1/20/13 - And Sometimes I Worry and Fear What Tomorrow May Bring

The Crew of the Egress: Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

(Front) Brightstarsurfergirl, Dr. Heila, Walker In/With the Darkness
(Middle) Hanami, Dir. Straffer, SPYGOD, Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir
(Back) Mr. Chaos, Myron, Dr. Fuller, Night Phantom (w/Glimmer)
(Way Back) Disparaitre
(art by Dean Stahl)

 * * *

*BEGIN TRANSMISSION*

*cough* Yeah. Um, Is this !@#$ing thing on?

Yeah? You sure? *thump thump*

Oh... the red light, okay.

*cough cough* 

Alright then. Goooooooooooood morning, planet Earth!!!!

This is SPYGOD, speaking to you over every radio station, TV channel, and projected broadcast medium we could get our !@#$ing hands on.

Now, I sure hope we didn't interrupt anything too !@#$ important. But, you !@#$ing know how emergency broadcasts are. They happen, and usually when you're in the middle of something good.

!@#$, I remember I was in a movie theater watching Scanners when President Reagan got shot. I was just at the part where the guy's head blew the !@#$ up, too. So, of course, when they call me to tell me I need to get the !@#$ to Bethesda, you can imagine what's going through my !@#$ mind...

Oh, right. Sorry, planet Earth. My amazing boyfriend is telling me that I am !@#$ing rambling, again.

(It's a habit. I know....)

Anyway, I am broadcasting to you live from the good ship Egress, currently orbiting the god!@#$ moon along with all the leftover Apollo parts that someone !@#$ing forgot to pick up after landing. That and a few other things I'm really not supposed to be !@#$ing talking about. You know how that goes.

But, as fate would have it, that is a lot of what I have to talk to you about today, boys and girls. Things we aren't supposed to be !@#$ing talking about, much less even !@#$ing thinking about if we know what's good for us.

I'm talking secrets and lies, folks. Big !@#$ ones, too. The kind of things you get !@#$ing shot for telling people about, or just knowing.

Unfortunately, they're things that, as of right now, we have to !@#$ing talk about.

And there's things you really !@#$ing need to know. 

Case in point, I'm sure a lot of you are pretty !@#$ shocked to be hearing from me at all. You all went to bed last night thinking that awful SPYGOD person was locked back up, again, in Neo York City. Right?

Well, surprise surprise. It takes a lot more than a !@#$ty apartment and a !@#$ton of Terre Unifee guards to keep me the !@#$ down. I'm proud to say I pretty much walked out of there, almost exactly when I intended to, and pretty much exactly how I'd planned.

And yeah, I'm sure that sounds like !@#$ing gloating? Well, you can sue my fine gay !@#$ when I get back to Earth, if you want to.

That is, of course, provided we get back to Earth at all.

Which is part of why I am talking to you, right now.

* * *

You see, boys and girls, you have been !@#$ing lied to for quite some time, now.

Well, maybe "lied to" isn't the right term. "Misled" might be more like it. 

See, you remember when those Imago !@#$holes had us all under their control? And you remember how they told us that there was a big !@#$ spacemonster coming to get us?

Well, I'm sure you all know that they had no room to talk about space monsters. And since we threw them under the !@#$ bus, well, everyone's kind of forgotten that silly !@#$ they told us.

And who can blame you? They were genocidal !@#$wads who put their minds inside the bodies of retarded people, and used our kids like batteries.

And when push came to shove, well... we know what they were willing to do.

(Nuff !@#$ing said about that.)

Well, since then, a lot of people have been telling you that we are about to have some issues with outer space. Just not like that the Imago told us.

Mostly it's been sober astronomers and science guys, all smiling into the !@#$ cameras and telling you that, well, it's just !@#$ing possible that something might just be intersecting with our orbit in a few months or so.

And yes, if you press them, they might fess up that, yes, it's one of those planet killer things. Kind of like the one that John McClaine and Daredevil took out in that one !@#$ing movie. 

But it's nothing too serious! Not really. Oh no. Just a thing, and we're working on it.

Oh, how?

Well, we've got superheroes. And superscience! And weapons you normal !@#$heels in TeeVeeLand haven't even !@#$ing heard of, before now.

So yeah, just go back to your television and internet. Watch your shows, sneak some porn, go sign up for a !@#$ hookup with an ugly but desperate married stranger on that one site. Everything's going to be juuuust fine. Really.

I mean, !@#$, you know how many times the world's almost ended in your lifetime, alone? You'd run out of fingers and toes trying to count them all. And you'd go !@#$ing crazy trying to handle all that with the brainmeat you got between your ears.

Just relax, they'd say. Don't worry about it. We've got it all under control. Nothing to worry about.

Nothing. At. All.

Well, folks... that was a big !@#$ lie.

* * *

The truth is that, in this one !@#$ thing, the Imago were not !@#$ing lying.

If we've got an accurate reading on it, sometime in the next year Earth is going to be visited by something. Something huge. Maybe about the size of !@#$ing Jupiter.

Maybe even larger.

And reason no one can get an accurate size on this !@#$ thing is because, once it's close enough to really see, anyone who can see it apparently goes completely !@#$ing insane.

This thing isn't some asteroid we can just nuke on one side and nudge away before it !@#$ing gets here. It's too !@#$ big for that.

And it isn't the sort of thing we can really plan for, either. Because once we really see it? It'll be !@#$ing be on us inside of a !@#$ month. 

And even if we did have the time to plan? It still isn't the sort of thing we can nudge away.

Because it's not just happening across our !@#$ path, folks. This thing isn't just on a !@#$ing collision course.

No folks. It's !@#$ing coming right for us.

Some of the more ancient beings we've encountered, over the years, refer to it as the Decreator. It's more commonly known as (Unintelligible Concept), but that doesn't make a whole lot of !@#$ing sense. And maybe we should be glad for that.

All we know for sure it that, when it gets here? The lucky people will just die. Maybe of fright, maybe of the sort of !@#$ that happens when a planet a lot larger than your own gets a little too !@#$ close for comfort.

Everyone else? They're going to be !@#$ing destroyed. 

To see this thing is to die. Your brains turn to black !@#$ in your skull, and then blow the !@#$ out of your eyesockets. And somehow, in spite of all that? You're still !@#$ing alive and in pain.

And god!@#$ insane on top of it all

* * *

Now, you might well be asking "SPYGOD? How the !@#$ do you even know about this?" And that's a !@#$ good question.

The answer is that we have the testimony of someone who saw it happen. He managed to get to a place where it already happened, not knowing what the !@#$ he was heading into. Lucky for him, he got there just after it started heading the !@#$ away.

And lucky for us, he came back to tell the tale.

Unfortunately, he's no longer able to take questions. He had a bit of a debt hanging to someone, and, well, he paid it. That's enough !@#$ing said about that.

But what we do need to talk about,  here, is the fact that we don't meet this !@#$ thing out there, in the black, before it gets too close?

Well, then the Earth is dead, folks. That's all there is to it.

And I know you've grown up in a world where this kind of !@#$ has happened before. We've had alien conquerors show the !@#$ up before. Strange invasions. Surreal encounters. All kinds of big !@#$ weird menace that just sort of !@#$ing appears at 3 in the !@#$ AM on a Monday morning and decides to eat Mumbai.

I mean, you all !@#$ing remember THAT, right? I know I sure as !@#$ do. Let me tell you, boys and girls, THAT hurt. 

But this is not THAT, folks. This is something that makes THAT look like some world-eater in a silly helmet who gets scared the !@#$ away by some weird-!@#$ sex toy in the hands of a human.

This is the apocalypse, folks. This is Armageddon wrapped up in Ragnarok with the Day of Four-Motion wrapped the !@#$ around that, and some sparkly Frashokereti sprinkles drizzled over the !@#$ top like bacon bits.

Not a fun scene, folks. Not at all.

* * *

So yeah, we have a problem. And it's a !@#$ big one, too.

Fortunately, we also have a solution. It's a long shot, but that's a !@#$ of a lot better than no shot at all.

Now, most of you probably remember that the Imago were building a giant spaceship, up here.  They claimed they were going to use it to go fight this !@#$ thing?

Well, the truth is that they weren't going to do any such thing. In fact, they were going to use to to get the !@#$ away from it. They were going to load up as much of our preteen population as they could, burn !@#$ing rubber out of our solar system, and leave us to face it alone.

Now, they're gone. And I blew the !@#$ out of their !@#$ing space elevator, too. But the ship is just fine.

In fact, we've spent the last couple of months getting it into shape. Seeing what kind of propulsion it's got. What we can use for weapons.

And, if all else failed, what kind of weapons we could bring up from the surface and put right onto the ship.

Now, there's been another a lie that's been going on, but it's probably not one you would have heard. It's a lie that was told by certain elements within the Terre Unifee to other groups both inside and outside of it

That lie was that the ship was going to be used to defend the Earth.

Yes, I know that sounds !@#$ing shocking. I mean, if they weren't going to save the Earth, then what the !@#$ were they going to do with it? Beat New Horizons to !@#$ing Pluto?

Actually, no, boys and girls. They were going to take a !@#$ing page from the Imago. They were going to get on board the Egress with certain world leaders, and their families and friends, and say adieu  to Earth.

And then they were going to leave us to !@#$ing rot. 

Yes, you heard that right. Some of your TU-appointed National Facilitators were going to take the last train for !@#$ing Clarksville and leave you all to die. Screaming and in pain. 

Now, there's a lot more I could say about that !@#$, right now.

I could tell you how those certain elements were linked up with !@#$ing European racist parties, all jockeying to get in on the ultimate White Flight away from the planet.

And I could tell you how they told the leaders of, shall we say,  less white countries they could get in on the action, too, in exchange for aid and materials under the !@#$ing table, but had no !@#$ intention of letting them in on it at all.

And I could also tell you about all the super villains they turned into super heroes to help with this, all the crazy !@#$ they did to keep this under wraps, the fact that they started !@#$ing killing journalists to keep their !@#$ secret...

Yeah, I could waste your time and tell you all about that.

However, I am not. Because I have friends who have been very good about finding out all this information. And as soon as I'm done with my part of the show, they're going to pick up where I left off and tell you what's been going on these last few months.

No, boys and girls, I'm going to tell you about something else.

* * *

Long story short, this spacecraft, and this crew? We're going out there to stop that big !@#$ space monster from getting any further than !@#$ing Mars.

Now, I know that, given everything I've told you, that doesn't sound too comforting. !@#$, maybe it sounds like sending some kid with a !@#$ bb gun out to take down the sex-crazed, steroid-jacked mutant lion that escaped from the !@#$ zoo, ate half the police, and !@#$ed the other half to death.

But that's the big !@#$ plan, anyway. And we've got things to do it with. 

We've got this amazing ship that the Imago built to take them across the !@#$ing galaxy from this thing. We've got heroes, scientists, and engineers from all over the !@#$ world. We've even got volunteers from Mars and !@#$ing Venus, ready to try and fight this thing the !@#$ off.

And sure, maybe all we need to have a plan is an actual plan. But those of you who've known me long enough? Well, you oughta !@#$ing know by now that I make my best plans on the !@#$ run, at the last minute, with all odds stacked so !@#$ high against me that you can't even see over them.

And that's why we're going to !@#$ing win, folks. Because of you. Because what we're leaving behind us is too !@#$ bright and beautiful for us to fail it. Too precious to lose.

That's Earth, folks. That's you.

So we're going to go and do this on a wing and a !@#$ prayer. Hopefully you'll be good enough to send some of your own that we can win this one. Or at least kiss your own !@#$es so !@#$ hard that God moves heaven and Earth to save them from this thing if we really can't pull it off.

Sometimes he really does listen. I ought to !@#$ing know.

* * *

But there's one other thing I really should !@#$ing talk about, before we take the !@#$ off. And that's a really !@#$ simple thing to say, but not so easy to explain.

So, the easy bit first. My trial? Consider it !@#$ing cancelled.

Oh, I'm !@#$ sure I probably deserve to be put on trial. Make no !@#$ mistake about that. I can't disagree that I screwed up when I was fighting against the Imago. I can't deny that I made some really !@#$ serious mistakes.

And I sure as !@#$ won't stand in front of you all and say that my actions, my plans, my ideas... all those things I said and did and plotted?

I can't stand here and honestly tell you that they all worked out for the best. Or that I always had everyone's best interests at heart when I rolled up my sleeves and went out to beat the !@#$ out of those metal-plated !@#$ers. 

I was at war, folks. I prosecuted that war to the best of my ability. And yeah, I made mistakes. I took shortcuts. I worked my way through the !@#$ed impossible calculus of combat in the hopes of winning back the world.

And yeah, I won. We won. But we lost so !@#$ much.

And yes, I lost so much of that for you.

Me.

But here's the thing, folks. While maybe I should have my day in court? And maybe I should answer for my mistakes? Maybe even my crimes?

Well, the Terre Unifee are not the body that gets to try me.

As of right the !@#$ now, the United States of America is no longer under the authority of the Terre Unifee. A second American revolution has taken place. We have won our freedom, yet again.

And as a citizen of the United States of America, I refuse to submit myself to the justice system of an international organization that we just left.

It isn't just the revolution, folks. The TU is broken. I know it, you know it. And now that the vast and complicated chain of strategic talents they relied on to keep the world fed, heated, hydrated, and safe is falling the !@#$ apart, I think the gloss is going to come off the !@#$ hooker really !@#$ing quick.

I mean, !@#$, folks. The President, who you might remember used to be my !@#$ing boss? He hates me because of a certain decision I made, and then a thing I had to do. A terrible thing, yes, but something that had to be done.

I had to kill his daughter because she wasn't his daughter anymore. And what she had become...

...

Yeah, maybe that's a secret we can keep to ourselves for right now, folks. Sorry about that.

But bottom line? He's gone stark raving mad, up there in that pyramid of theirs. He's fixated on revenge. And while there's a lot of good people in his justice department? Well, some of that crazy's going to !@#$ing rub off, somewhere.

And it's going to taint the results like you would not !@#$ing believe.

* * *

In the meantime, here's how it !@#$ing is.

We're leaving orbit to go deal with this !@#$. We have teleporters with us. They may come back and forth to pick up supplies and !@#$.

They will not be !@#$ed with. 

If any crazy !@#$ comes to hit Earth while we're gone?  A very good friend and ally is in orbit, right now, piloting one of the most powerful pieces of cosmic god technology we've ever found on our planet. I wouldn't put their chances of getting through too !@#$ high.

Because no one !@#$s with him. 

America will be choosing its leaders, soon. It will be reforming its government. And while I am gone, it is protected. Do not think otherwise.

You know the kind of people we have on our side. 

If and when I get back, I may need to stand trial. But I am not going to submit myself to trial at the hands of the Terre Unifee.

If they even !@#$ing exist when we get back to Earth, when this thing is done? I'll gladly stand trial at the hands of a reliable third party.

!@#$, even if they don't exist? I'll stand trial, if you want me to.

Maybe I should be held accountable. And that's for you to decide.

But if I'm going on trial? Let it be a fair one. Let me lay out my side and hear yours.

Let me !@#$ed for the right reasons, or freed for the right ones.

That's all I ask. !@#$, I demand it. I am a free being and I have rights, same as you.

The same rights I fight for every !@#$ day I'm breathing.

And... while I'm at it? I'm demanding one other thing, folks.

You see, we're all willing to lay our lives down to save our world. But we'd really like that world to be worth saving, once in a !@#$ while.

So, since we might be gone a while, dealing with this thing? How about you take this opportunity to take a long, hard look at the world we're going to be protecting, and make it better?

Yes, boys and girls, you heard me. Fix. Your. !@#$. 

Because if we're going to lay it all on the line for you, up here in the black? We want to come home to a world that actually acts !@#$ing grateful for a change.

...

That's about all I have to say. There's some other people who would like to talk to you, now. I suggest you listen to what they have to say, as it's the sort of thing that might help you decide which pile of !@#$ to throw away first.

Be seeing you.

SPYGOD out.

*END TRANSMISSION*

* * *

Your eyes are like saucers 

but mine are just clouded in gray
I've so much to tell 

but I can't tell you just go away
Anyway, won't you stay?

 * * *

Hey Kids! SPYGOD returns in two weeks with more wholesome fun for the whole family!

* * * 

(SPYGOD is listening to Monochrome (Lush) and having a Dark Sun Black Ale)   

1/1/13 - A Shadow of Life - Pt. 2

Where the !@#$ we? Not that important, son. We could be a big !@#$ mile under Paris, London, Neo York City. Anywhere the Terre Unifee's got its fat, French fingers into, we could be there, watching our man get the mother of all debriefings.

(I'm betting Rome, though. The guards all look like pictures of my Great Uncle from my !@#$ing family album. Especially the women.)

What is important is what this guy is saying, and you can bet everyone worth a !@#$ in this new, post-Imago world is listening in.

That goes for me, too, of course. And you can bet your big !@#$ $800 Prada belt I'm looking in on this third man, along with Straffer. 

What, they trust us again, now? !@#$ no, son. We're still on the outs. It's just that we sort of !@#$ing invited  ourselves. 

But here's the kicker. No one else in the room can !@#$ing see us, but we can see and hear every !@#$ thing that's going on. 

(And how we're doing that is something I'm going to have to keep !@#$ing quiet for now, son. I'm supposed to be under House Arrest, after all. We wouldn't want to get in any worse trouble than we're already in, would we? Though it'd be hard !@#$ing work to do that, at this point.)

But we're watching and listening as the TU's best interrogators are working this man over, ever so gently. As someone who's had to "welcome" any number of superspies, villains, and idiots with more power than ethics or brains over the years, I have to say they're doing a !@#$ good job.  

Even with that weird, green-haired woman standing right behind them (the one who makes it so his powers don't !@#$ing work) I wouldn't be worried that he'd try to jump the !@#$ out of here with the sugar trail they're leading his dead-eyed !@#$ down.

Not that he has anywhere to jump, now. Not really. Not now that his double, Disparaître, has his scent and can follow him !@#$ing anywhere he tries to go. 

And not that he can really go home, either, which is the whole !@#$ point of this discussion.

I'd almost feel sorry for him, except that I'm still too !@#$ed off at what happened there, a couple months back. That and I'm still trying to wrap my !@#$ing noggin around what he's saying he saw. 

And yes, son. Now more than ever, that is saying something.

* * *

You see, son, something has gone wrong. Badly wrong.

The whole Alter Earth plan revolved around one big !@#$ fact. And that was that, while both our planet and theirs was going to be visited by this big !@#$ space monster to end all big !@#$ space monsters, we were going to get hit first. 

How did they even !@#$ing  know this? !@#$ed if I know, son. I know that they had some records left over from the time before, when other things were living on their Earth, but how they knew how to interpret them, and how those things even !@#$ing knew? Kind of makes my !@#$ head hurt. 

!@#$, son. For all I know their Zombie Emperor Jesus gave the !@#$ing date ex !@#$ing cathedra, at some point during his centuries-long reign. Who can say? 

Alter Earth was never what you'd call a !@#$ good source of reliable intel. Most of what we got, prior to my discovery in the HONEYCOMB's central HIVE, was courtesy of people who got zapped over here for however long before they faded back home. 

And as you might !@#$ing imagine, they really did not feel like cooperating. Even when we were really !@#$ nice to them. 

(Especially when we were really !@#$ nice. It scared them more than the threats.)

But here's the big !@#$ deal, son. Like I said earlier, we were supposed to get !@#$ing nailed by this space beast a year and three months before them. And the idea was that they had some machine that might help, and they wanted to test it out.

So big !@#$ space monster day would come, they'd turn their !@#$ing technogooble on, cook up some !@#$ing popcorn, sprinkle butter-flavored powdered baby parts over it, and munch and !@#$ while watching us burn, or melt, or whatever. And then they'd go home, intel in hand, and either build a bigger version of their !@#$ing machine, or prepare to bring people over here to ride out the storm.

Whichever, whatever. But they had a plan, based on a rough time estimate, and they were !@#$ing sticking with it. 

Well... you know what I say about plans, by now.  Right, son?

* * *

So our third man, this double of Disparaître, he's spent the last couple months carrying on like nothing's !@#$ different, because for him it really isn't. He can go back and !@#$ing forth, right? Who cares about the !@#$ Imago if you can just wink anywhere you !@#$ well like?  

He comes here, sees !@#$, doesn't !@#$ing care, does nothing. Maybe he gets in contact with the other me and the nasty !@#$ they were partnered up with, maybe he doesn't. And then he goes home, checks in, feeds them intel that's a mix of true and false, just to keep things !@#$ing interesting. 

Comes here, goes there, repeat as !@#$ing needed. 

So he's telling these nice TU interrogators that the last time he was there was a day at the end of !@#$ing November. They were having Market Day, then, apparently, and he had a few big !@#$ing purchases he wanted to make.

(And you do not want to know what he bought, son. Just trust me there.)

He buys some... things. He makes his !@#$ report. It's half true, half bull!@#$. They don't !@#$ing call him on it, he doesn't give them a reason to, and then he !@#$ing comes back over here.

And then, on Christmas Day, he teleports the !@#$ back home, expecting to find people preparing for another !@#$ing festival. Something to do with the Unconquered Son, or some such.

And instead...

...

The first thing he noticed was the Moon. It was gone. A big !@#$ piece of it was tumbling away from view, end over end like some poor !@#$hole falling out of a plane without a chute. 

Then the smell hits him. The kind of horrible charred smell you get when the mother of all pot roasts gets left in the oven just long enough to turn into coal, mixed with damp rot, methane, and !@#$ knows what else.

He looks down. It's the worst thing he could have done. Nothing is left of the city he once came back to. The buildings are all shattered and razed, covered in some weird, black !@#$.

There are people still alive. Just not a lot of them, and not for long.

The first one he comes across is kneeling with her back to him. She's a slave, he thinks, because she's naked. She's dirty and bruised and bloody, she's messed herself.

And there's something about the noises she's making...

* * *

At first, he thinks she's just crying, as her face is wet and she's making low noises. And who wouldn't be? Her world is destroyed, her master probably dead. There's no reason to stay silent and stoic, anymore.  

Who would be so cruel as to beat her for a lack of composure at a time like this?

But when he walks around, he sees his error.

She is not weeping. She is making the sound that people do when their minds have finally failed, and their bodies are shutting down. The low, endless "uuuuuuu" of the lost and the dying.

And she is not crying, either. The black, lumpy streams of matter oozing from her blasted and smoking eyesockets are not tears.

He has the uncomfortable feeling they may be what's left of her brains. 

He steps away from her, quickly, and looks around. He sees there are more just like her, living and dead. All with the same open, blackened, and smoking eyesockets, leaking charred and filthy matter down their faces.  

The few living ones making that horrible noise, the only sounds over the rushing wind and licking flames.

He whirls around, seeing that the buildings are alive with gruesome things. A pulsing, living darkness, clinging to their cracked surfaces. Insubstantial but ever-present, smelling of something truly awful.  

Something infectious, hanging in the wound between worlds.

He jumps, heading to the one place where there should be actual survivors. The place prepared for the highest amongst the high. Those whose robes are so white it actually hurts to look at them, and their servants must have their eyes altered accordingly.  

The Sleep Chamber, the last hope of their world. Mighty and inviolate, and still intact, there in the distance.

But the moment he teleports, he screams. The air is wrong, somehow. The substance tainted.

Something dark is waiting for him, there.  

He flails away, landing outside the building he was aiming for. And then he realizes what is wrong. The strange, pulsing darkness that has coated the broken buildings is here as well, sliding over the outside surface.  

Feeding on what is within.

He hears their screams from the high windows. They howl that they were cheated. That they should have been given a new world they could live in, and not this sere and carnivorous landscape.  

Not this shattered, black mockery of a world. 

He could go up there and save them. He knows this. But he also knows that this would risk going into whatever darkness hangs in space between here and there. The scalding, acidic foulness that almost devoured him the last time.  

And so he turns, and ignores his masters in their moment of need.

He's crying, now. It's finally sinking in. His world is gone. There is nothing left for him now, here. Their plan is over.  

It was all a terrible mistake.

But then he makes an even greater mistake. He looks up, past what's left of the Moon, still falling away from his world.

And he sees... something. A blackness, where there should be stars. A dark shape, getting smaller as it moves away from the planet it just wrecked.  

And for the briefest moment, maybe the space between two heartbeats, he can make out its shape...

* * *

And that, son, is when he finally did the sensible thing and got the !@#$ out of dodge.

He's not entirely sure what happened next, to hear him tell it. He says he !@#$ing wandered around in a daze for a while, alternating between crying and drinking. And then he just settled on !@#$ing drinking, and went to that nasty Cairo bar, knowing they'd leave him the !@#$ alone.

That's where they found his sorry !@#$, like I said. He wasn't trying too hard to hide, anymore, though. He just didn't !@#$ing care. In fact, according to him, he was working up his courage to go step into the !@#$ Sun when they arrived.

(One way to dodge the mother of all bar bills, I guess?)

All well and good, of course. But looking at this broken bastard, crying into his hands now that the massive pile of nasty !@#$ we used to call Alter Earth is a !@#$ing tomb, here's the big !@#$ question, son. 

How do I feel about this? 

See, I used to dream about a day like this. I used to imagine a final !@#$ end to that !@#$hole of a world. All their rape as punishment, torture as entertainment, child sex as family business, death!@#$ing as ritual... just to find out it all ended at 5 in the PM on an otherwise-boring friday would have !@#$ing made my weekend. 

Especially after what happened, last year.

But now? Looking at this creepy !@#$ copy of Disparaître crying because he !@#$ing feels he should be dead, too? That he failed them, somehow? 

It reminds of of this time after the War, when I was looking at the dossiers of Hitler's Ubermenschen. The before and after photos Hitlers oh-so-exacting record keepers kept, year after year. All those fresh-faced kids and young people, some staring ahead like soldiers, some smiling like kids having their !@#$ graduation photos taken. 

I remembered some of them. I fought them. I cut them to pieces, shot them full of holes, ripped them apart with my !@#$ing hands. I cheered to see them dead and dying. !@#$, I even laughed  as they bled out.

But looking at their pictures, all there in their fresh, new uniforms, their faces full of hope and pride? I couldn't see any !@#$ difference between them and the pictures of the kids and young people I volunteered with, after Pearl Harbor. 

Just different uniforms. Different countries that couldn't settle things peaceably. Different ideologies that couldn't coexist. 

Differences that killed. 

Was it their fault those German kids were born into a broken world? Was it their fault they were told evil was good, wrong was right? Did most of them really know what they were !@#$ing doing?

I was never !@#$ing sure with some of them. But I think of all that !@#$ potential wasted. All that possibility gone.

And you know what? Even of Alter Earth was broken, so that the good was bad and the bad was really !@#$ing bad? How do we know there weren't some !@#$ points of light, there in that darkness? How do we know there weren't saints, alive and working in secret?

Did the good deserve to die along with the evil? 

... 

I don't know, son. Sometimes I make like I'm the biggest !@#$ing authority on everything in the !@#$ world, and maybe sometimes I am. But at a time like this, I can't be of any !@#$ing help at all. 

At times like this, I'm just an !@#$hole with a gun who's famous for all the wrong !@#$ reasons.

* * *

Sow what?

My wonderful boyfriend, he talks to aliens for a living. Usually from the other end of a very large !@#$ing gun, of course, but we've always had other species living here, on Earth. And so long as they behave themselves and don't !@#$ing cornhole cows and steal farmers' daughters off to Zeta Omicron IV and a !@#$ half for fun and profit, we're fine. 

Sometimes they're even !@#$ing useful, because sometimes they have actionable intelligence. And even when they don't, well, at least they've got stories.

So you can imagine that, when I realized what this ((UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT)) thing was about, I wanted to !@#$ing know everything. And while a lot of them don't have more info than we did, at least they had stories. 

Horrible stories.

Stories of entire !@#$ing solar systems wiped out in days. Stories of big !@#$ empires brought to nothing. Stories of the greatest !@#$ing armies and armadas wrecked to !@#$ and left burning in space.

Stories of how this !@#$ing thing's presence within a lightyear was enough to make entire planets pack the !@#$ up and go in the opposite !@#$ing direction, hoping it didn't notice them. 

Stories about how nothing could !@#$ing save those who were hit by this thing. Not bomb shelters or shields. Not all the !@#$ armaments in the world.  

Stories about how the few survivors didn't last long...

But this third man? This Omega-class teleporter sitting in this room, trying not to cry? He's the only person who's ever actually seen the immediate aftermath of this thing.

So now we know the stories we've been hearing are true. 

We know that, once we see that !@#$ thing, it'll be on us in less than a month. 

We know exactly what it will do when it gets here, and that nothing we can do will save anyone. 

We know that the disturbing news we got some time ago is even more disturbing than we'd thought.

We know what we are up against.  

And for me, that means that, now more than ever, we have to come together. All the plans, all the plots, all the problems. None of them are with a good god!@#$.

And that, son, means this House Arrest !@#$ needs to end, one way or another. I don't have time to be sidelined or out of action. Neither does my lover.

The good is not going to end here, son. Not so long as I have a !@#$ing breath. 

This fight must be fought, and I've got to be there, for all our sakes. 

(SPYGOD is listening to In a Dark Place (Gary Numan, remix) and having nothing now)

1/1/13 - A Shadow of Life - Pt. 1

The first thing he'd noticed, our man, was that there was no Moon up in the sky.

And yeah, that seems like a !@#$ing funny thing to notice first, given everything else that was waiting for him. All those !@#$ing horrible sights and terrifying sounds. All those sickening odors, coupled with the knowledge of what those ghastly !@#$ smells were.

The brain-!@#$ing understanding that can only come in a moment like that.

(And, yeah, the increasing, big-!@#$-iron-brick-in-the-stomach feeling you tend to get the moment you know that either you've !@#$ed it all up, or someone else has.)

But it actually makes perfect !@#$ sense, given that our man always liked to look up at the sky when he did this. He'd look at the Sun or the Moon, or the clouds or the stars. He'd see where they were, up there, far far from anything on the ground.

And then he'd close his eyes, and smile, and then open them up somewhere else.

Somewhere different, let's say. 

So this time, there had been this bright, beautiful thing up over the cold, December horizon, waxing so full and fat he could make out most of the craters. It was a clear night, and the moonlight on the snow was a !@#$ beautiful thing. So !@#$ beautiful that it was hard to believe it was happening on the same day so much bad and crazy !@#$ had happened.

(Not that he was really all that shocked by it, as we're now learning, one big !@#$ interrogation at a time.)

Our man? He'd looked up at the big !@#$ moon, held out his hands, and closed his eyes. And he'd done that thing that he did so !@#$ well, knowing at least the sky would be the same when he got to where he was !@#$ing going.

That different place he liked to call home, when he wasn't over here, !@#$ing up our !@#$.

But when he'd opened his eyes again, our man, the big !@#$ thing just wasn't there. It was gone, leaving nothing but the cold, distant stars, barely visible from the fast-moving, sickly clouds that were streaking over him like they had somewhere more !@#$ing important to be.

And there was no big !@#$ Moon in the sky because the big !@#$ Moon was no longer there.

It was gone from the sky. Missing from orbit. And if he squinted his eyes just so, he could see that a bright patch, just past those streaking clouds, was a big, jagged piece of it, flying away from the Earth.

Which may or may not have been when his mind gave our man a mercy he really did not !@#$ing deserve and just shut the !@#$ down, sparing him the full realization of what he saw next.

The realization we're all !@#$ing wishing we didn't have to deal with, ourselves. 

* * *

There's a lot of reasons why this is happening right the !@#$ now, son. But by and large (as my beautiful boyfriend tells me) his new friend Disparaître was the key.

He's !@#$ quiet for a Frenchman, that guy. Just doesn't like to talk at all. Not too unpleasant to look at, but not gonna win any !@#$ing awards from the body nazis at the bar. Likes dark blue suits and !@#$ty, cheap cigarettes. Doesn't get !@#$ing drunk with everyone else, either.

Maybe because he's afraid of what might happen if he !@#$ing loses control. 

You see, Disparaître is the best !@#$ing teleporter the Terre Unifee's got in its stable of postwar supers. He was Direction Noir's dirty little secret for decades, going here, there, and !@#$ing everywhere in the blink of an eye, getting !@#$ done on the quiet, and then vanishing before anyone could figure he'd been there. 

And since the Reclamation War, and TU's slow takeover of the rest of the !@#$ world, he's been working for their Space Service, making sure our best !@#$ defense against a certain thing that's !@#$ing coming to kill the !@#$ planet can be anywhere it needs to be. 

And I do !@#$ing mean anywhere, son. 

You see, most teleporters are only able to tekeport within line of sight, or maybe someplace they know. Some of them can even muster up enough !@#$ moxie to take you somewhere they feel they know because they more or less know where it is. Like the !@#$ing Eiffel Tower or something. 

(That's Skyspear, in case you were !@#$ing wondering.)

And some of them? Well, they're good enough to take you someplace they don't know, but they have seen. Show them a !@#$ picture and they'll get you where you need to go. Might take a whole bunch of stops, but they'll get you there, eventually. 

(And that's Anil, in case you were wondering about that.)

But some of them? Well, !@#$, son, you give them coordinates? Show them someone's picture? Give them a general idea? They think for a minute, if that, and then poof, they're there, surprising the !@#$ out of someone, and moving through space in such a way that no one -- not even someone like Wayfinder, rest his soul -- could ever find him?

And that's Disparaître for you, son. Anywhere in a few seconds, with or without company, and totally !@#$ing undetectable. !@#$ useful to have around.

But there's more to his power than he lets on.

See, if Disparaître wanted to go to the !@#$ing moon? He could. He's even done it before, once, when Direction Noir needed to deal with something pretty !@#$ heinous and alien, back in the 90's. All he needed was a !@#$ spacesuit they stole from the ESA, and away he went.

If he wanted to go to Pluto? He could do that, too. Might be a little hairy, and he'd need a better !@#$ing spacesuit, but sure.

And if he wanted to !@#$ing end his life with a !@#$ of a bang, and just walk on the !@#$ Sun...? Well, I guess you can figure that out, huh? 

Like I said, son. Quite a useful guy to have around. 

But there's a reason why Disparaître avoids talking to people, unless he feels he needs to. There's a reason why he doesn't lose control. And there's a reason why he's !@#$ glad most teleporters of Anil's level or higher just don't need to sleep, for one reason or another. Though most folks I know figure it's to keep them from accidentally teleporting themselves someplace dangerous in their dreams. 

And that's because Disparaître can go somewhere else, if he really wants to. 

But he went there once, when he was very young. In fact, that was the first place he ever teleported to, and it drained him so badly it took him three whole days to come back. 

And as for what happened in those three days? Well, it's part of the reason why he's so quiet and reserved, I guess you could say. But it's also the reason why he never teleported again until Direction Noir's scientists found him in a home for mentally disturbed young adults, dragged him the !@#$ out of there, and gave him a choice between a uniform and a lobotomy. 

(And they thought The COMPANY was !@#$ing brutal? Give me a !@#$ break.)

But he took the !@#$ uniform. He became their teleporter. Over time, he even came to appreciate it, as doing something constructive with his talents made some of the rage and pain go away, and helped him to conquer what had been done to him.

He was becoming a survivor, as they like to say these days. And rightfully !@#$ing so.  

A survivor, he served with Direction Noir, until it stopped !@#$ing existing on 3/15. At that point he became part of what would become the Terre Unifee, which has yet to stop existing. And that led to him becoming part of their Space Service, tasked with protecting our world from all external threats. Especially the big !@#$ one that's on its way here.

The thing we call ((UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT))

Which led to him being a part of a post-Christmas meeting with the new President of the Terre Unifee, being the former President of the United States of America. During which time he finally got to meet the new boss for the first !@#$ing time.

Which led to a very frenzied few minutes as the President all but freaked out, and accused poor Disparaître of having once done a very terrible thing. 

* * *

Which terrible thing? 

Well, !@#$ son, you were there. You know what happened to my former Commander in Chief. About a month before GORGON !@#$ing dropped the boom down on the world, they arranged to have him !@#$ing kidnapped, right out of the Oval Office, and zapped over to !@#$ing Alter Earth. 

And just so we wouldn't look for him, and just to !@#$ with my ability to stop their alien !@#$es, they brought his twin from Alter Earth here, to be shot and killed on live television by my !@#$ing Alter Earth twin.

So eventually, I figure out what the !@#$ happened, and find a way to get my !@#$ over to Alter Earth and save him. And I did, though things got a little !@#$ing weird with the plan, and the complications nearly !@#$ed the greater plan right in the !@#$ behind with a !@#$ing giant robot jackhammer, minus the lube. 

Eventually, we find out what the big deal was, courtesy of one of the nastiest !@#$ing things I've ever had the displeasure of having to sit in a courtroom with. Turns out the Imago had a deal going with the !@#$ing Alter Earth crowd, courtesy of a rather twisted !@#$ who fooled us all into thinking she was the good twin of the now-dead head of HONEYCOMB, and her bodyguard, who turned out to be my twin. And it all revolves around that thing that's on its way to Earth, here to eat us up like a big !@#$ bag of !@#$ing jellybeans, or whatever. 

See, according to Dark Star, these Alter Earth people had known for quite a long !@#$ time that this thing was on its way. And they also knew that our planet was going to get hit first, about a year and a quarter before them. And since they'd had time to prepare, they had a big !@#$ing machine they wanted to turn on, here, and see if it worked. 

So, it works? Hip !@#$ing hooray, and they'll use it at home. It doesn't? Well, tough !@#$ing !@#$, and they'd get ready to just move their people from there to here after we got all !@#$ed up, wait for the storm on their end to die down, and then either go back or stay here... whichever. 

Got all that?

Now, it goes without saying that the Alter Earth people had their own !@#$ agenda and weren't playing straight with the Imago. And it also goes without saying that the Imago weren't going to just !@#$ing sit around and wait to see if the Alter Earth people's big !@#$ machine worked or not. 

In fact, I don't think the big !@#$ machine even got built on their watch, mostly because I think the machine was just The Chamber, sitting down there in the !@#$ Ice Palace, and waiting for Geri Yesterday to figure out how it worked, and use it to drive the thing off, just like it did a million years ago. Only once the Imago took over, their absorbed version of Doctor Yesterday kind of !@#$ed around and didn't get anywhere figuring it the !@#$ out, and Geri kind of vanished... maybe. 

(Still not !@#$ing sure what all happened there, son, though I'm hoping for more answers, soon.)

But let's do some math, shall we? We got the Alter Earth Geri Yesterday accounted for, and she's probably out there somewhere, being a dangerous !@#$. And we've got my Alter Earth double accounted for, and he's out there, somewhere, no longer able to be me with !@#$ing impunity but still dangerous. 

But to borrow a line from an old movie, what about the third man?

* * *

Oh yes, son. There's a third force in play. Kind of sneaky, too. 

See, on the day the President was supposedly killed, but actually was taken, he was approached by someone in the Oval Office. Someone that even Wayfinder couldn't see, somehow, though he knew I was there... even if it wasn't me.  Someone in a weird uniform no one had ever seen before, and one that a certain former Secret Service Agent named Jess Friend (who had what was, hands-down, the worst first day of any SS Agent ever) just knew was up to no !@#$ing good. 

But then the other me showed up, just in time to make !@#$ing history the worst !@#$ way possible. And then Jess was missing parts. 

So this third guy took the President to Alter Earth, dropped him off to his captors, and then replaced him with his double. Said double gets his head !@#$ing exploded in the Rose Garden, and fools a bunch of people. Anyone who doesn't get fooled gets vanished by the Imago, who've got Men in Black walking around disappearing people who know too !@#$ much before 3/15. 

But here's the real kicker, son. Remember what I said about Alter Earth, and how when people from here go over there, due to some weird science !@#$ery, or a big !@#$ cosmic accident, their double usually shows up over here, at least until the effect wears the !@#$ off?

Well, you'll note how that hasn't been !@#$ing happening in this case. And we know HONEYCOMB figured a way to make it work, though not without a big !@#$ science donut from !@#$. But here's a !@#$ case where another me, and another Gerde Hoffstatler, are walking around on this world without the two of us being flung the !@#$ over there.

(And yeah, Simon Pure was able to get us the !@#$ over there without doing a doubling, which is probably a !@#$ good thing because there's no way I want to unleash the Mr. USA of Alter Earth on us, though that might be a big moot point, now. But I digress...) 

Anyway, what we've learned from all this is that one of the interesting things about superpower-based trips to Alter Earth is that there is no reversal effect. You go over there? Your other does not come here. You take someone over there? Their other does not come here. 

Unless you !@#$ing make them, of course, hence poor Jess Friend's confusion that day in the Oval Office. He couldn't !@#$ing tell how many people were there. First there were three, then two, then four, then two, all with weird spatial distortions that make onlookers a little queasy if their brains aren't !@#$ing wired up right. 

So what about that third man, then? Where did he !@#$ing go after he dropped off the other me and the other head of HONEYCOMB? Where's he !@$#ing been since then? 

Well, son, you want to hide something? You put it right in !@#$ing plain sight, or else hide it along with something else you keep hidden.

* * *

And that's why Disparaître, after figuring out what was going on (with a little help from Faraj, who had some under-the-table help from his former Director) used his power to find someone, anywhere, on himself. 

Which is why a bunch of very powerful people stepped into a rather scummy sex club in Cairo, a couple days back. And when they got there, they immediately collared a very morose person who'd been there, literally drinking nonstop since the day after Christmas.

Because the place runs 24/7,as Faraj well knows. And because that person has a lot of money and can make people who !@#$ wiith him just disappear.

And because that fellow, our man, doesn't need to !@#$ing sleep. 

Our man. The third man. The dimensional teleporter that arranged for the arrival of Alter Earth's science atrocity ambassadors, not long after the War, and attended to the kidnapping and replacement of the President, just under a year ago, and has done who !@#$ing knows what the !@#$ else before and since.

Someone who looks exactly like Disparaître, right down to the DNA... except for a few different scars, a proclivity for sadism, and the fact that there's nothing in his eyes but a flat and terrible blank where there should be a soul. 

And it's not the usual darkness people from Alter Earth tend to have, either. The people who took charge of his !@#$ and remanded him into the TU's expert interrogators say he looks like he's seen the mother of all ghosts. 

And that's just it, son. He !@#$ing has. 

...

You'll have to excuse me for a second, now. They're coming back in to talk to the !@#$er and I don't want to miss any of this. Not after all this time.

And not after what he's had to say so far. 

(SPYGOD is listening to In A Dark Place (Gary Numan) and having a Faustian Stout)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago Interlude - The Long, Strange Trip of Mr. USA (Part 1)

Okay, this might take some !@#$ing explaining, son.

You know Mr. USA and I have had something of an... interesting !@#$ history. We were friends, once, and then we weren't, anymore. And for all that time I had no !@#$ing idea what the !@#$ happened. I didn't know if I'd said or done something wrong, and he didn't want to !@#$ing talk about it. So I just let it drop and said '!@#$ him,' right?

Well, things were more complicated than I knew. It wasn't until after the President was supposedly dead, and Mr. USA came hunting me, that I found out exactly what the !@#$ was going on.

And boy, was that a !@#$ing doozy.

* * *

3/13/12

"Wait..." SPYGOD says, looking at his bound captive: "You're telling me... that's the !@#$ing reason you've been hating me since the War?"

"At first, yes," Mr. USA says, his anger a white-hot, palpable thing: "And yes, I know it's stupid. And it was, then. But then you made it worse-"

"How did I make it worse?" SPYGOD asks, holding up a hand: "My door was always !@#$ing open to you. I made a million !@#$ overtures and peace offerings. You !@#$ing ignored them-"

"Why the !@#$ should I take a peace offering from someone who's threatening to kill my wife?" the superhero shouts, straining against the inhibitor manacles: "Why should I give you the !@#$ satisfaction?"

SPYGOD blinks. Twice.

"What...?" he says, shaking his head and leaning back: "Your wife? You're married?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," Mr. USA hisses: "Don't you dare."

"(REDACTED), I swear, this is the first time I'm hearing about this," SPYGOD says, holding up his other hand: "I didn't know you were married. No one did."

"You dirty liar," the hero continues: "You knew! It was your voice on the phone! Every week, sometimes every day, telling me to look the other way when you did your evil, !@#$ed up things! Making me impotent, unable to stop you, unable to see her, unable to see my children... my son, my daughter..."

"You have children?"

"Yes! And they've never even met their father, not that they can remember! And it's because of you and your messed-up plans for the world! And I've tried to expose you and I've tried to get you fired and I've tried to stop you but every time you just find some way to stop me, or another way to threaten them, or weasel out of it, or escape! And now... and now..."

"And now the President is dead because of me?"

"Yes! You !@#$ing killed him! One of the finest men I've ever met, the best man we've had in that office for decades, and you !@#$ing shot him!"

"(READCTED)," SPYGOD says, putting his hands on the man's shoulders and looking him in the eyes: "Look at me. Look at my eyes. You always knew when I was kidding you, back in the War, remember? I could never lie to you. You were always that much better than I was. I could hide things from you, but never lie. Remember?"

"Yes..."

"Then look in my eyes, here and now. And I'm telling you, I did not know you had a wife. I did not know you had children. I have not been threatening them. I have not been blackmailing you. And I did not shoot the President."

Mr. USA's eyes flare up as bright as the Sun. If the manacles weren't on he'd have melted half the tent, then and there. They stay bright and bright for far too long, and when they finally go dim he's weeping.

SPYGOD regards him for a time, and then, with what might be a moment's hesitation, presses the switch on the manacles' controls. The steel bands turn off and fall down around his captive. The man doesn't so much as move, too busy weeping.

Which he lets him do for quite some time.

* * *

Once he stopped !@#$ing crying, we started talking. 

I learned about how he'd met a young woman, over in France, during the Occupation. How they'd worked together on an op and she'd impressed him, which is !@#$ing saying something. And how, after the War was over, he went back to Paris and found her there, waiting for him. 

Of course, it wasn't a good !@#$ idea for people like us to be involved with normal people. What they did to us at Camp Rogers changed us in ways that might have made us really !@#$ing incompatible with normal folks. Might have caused mutations, defects... all kinds of nasty !@#$.

But he didn't give a !@#$. He figured he was owed something, and I figure he was, too. So he took what happiness the world saw fit to !@#$ing give him. 

They were married in secret. He saw her when he could. She gave him a son, and then a daughter, and when they made it past a year apiece he figured the doctors had been wrong, or just overly !@#$ing cautious. And they made plans to have a life together, as soon as he could swing it.

And then the phonecalls started, and he couldn't see them anymore. 

He couldn't tell her why, or what was happening, or even where he'd !@#$ing gone. He just told her it was over and she should keep her head down, and not tell the children who he was. And then he had to cut it off and never see her again, and do what the voice on the phone told him to, or else she'd pay for it.

My voice, supposedly. But now we know who it really !@#$ing was, now don't we?

And oh, he tried to fix things, Mr. USA did. He tried to run around on the !@#$er. He tried to get back in touch with her. He tried, but the Alter Earth version of me knew what he was doing at all times, and always found some clever way to let him get just far enough before !@#$ing slapping him back down again.

Always.

I wished we'd had more time to talk about it, but of course he came to find me just as I was about to head to !@#$ing Alter Earth to snatch the President out of the living !@#$ they'd sentenced him to. And once we got him out of that !@#$ing holy sex-torture palace, the plan went face-first into a pool of !@#$.

And then, thanks to Simon Pure, I figured Mr. USA was dead. 

So you can imagine my !@#$ing surprise when I find out, months later, that not only is he alive (and over 100 years old, somehow) but that he's been !@#$ing working on my behalf for months.

And I had no !@#$ing idea, even though I actually !@#$ing met him, once.

* * *

9/19/12

SPYGOD opens the door and walks into the backroom of the Beijing gambling den. It's musty and filled with old food and things best left indescribable. For a moment, he wonders if maybe he's in the wrong place, but then there's a strange noise, right behind him, and he turns to find the person he was looking for.

People, actually. 

One of them is doubtlessly the man he's come to see. A tall fellow, wearing a hooded and robed costume with a mask that defies all SPYGOD's attempts to see through or around it. He stands with a proud, almost military bearing, and has his hands extended in friendship.

The other is a strange and uncertain sight. He shimmers in the corner, looking like an image on a television in need of tuning. SPYGOD cannot see him fully, either, but suspects there's something familiar there...

"SPYGOD," the masked man says, his voice quavering: "It is good to see you, again."

"I don't know you," SPYGOD says, not taking the hands: "So maybe you better !@#$ing explain how you found me, and why I just crawled through half of !@#$ing Beijing to find you."

"You do know me," the man says, putting his hands down: "It's been some time, I'll admit-"

"Name names."

"I can't, yet."

"Then why am I not !@#$ing shooting you-"

"Because that does not happen, now," the other man says, his voice a strange and echoey thing that sounds like someone talking underwater.

"Oh, you do not want to do being this !@#$ing predestination jazz on me right now," SPYGOD snarls, pulling his gun out and pointing it at the mask: "Not after !@#$ing everything that I've been through."

"Then how about this," the masked man says, apparently not afraid of being shot in the face: "By now, your allies know me to be the leader of the resistance, acting under your authority. If you shoot me, here and now, that will not happen. And if that does not happen, you will create a time-space paradox large enough to rip the world in half."

There's a moment of nothing, and then SPYGOD lowers his gun, ever so slowly: "I didn't think paradoxes worked like that."

"They can, if they're the right kind," the echoey man says, stepping out of the shadows: "We are in three different places, right now, doing different things. And that's just now. Kill him now, and many things collapse, past and future. You do not want that to happen."

SPYGOD blinks, takes a step back, and nods: "Okay then. But I could always just !@#$ing leave and refuse to play your !@#$ game, now couldn't I? And you can't make me do anything, now can you?"

"No, but we think we can convince you."

"You can convince me to let a complete !@#$ing stranger I can't !@#$ing identify !@#$ing take charge of the people I !@#$ing left behind to !@#$ing free the world once I have enough !@#$ing intelligence on what we're going to !@#$ing do?"

"Yes, well... I'll admit it's a hard sell," the masked man says, shrugging under the robes: "I wish I could tell you who I am, but for the time being I must be a cypher. There are certain considerations. Lives at stake."

"Oh, like there aren't 6 !@#$ing billion lives at stake-"

"Would it help if I proved that you knew me?" the echoey-voiced man asks.

"It would be a !@#$ good start," SPYGOD says, looking.

The man nods, walks fully into the light, and changes. His face becomes a fantastic silver mask. His suit shimmers and changes into a high-tech silver outfit, worthy of a god. Time and space glitters and gleams around him, like a halo, and when he smiles the mask smiles with him.

"When last you saw me, I was ending, and warning you of bad things to come," Shift says: "And here I am, again, at my beginning, in the midst of those bad things. We have come full circle, you and I. Please walk with me a bit more."

SPYGOD gasps. His jaw drops. He shakes his head, and takes another step back. Maybe he wipes away a tear, maybe not. 

"Do you believe me, now?" the masked man says, extending a hand once more.

"I do," SPYGOD says, taking it: "But when this is over, you and I need to have one !@#$ of a talk about a few things."

"Oh yes," Shift says, nodding: "You will indeed."

* * *

And boy, did we ever.

Maybe we should switch up our drinks. I got some amazing !@#$ing French hooch here, somewhere. Hang on and let me see what I can find.

Oh yeah, this story's not done yet, son. This is just where it really gets !@#$ing weird. 

(SPYGOD is listening to I Can See Now / American Dreaming (Dead Can Dance) and looking for the French hooch)