked.

A sound like a backwards sitar. The creation song, reversed.

White light strikes. The monster screams, flies away.

The TU guards falter, confused by the white light.

When they come to they’re surrounded. Surrender again.

The signal flows outward, over land and sea.

Wherever it goes, the sleeping Supergods heed its call.

* * *

“Someone, please respond,” New Man begs.

“There has to be someone. Someone who can take it out…”

“… I should go,” Disparaitre says, dropping his cigarette.

“I’m the only one who can deal with it, I think.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Ben Franklin says.

But he doesn’t dare to look Nemesis in the eye.

Tempete Bleu screams, voice shattering glass for miles.

How can this !@#$ing thing be so strong? How?

* * *

“I’ll… try to siphon the energy,” Night Phantom says.

He slips into the dark, wondering if he’ll return.

“That’s a negative, soldier,” Red Queen commands.

“You’re needed for the next phase, and you know it.”

“I know you are,” Nemesis says, getting out and looking up.

“That changes nothing. Your !@#$ is mine.”

“I will destroy you! You hear me, (REDACTED)?”

“I will not be beaten by the weapon of a dead god!”

* * *

Faster and faster, the decaying bomb falls to Earth.

2000 feet and closing. Then 1000. And then…

… the golden orb vanishes. One second it’s there, then gone.

Tempete Bleu blinks, uncertain what it means…

… when the Nthernaut reappears, right where he left from.

Alright, that was strange, he says, looking at the city…

… which is transforming back to normal, its deed done.

The signal has been sent, now. There’s no going back…

* * *

 … as a figure in red leaps from the spires of the church.

Nemesis grabs the nuke, teleporting before she screams…

… as the Chakram appears around him, its energies dwarfing his.

He thinks of the bug zappers of his youth, and then…

… “You alright, Thomas?” Gold Standard asks, flying in.

For a minute there, I lost myself, he jokes, as…

… the signal rings across the world, awakening ancient minds

gathering strength and speed as it goes…

* * *

 … all the way across the world, to a small atoll.

Nemesis lets it drop, somehow knowing it belongs here…

… in oblivion, falling into the blackness he called his own.

This is not the end, Armilus, his masters promise. He laughs…

“I think we won,” Gold Standard says, looking around.

“I think we did,” Nthernaut agrees, but seems unsure…

… because something is stirring. Something old, something new.

And nothing will ever be the same again. 

* * *

At long last, the President opens his eyes.

It's nighttime in Paris. He knows this without having to look out the window, and realize the bright lights are from neon signs and office buildings.

He just knows. And he also knows it's been ages since he's had that clarity. 

That sense of being here and now. 

He springs to his feet, shaking his head. He looks around the ruin he's made of his office. The guns, the targets, the wastecans full of flattened bullets.

The rifle he's been cradling all night, a single bullet inside...

"What the !@#$?" he asks, remembering his actions as though they were happening to someone else: "What the !@#$ was I doing?"

There's no one else here. Everyone has left. Henri is... somewhere. America. That's right. 

"Need some coffee," he says, but then realizes he doesn't. He needs water. Now.

On the way through his offices, he can hear the communications coming through to empty desks. A revolution in America. Supplies and emergency work being handled by some third party. The Sagrada Familia wrecked by a cloud of radioactive debris. Team Omega not answering their calls. 

(A nuclear blast at their old testing site in Fangataufa. What was that about?)

He goes to the bathroom. Splashes water on his face.  Greedily slurps down handful after handful, feeling more alive for each one. 

No one is here at night. He's alone. But normally he should hear something, from here. 

His estranged wife, listening to her television shows. His surviving daughter and her music. 

He leaves and goes into his apartments. They're cold and dark. His wife is not here, and he can't hear his daughter. 

The side room he's been sleeping in is open. He looks at the couch he's been sleeping on. It's been made for him. Unusual. 

On the table, there are two things he does not remember being there. He does, however, know what they are. 

One is a transpistol. The other is a fleshlight. 

"Oh my god," he says, realizing something. Hoping it isn't true. 

He runs into the bedroom he hasn't been welcome in for months. She's not there. The bed is made up. There's strange, brutal-looking sex toys on the dresser. 

He all but kicks down the door to his daughter's room. There's been a struggle. There's blood on the floor. Recent blood. 

"Oh no no no..." he shouts, heading to the kitchen for the hidden hotline. He has to call someone. He's going to need help.

The kitchen. There's no one there. 

But the walk-in freezer his wife had them install, just after they came to blows, is open.  

Written on the door, in what he knows is blood:  

HAPPY FUCKING BELATED BIRTHDAY TO ME

(Two days ago. He missed it. Crazy with guns. Crazy.)

The President gasps. He knows he shouldn't look in there. 

He knows he has to. 

He does. 

He screams.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tin There (Underworld) and having a homebrewed Widower Ale)

1/19/13 - Nataraja, Mother!@#$er - pt.2

"Three Can Keep A Secret, If Two of Them Are Dead"
Col. Richter, Ben Franklin, Josie

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

The TU transports, already halfway across the Atlantic.

Elite kill squads, one carrying the special package. 

"Now," SPYGOD says, taking off the metal helmet.

"Let's !@#$ing talk about sukas, you sorry pedo !@#$."

A hidden driveway, behind the White House.

The Bugatti flies out, Ben Franklin laughing at the wheel.

The villains in their lair, making last minute preparations.

The Pusher nods to his men. "Get the 'porter in motion."

* * *

 Their orders are simple and unalterable.

Turn on the machine. Kill the city. Get SPYGOD away for trial. 

A massive, wide sword sprouts from his hand.

Shines in time with his heartbeat. Old friend, come back to play.

They lay rubber all over the roads, narrowly avoiding crashes. 

Heading for the Heptagon, ignoring the sirens. 

The Angle nods, grinning as he calls the idiot up. 

(He doesn't know what he's been asked to do. Not really.)

* * *

In the Third Base, an orderly kind of chaos.

Teams are divided. Final orders given. Guns handed 'round. 

Josie walks out of the Heptagon's front doors. 

A small, white box in her hands. Complicated lock. 

The brown dog smiles at the TU guards he's knocked out.

Kicks one to be sure. Enjoys the groan. 

Tempete Bleu sitting on his throne, over it all.

Watching the TU transports head for America. Contemplating. 

* * *

Yanabah and Red Wrecker have joined the others.

No worse the wear for "sleeping" so long, in their tanks. 

She looks at her watch, hearing the car before she sees it.

Chuckles, admiring the old man's sheer ballsiness.

Gold Standard comes flying over, her armor shiny and new.

"Any word from our friend, yet?" she asks.

Once SPYGOD's trial is done, he will break the world.

This is his black promise. His masters seem pleased.

* * *

A few of the main team wonder why Foudre Blanc isn't here.

Shouldn't this op be his show, really?

Bely Rytsar whimpers, under his useless armor.

Barely feels SPYGOD's blade as it cleaves him in two.

Up the main driveway to the seven-sided building. 

Ben slows down just long enough for Josie to leap in.

Remote cameras show their teleporter appear. 

A large metal box, marked опасность But he can't read it. 

* * *

Ah well, more glory for them. And he kind of creeps them out...

Ah! Neo York City's coming into view. 

Half of him goes one way, half goes the other. 

SPYGOD's sword cleans his blood off itself, misting it away. 

"Your box," Josie says, nodding to Mr. USA and Gosheven. 

Franklin takes it and grins, patting her thigh.

The villains laugh as he complains of feeling hot and stifled. 

"Tell him to take an aspirin," the Pusher snorts.

* * *

“Alright, folks, this is it,” Straffer says, eyes like stone.

“Today we save the world, whether it wants it or not."

As they race from the Heptagon, Ben puts on a white button.

For a moment, Josie forgets who he is.

The dog’s about to say something, but there’s a crash.

The two halves of Bely Rytsar sail out a high window.

But then, Tempete Bleu senses something else down there.

Something has just shifted in the world. 

* * *

“Some will take the conspiracy out. Some will reclaim our nation"

“And some of you will do what you do best."

He taps the button three times, and the world changes.

Becomes ghostly and white, with glowing visual echoes.

They fall down pathetically, guts like streamers.

Smash on the ground goes a Russian super-molester.

Something he’d been mildly aware of. Something truly old. Sleeping.

It’s awake, now. Alive and moving.

* * *

 "You’ve got teams and objectives. Use them. Do them.”

“No hesitation, no fatalities, no mistakes."

All in the car remember, they’ve done this before.

(Back when this whole con job was hatched, months ago)

SPYGOD leans out the shattered window, waves to Antonia.

“What !@#$ing kept you?” he jokes, smiling.   

“What is that?” the Antichrist asks, looking at the golden sphere.

His masters chatter like night insects. Useless. 

* * *

Suddenly, they realize something’s heading out to meet them.

Something blue, man-shaped, and glowing…

… appearing next to SPYGOD, and Antonia.

“I presume this means we’re doing it?” Nthernaut asks.

The world falls away, something large comes into sight.

A naval destroyer. Cannon Class. USS Eldridge.

“Please move the package into position,” The Angle commands.

“You have your coordinates. You are go.”

* * *

The transports bank and scatter, trying to evade.

They don’t have much luck, though. He's too fast.

“We are, yes,” SPYGOD confirms.

“Get them out of this city. All of them. We fight back from here.”

Ben drives the Bugatti right up alongside the ship.

At which point his passengers remember, and jump.

The teleporter complains, but the villains just laugh.

But then things flicker, just a little. Power failure.

* * *  

They land right into the makeshift dock, strapped to the ship.

A Josie and a Richter, standing guard, let them in…

… and Josie leads Mr. USA and Gosheven into the main room.

“About !@#$ time,” Straffer says, clearly annoyed

“It’s being done as we speak,” Antonia says.

Holograms surround her, showing progress across country.

He hears a name: “Sudarshana Chakra.”

It’s moving from Asia across the Pacific, almost too fast to see. 

* * *

“See you later,” Yanabah grins at Gosheven.

Her and Team Alpha join hands with Night Phantom. Disappear…

… leaving Josie to join Straffer, watching the progress.

On every screen, the exact same story unfolds…

… in every major city in America, the TU is being routed.

Toons in white power armor overwhelm and capture.

His masters hiss and chitter in fear, but he refuses to be cowed.

This has to be SPYGOD’s doing. It’s too coincidental.  

* * * 

Their transports are taken over, one by one.

Their controls are useless. They’re rerouted to New Jersey.

“Gold star, Gold Standard,” SPYGOD chuckles, looking west.

“Now, if you’ll !@#$ing excuse me? Here's my ride.”

Cargo dropped off, Ben kicks up the Music (Sharp Dressed Man)

Sets his time controls back to four days ago, in India.

“Oh for !@#$s sake,” the Pusher sighs: “Who forgot to pay the bill?”

“Me,” the Sound says, vibrating into the wall. 

* * *

“We no longer recognize your authority” the Nthernaut tells them.

“Cooperate, and you’ll be returned to France.”

With that, he steps out the window, and jumps up, spiderlike, to the roof.

He gives a thumbs up, as if hitchhiking.

There, on the windswept plain before a familiar cairn, someone has appeared.

Suit smeared with blood, ready for his payload.

A long flicker. Night Phantom appears, with heroes.

Then it goes dark. Punching and cracking follow.  

* * * 

The Pusher tries to take control. Gets broken by invisible fists.

He can tell the others aren’t doing well, either.

On the screens, the revolution. Heroes and Toons unite to win.

Mr. Chaos turns TU guards to butter outside his Ashram…   

… as Green Fury cleans up in Los Angeles...

... and the Owl and Talon take down the Chicago TU office.

"This is unacceptable," Tempete Bleu hisses.

He leaps from his throne, heading for the ball that hurts him so. 

* * *

“No, really, don’t get up,” New Man tells Pusher, as the lights come on.

“You’re surrounded, son. This is over.”

Within minutes, it’s almost all said and done.

TU offices go offline, and the guards are laying down their arms.

The phones from France ring and ring.

Someone thinks they should find the President. No response.  

Just as well, Tempete Bleu thinks. If he can’t try SPYGOD? He’ll break him.

And after him, the world. 

* * *

When they get to Jersey they see what he meant.  

The TU flags at the port are all down. Old glory sails, once more.

“And I don’t have a thing to wear,” SPYGOD chuckles.

The golden sphere slows down, just so he can jump on.

“Here you go, Colonel!” Ben shouts as he tosses him the box.

“Thank you, good sir!” the man says, disappearing into the cairn.

But the Pusher starts laughing, teeth falling from his mouth.

“Over?” he mutters: “Oh you dumb !@#$ idiots. You’re too late.”

* * *

But one of them keeps their head enough to remember -- the package.

He holds it over his head. Turns it on...

The sphere lets SPYGOD in. He floats to its center.

There awaits a man he hasn’t seen since Apollo 16.

Then Ben reverses, heading for the present.

It isn’t until he’s halfway there that he sees the silver hitchhiker...

“We already sent the nuke off,” the Pusher laughs, pointing to the screen.

“Kiss Barcelona goodbye!” 

* * *

Almost there. Almost. 

Nemesis -- formerly known as Ciel Rouge -- is taxing the powers this new body has to their limit, trying to get back to the Earth in time.

She should be able to make the journey from Venus' orbit to Paris in one, instantaneous teleport. Instead, she's having to make several, smaller jumps.

And each one is taxing her even more.

She should be stronger. She knows this. She should be able to do all that, and more.

But that's how this works, apparently. This body is still struggling with its old rules. Its old limitations.

And the fact that something as powerful as she is has taken up residence within it? Well, that doesn't help. If anything, it's just making it more confusing.

That's not the only thing that's confusing her, now.

Did she really just take over this dying body, like a hand slipping into a glove, or was she always there, somehow, waiting for a chance to wake up? Is she really Nemesis, or some blend of her and Ciel Rouge?

Or was Ciel Rouge Nemesis all along, waiting for this to happen...?

She isn't sure. Being a God does not come with an instruction manual. She was who she was, and now she is who she is, and after so long of being half-asleep -- hobbled by the weight of the Backers -- she knows only that she is free.

That and she's not the only one.

She can hear the others calling to her. Hoosk, from which all things spring. Kanaan, spinning the destinies of man and God. Satanoth, his presence awakening the restless dead.

And Shift -- also reborn in new flesh, she thinks -- who is telling her she really needs to get back to Earth. Now. 

"This would be faster if you'd just come and get me," she grumbles. But she knows he won't. 'The journey is the destination,' he'd say, or some such circular nonsense disguised as wisdom.

Nemesis doesn't have time for that. There is justice. There is vengeance. She is their instrument.

And in her case, the journey ends in both.

She grits her teeth and jumps again. Almost there.

Almost... 

(SPYGOD is listening to Tin There (Underworld, Wipeout Remix) and having a Barcelona) 

1/16/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 5.0

The Tally So Far
Blastman, Yanabah, The Owl, Red Wrecker, Gosheven
Shining Guardsman, Brainman, SPYGOD, Night Phantom, Myron
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Up Against it

The Longer You Hate - The More That it Grates

Up Against it

Look Left Then Right - Then Run for Your Life* * *

The first thing SPYGOD's captors do -- after wrapping his head in a locked, metal half-mask, so he can't use that eye on them -- is to frisk him, and this takes a long while.

Under the watch of well-armored men with all-too-familiar flechette guns, they take every single weapon he has on him. The pistol. The other pistol. The other other pistol. The knives and stunners and grenades. The parts of the build-a-gun he has secreted all over his person. 

Each thing is taken, inspected, broken down, and put into a large box marked PREUVE. "Evidence."

At some point, someone points to his hands. He sighs and pulls something large, shining, and grotesquely swollen from thin air. It's his sword, except that it doesn't look like one, anymore. It looks more like a misshapen slab of iron dribbles, left over from a casting process. 

He does something to it, and it eases open, raining an untold amount of things down onto the floor like a surreal metal pinata. Guns and ammunition, knives and grenades, passports and evidence, spy equipment no one can readily identify, and a number of bottles of high-test alcohol. 

He shakes the shining, cancerous tree until they're all standing in a pile of bullets and bombs, and then, almost sheepishly, makes it go away. 

After that, they take his clothes. Someone throws up when they see what's become of his genitals. He laughs and gets a kick in his backside for his backtalk, but that just makes him laugh harder.

That's when the beating starts in earnest, which he knew was going to happen at some point. 

They start with their feet, and then work up to clubs. They swing at the meat of his thighs and upper arms, the backs of his legs and fingers. They crack his skull, and his ribs. Every so often someone kicks him in the junk, just because. 

This goes on for a long time -- maybe too long. Throughout it all he won't stop laughing, even when they graduate up to stun-batons and start !@#$ing him in the !@#$ and mouth with them.

Though how much of it is a sad, manly kind of weeping is debatable. 

* * *

"Stop being so !@#$ing macho about this!" Myron shouts at Yanabah as they run down yet another alley, trying to get away from the two costumed madmen that are trying to kill them. 

"It ain't about being macho, you dumb !@#$!" she shouts back, ducking behind a protruding pile of trash and indicating he should do the same, giving her a chance to reload: "We'll do better on our god!@#$ own."

"Says you," he replies, badly out of breath, extremely confused, and wondering if he has a chance of making it out of this.

Especially with him on his tail. 

They'd found them at the hideout they'd been at the last few days, bright and early this morning. If she hadn't been all grouchy from her period, and they'd actually showered together, they'd have caught them buck naked, instead of avoiding conversation and wondering about breakfast.

He was about to break the ice when she'd held up a hand. He'd almost snipped at her in return, but then realized she wasn't irritated with him. She had that look in her eyes, again -- the one that said she knew something was about to happen, but didn't know what. 

And that's when they struck.   

First there was laughter -- high, bright, and evil. They had just enough time to realize it wasn't the crazy !@#$hole who lived next door, and then bullets ripped through the window, narrowly missing them both. 

They ducked to the floor and rolled for their things, and as they did the room started shaking, as if an earthquake was happening. But then the vibrations became different, turning Myron's head into a mess of jangled nerves and painful teeth.

Which was the point when Myron got really worried. He knew that shaking, after all. 

He was about to say something, but Yanabah didn't feel like hearing it. She grabbed him by the arm and all but dragged him towards the bathroom, which they entered just before the wall the stricken window had been in exploded outward -- showering the room with large, sharp chunks of masonry and blades of shattered glass.

"It's him," Myron had kept saying, not sure how the !@#$ that could be: "It's him."

"!@#$ him,"  his partner in flight had said, punching out the cruddy, small bathroom window with a towel-wrapped hand, and then slipping through it as quickly as she could: "I know that !@#$ laugh."

"What does that mean?" Myron had asked, barely squeezing his frame though the window.

"It means he !@#$ing missed us on purpose," she'd replied, looking in every direction at once, knowing the attack could come from anywhere: "Which means if we're lucky, they'll just !@#$ing kill us."

"Oh," Myron had said, and then started running alongside her. A half-second later the maddening laughter started up again, and bullets raked the air around them.

A second after that, he realized he'd left his utility belt and weapons back in the room...

How long had they been running since then? Racing rackety-blam down alleys and backstreets, striding across busy roads and intersections? Ducking bullets and unable -- maybe even scared -- to look behind them as their harriers got ever closer, or seemingly vanished just to come at them from a different angle?

Myron had no idea. All he knew was that the crowded confusion of the city was no longer their ally. It was now their enemy.

"Alright," Yanabah says, looking down the way they've come, and then firing at something only she can see and hear.: "Here's how it !@#$ing is, Myron. They're hunting in a team. They've had time to !@#$ing plan this. They're figuring we'll stick together because that's what people like us do, right?"

"Right," Myron sighs, knowing where this is going. 

"So we split up, and they don't know what the !@#$ to do next," she explains, ducking back as bullets fly their direction: "That means they'll either go after each of us, and !@#$ing fail at it..."

"Or go after one of us," he finishes for her, nodding: "And that gives one of us a chance."

"You, I figure," she says, shooting back at the white-clad assassin that's scampering up their way, laughing as he comes.

"Listen, that other guy," Myron says: "Not that weirdo with the blindfold-"

"Friendly Fire," she says, ducking back as the weirdo in question fires back.

"The other guy. He's bad news-"

"Well, so am I," she says, looking at him over the tops of her glasses. There's something distinctly wolfish about her stare: "I thought you !@#$ing knew that?"

"No, I mean he'll kill you to get to me."

"You mean he'll try," she grins, looking around the corner: "But if they get you?"

"What?" he asks, wondering what she means.

"You don't remember?" she asks, clearly concerned.

"Remember what?"

"Oh, just run you dumb !@#$," she says, taking a step out of cover: "God. I'm already regretting !@#$ing you..."

"You are one nasty !@#$, Yanabah," he says as he runs away, already planning how to go to ground, and really confused about what she means. 

"Nastiest you've ever met, Myron," she grins, not really regretting a !@#$ thing as her quarry gets closer, and his bullets are no longer missing on purpose...

* * *

 "I am so very sorry," Lt. Vipond says as he hands Director Straffer a towel to wash up with.

"It's alright," the man says, wiping the spilled coffee from his face and the front of his shirt. The guard who did the spilling just smirks and then leaves the interview room, locking it behind him. 

"No, it is not," the man says, glaring at the door and then passing his own cup over to his prisoner: "You have cooperated with us. You are due respect for that."

"Cooperated," Straffer sighs, just sort of looking at the steaming cup of coffee in front of him: "That's a funny way to put it."

"Do you have another term?" Vipond asks: "The complexities of English still elude me from time to time."

"Well, let's just say I was persuaded to cooperate," the blonde man says: "I think that's as much as I'd like to say about it now."

"Mssr. Straffer, I hope you will be more forthcoming on other matters?"

"Oh, I do intend to," Straffer says, having a sip of the scalding liquid and smiling: "That's a good roast."

"We do pride ourselves on our refreshments."

"That's good. It's the little things, you know?"

"Oh, I agree," Vipond sighs: "This country! The coffee is too harsh, the pastries are too heavy."

"And the seafood is terrible."

"You see?" the Lt. says: "I knew we were men of a similar wavelength. Is that the word?"

"It works, yes," Straffer smiles: "So, you'll want to know why, but I'm leaving that alone for now."

"But there must have been a reason," Vipond presses, waving to another guard outside to bring him a replacement cup of coffee: "Here you were, planning and plotting with SPYGOD for all that time. And then, suddenly, you turn on him?"

"Well, not suddenly," Straffer explains, putting the coffee down and regarding it: "But..."

"Yes?" the Lt. asks after a time of sitting in silence.

"You see, when I fell in love with (REDACTED) at first, it was because I'd finally found someone so much like myself. He had his COMPANY, I had DAMOCLES. I was in charge of Deep Ten, he had the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. We were both so used to being men in high castles, looking down at the world and being in charge of all we surveyed. Having thousands of subordinates and hundreds of concerns, dozens of cases, God knows how many enemies. That's a lot to juggle, you know?"

"I can only imagine," Vipond says, quite genuinely. 

"Well, we were so similar, we could commiserate. And then we could confide. And then, before long, we realized we'd found ourselves staring into the eyes of someone who could truly understand who we were. It was like we were brothers, of a sort. And, well, things happened from there."

The man smiles a little, and then looks down.

"When did it go wrong?" Vipond asks, somehow knowing where this is going.

"It wasn't anything... well, that's not true," Straffer says, holding up a hand: "Something did happen that explained what words could never say. It's when he started seeing Gosheven."

"He did?" the Lt asks, blinking a bit: "It was an affair?"

"Not exactly. We always had an open arrangement. We didn't have to worry about disease, being who and what we are, and we always thought that it was better to indulge curiosity and our appetites than keep them restrained. It just kills so many good things, you know?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, at some point, before we got put under house arrest, they started having sex," Straffer explains: "I didn't even know it was him at first. He's a shapeshifter, so he could be anyone. The ladyboy he brought up. Some actor or singer. He started using him for fantasy sex, and I was alright with it, at first."

"What changed?"

"Two things. One day he confided in me that the only reason he was still !@#$ing him was to have a hold over him. And, to be honest, I kind of expected that was part of it. That's who he was, after all."

"And the other?" Vipond asks, finally getting his replacement cup of coffee from a different guard.

"One night, I came home early," Straffer says, steepling his hands before his face: "I snuck in, hoping to surprise him. That's pretty hard to do, you know. What with his eye and all. But this time I'd taken all kinds of precautions. Had a little help, too."

"Such as?"

Straffer winks: "Maybe that one you don't get to know about."

"Very well. Go on?"

"Well, I got into the apartment, and I heard that he was having sex. I was a little disappointed, but I figured I'd come this far, so I might as well see how far I could push it. So I snuck up the hall towards the bedroom, planning to just see what was going on."

"Not to interrupt?"

"No. That would have been rude."

"I see," Vipond says, indicating the man can continue. 

"Well, all the way up the hall, I kept thinking I knew the other voice. It sounded very familiar, but I just couldn't place it. Sort of like when you hear a song but it's so far away that you only get every other note?"

"Yes. That I understand."

"Well, I get closer, and it gets more and more familiar. And then I get to the door and look in. And there's SPYGOD, slamming into someone so hard it's a wonder they didn't put each other into the !@#$ hospital. And then they shift a little, and when the other person looks up... well, it's me."

Vipond blinks. 

"And that was, well... why would he be having sex with Gosheven wearing my face? He's got me. He doesn't need to pretend like he does with all those 80's rock stars he likes so much. Steve McQueen. Whoever.

"But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it wasn't about me. It was about him. It was about him being able to separate his sex with me from his love for me. It was about him being able to detach himself from the situation. 

"And that's when it really began to dawn on me that we are all just pieces of machinery to him. Just cogs and gears in a big clock he can take apart and put back together any way he likes, time and again, just to make sure he likes the time of day."

Straffer stops talking, then, and looks down. He might be trying not to cry. Vipond isn't sure.

After a time of silence, the blonde man starts talking again: "So when I was... persuaded, I thought about it. And I realized that my love for him would never be anything more to him than just a part of the machine he's made of his life. 

"And, God help me, I felt the same way. Deep down, I realized that the fact that I was even taking that offer seriously was because I would do the same thing, myself. 

"And that's why I made the call and turned him in. Because I want my life back. And I want to matter again. 

"And if I have to betray the man who loves me, and that I love, in order to do it? I will."

With that, the room falls into silence again. 

* * *

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:

JANET BELANGER: "Sorry about that, folks. We just had some technical difficulties from our feed in Neo York City. But in other news, we've received news that an apartment building in Fort Stanton, on the south side of the Square Mile, has actually collapsed, after some rather strange events, early this morning. Jorge Yanz is live on the scene with the WJLA news truck. Jorge, what do we have?"

JORGE YANZ: "Well, Janet, this is a strange one. The building at 1400 Pomeroy Ave had been, and I'm quoting the locals here, an eyesore for almost a year, now. It had been decaying badly, practically falling down in pieces and patches. But every time people complained nothing got done. They say it was like no one could actually see it, unless someone knew what to look for, if that makes any sense?"

JANET BELANGER: "Well, I'm sure it makes sense to someone. What happened there this morning, Jorge?"

JORGE YANZ: "Well, it looks like time finally caught up with the building this morning. As you can see from here, it's just fallen straight down. All seven stories have collapsed onto one another. Witnesses said it was like something just cut its strings, and down it went."

JANET BELANGER: "That's... wow, Jorge. That's just devastating."

JORGE YANZ: "It is, Janet. You can't really get a sense of it from here, with the cameras. But the whole area, it just feels wrong, somehow. It's like something out of a story."

JANET BELANGER: "Do we have an estimate on how many people may have been in the building when it fell?"

JORGE YANZ: "Well, that's the miraculous thing, Janet. The firefighters have been going through it all morning, and they haven't found anyone. Apparently most of the tenants have left the place, and those persons who were still there were all out of the building this morning. They said it was like something told them to leave, so they did."

JANET BELANGER: "Now, you said there were some rather strange events?"

JORGE YANZ: "Yes, that's the weird thing. I've got one of the people who was moved to leave this morning here with me. This is Mr. Atlan, and he's... what did you say you did, sir?"

ATLAN: "I am the voice of the people, sir. God be praised."

JORGE YANZ: "Right, yes-"

ATLAN: "A voice, for those who can no longer speak."

JORGE YANZ: "Is that why you didn't leave this building, even when everyone else did?"

ATLAN: "Yes. When the marriage of opposites took place, the others rightly feared and left. But I had to stay and be the voice. It is my duty. God gave it to me." 

JORGE YANZ: "Okay, Mr. Atlan, can you tell me what happened? Before you left?"

ATLAN: "Before I left? Nothing. I merely heard the word from on high. A beautiful angel said unto me 'leave this place.' And I did."

JORGE YANZ: "What happened after?"

ATLAN: "I heard them coming from above. It was like the rolling of mighty thunder from on high, but yet not. And I felt them coming from below. It was like the churning of insects in the dirt, but yet not-"

JORGE YANZ: "Okay, but Mr. Atlan, can you tell me what you saw?"

ATLAN: "It was as it was written. The heavens opened, and the light shone down. And the ground opened, and the darkness rushed up. And as soon as they met halfway, at the top of the building, it fell down like a man accursed. God be praised!"

JORGE YANZ: "Alright, thank you-"

ATLAN: "And I beheld when he opened the sixth seal, and lo, there was a great earthquake-"

JORGE YANZ: "Yes, thank you Mr. Atlan. Thank you. Anyway, Janet, I know that sounds a little incredible. But other onlookers say there was a break in the clouds this morning, and a beautiful ray of sunshine was right on the building just seconds before it collapsed."

JANET BELANGER: "I see! Well, thank you for that, Jorge. I'm sure we're all glad no one was hurt."

JORGE YANZ: "Same here, Janet. I guess it's the little victories-"

HOODED BYSTANDER: "Hey! !@#$ her right in the !@#$!"

JORGE YANZ PUNCHES THE MAN IN THE FACE.

* * *

I don't understand the problem, the Nthernaut says, looking at projection of the fat, waddling tumor of a man, who's all but dancing in glee.

"You do not?" Minister of Justice Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud cries: "Oh, I am certain you must be joking with me, Mssr. Samuels. How can you not see the massive conflict of interest, here?"

I do not, the digitized young man says, calling up an image of his mother and his uncle in his hand, as they sit in separate cells: If they are accused of breaking the law, they should be detained, pending an appearance before a judge for arraignment. I can oversee that, and would do-

"You will do nothing of the sort!" the man exclaims: "They will be transported to the Heptagon, there to be questioned for their part in this nefarious plot to remove SPYGOD from his imprisonment. Once the full extent of their guilt has been determined, there will be more arrests, and more questioning! And then we shall have the full measure of this man's perfidy exposed, the better to convict him at his trial!"

You are rather taking a lot for granted, the Nthernaut smirks: The last I checked, much like America, the Terre Unifee believed that a person was innocent until proven guilty.

"And the last I checked, the law was upheld by officers, and not men and women in strange costumes."

Which does not explain Le Compagnie, sir, the digital boy says, smiling a little wider: But I take your meaning. I assume that you believe I may have something to do with all of this?

The smile on the fat man's face wavers just a little bit: "Well, no. I am not suggesting that at all."

That's certainly a relief, the Nthernaut says: After our last meeting, the other week, I was not sure if we truly did away with the notion that I might be aiding SPYGOD at this time. And now my mother and her brother in law stand accused of doing just that. If I were you, I'd be very surprised if I wasn't somehow involved, after all.

"Yes," the man says, ready as ever to lie: "Well, Ciel Rouge vouched for you. And the President was sincere about being allies, going forward."

And yet you don't trust me to look after my own family, the Nthernaut says.

"Young man, need I remind you of the importance of everything looking, as you say, above board?" the fat man says: "This may well be the trial of the century-"

I thought we already had that.

"Well, yes, but this will be quite something. Here we have the man who has protected the world for so long, or at least claimed to, turning out to be little better than one of the monsters he supposedly protected it from. Surely that must be handled with the utmost of care?"

I agree, the Nthernaut says, after a time: Well, I suppose we can overlook my concerns, going forward.

"Indeed," Jean-Jacques says, very glad his ruse appears to be working.

And I suppose, if you have any lingering doubts, Ciel Rouge can check me out? the young man asks: She will be coming to interrogate them, yes?

"Well, actually I think she's attending to something else," the fat man says, trying not to grin: "We have a different person here to work upon your mother. A specialist that's very thorough, very efficient."

Not torture.

"No, nothing of the sort! Simply persuasion. Gentle, at that."

Oh good, Thomas says, knowing he's in some serious trouble, now: I do enjoy dealing with professionals.

* * *

"Oh God," Myron says. It's all he can say.

He came to this room, in this !@#$ty uptown hotel, because he thought he could hook up with one of his other allies. He thought he and Shining Guardsman might be able to regroup and take the fight to their pursuers. 

He should have known better. 

He should have known that, just as those two human monsters found him and Yanabah that morning, and just as two other monsters had found Night Phantom and Blastman the other day, someone would find his ally. 

He's never seen the man out of his armor. He thinks about that, somewhat absently, as he sees the man writhing up against the wall -- crucified on a high tech cross made of floating pieces of what used to be his armor. 

"Get out..." Shining Guardsman whispers, hoping the fat man who's torturing him doesn't notice. Of course, he does.

"Well hello," the Technocrat says, turning around and fixing Myron with his protruding metal and plastic eyes -- like evil camera lenses, focused on Hell. 

"Hi," Myron says somewhat weakly, wishing he had even the smallest of his shake-guns on him. 

The fat man reminds him of the comic book store guy from the Simpsons, only even more slovenly. His SAVE MANIMAL t-shirt is filthy with stains he doesn't want to identify, as are his shorts. A belt full of deep pouches barely holds the latter up, their insides filled with circuits and wires that move with a life of their own. 

"You must be Underman," the Technocrat says, taking a long, deep slurp from the jumbo rainbow slushie he's holding in his left hand: "Well, not the real Underman. He's after you now."

"Yeah," Myron says, looking around for a weapon of some kind. Anything...

"And if I do the obvious thing, well, he'll kill me," the fat man says, chuckling: "He's got it in for you, buddy-o-mine. Something about how you turned states evidence on him, after you joined up with the good guys. I guess he was a little disappointed."

"Well, he'll have to live with it," Myron says.

"Run, Myron," Shining Guardsman says: "Please-"

"Yes, run," the Technocrat says: "I'm about to have some fun, now. This isn't for you to see. Unless you'd rather just wait here for your death to come?"

He grins. His teeth are rotten black and green posts in diseased gums. The bits of Shining Guardsman's armor that he didn't use to make the cross -- or the things that are skewering his hands and feet -- float up like angry snakes, ready to strike. 

And Myron crosses the room in three swift strides, brings up his fist, and smashes it right into the bridge of the man's nose. 

The effect is instantaneous. Every electronic thing in the room falls down and goes THUNK on the floor. It takes a half a second longer for the fat man to follow suit, though the groan he makes as he hits the ground is extremely satisfying. 

"Oh man," Myron says, cradling the naked body of his friend, who's even more frail than he'd supposed. 

"It's okay," the man says, whispering: "My suit... it's what keeps me alive. Can't move without it... barely breathe."

"What can I do?"

"You can't," the man says: "You leave now. Leave me. It's Game Over for me."

"No," Myron says, shaking his head: "We have to keep fighting. You know that-"

"You go," he says: "Take that fat !@#$'s phone. Call 911."

"No-"

"Yes. They'll make such a mess getting here you can slip away."

"Then I should stay-"

"You should go," Shining Guardsman says: "Let me go. It's okay."

"No It isn't-"

"Hey, It's only a game, right?" the man says, his eyes lightning up all of a sudden: "I think I remember..."

"What?" Myron asks, trying to think: "What do you remember, man? What?"

"Heh... Game Over, man," Shining Guardsman breathes. 

And then it is, and he's gone. 

"!@#$," Myron sighs, looking at the fat man's phone and wondering what he was about to remember. 

He thinks he hears laughter, out there. It's enough to make him get up and run like the Devil was after him. 

As far as he's concerned, he is. 

 
(SPYGOD is listening to Up Against It (Pet Shop Boys) and having a Positive Contact)