12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 5

11/25/12

They don't talk much on the plane ride back to Paris, Straffer and SPYGOD.

There's not much either of them can say at this point. There's not much that can be said, really. What just happened at the White House can speak for itself.

And as for what's going to happen next, well, they're in no hurry to hear it.

So they hold hands, instead. They take turns sleeping, or pretending to sleep. They eat the amazingly-prepared food that's served halfway and wish to God it'd been anything but turkey and stuffing.

And every once in a while, when they look at each other, Straffer tries to smile and SPYGOD tries to return it. But each time it fails to do more than make them not want to smile. There's not a lot to smile about, right now.

Not after what SPYGOD's just had to do.

* * *

Thankfully, they're the only passengers on this plane.

It's a small supersonic the TU's loaned out as a courtesy to those heroes who've come over to participate in the Trial of the Imago. It can make the DC-Paris journey in a little over five hours, provided they aren't loaded down with people and luggage -- which they aren't.

Maybe it was luck, and maybe no one wanted to be on the plane with them, but SPYGOD and Straffer have it almost all to themselves. All they have for company are the two pilots, who haven't left the cockpit, and two stewards, who seem terrified when they bring them meals and drinks. And that's it -- not even some harried, TU official who had to jump from one continent to the other at the last minute.

As such, the pair are in a perfect bubble. No one's turned on the entertainment system, so they haven't been stunned with the news. All the magazines are old and in French, on topics that neither of them care to read, anyway. And this morning's DC paper was thankfully left behind at the airport, so they don't have another, nasty reminded of what happened staring them in the face.

There's just the engines, the flight, the occasional interruption from whichever steward lost the bet this time, and each other.

And, after the last few days, that's a major relief. 

* * *

Once they get to Paris, any hoped they had of just sneaking into the country are dashed.

The plan was for the airplane to disembark on the tarmac, rather than a terminal. They could then take a small car out of the airport, before anyone knew they were there, and get back to their hotel. That was the plan, anyway.

But as soon as the stairway is driven up, they see the vehicles of a dozen news agencies come following after it, each trying to race it way to the head of the pack. And that means that either someone leaked the details of their arrival, or the Paris press corps is !@#$ing psychic. Maybe both.

"Reporters, " SPYGOD spits, looking out the window at the fresh cup of !@#$ that life's decided to serve: "Ought to be a law saying we can shoot them on general !@#$ing principle."

"There is," Straffer offers.

"Really?"

"Yeah, but only in season."

"When does it end?"

"Yesterday."

SPYGOD looks at his lover, and they snicker at the joke. It's the first laugh Straffer's gotten out of him in days, and for that he is amazingly grateful.

"We'll be disembarking in a few moments," the overly-gracious steward says as he comes by: "I see you didn't fill out any customs forms? Do you have anything to declare?"

"I !@#$ing hate flying non-military transport," SPYGOD says.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" the man asks, trying to rebound.

"Is there a back door on this plane?" Straffer asks, smiling: "We really could do without the reception committee."

The steward turns white, and then red, and then, sheepishly, shakes his head. Straffer nods and waves him away, turning back to his lover (who clearly wishes he had a very large gun, right about now)

"You gonna be okay?"

"I really !@#$ing wish I had a big !@#$ing gun, right about now."

"Listen to me, (REDACTED)," he says, pointing out the window: "That's not the enemy, out there."

"You !@#$ing sure about that?"

"I am, love. That's the price we pay for doing what we get to do. When something goes good, they love us, and when it goes bad, they hate us. But the fact that they're free to hate means that, even we screw up, we're still doing the right thing."

SPYGOD looks at Straffer: "You're not really !@#$ing selling me on the concept of not !@#$ing shooting them all."

Straffer shrugs: "If it helps any, let me do the talking. I've got some sway with some of them-"

"Let me," SPYGOD says, putting his finger on his lover's mouth: "I know you want to help, and I know you'd take it all for me if you !@#$ing could."

"I would. Over and over again forever and ever. You know that."

"I do. And I !@#$ing love you for it. But this is my !@#$ mess, and I have to clean it up. This is where it starts."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Do I ever not have a plan?"

"Okay. Do you have a good plan?"

SPYGOD looks out the window, and then at his lover, and shrugs: "Good, bad, I'm the guy without the gun."

* * *

The hate coming up the stairs is total. Visceral, even. It's like the two men were ugly spiders, discovered cavorting on top of one's pillow at bedtime, and all too close to a handy slipper.

Before either of them can so much as set a foot down, they're peppered with pointed questions in stilted English. Questions about what SPYGOD said at the trial, about the children. Clarifications about Mr. USA, and what he did and didn't do. 

And, of course, questions about the White House. What happened over the course of the Thanksgiving celebration. How long he'd been planning this. Why he'd done it then and there.

Why a member of the First Family of the United States of America was dead by his hand.

SPYGOD holds up his hands as an answer until they get all the way down the stairs. Then, stopping at the bottom, he puts them down and looks around at each reporter, one after one.

"What happened during the Revolution is a matter of state record," he says: "You've heard what I said under oath. You've heard why I did what I did, and what I didn't do what everyone wishes I could have done. That's life, that's war. You don't have to like it, but that's the way it is."

"But what about what happened at the White House?" A fairly unfriendly-looking reporter asks, sticking his microphone in SPYGOD's face: "Is this the kind of justice we are to expect from you? To kill-"

SPYGOD grabs the microphone out of the man's hand. He looks like he's going to say something, but then he bites down on it like it was an ice cream cone. It sparks, and there's a horrible feedback noise that makes everyone there wince and put their hands to their ears. 

And then SPYGOD drops the microphone, and spits out what was in his mouth. 

"I don't care to make a statement about that at this time," he says, once his teeth are clean and clear: "And that's because I am not allowed to make a statement about that at this time. And I plan to follow my instructions on that quite closely.

"What happened, happened. Exactly why this happened is a classified matter that you don't need to know about. The fact that you do shows that something has gone seriously wrong, and may require some corrective steps.

"But yes, there will be a statement, but I won't be making it. I suggest you talk with my superiors if you want more answers than that, as they'll be the ones who decide what they want you to know. \

"Until then, get the !@#$ out of my face."

With that, they head for the waiting car the hotel sent. The reporters stay with them all the way there, almost not letting them shut the doors and drive away. But while they keep repeating the same questions, they don't seem to have the same fury and ferocity they did before.

It's almost as if they've given up on this avenue to get answers, and are already thinking of going elsewhere for them.

"Nice," Straffer says as they drive away: "You gave them so many other things to chew on that they left the bone alone."

SPYGOD shrugs: "Sad thing is, all that was just the !@#$ing truth."

"Really?" Straffer says, looking at his lover, who's looking out the window looking very dejected, right now: "You mean he's going to..."

SPYGOD turns to look at him, ever so slowly: "The President told me that he is going to !@#$ing crucify me the first chance he gets. This was the last !@#$ing straw for him. He's !@#$ing done with me, and that means I'm !@#$ing done, too."

"Doesn't he understand that-"

"Oh, he understands. I made !@#$ing sure of that. I explained what happened, and why, and what's been !@#$ing  going on. And what that could have meant if it had !@#$ing kept going on."

"And then?"

"And then...  he listened, he nodded, he cried, he got himself back together. And when I was done, he looked me in the !@#$ eyes and told me that as soon as he could !@#$ing fix it, my loose end was being tied up for good."

SPYGOD looks away, and then back. And then he grits his teeth and slams his fist into the seat in front of him. Thankfully, it's not the drivers' seat, but the man almost swerves the car off the road from the shock of seeing a fist come through the heavily-padded seat right next to him.

"!@#$ it!" SPYGOD screams: "!@#$ it to !@#$! 

"Everything we did together! Everything we worked on! Everything we !@#$ing accomplished! It's all that's gone, now. Like it never !@#$ing existed. We're right back to !@#$ing square one with him wanting to !@#$ing fire me.

"And it's my fault," SPYGOD continues, putting his hand to his face to try and keep back the sobs: "If I'd just !@#$ing trusted him, in spite of what happened in China. If I'd just !@#$ing trusted him to make the right !@#$ing decision. To let me make the right !@#$ing decision..."

He cries. It's all he can do. And Straffer can only put his arms around him and let him cry, one man to another.

* * *

They drive the rest of the way in silence, through a city that clearly wishes they were not there.

Every television they pass is on the news channel. Every headline ticker reads the charges. Every paper that someone's reading has the front page story.

Everything a reminder that this is now enemy territory. 

Thankfully, they are both alone and anonymous as they they travel deeper behind the lines. They pass by TU guards who wave them through barricades and roadblocks, leading up to the courthouse. They pass gaggles of reporters who wait at those barriers, who have no idea that the story of the day was just closeby.

By the time they're back to the hotel, they have passed all the paparazzi behind. This is a good thing: by that point, Straffer would have taken back everything he said and killed them with his bare hands if they tried to ask any questions. The broken man he loves deserves no less.

And as the night drags on -- and SPYGOD cries less and less -- Straffer holds that man tight in the hopes that he can shelter him long enough to put himself back together, yet again. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Facing the Wind (The FIXX) and having a Jade Ambree)

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.1

11/18/12

It's an early morning in Paris, right after the !@#$ hit the fan, and SPYGOD watches his man get dressed from their large hotel bed.

He's not exactly pretending to be asleep, but he's not saying anything, either. He just likes to watch Straffer as he puts his clothes on -- methodically hiding his lovely, new body with each piece of clothing. Black socks, loose plaid boxers, tightly-pressed grey pants, a shirt so dark blue it's almost black.

And then the tie -- that tie. The one that practically screams 'I'm in !@#$ing charge, here, and don't you ever !@#$ing forget it.'

His Space Service tie. The one he wore every day on Deep-Ten.

"So you are taking them up on their !@#$ offer?" SPYGOD asks, a little piece of his heart falling away like a chunk from an iceberg.

"I think so," Straffer says, carefully selecting a jacket to go with the ensemble: "That'll depend on how things go, today."

"In court?"

"No," he says, making his choice -- excellent, as always -- "Today I see what we still have to work with, out there. Who we can rely on, who's on the fence, who's completely out."

"So you have !@#$ing thrown in with them," SPYGOD sighs, sitting up.

"It makes sense, hon," Straffer says, turning and kneeling down, so they're at the same eye level: "The Space Service was an always intended to be an international effort. And right now, whether we like it or not, the big international player is the TU. They're making the connections and getting the resources-"

"Aw, !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, putting a hand over his face: "Christ on a !@#$ing rocketship-"

"Hey now, lover, you know it's true," Straffer says, poking his man in the chest: "I don't like it any more than you do. I'd rather America was in a better position to get a planetary defense system back up and running, again, all by itself, and lead the others. But right now, with everything that's going on back at home, and the problems we're having there, we might need someone else to take the lead for a while-"

"!@#$!" SPYGOD shouts, slamming his other hand into the headboard. It breaks like balsa, causing the bed to shiver and lose some of its balance.

"Is that on your card or mine?" Straffer asks, after a moment. The way he says it completely defuses the moment, and the two men laugh, however ruefully. 

There's a slight silence between them, and then SPYGOD sighs, mutters, and admits: "I don't trust these !@#$ers."

"I know."

"We've !@#$ing talked about this."

"We have, yes."

"So why do you want to !@#$ing throw in with them, knowing all that?"

"I don't," Straffer says, getting up and sitting next to his lover on the bed: "But it's the only game in town, right now."

"It's going to be a rigged game. You !@#$ing know that."

"I know that. But I also know that, sometimes, the giant has to be kicked in the !@#$ to get off its seat and lead."

"What do you-"

"You know what I mean, hon. You were there for it, remember? The Space Race? We blink and suddenly the Russians have a satellite in orbit, and then a man in a can floating around the world?"

"I was a little !@#$ing busy at the time," SPYGOD sighs: "But yeah, I !@#$ing remember that. The whole !@#$ing conversation changed, then."

"Right. And we got off our butts and surged ahead, just so we wouldn't have a red Moon and a communist-controlled NEO. And look what happened?"

"A couple decades of us versus them in !@#$ing orbit, followed by a bunch of !@#$ about Star Wars when we !@#$ing inherited Deep Ten. And then, after the Soviet Union collapsed, we got a decade or so of shaky cooperation-"

"And that's what we need, right now," Straffer insists: "Cooperation. All the nations we can get together working to make us ready for what's coming. Unless you're planning on going up there in the mother of all jetpacks and trying to shoot (Unintelligible Concept) down all by yourself?"

"It's !@#$ing tempting."

"I know," Straffer says, putting a hand on SPYGOD's chest: "But it wouldn't work, and you know it. Not everything is solved by shooting it."

"What if I get a big enough gun...?"

"God I love you," Straffer says, smiling: "You really would go and try, wouldn't you?"

"For America? For my friends and my people? The man I love?" SPYGOD asks, reaching up and running his hands through his lover's hair: "I would. Even if it !@#$ing killed me a million times over, I'd say I got the better part of the deal."

"Then let me do this," Straffer says: "This can't be any worse than that."

"It'll be !@#$ing imperfect as !@#$."

"I'm sure. But this is one of those times when you need an imperfect thing to work perfectly. That means you need the right people in the wrong places. And unless you can think of anyone better suited to make those !@#$ers do one thing right, when it matters the most?"

SPYGOD has nothing for that, so he nods: "And you're the best !@#$ right person to be in this wrong place at the right !@#$ing time, I guess."

"You better more than guess," Straffer says, bending over and kissing him for all its worth. And for a moment, there's no world, no politics, and no oncoming space monster -- just the two of them.

That moment must end, though, and it does so leaving SPYGOD wanting more. Especially today, when he really needs his man beside him with the others, and in Court, and when deciding what to do about the nasty and complicated situation in Israel.

But by the time he can think of something else to say, his lover has gotten ready, kissed him goodbye, and headed out the door.

* * *

 "You are ready, Msr?" the man in the dark blue uniform asks as Straffer walks out of the hotel. As he does, he straightens up and tosses away the balto he was smoking.

"I am," Straffer says, extending a hand to shake: "It's good to meet you, Disparaître."

"We have met before," the man says, giving the hand a careful shake: "You may not remember me."

"Well, you'll have to remind me," Straffer says: "We have a whole day to-"

"I do not like to talk too much," the man interrupts: "Nothing personal."

"No problem," Straffer says, having already figured as much: "I'm ready if you are."

"Have you traveled like this before?" Disparaître asks, putting a hand on Straffer's shoulder.

"Actually no. What's it like?"

"Confusing, at first," the man hedges, a slight smile at his lips: "A little frightening, perhaps. It takes longer than you think, and sometimes people think I have lost them. But I never do, and there is nothing to fear. Trust me."

"I think I do," Straffer says, putting his hand on the man's shoulder in turn: "Let's go recruit some astronauts?"

The man nods. There's a bright light, and then nothing. 

And so it begins.

(SPYGOD is listening to Do What You Can, For Peace on Earth (The FIXX) and having a l'amalthee)

12/26/12 - Randolph Scott - No Words But the Truth - pt. 4

11/26/13

And then it was all over, except for the fine details.

I've been in Paris for the last two weeks, watching what can only be called the Trial of a Civilization -- both in terms of what it is, and its magnitude. Never in human history, recorded or otherwise, have we had the duty, or the right, to put an entire civilization on trial for its actions against us.

Hopefully, after this, we never will again. 

I've been in the courtroom, watching it happen. I've been out in the streets, afterwards, talking with the people who couldn't be there, or really shouldn't have been allowed in. And I've been pouring over the testimony and depositions, the evidence and conclusions.

I was there the day we got to hear what is, without a doubt, the most horrifying testimony to come from from a defendant's mouth, ever.  I was there when we heard just how small and inconsequential we are, in the galactic scheme of things, and how far we have yet to go.

I was there when the truth about what happened to the American President was told, and the existence of Alter-Earth -- and, by extension, the SPYGOD of Alter Earth -- made public for the first time ever. I was there when America's greatest and finest Superhero came clean about having been blackmailed into inaction for decades by that man, thinking he was actually SPYGOD.

And I was there when SPYGOD got on the witness stand, and admitted to authorizing a war plan that resulted in the deaths of billions of children, in order to deprive the Imago of their energy reserves.

(An admission that, it is said, may land him in that same courtroom at a later date.)

I was there. I saw. I listened. I made connections and looked them up. I went out and asked people what they thought, or what they knew.

And now here I sit, three days away from an ultimate reckoning, and I have to ask myself a very tough question: Do I think justice was served?

I'll have to wait three days for the sentencing to be certain, of course. But at this point, based on what I know, I'd like to say yes. I want there to have been a final, satisfying conclusion to everything that's happened. A way to say that we got through this terrible, truly-worldshattering event with at least our basic human dignity intact.

A way to say that everything we have suffered -- both as individuals, and as a species -- has at last been answered for.

A way to say that justice for what we have lost has been achieved.

But I know that I can't. I cannot say that justice has been served, here, today. Not by any standard we care to uphold, anyway.

I think we have only served the cause of revenge.

Why would I say such a thing? Well, that should be !@#$ing obvious to anyone who's ever been in court, much less read about it. And ayone who's sat through the process of jury duty, or actually gotten through to serve on one, should know where I'm going before I get there.

Because what's the one thing they always ask you, after your name and profession? What's the one sure way to get out of jury duty, if you really feel like being a shirk?

They ask you if you personally know anyone in the case, or are a party to it. They ask you if you have any kind of a personal stake in what's happening, in that court, and cannot render a fair verdict.

And if you answer "yes," then you're out of the pool right then and there. Do not pass go. Do not lose however much money and time because of someone else's problems.

Walk out the !@#$ Courtroom doors and be free, for now. 

So consider the following statement: the Imago took over our planet.

Consider that they left no part of it untouched or untransformed. Consider that they changed our entire way of life and doing things, and saw to it that we either didn't notice, or no longer cared.

Consider that they warped our perceptions and our sensibilities, and told us that it was all for the best and that we should be happy -- grateful, even -- and just accept this new way of thinking and doing.

And consider that, all the while, as we were being happy little busy humans, they were using us as raw material and a slave labor force, the better to build them a rocket ship to get the !@#$ off this planet before a really nasty thing comes to destroy the world.

Consider all those things, and then ask yourself whether we could render any kind of a fair verdict on these Imago.

Yes, they plead Guilty. Yes, the outcome was never in doubt. Yes, everything we heard and learned just emphasized and underlined the reasons why it was right for them to plead guilty in the first place.

But there was no impartiality at work, in this trial. There was no detachment from the personal. There was no divorce from injury and suffering.

There was no fairness, and therefore no fair trial.

What else could we have done? I don't know. Apparently, just about every alien race that lives amongst us, here on Earth, left either before or during the Occupation. Some left of their own accord, and some were apparently forced out while we weren't looking.

(And many say that it was this approaching, cosmic doom that they fled, and not the Imago.)

But I can't help but think that there had to be some other body that could have adjudicated this. Some higher court or arbiter that could have looked down upon the facts and rendered a totally fair and impartial judgment.

Some force, beyond our petty concerns and injuries, who could have seen the whole thing from afar, and been moved to find a righteous verdict.

But none came forward. None appeared. And if anyone involved in this injurious farce of a trial sought them out, I have no idea, and may never.

All I know is that, in spite of the cheers and the jeers, and the cathartic "human scream" that was uttered in that courtroom when the sentence was read, we have only gained revenge, this day. I can only hope that, for the sake of posterity -- if not our souls -- the sentence they mete out in three days' time is much more real.

Those we lost deserve it. We deserve it.

And so do the Imago.

(SPYGOD is listening to I Will (The FIXX) and having a Kanterbrau Biere de Noel)

12/26/12 - Randolph Scott - No Words But the Truth - pt. 1

Personal Notes of Randolph Scott -- Outlaw Journalist:

Woke up early, after that crazy !@#$ party SPYGOD threw by remote. I may have had too !@#$ much to drink, and may have said some things I really shouldn't have said. But I figured they needed saying, and I needed the drink, and if I really did get my !@#$ thrown out, like I think I did, then maybe I needed that too.

So of course, I wake up with a head full of broken pottery for brains. My kids were good enough to leave me some water, some painkiller, and a thing of yogurt by my bed. Thankfully I didn't need the bucket, but they thought to leave that, too.

I guess that's what happens when you grow up serving Supernazis. They expected you to expect !@#$ing everything. One wrong move and you lost parts. Too many wrong moves and they made you suffer before they killed you as an example to others.

So now they're free, and we're together, and sometimes when I go off the !@#$ rails they get this blank look in their eyes and go right into "take care of the crazy man who might kill us at any moment" mode. And I wonder if I've really taught them a !@#$ing thing.

I don't think I'll know I helped them until they leave me for good. And that's the sad truth.

Speaking of servants, it's Boxing Day, today. It's so named because, once upon a time, when the British had legions of servants in their large houses, they'd give them the day after Christmas off. The servants would thoughtfully leave their employers a boxed meal to enjoy while they went out, shopped and ate, danced, drank, and acted like normal people. And in return, their employers gave them a box of money and presents to take with them.

I've always wondered what it must have been like to only have that one day a year to go see your family and be yourself. To be trapped behind a black, Edwardian suit and social role until that one !@#$ day, right after the craziest day of the whole year.

Just 24 hours to let loose, go crazy, blow off steam. Cry and laugh with the people you grew up with.

How must it have felt at the end of that day, when you went back to the manor and realized that you had another 364 days of dawn-to-dusk servitude awaiting? How could that building have been anything but a black pit of despair and loathing?

I remember, when I was a kid, and the final hours of summer vacation were ticking down, knowing that I'd soon be walking into school, again. That horrible feeling of knowing that freedom was over.

Your life was over, it felt like sometimes.

Now they say there should be year-round schooling. They say it'll help get you ready for work, and life. I say kids should be able to go have fun for a few months. No one should be in any hurry to grow up.

Growing up !@#$ing sucks, sometimes.

...

Boxing Day's a holiday in just about every English speaking country. Except for America, of course. I guess we didn't have enough servants to consider giving them a day off. All equals and all that !@#$.

But then, some people are more equal than others. And that's also the American way.

Someone's got to do the jobs no one wants, and all you can say is that you hope they get paid well.

* * *

10/21/12

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

His name is Charlie Phelps. He's 24 years old. Seven months ago, he was a Marine, until the Imago came and told him he wasn't needed anymore.

And then, a week ago, he got to return the favor.

"It was crazy," he tells me, resting on the bulldozer he's been running for the past seven days: "When the fighting started, and we all got our minds back, I kept thinking maybe I ought to go back to the base, get back in uniform. Do something, you know? But then I remembered they dismantled the base and turned it into a recycling center, or something like that. So I just hunkered down in our house and told my kids to play zombie attack, so they'd hide under the bed and keep quiet.

"And then the fighting was over, and all these Imago were falling right out of the sky like dead birds by a power plant. We couldn't believe it. We all came out and watched them sit there, smashed out on the ground. They could look at us, and maybe they tried to talk, but that was all they could do."

No one's sure who had the idea to start pushing them into a pile for pickup. But when they needed to know who could drive a bulldozer, Charlie was happy to volunteer, seeing as how it was his Military Occupational Specialty in the Corps.

"I think that got more stares than the Imago on the ground. Whoever heard of a Marine construction expert? Well, that's me."

So Charlie spent the last seven days driving all over Baton Rouge in a truck that hadn't been converted yet, offloading his bulldozer, and picking up fallen Imago for the Strategic Talents to collect. It was challenging, considering he had to find gasoline anywhere he could to fuel both the truck and the bulldozer, but somehow he got by.

"By the end, we had a pile of those metal ------s reaching up ten feet tall, and fifty feet wide. All of them just staring at us like fish out of water. And everyone was coming by and throwing trash at them. I think some kid tagged a few, and some others were going to do the same. 

"But then the government showed up and took them away, and that was kind of the end of the party."

Charlie isn't sure what's next. The Imago put him to work doing community cleanup, and over time he came to like it. But he says that, should his country need him back in uniform, he's ready to serve.

"Over the last seven months, I've been living a lie," he says: "Now the truth's come back, again. And it's set me free."

* * *

Her name was Helen, and we met through the Free. 

She was crazy and impulsive, warm and passionate, daring and uncompromising. She'd been a hacker back in the time of the phone phreaks, and had kept up with the times. Most of her friends from back in the day were either dead, busted, or working for "the man," as she put it. She alone endured, maybe because she knew when the storm was coming.

So when the Imago had come, she'd gone underground before they could even catch her. She'd killed her internet before they could turn her into an idiot, and then set up shop down below Neo York City. Every so often she sent up a pulse of unfiltered news, going out over the television satellites whenever she could chance it.

We met, and it was like this weird void that I didn't know I had was filled. She finished my sentences, shared my thoughts, and made me feel like I was a part of something, and not just an outrider. 

She didn't care that I looked like I went ten rounds with a sewing machine. She loved the "menagerie" I had with me to pieces. She was willing to risk everything to help others, and me.

She lived for the truth, and said she'd die for the story, too. I just didn't realize how soon that would happen.

It happened during the battle for Neo York City. She stepped between me and an Imago that I didn't even see. It was almost as if she'd know it was going to shoot me, just at that second, and had been waiting for it to happen so she could stop it from killing me.

It just killed her, instead. 

That was over two months ago, now. I'm still !@#$ed up, disbelieving. I still think all of this is a !@#$ing dream, somehow, and keep hoping I'll wake up and find her sitting there, at a computer, finding common ground between underground stories and making them jibe with one another, somehow.

But I wake up and there's no one there. Just my heart, beating a lonely tattoo in the dawn's early light.

Just me, alone again.

 * * *

10/27/12

Arlington National Cemetery

All the way at the East end of the Cemetery Grounds, in the center of the McPherson Drive Teardrop, there's a statue that's visited almost as much as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers.

It's called the Torchbearer, as most schoolchildren could tell you. They could also tell you that it's meant to serve as a memorial to every Strategic Talent who's fallen in the service of America -- either during wartime, or as part of the COMPANY.

And they could also tell you that each of those heroes is afforded a spot, there in that teardrop, if they so desire it.

Major Force is buried there, along with Captain Liberty, Lt. Lightning, Captain Chaos, and numerous others who fell during the war they helped win, and the subsequent conflict that they prolonged to grotesque lengths. 

Stone after stone, row after row, all within the sight of the eternal flame of liberty that they died defending.

It always seems like there's been a funeral party here, once or twice a month. An old hero dies from advanced age, a young hero is taken too soon. Sometimes their colleagues make jokes about how long it'll take before they come back, and sometimes they know there's no return from this one.

And today, on an incongruously bright and sunny day, just about every member of the Freedom Force has been laid to rest in this place.

The Red Alchemist. The Visionary. Freedom Belle. American Shield. Mrs. Liberty. All gone, now, lost in the fighting against the Imago, along with so many others. The new heroes who came out of nowhere, as well as the older ones who were hiding in the wings, and the heroes from all over the world who stood side by side that day.

One planet, united, that would not be defeated.

The President speaks first, commending them for their service and their sacrifice. Then up steps the Vice President -- Mr. USA -- who fought alongside them for so long, speaks to their families and friends, as one who loved them, too. Then there's Doctor Power, who barely gets through his speech without breaking up and crying.

And finally, the last speaker strides up to the podium, clearly drunk but not willing to let his state of mind get the better of him. The man who ordered them into battle, this time. The one who told them to stand and fight, and ultimately die.

SPYGOD himself, the architect of the world's freedom, having to commemorate the men and women he told to give their all that humanity might yet survive. 

He looks up at the sky, and then down at the ground. His one eye lands on Mrs Liberty's grave, and he clearly starts to cry, but then he gets hold of himself, takes a deep breath. 

"If I hear one more long-winded pile of !@#$, I'm going to be !@#$ing sick," he says. There's some chuckling, a few gasps. But they should have known, and, knowing that they should have known this, he gathers his strength.

"Mrs. Liberty, she kicked my !@#$ all the time," he says: "She wasn't the only woman who came out of Camp Rogers, but she was the only one who could take me on. She knew right where to punch, you see. It's a skill a lot of people don't get. They get the power and just think it's enough, but they don't put it together.

"She had it down from day one, though. No messing with that !@#$ broad. I saw her take Nazis on and go toe-to-toe with them all the way across France and Germany. No stopping her. No surrender. No retreat.

"But what I'm going to remember the most about her? She knew me. I mean she knew me. When most of you thought I killed the President, and she got sent after me, she was at least willing to give me a chance. She was willing to listen. 

"And when I let her know I wasn't coming quietly, which was as much of my plan as I wanted to tell her, she trusted me enough to let me knock her out cold. And she covered for me the rest of the time, in spite of it all.

"You can't buy loyalty like that. You can't command it, either. It has to be forged, in here," he says, thumping his chest: "It has to be hammered out, day after day. Tempered with understanding. Watered with will. And then shined up with the conviction that you can trust these people you've stood side-by-side with to do the right thing, even if it appears otherwise."

He stops, then looks like he's going to say something else. Then he shakes his head, smiles a little, and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket.

"We had a bet running," he says, holding it aloft: "If I died first, she had to read a poem for me. And if she died first, well, I read hers. I guess I won the bet, so... here we go. 

"Bit long, but that's Tennyson for you:

 There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

With that, he looks around the crowd. He nods. And then he walks away. 

No "God Bless America." No "Amen." Just the weight of that poem, still reverberating. The 21 gun salute seems perfunctory after that. The missing man formation overhead a distraction. 

The words have been given, to burn in the mind forever. If only our heroes could last as long.

If only our saviors were not so disposable.

* * *

"Fly and be free," I imagine her saying to me as I cradled her body: "Be happy for this."

I heard her say it. I know I did. I !@#$ing know.

But when  I dropped the camera to run to her, one of my kids picked it up and caught the whole thing on tape. Me holding her, her dying, me screaming.

At no point does she say anything. How could she draw breath to speak with her chest in pieces? How could she make words in a mouth full of blood?

I heard it in my mind. I felt it in my heart. But reality says otherwise, and aren't I supposed to be going with facts?

Isn't that what a !@#$ing journalist does?

I don't know, anymore. I sit here and watch the snow fall and wonder if I should take the aspirin and water or just get drunk again.

I'll decide soon, I think. But for now I want to watch the snow, like a kid home from school.

Just that, for a while.

(SPYGOD is listening to Woman on a Train (The FIXX) and having a Gales Prize Old Ale) 

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

11/3/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11/17/13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there a reason why?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"Calm down, sir," the hero says.

"How dare you say that to me-"

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

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

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

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

"And I appreciate that, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, and when he hears that-"

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

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

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

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

"And when that crisis comes

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

"And in the meantime?"

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

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

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. President-"

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

"I agree, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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