Valhallopolis: 4/4/16 - 4/10/16

"I Cannot Escape This Fate / It's My Approaching Doom"

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

25

* * *

Monday: 4/4/16

"... ongoing coverage of the aftermath of the Freedom Force's fierce battle with the afflicted members of the New Kingdom Pentecostal megachurch in Tampa, Florida continues, here on CNN, tonight.

"We have just learned that two more of the victims, Roger D. Oldson, 47, and Jeremy P. Columbus, 6, have succumbed to injuries received during the fight. 

"That brings the total death toll to 28. The remaining 969 victims remain in critical care in a makeshift field hospital, set up by the COMPANY, in conjunction with Hillsborough County emergency services-"

(CLICK)

 "It's a tragedy, clearly. These people didn't ask for this to happen to them. They were the victims of a sick individual who escaped incarceration, used banned bioweapons to alter their bodies, and mind control to program their minds. We still have yet to establish a motive... yes, you had a question?"

"Yes sir, Tonya Brooks, WTSP. What are the chances that these victims can be cured?"

"Okay, Tonya. That's a two-part answer. The good news is that the programming was short-lived, and they are themselves, once again. However, as for the damage done to their bodies, we don't have as good of news. We're working with the COMPANY to determine if there was a cure for what they were given. Hopefully they can find it, or develop it, but these kinds of alterations don't just heal. If we can't find a cure, well, they will be stuck with this condition for the rest of their lives-"

(CLICK)

"The Pentecostal? Who the hell is that? I swear, these supervillains and their stupid names. Like that Penitent moron up in Michigan..."

(CLICK)

"... are asking that citizens at all points along Florida's Atlantic coast avoid drinking coastal water, or eating fish gathered along that side of the state, as the black slick created by the as-yet unidentified creature that attacked Miami, last Monday, is spreading North.

"When asked for a timetable, the EPA said they weren't sure, but would have more information forthcoming-"

(CLICK)

"A full week later, Miami remains a no-go zone. The fires are still raging in some parts of the city, and large pools of toxic sludge are everywhere. Conditions are reputedly even worse on Miami Beach, where the creature itself is being carefully deconstructed and removed.

"Emergency workers tell us that Federal authorities have told them to not go into the city, citing extremely hazardous conditions. They have been ordered to step back, deal with the survivors who escaped before the Gold Soldiers threw up the cordon, last Tuesday, and assist in keeping people out of the city.

"As of this minute, the White House insists that they're not writing off the city. They are simply waiting for a more comprehensive plan to deal with this extremely tragic and traumatic event-"

(CLICK)

 "See, if This Is Bull!@#$ was still broadcasting, they'd be all over this story. And that's because there's a lot of BS going around, if you get my drift. 

"Take the denials that the accident that took out the International Space Station had anything to do with this. There's a video going around, out there, that came from a departing Soyuz module. The Russians are claiming it's a hoax, of course, but it looks shaky enough to be real if you ask me.

"This video shows the station being plowed into by a giant, black ball. It just smashes through the central part like it's made of paper, and drags the rest of the pieces into each other. Where the ball goes after that, who knows?

"But then, this thing that came ashore at Miami Beach? Eyewitnesses say that there was a sonic boom. The sort of boom you'd hear if something large fell through the sky, just like what happened in Russia a couple years back when that meteorite exploded in their atmosphere in 2013.

"So, it looks like these things are falling a week apart. If that's right, that means we might get lit up any day now. And if it's as bad as what came shore in Miami, well, we could be in for some interesting times..."

(CLICK)

I only came for two days of playing
But everytime I come I always wind up staying
This the type of town I could spend a few days in
Miami the city that keeps the roof blazin

Tuesday: 4/5/16

It's not hot, down in hell with the dead. But it's not cold, either. Not even "lukewarm," whatever the hell that means. 

It's just flat. That's the only way Gail can describe it -- flat.  

She has no sense of touch or temperature. The brick walls of the rounded chamber seem rough and pitted, but she can't feel the texture, just the their solidity. Nothing has taste, or smell, or anything beyond sight and sound. 

No gravity means no real up or down. No sense of movement or inertia. No physical presence at all.

Her sight is distorted, as though she's seeing through smudged glasses. And sounds are strange, as though heard from just underwater. 

What she does have is a keen sense of time. 

She knows that she has been in this soul prison, trapped with these other ghosts, for exactly ten days, four hours, twenty-nine minutes, and six seconds. 

(Seven, now. Eight. Nine. Ten.)

She knows it's been twenty three hours, fifty-nine minutes, and ten seconds since the Olympian who cast her down here has come down to here to feed on one of them. 

(Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.)

She's not sure how many ghosts are down here, shrieking and crying. They come and go. Are noticed and then are replaced, or removed. 

Or eaten whole.

(Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty three.)

When Satanoth comes down here, he wastes no time. He immediately grabs and then slurps down one of his captives -- just like they were a ball of orange juice, floating in zero-G.

(Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine.)

And each and every time, Gail's realized that he is looking right at her. 

(Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five.)

As if to say "I'm going to enjoy it when it's your turn."

(Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight.)

And she can feel him coming on down, even now...

(Fifty-nine...)

* * *

 "... sixty," Gail Reynolds -- the former Red Queen -- counts as she bench-presses 300 for her COMPANY inquisitors: "Sixty-one... sixty-two... sixty-three..."

She's not in a cell -- at least that's not what they're calling it. Officially this is "debriefing." But she's been here in this large, high-tech gym for a full day, had only minimal contact with anyone other than the three AGENTS on this detail, and been subjected to dozens of tests.

(And that's just the tests she knows of. Other, more surreptitious ones are doubtlessly going on around her.)

They've made her run on a treadmill and climb a wall. They've watched her eat and !@#$, sleep and dream. Word association and firearms practice, memory tests and balance beams. They even had her arm-wrestle someone, just to see if she'd win or lose.

She's doing her best to not complain too much. She has nothing to complain about. 

Still, this is sort of galling, all things considered...

"I think that's good enough," one of the AGENTS assigned to her debrief says, making a note on his pad: "In fact, I think we're completely satisfied. Your health and fitness levels are exactly what we'd expect them to be."

"A little too exact," one of the others says, leaning over in the corner and observing the goings-on with what's either suspicion or fey disinterest: "Especially since you won't tell us what's happened to you."

"Ain't secrets just a !@#$?" she snorts, sitting up and drying herself off with a towel: "I'd tell if I could. Really. But I made some promises-"

"To whom?" the third person in the room asks. It's one of Josie's clones -- some femme-looking one with long, purple hair and nails so black they look like wet coal.

"Sorry, Rikki," Gail shrugs: "Can't tell that either."

"Can you tell us anything at all?" the one tapping on his pad asks: "Straffer saw you at Olympos, and you were alive and altered. And now you're back and you're human, so far as we can tell. Something's happened in-between, clearly."

"We're not giving you access to any guns and sending you out into the field without a full and frank accounting, dearie," Rikki says, somewhat apologetically: "So unless you felt like parking your buns on the bench...?"

"Well, that's one thing we have to get straight," Gail says, putting her hands together: "When I come back to work for you? No guns."

Rikki blinks: "What?"

"No guns. No knives. Nothing that could kill or seriously maim an opponent. I'm... no longer allowed to take lives."

"And who told you that?" the clone says, clearly shocked.

Gail just smiles: "Sorry, Rikki. Can't give you that number."

* * *

"Ouch!" Blastman says, slapping his forehead as he groans: "I can't believe she just did that."

"I can," Mr. USA says, smiling, turning away from the screen that most of the Freedom Force are watching the interrogation on, in the well-furnished lounge above the room she's being interrogated in. 

(American Steel, for her part, is looking down through the one-way mirror -- hands on the glass, and totally silent.)

"What do you think?" Hanami asks the older hero.

"I think it's her," he says, looking back at the screen: "She's different, though. Less abrasive, more controlled."

"She isn't saying '!@#$' every other word," Red Wrecker says, amazed at how easily the curseword just slipped out of her own mouth. 

"According to the data I'm receiving, it's her," Dr. Uncertainty says, holding up a pad and tapping on the screen: "The DNA is an exact match. Blood type is the same. Her scars and broken bones match everything in her record."

"But...?" Hanami asks, turning to look at the masked genius detective.

"Was it that well telegraphed?" he asks, adjusting his sunglasses.

"What's missing?" Mr. USA asks, pretty concerned.

"Well, for starters, her liver is in pristine condition," Uncertainty says, calling up a scan of it: "Gail drank fairly regularly. Not enough to be in danger of cirrhosis, but enough to show some degradation."

"What else?" Hanami asks.

"Well, it doesn't say if she smoked or not, here," the detective says: "But her lungs are pink and clear, which your average adult in an industrialized country does not have, thanks to pollution and secondhand smoke. And as for her bones..."

"Wait, is it like that one movie?" Red Wrecker asks: "The one where the Angel's body had no bone rings, or something?"

"Well, they're not rings, Florence. But yes, exactly like that. Her bones are that of a fully grown female adult, but the solid matter doesn't show any signs that growth actually occurred."

Everyone sort of blinks for a second. 

"So, what?" Blastman asks: "This is a clone?"

"No," American Steel says, not turning from the window: "Clones grow just like anyone else does. They just do it a lot faster."

"Exactly," Dr. Uncertainty says, seemingly perplexed by his fellow new teammate's grasp of the subject: "And you'd think that, if she was a clone, there would be no sign of scars or past damage."

"So, they want us to think it's her, but it isn't?" Hanami asks.

"If so, why go half-assed on the job?" Blastman asks: "Why give her a band new engine in an old chassis?"

"Nice analogy," Red Wrecker snorts, and he grins at her for a second before he realizes she's being critical, and then shuts up and looks away -- embarrassed.

"What about her psychological tests?" Hanami asks the masked detective, who nods.

"Well, there's clearly been some kind of trauma she's not telling us about. it might have something to do with why she won't kill, anymore. But in terms of her personality, and other things... it's matching."

"It's her," American Steel says, turning from the window at last: "The way she moves? How she's talking with the people down there? That's her."

"I didn't know you knew her, Jelena," Mr. USA says.

The new heroine smiles: "I wasn't always piloting an experimental tactical battlesuit, (REDACTED). Her and I go way back."

"But you can't tell us because it's all classified?" Red Wrecker asks.

"Got it in one, girl," the armored heroine grins, snapping her metal fingers in Florence's direction. The gesture just annoys her further, but American Steel either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"So what do we !@#$ing do?" Blastman grumbles: "It's her, but it isn't? I can't be the only one spooked by that, given what's going on."

"I say we take her in and keep an eye on her," Hanami announces, standing up and looking around: "But we all keep an eye on her. She steps out of line, does something weird, then we close her down. Can we agree to that?"

"It's risky," Mr. USA says: "But... yeah, I can see the wisdom in that."

"Why not?" Blastman says: ""We need a new martial artist after what happened with Chinmoku, after all."

Everyone nods sadly at that, and Red Wrecker pipes up: "It'll give her a chance to prove herself if it's her."

"And if it isn't..." Dr. Uncertainty says, but needs say no more.

Wednesday: 4/6/16

"No, really," the AGENT in charge of the interrogation of one Gerry Oliver Glory -- aka The Pentecostal -- says, all but slamming a heavy binder down on the table in front of the man: "You want to talk to us, Gerry. You want to give us something, here.

"Because right now? You aren't just looking at a world of hurt. You're looking at a whole damn solar system, Gerry. Planets and moons and a big, angry sun, coming to burn you down."

The man just looks up at him, and then back down at the table below his chin -- mostly obscured by the binder, containing the names of all the people he victimized.

He looks like crap, this sorry supervillain. His long hair -- meant to be crafted up into some kind of weird altar -- is slopped around his shoulders. His forehead is badly bruised from where Dragonfly's stun baton smacked him, and he's got raccoon eyes from where the resulting goose-egg drained. He's pale and unshaven, somewhat unsteady.

And still he won't talk.

"You know what, to hell with this," the AGENT says: "I don't know why we're bothering with you. Because we already know everything we need to."

That gets him to look up, just a little.

"That's right, Gerry. You were in jail, serving two life sentences along with a few other gimmick villains like yourself. You got to know some of them, I'm sure. Like maybe this guy, here..."

He pulls a picture of a scary-looking man up on his wrist pad: "Frederico Barnes, otherwise known as The Solution. Arms dealer, fixer, occasional bioterrorist. Done up for selling weaponized anthrax to the FBI in a sting operation. Been there three years out of a triple life when you got in."

He waves the picture in front of the villain's face a couple times: "Friend of yours, right? Cell across the hall. Sat at the same table for dinner. Played cards on saturdays... except you don't play cards because Jesus, right?"

No reaction, but the AGENT goes on: "He had access to a stockpile of a Massive-7 before he got caught and sent up. He told you where to find it, didn't he?"

The Pentecostal doesn't say anything to that, either and just looks back down.

"Now, my only question in all of this is what good it would have done him to have you know that," the AGENT says, bending down to try and make eye contact: "It's not like you'd have been able to pay him for it. And it's not like he'd have wanted you to dose a whole megachurch congregation with his !@#$, now would he?"

Silence, but at least he's making eye contact, again.

And maybe that's something.

* * *

 "Sir, I need you to understand exactly what I am saying," the CDC official is saying to the Interim President, who's sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office like something akin to a statue -- staring at the wall and hardly blinking.

She looks at the others in the room with her, and then back at him. They're not sure what to do now. The man's hardly spoken a word since she started explaining about what's happening in Miami, right now. 

"Go on, Gloria," one of her cohorts whispers: "We have to say we tried."

"Mr. President, this is the issue," she continues, after another few awkward seconds: "The creature that we destroyed? Its very presence was highly toxic to the environment around it. 

"If it'd landed on land, that would have been bad enough. It ruined the vegetation and infected every living thing it touched. And it spat up that horrible, corrosive liquid onto people, and shot projectiles that exploded with the same substance, only flammable..."

She coughs into her hand, nervously. His lack of expression and reaction just makes this that much worse.

"Now, I'm sure you remember people telling you that everyone who was touched by that substance was infected by it. They've become monsters, Mr. President. There's no other way to put it. They can't be reasoned with, anymore. They just want to kill and eat anything with a pulse, and turn them into things like themselves.

"And that's bad enough. I mean, we can cordon off with the city and burn it down. That's a horrible thing, but it's doable. 

"But it landed in the ocean, Mr. President. And that means that every living thing in the water was also infected. And not just the fish, sir. It's also the microscopic life. The plankton. All that life in the ocean, already trying to kill and eat each other... well, it's gotten worse.

"And because it landed where it did, the infection is going north, along with the Gulf Stream. I'm sure you can appreciate what that means...?"

She looks to him, hoping to see some glimmer of understanding. But he doesn't even blink.

* * *

"So what am I missing, here, Glory?" the AGENT asks: "Help me connect the dots, and maybe I can get you put right back where you escaped from. Otherwise, we'll just shove you in basement with the rest of the scum we can't risk having in the normal prisons, and-"

"You think I'm afraid of you?" The Pentacostal says, raising his head up proudly: "You think I'm terrified of you? Of your jails? Your threats? This is just flesh, sir. Bone and skin. It'll be gone, soon, and then it'll just be my soul, standing before the Lord, ready to take my punishment and claim my reward."

"Yeah?" the AGENT sneers: "Well, between you and me? I think it's going to be more of the first and less of the second."

"That's not for you to say, sir," the villain goes on: "Judgment shall be the Lord's alone. Not man, not you. Him. He's the one I pray to, not you. He's the one who commands me, not you."

"Wake me up when this gets interesting," the AGENT says, plopping down in the chair across the table from The Pentecostal: "I can't wait."

"Well, that's the problem with people like you."

"What?"

"Waiting," the villain replies: "All your life you think you have time. You can't really contemplate death because you're afraid of it. You're afraid of judgment, and the pain that comes from having God turn his back on you.

"But here we are, sir! It's the end of days. The apocalypse is upon us, now. The signs are showing, the prophecies are unfolding. And now the darkness is being loosed upon the land, right here in Florida of all places!"

"It's not the apocalypse, Glory," the AGENT insists: "It's aliens is all. Giant crabs shooting nuclear poop out of their blowholes. That's it."

"No it isn't!" the Pentecostal shouts, banging his fists on the table: "It's not aliens! It's demons! It's men becoming monsters and the land rising against us! It's creatures from Hell walking among us and calling themselves gods, and our letting them do it!

"It's all these sins, caked on our hearts like filth. And you just shoot at it and threaten it and burn it and arrest it and pretend you're righteous and it's working. And all the while you know, you know, that it's just throwing ice cubes on the fire.

"Steam and spit, AGENT. That's all your best efforts are against prophecy."

"So what were you trying to do, then?" the AGENT asks, leaning forward and tapping the book: "What were you trying to accomplish by turning these people into monsters?"

And over the next few minutes -- between snarling and spitting -- The Pentecostal finally tells the ugly truth.

Thursday: 4/7/16

"I can't !@#$ing believe it," SPYGOD grumbles, leaning back in his chair in the COMPANY transport his secret team has been living out of for the last month or so, and staring at the decrypted information on the screen.

"The Korhogo facility," Gosheven whistles: "I've heard stories about that place. It's bad news."

"What do you mean?" Shining Guardsman asks: "Isn't a superslam usually bad news?"

"Not like this," the shapeshifter goes on, shaking his head: "It's underground, with only one way in and out. It's boobytrapped out the damn ass. And when it went down, in the last days of the Terre Unifee? They just left the prisoners down there to rot."

"!@#$," Swiftfoot mutters: "Of course they'd put him somewhere impossible."

"Well, it's not impossible," Myron says, but even he doesn't really believe it.

"You can't spell impossible without 'possible,' Mr. Freedom offers up: "If we can dream it, then it has already been done."

"Well, hopefully they take new age greeting card slogans at the door," Gosheven snorts. 

"So close, and yet so far," Free Fire says.

"Um," SPYGOD says, coughing into his fist: "Gentlemen, I have an announcement I'd like to make."

"Yes?" Myron asks.

"Next time someone !@#$ing says the word 'impossible' in regards to getting into this place that we've been searching for, all this damn time, and rescuing my fiancee?" the superspy asks, standing up out of his chair and staring down at each member of the team in turn: "They get my !@#$ing fist up their face. And another one up their ass.

"And then? I'm going to !@#$ing breathe fire and rotate your sorry butt around until you're well done. And then I'm going to serve your burned ass for breakfast!

"You all !@#$ing got that?" he shouts.

Everyone nods, and then he sits back down.

"No one said this was going to be !@#$ing easy," he says, steeping his hands before his face and looking at each person in turn: "It certainly hasn't been, so far. We've been fighting !@#$ing space monsters and shoggoth gangsters. And now they're !@#$ing lobbing poop balls at us from Mars, trying to soften us up for the real event.

"My fiancee? The man who says he !@#$ing loves me, and has done everything he can to prove it? He's the best chance we've got to know what we're !@#$ing up against, and how to beat it. He might be the only chance, too.

"So I don't care if this place is boobytrapped, full of dead prisoners, patrolled by those weird-ass black blob !@#$ers, or whatever. We're going to get in. We're going to get him out of there.

"And then, we're going to find out who !@#$ing put him there, and bring them the damn pain..."

* * *

"So what have you got for me?" Josie asks the AGENT who did The Pentecostal's debriefing: "Did you get anything useful out of him?"

"I did, yes, Ma'am," the man says, nodding as he stands at attention in her office: "But it wasn't what he did that was useful."

"I don't follow, AGENT," the Director says, shaking her pink head: "What do you mean?"

"His plan was just a straightforwardly insane scheme to draw attention to what he thinks is the end of the world," the AGENT explains: "Get some Russian bioweaponry, feed it to churchgoers, and then use his hypnosis powers to send them off to cause mayhem. That brings attention, attention brings cameras, cameras get his message out there."

"Really?" Josie says, raising an eyebrow: "That's all there was to it?" Really?"

"Yes, ma'am. The sort of crazy plan you think of on the fly after you've served a couple years of your double-life sentence, your cellmates trust you enough to tell you where they buried the goods, and you manage to get out of prison by accident."

"By accident."

"Yes, ma'am," the AGENT says, raising his wrist to project his pad's signal onto the screen near her desk: "Three days before the incident there was massive breakout from the Charlotte facility in Florida. There was a prisoner transfer going on, and the truck exploded on its way out of the dock."

He shows her footage of the explosion, captured on a guard's phone: "The explosives were powerful enough to crack most of that building, and they were followed up by sniper fire and mortars, along with an electronic attack that rendered their security and surveillance systems inoperable."

The angle on the explosion changes, and the phone drops to the ground. It films a bit longer and then goes black.

"Military work?" Josie surmises.

"It seems so, ma'am. The prisoners in the truck were killed right along with the guards and a number of other people. But in the confusion, about a third of the D-block managed to get out of the building, and half that number again managed to escape from the complex. The Pentecostal was one of them, though they had a hard time confirming that. In fact, they still think he's among the dead, given the damage to his block."

"So if his escape was by accident, then who was the real target?" the Director asks: "And what's the useful thing you were talking about?"

"These people right here," the AGENT says, showing the pictures of a dozen very disturbing looking white men, their skin covered in black, racist tattoos: "The Sons of the Serpent. Nasty Neo-Nazi religious cult, known for worshiping the snake from the Garden of Eden."

"Seriously, AGENT?"

"Yes ma'am. I looked through their literature last night. I feel like I need to bleach my brain."

"So how do we know this?"

"Because, on his way out of the care of the Florida Department of Corrections, Mr. Glory ran right into the seven survivors of the blast," the AGENT explains: "And they were nice enough to not only shield him from the guards, but also hustle his ass into their waiting transport, and then drop him off where he needed to go."

"Were they friends in the D-block?"

"Well, he didn't think so. But he thinks he did a solid for one of their senior members, one time. That might be why they helped him out rather than leaving him in the dust, or just shooting him."

"And on the way out they were all whooping and hollering and congratulating themselves for a job well done?" Josie asks, and makes a sour expression when the AGENT nods: "!@#$sticks."

"Ma'am?"

"Has he said anything else?" Josie asks, getting up behind her desk: "Anything else that might be of use?"

"Well, the leader of the Sons? Terry Busey? He thanked the driver for the rescue, and said something about needing to be in a plane in the next few days. But he clammed up after that, and they all went back to hooping and howling."

Josie considers that, and then nods: "Thank you, AGENT."

"What should I do with The Pentecostal?" he asks: "Send him back? Keep him here?"

"Keep him here, have a word with the Department of Corrections, and see if they can't remand his custody to a mental care facility," she answers: "He needs to pay for his crimes, but I have little doubt he's insane. And having him in with the worst examples of humanity isn't going to help him."

He nods, waits for her to dismiss him, and then marches out of her office -- orders in mind.

Friday: 4/8/16

The infected woman won't stop screaming. That's the worst part of all this.

She's been shot at least fifty times in the last minute, courtesy of the rail guns the Gold Soldier is brandishing. Large chunks of her anatomy have been blasted clear from her body -- her left arm, her right leg, the left side of her rib cage.

And now the top of her skull, trailing black, roiling mush along with it -- the necrotic slop she was hiding under her skin.

But she's still alive, after a fashion. Still twitching, and still warping, as the dark goo sloshing out of her wounds in a never-ending flood reforms her into something new and strange.

Something less human with each heartbeat.

Something that's still !@#$ing screaming...

Antonia Jones-Crisp grimaces and continues to have that unit fire at her, just as she's having the fifty other Gold Soldiers do, all around the cordon surrounding what used to be Miami.

The city is dead, now. In flames. Burning and crumbling.

And all those who remain in there, now, are officially beyond saving.

At first, she didn't want to believe it. She thought her orders had to be a damn mistake. Contain the civilian population? Shoot to kill if they tried to escape? What was this, the Soviet Union?

But then she encountered her first group of victims -- stumbling towards the checkpoint on north Miami beach, claiming they were just fine, and then slithering up to the unit and tearing it to pieces in their massive, black mouths within seconds.

Josie didn't have to reprimand her. Antonia had learned her lesson.

And now she just shoots to kill -- again, as the case may be -- and concentrates on her orders.

It's not easy, soldiering so many units around in her VR tank. Especially not while looking after her and Fred's miracle baby at the same time. But she's got her orders, and she's working from home, and she's the only one who can make this multitasking thing work.

The only one that can make sure that there's still a world left for her beautiful weird baby to grow up in. 

So she kills anything that tries to leave Miami, and wonders how long until someone does the obvious thing to the infected mess the city's become...

* * *

"And the latest numbers from the metro Police department reveal the exiting news that the crime rate here in Detroit have gone down a full 25 percent!" the vacuous-looking brunette on the TV news announces.

She's got more to say, of course -- she always does -- but no one in the crowded bar hears it. They're too busy ducking and covering as someone shoots the place up.

The gun is some weird, ceramic thing attached to a slim backpack. Whatever gets hit by its chittering, white beam turns as brittle as thin, spun glass.

Most objects simply collapse under their own weight. Some hang in there for a while, but eventually begin to crack, and then -- in a second or two -- crash in on themselves, and turn to multicolored flinders all over the floor.

"I got your attention, I think?" the man in a thin man in a white, plain mask asks, holding the gun up: "Unless anyone wants to say something?"

No one does. So he steps back and lets his boss do the talking.

"Evening, gentlemen," Morgue Anna says, tapping her staff on the floor -- each time she does, the lights turn on and then off: "I have it on good authority this bar plays host to the General's troops? Yes?"

The men on the floor all look at one another. They look like dangerous rejects from an NRA convention, and are all strapped for battle.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says, smirking: "Here's the deal, folks. The guns in this town are now mine, and I won't be taking no for an answer on that. So you got two choices. You either work for me, now, or you don't work at all."

"Any questions?" Porcelain asks, looking around.

"I got an answer, faggot," one of the larger men on the floor says, getting up -- his eyes burning with the intensity of the large, ham-fisted, and incredibly dense: "And that's !@#$ you. We work for him. We don't work for no one else. And if you think-"

"Porcelain," Morgue Anna says, and her subordinate grins as he turns his weapon on the man. The white, chittering light strikes him dead center, and he stops talking as his body turns into something a lot more brittle than flesh, bone, and fat.

And then he cracks into pieces, and litters the floor with glasslike shards of red, orange, and white.

"You're working for the lady," the villain says, lifting his gun back up again: "Get up and follow us out. We'll discuss money and orders after you get told what's what."

She grins as they all get up and hustle their asses out the door -- right into the presence of Red Devil, who's ready to make them do what she wants in his own way.

"So, what should we do with the place?" Morgue Anna asks her underling: "Leave it standing? Or make an example?"

"Well..." he starts to say, but realizes she was asking a rhetorical question.

So he grins, kicks his gun into overdrive, and turns the rest of the building into his namesake -- wondering if his colleagues are having as much fun as he is, right now.

And when the fun might actually stop and become work...

* * *

"Well done, my good servant," Helvete says over the phone as Karl reports his success: "I know it must have been hard to find. They did their best to hide it, after what happened."

"It doesn't look like much," Karl says, looking at the old, Soviet-era building his men have secured: "Apart from being a rather brutal example of statism expressed in concrete. All these years later you can still smell the authority."

"The Communists do love their dominating architecture, yes," his boss tells him: "But even what you're seeing is merely a front. The real treasure is well below the building, most likely still buried by several floors of concrete."

"And you're saying we need to have this... Beehive? Is that really what it's called?"

"Oh yes," the pale pyromaniac grins: "It's going to come in very handy when we enact our plan, in a few week's time."

"Very good, " Karl says, rubbing his face -- the burns are itching as they heal: "I'll have the men go in and see how much as to be cleared and fixed up. Is there anything else I can do?"

"You've done it, my good man," Helvete says, looking at the map, and imagining his servant standing before it: "You've earned a night's rest. But tomorrow morning let's see about getting our guests taken care of?"

"Of course," Karl says: "There were some complications, stateside, due to that weird thing that happened in Miami. But I'll see about getting it going."

"Excellent," the pale man says, and then -- after hanging up -- gets ready to call his increasingly-useless meat puppet candidate, and tell him how to screw up his chances of gaining office just that much more.

"Plans within plans..." he chuckles, thinking of his long-dead friends and rivals in ABWEHR.

And wondering what they'd all say if they saw him now. 

Saturday: 4/9/16

At first, Gosheven doesn't say anything.

He blinks a few times, unsure of what he's seeing. Is it a mirage from the long flight from Africa to here?

"Honey?" he asks, almost mouthing the words.

"Asshole?" the woman he's staring at asks, holding her arms out and open for him.

And then, decorum be damned, the shapeshifter runs all the way across the Flier's flight deck and all but jumps into Gail's arms -- crying big tears all the while.

"Oh my god," Myron gasps, following quickly behind his teammate: "Red Queen? Is that you?"

"Yes it is," she says, gasping a little to see him: "Where the !@#$ were you, Underman?"

"Oh, don't call me that," he laughs, joining in the three-person hug.

"Well, don't call me Red Queen," she says, giving him a pat on the back and trying to avoid Gosheven's sloppier kisses: "It's Dragonfly now. Long damn story."

"One she won't let us in on," Hanami says, walking up behind her: "Myron, Gosheven. Nice to see you."

"Likewise," Myron says, shaking her hand. He'd have gone for a hug but she all but shoved her right hand out for him to take.

"Well, Hanami," SPYGOD says, bringing up the rest of his team and looking down at her: "At last we really !@#$ing meet."

"We knew each other before, (REDACTED)," she says, putting her hands behind her back as a sign of respect: "I'm sorry you don't remember."

"I'm sorry I'm having to go off of notes and recordings," the superspy admits: "But let's !@#$ing get together soon and fix all that !@#$, huh?"

"If we have time," the Japanese android says, looking over to the Transport her team was about to take into the field: "Our two teams are probably going to be booked solid for a while. We're heading down to help with the Miami situation. And you're..."

"Triple Black !@#$ You Top Secret," he laughs, winking a blind eye over his round mirror glasses: "Same as always."

"Well, good hunting, sir," she says, saluting, and then brings up the rest of her team. The two groups shake hands, hug, or exchange nods as they go by, depending on how well they know the other people, or how much they like them.

And then, as quickly as it began, the impromptu reunion is over. One team enters the Flier for debriefing. The other departs for a mission.

And no one has any idea when they'll see each other again.

Or if. 

* * *

"We got them," the AGENT in charge of following up on the Sons of the Serpent announces, coming up to Josie and showing her the proof of his investigations: "I swear, these people are !@#$ing morons. They must have wanted to get caught."

"What have you got, Ramirez?" the Director asks, noticing that SPYGOD's on the Flier's deck, but not acknowledging his presence -- yet.

"The week before the breakout, someone made arrangements for twelve men to travel from Miami International Airport," the AGENT goes on: "Completely fictitious people. Stolen ID bought off the black market. A good job, but you'll notice who one of them is..."

"Gary Busey?" Josie says, almost incredulously.

"AKA Terry Busey," Ramirez says: "Now, Miami being in the state it's in, the flight got canceled. But then someone thoughtfully booked them another flight, for seven of them this time, from Southwest Florida International."

"Let me guess," the Director says, holding up a finger when SPYGOD looks like he's going to open his mouth: "The seven men who survived the escape attempt. Including Gary Busey."

"Correct, ma'am," the AGENT says, smiling: "They've got a flight booked for Dusseldorf tomorrow."

"Germany, huh," Josie snorts: "Talk about hitting it right on the damn nose."

"That's one way to put it," Rakim says, coming up and handing Josie the reports from the Brain Computer's latest project: "At AGENT Ramirez's suggestion, I looked into the whereabouts of several prominent and virulent racist leaders, here in America. I found that a number of them have also taken off for Dusseldorf under fictitious names, some of which are clearly... well..."

"Luke Skywalker?" Josie snorts.

"That's David Duke," Rakim says, brushing his long beard: "It gets worse from there."

"Wow, it really is like they wanted to get caught," Ramirez mutters, shaking his head. 

"Alright then," Josie says, nodding and handing the reports back to them: "Well done, both of you. I'll see about having them watched when they land in Germany."

Then the Director coughs, looks up at SPYGOD, and walks over to him, smiling: "Glad you could make it, (REDACTED). Ready for your debriefing?"

"I feel like I already got pantsed," he says, smiling. Her smile falls, for just a second, and he can see that, while she might have gotten the joke, she sure didn't want it.

And over the next hour, as he skillfully lies his way through another lengthy meeting with the Director of the agency he used to run, he wonders how long he can keep this up before he inadvertently gives the game away.

She's not nearly as oblivious as he'd like her to be, after all. 

Sunday: 4/10/16

"Just a little bit more," Antonia says, more to herself than anyone else, as the latest observation drone flies over the center of the city: "A couple more blocks."

"Hey you," she hears someone say within earshot of one of her Gold Soldiers. The unit looks down to see Hanami there, waving just outside the cordon.

"Well hi, stranger," she says, putting the drone feed on the back burner for a moment or two: "When are you going to come down to the creche and say hi to me and the boy?"

"When I get a day off," the Japanese android jokes: "When are you going to get back into the field?"

"That's just it, Hanami. I am in the field," the former Gold Standard chuckles: "My new telepresence multitasking programs let me run up to sixty separate units before I start breaking a sweat. A hundred if I really push it."

"We miss you, though," Hanami says: "American Steel's nice enough, but she's still learning her way around that prototype of yours."

"She'll do fine..." Antonia says, but then breaks off. The drone Hanami's talking to looks right around, towards the center of the ruined city.

They're all looking, now.

"What's wrong?" Hanami asks.

"Oh... that's not good," Antonia says, horrified at what she's seeing...

* * *

"Ma'am?" an AGENT contacts Josie in her office, just as she's taking some very private -- and highly-encrypted -- email.

"Yes, AGENT?" she says, quickly putting the pad's message out of sight.

"We've got some telemetry coming in from Miami. Gold Standard's tagged it infra-red. And it's... well, you need to see this."

"I'm coming," the Director says, quickly taking one last look at the message her mole sent her.

TEAM SPENT ALL NIGHT RESEARCHING KORHOGO FACILITY. STRAFFER IS SUPPOSEDLY THERE. COVER IS RESEARCHING AL-HADHIH IN CENTRAL AFRICA. PLAN IS TO BREAK STRAFFER OUT AND GET HIM HIDDEN, THEN FOLLOW UP ON WHOEVER TOOK HIM. PLEASE ADVISE. 

She considers the request, and then types back: GO ALONG FOR NOW. KEEP ME POSTED. 

Then she all but runs for the operations deck to see what has everyone hollering.

And when she does, she immediately calls the President. 

* * *

"I... I just don't know..." the Interim President says to his master, over the phone in the Oval Office: "I mean, I told you what they saw. What they know..."

"I know what you have told me, my good servant," the Mahdi says, seemingly unconcerned: "And I tell you, in turn, that this has been prepared for. Our God, most beneficent, most merciful, has written the end chapter on the book of our lives. Should we dare to not read it?"

"Of course not," he says, shaking his head: "But do we have to just sit here? Wait for inevitable? Can't we try to fight back?"

"Why would you do such a thing?" the strange-sounding man asks: "Paradise beckons, man. Be grateful. And be silent of its details, so that only the righteous will gain a place in the Kingdom."

The Mahdi hangs up at that, leaving his servant breathless, and then crying.

(SPYGOD is listening to Undertow (Pet Shop Boys) and having a Reserve Special Black Ale)

TechnOlympos: 2/1/16 - 2/7/16

"You Do Such Damage / How Do You Manage / Trying Back for More?"

(The Mahdi and Al-Hadhih associates)

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

30

* * *

Monday: 2/1/16

"Alright, then," SPYGOD says, adjusting his sunglasses, looking around the large room Josie's decided to call this meeting in, and wondering if he's going to have to shoot anyone in the damn eyeballs, today.

There's people here he knows, besides Josie, and a lot of people he doesn't. He remembers the old, bearded man they're calling Rakim back from when he was Brainman, but they say he's gone straight, now. And the cute woman nursing the weird-looking, almost-cartoony baby is clearly Gold Standard's kid, all grown up to become her father.

And there's Free Fire, who's both ally and exhibit A, here -- shining in his new, orange armor and no longer pretending he isn't a goddamn android.

Everyone else? AGENTs he's seen, here and there. Support staff. Desk staffers. Maybe the odd hero or two.

(And there's too much !@#$ing glass in this room for his liking. He can see too much of DC, down below. Anyone could be watching, he thinks -- anyone at all.)

"SPYGOD?" Josie asks after he seems like he's going to start talking, and then stops, about half a dozen times.

"Here's the !@#$ing deal, folks," he says, tapping the table and looking each person there in the eye: "A long time ago, we made a big damn mistake. And I'm not talking Ronald Reagan Iran-Contra 'mistakes were made' horse!@#$, here. I'm talking !@#$ing Truman Korea plus Kennedy Bay of Pigs times Nixon Cambodia, with little Watergate sprinkles on the damn top horse!@#$.

"Now, when I say 'we,' I mean the American government, acting through the goddamn CIA. But the COMPANY had a hand in it too, given the nature of the mistake. And when I'm done explaining, I think you'll all understand.

"As for why I have to !@#$ing explain, well, it's because, officially? This !@#$ really never happened at all, as far as anyone was concerned. The files, the witnesses, the whole damn paper trail? They all got !@#$ing burned between then and now. Tossed in the damn shredder, consigned to the !@#$ing BBQ pit, assigned to suicide runs and then shot down on the goddamn way back.

"So, in the end, I'm the only one alive who knows the whole story, anymore. And it aint !@#$ing pretty."

With that, he uncaps the flask he's been avoiding drinking until now, snorts some down, and -- before Josie can scold him -- starts to explain just how unpretty this !@#$ actually is.

* * *

"Well, is it possible that Thomas Samuels healed up and left on his own?" Mr. USA asks the portly and surprisingly-young Medical Examiner, who's looking very uncomfortable right about now, here in his uber-geeky basement office.

"Sir, please believe me when I say that I respect you very highly," the man says, trying to smile.

"I think the action figures clued me in, son," the older hero says, smiling at the mint condition, still-in-the-box replicas of the Liberty Patrol, up on a prized shelf.

"Well, good, because the last thing I want to do is sound condescending, sir," he says, patting his desk: "But please understand me. I performed the autopsy on Thomas Samuels. I removed exactly 159 .50 caliber bullets from every inch of his body from his knees to his sternum. I collected them all as evidence.

"I opened his skull up, and removed a brain that had more complex folds and contusions than I've ever seen. I weighed it, examined it, and put it back into the skull.

"I opened his chest cavity, and observed and weighed his organs. I saw things that looked too healthy to be real, bullet trauma notwithstanding. I saw things that I've never seen before, too, and had no idea how to catalog. Especially since there was so much gross tissue damage.

"And when I was done, I put them all into a bag, put it into the body cavity, zipped it up, and then sewed him back together."

He swallows, and then has a nervous sip of his coffee: "At no time did he ever regain consciousness. At no time did he show the slightest sign of being alive. And I'd love to show you the notes, the video, the voice tapes... but they're all gone."

"Yes," Mr. USA says, nodding: "They all went missing around the same time the body did, along with your nighttime assistant."

The Examiner nods, sadly: "I don't think he'd have done it, though. He's a very special person. Very conscientious and meek. I doubt he'd so much as sneeze on a fly, much less swat one."

"Well, I can think of a few people I'd like to swat," the older hero says, thinking of Martha's mental collapse, and the ugly scene that followed when the Governor just !@#$ing refused to shut up...

* * *

.... now, if Mr. USA was here instead of chasing dead teen heroes, he could roll his !@#$ing eyes and remind me he was there, in the 1950's, too. But since he isn't, I'm the only expert in the room-"

"I was there, too," Rakim weakly interjects.

"True, but you only saw one !@#$ing side of the show. We're the ones who got the whole damn china set. And that's what you need to understand why what happened after actually !@#$ing made sense, at the time.

"Now, we'd won the War, but we'd entered into another one with the !@#$ing commies," he says, using a remote to play a hologram of old Soviet-era super-propaganda in the middle of the long table: "It's just that we didn't dare start !@#$ing shooting at one another. Not with two mighty armies, a ton of allies, supers out the damn wazoo, and later nukes.

"So It was all done with moves and countermoves. Unseen alliances, quiet kills in the dark, and spies every goddamn place you looked.

"And races. Jesus Christ in a spaghetti sauce jar were there races. There was a Supers arms race and a nuclear arms race. Space didn't !@#$ing come into it until a decade later, but you could tell it was coming.

"And then there were !@#$ing proxy wars. Korea was ongoing for a !@#$ing lot of that decade, and that was a big old mess. And Vietnam... well, I don't really !@#$ing remember Vietnam-"

"SPYGOD," Josie says, tapping her watch: "Time is action."

"Who the !@#$ said that?"

"You did, sir," the AGENT in charge of the Middle East desk says: "Repeatedly."

"Well... I don't remember that either. But the important thing is that there was one proxy battle that was really damned important, folks. And that was for resources. Namely, oil."

With that, he activates the remote control again, and a map of the middle east -- circa 1950 -- floats in space where the  the middle of the table.

"For oil rights, we and the British dug in our damn heels and did everything possible to keep the Soviets from making too many friends in the region. And they pretty much did the same, in case you were !@#$ing wondering why so many Ruskies like hanging out in Egypt-"

"Well, Sharm el-Sheikh is pretty damn awesome," the Middle East desk AGENT pipes up, but then falls silent when SPYGOD gives him a look that could blow a rat-trap vacation resort off the damn map. 

* * *

"... yes, my friend," the leader of El-Hadhih says over the phone, speaking in Somali-inflected Arabic: "You have heard me correctly. You will take the bomb aboard the plane, and activate it. But Allah wants you to fail.

"You will not destroy the plane," the Mahdi goes on: "You will instead merely damage it. Not enough to destroy it, but enough to kill yourself. You know how this can be accomplished, and I want you to do it.

"Yes," he continues, after a puzzled but firmly affirmative answer comes back: "We wish to lure them into a false sense of security. We want them to think we have become lax and ineffectual.

"And when the time is right, that complacency will help us destroy them in the name of Allah, most beneficent, most merciful.

"Now go, in the name of the one, true God, and do as he has commanded," the Mahdi says, hanging up.

Then he hands the phone over to the nearest guard, here in this strangely large and shadowy tent, and bids him to crush it with heavy rocks, and put it on the pile of other such phones and communication devices, over in the corner...

* * *

"... was saying before damned travel bureau chipped in its two !@#$ing cents," SPYGOD says, still glaring at the AGENT who interrupted him: "Oil was needed on all fronts. We needed a constant, growing supply of the !@#$. And we didn't have time for the Soviets to be pulling any horse!@#$ in the region.

"Now, we had all kinds of !@#$ on our side. Spycraft, bribes, threats, pressure, you name it. But so did they. We needed a !@#$ing edge to make sure the Commies didn't beat us to the black gold.

"And, well, let's just say that the other Company kind of went off the !@#$ing rails a little. Let me show you..."

He clicks the remote again, and movies of Iran in 1953 start playing: "Operation Ajax. Otherwise known as the !@#$ing Iranian Coup. We and the Brits paid through the damn nose to kick the damn prime minister out of power and let the Shah rule so we got what we wanted.

"After some crazy !@#$, we got it, good and hard. And it stayed that way until the !@#$ing 70's when the Ayatollah showed up. But keep that in mind for later.

"Important thing here? We will do anything to anyone, at any time, anywhere, with any damn ally we need to, just to !@#$ing keep the oil flowing. Revolutions, counter revolutions, assassinations, you name it."

"Now," he clicks again, and this time it's the Cuban revolution: "Here's Fidel !@#$beard Castro. He comes along about 1953, and succeeds in taking the damn island six years later. Then JFK decides he doesn't like commies in his backyard and, as soon as he's in he !@#$ing Oval Office, puts a plan that Eisenhower signed off on into action.

"That was the goddamn Bay of Pigs, by the way. You all know how that !@#$ went down.

"Important thing here? The CIA and the Department of Defense go halfsies on Project Mongoose, not long thereafter. They had 33 !@#$ing flavors of !@#$ to hurl at Castro, some of which might have actually worked if I hadn't been making sure they didn't go anywhere but straight to hell."

There's a gasp or two at that, and he looks at Josie: "I had my reasons. Let's just leave it at that."

* * *

"I appreciate your work for us," the Indonesian Minister of Space says, raising a glass of tea to Director Straffer, who returns the gesture: "This is a marvel, regardless of its origins. And you have truly revealed its potential to us."

"A potential I hope you'll get more of a chance to exploit once the current crisis is over," Straffer replies, looking past his office door as the structure shakes once again -- another car going up as the counter-weight car goes down.

"It may be months until then," the man says, sadly: "But you have trained our people well. I have every confidence they will achieve wonders, both now and in the times to come."

"I wish I could be here to see it," Straffer says, smiling.

The Minister stiffens for a moment, but then relaxes, nodding sadly: "I suspect what I came here to tell you is not a surprise."

"No," the cyborg says: "I've been aware that the Space Service wants me out. I'm also aware that the UN is pressuring ASEAN to make this happen as soon as possible. Trade issues, mostly."

"Then you understand that my hands are tied."

"I do, yes," Straffer says, sipping his tea.

"Did they tell you that we are... required to hand you over to them?" the man asks, very sheepishly: "It seems they are afraid you will escape if we merely let you walk out the front door."

"That I didn't know," the blonde man says, tapping his teacup against his saucer as he considers this: "That's troubling."

"It's horrible is what it is. I've heard what they plan to do. It's monstrous. Cruel!"

"It's the UN," the cyborg shrugs: "I knew what might happen when I told them to stuff it. I've been prepared to take my medicine since. So..."

He stands up and looks out the window, wondering if he's putting on too brave of a face, here.

(Wondering if appearing too blase to his horrible, awaiting fate will ruin his scheme...)

* * *

... so one of the plans that Mongoose came up with, and I !@#$ you not, was that they were going to use !@#$ing Jesus Christ to kick Castro out of power."

There's a couple chuckles and snorts, and an actual laugh or two. SPYGOD nods, looking around, and then clicks over to a picture of a smiling General with a bad mustache and disturbing eyes.

"Meet Major General Edward Lansdale. Cunning mother!@#$er, anti-communist, and nuttier than a can of !@#$ing Planters. His idea was to spread the world on Cuba that Jesus was !@#$ing coming back, and then, at the anointed hour, raise a sub, and blow some star shells to make lights, smoke, and bangs. And then use a movie projector to show Jesus on the clouds.

"And yes," SPYGOD goes on: "That does sound crazy. But you gotta figure, Cuba's a very Catholic country, full of people who were never too damn bright. Some religious mania and a desire to get free might have gone a long way, if only I hadn't convinced a bunch of heroin junkie cyborg dolphins to hump the !@#$ out of that sub.

"Again, long story," he says, shrugging and having another snort from his flask: "And this is turning out to be a long story, too. But it's essential that you !@#$ing understand that this is the !@#$ the CIA had its hands in, all the way up to the damn elbow on the dance floor.

"Because that's the only way the crazy thing they did next makes any damn kind of sense."

* * *

There's yelling outside Myron's room, in the hallway. Bad yelling, this time. The kind that indicates that something terrible is about to happen, most likely to someone.

Several someones, in fact.

He doesn't care. He can't care, anymore.

He lies on the ground, in a curled up ball, trying to get up and face the fear that's been building in his heart, soul, and guts since he learned the awful truth about this place.

The real face of Number One. 

And yet, oddly enough, a small, small piece of his mind is actually glad about this. Mostly because he was terrified it might be right for so damned long, and now it gets to say "Aha! See? You were right. We were right!"

It's just that this isn't a good thing. Not at all.

He'll get up and face this situation. He knows he will. He has no bottle to crawl into, no warm, willing woman to lose himself within. There's nowhere to hide, and no way to stall.

Not for long, anyway.

But for now, as the absence of the leader has turned the Green Dome from a barely-restrained riot into the first, trembling steps towards angry, overdue chaos, he's alright with just lying there.

Just lying there and pretending, for the moment, and they he doesn't have to go down into the bowels of the complex and see that thing again...

* * *

"Now," he says, putting another picture up for all to see: "See this !@#$ing lizard-faced human monster? Anyone know who he is?"

"Yeah," one of the AGENTS says: "That's the old guy we got in that locked room under constant overlapping guard in Bethesda. The john doe in the induced coma from hell."

"Yes," SPYGOD says, snapping his finger and nodding: "Gold star for you, AGENT. Now, forget you even remembered that !@#$, because that john doe is the one and only Gilbert Biggs, otherwise known as the Big Man. The head of the Left-Handed Legion."

There's some gasps, then -- mostly shock, mixed with surprise.

"I understand I !@#$ing put his ass there, a couple years back. The fact that no one knows who he actually is means I must have been damned careful about it, too. So that's good to hear. No one needs to mess with that human monster. We lost too damn much putting his ass in that bed, and if he wouldn't just reappear somewhere else if we blew his damn head off, well, he'd have been dead a long time ago.

"Anyway," he goes on: "Gil here's got a couple other powers, other than not being able to die, which is why he's in that damn coma. Like disappearing the moment you don't look at him.

"But the most important one of all is that he can !@#$ing make you do anything he wants you to. All he has to do is spend some damn time talking to him, and if you're any kind of a decent person, he'll !@#$ing have you eating !@#$, shooting cops, and dancing with the Devil in the pale moonlight.

"Well, courtesy of our need to have a bunch more folks in costume during the War, the CIA's been in bed with the damn Legion since before there was a CIA. Not that anyone outside the Agency knows about it, though. That doesn't happen until a lot later. Like after I can't remember later.

"But in the meantime, the CIA gets the idea that it sure would be nice to have someone like Biggs in their corner. After all, they've got their mindreaders, and suggesters, and hypnotizers, and all these other !@#$ers. But Biggs? Well, he's got them beat. It's like comparing a firecracker to a stick of !@#$ing TNT.

"And then, one day in the early 60's, Lansdale's sitting in his office, which I can only imagine looks like some crazy lady's apartment, only instead of hoarded magazines and cat barf it's full of tacked up photos and ideas on how to kill the people in the photos. Maybe he's drunk, maybe he's sober. Who can !@#$ing tell.

"And he's spitballing more damn ideas on what to do with Castro, as this is, you guessed it, another damn proxy war with Russia.

"And he's also entertaining the issues we're having in the Middle East with oil, which is a proxy war with some real !@#$ing high stakes.

"And he's thinking about how nice it would have been to have someone with some mental powers on their side when dealing with !@#$ing Cuba.

"And then, he gets this crazy idea in his head..." SPYGOD says, turning to look at Josie, who was just about to scold him to get back to the point: "See, Lansdale had made a study of Islam during his time in the Philippines, fighting commies. He knew something about what made them tick, and got them good and !@#$ing ticked off.

"And he knew that, if you really wanted to get the John and Jane Q Publics of the Middle East to do something, or not do something, it helped to mix some religion in there, somewhere."

"Because Muslims are all clearly ignorant savages?" Rakim says, raising an eyebrow.

"No, sir. Because even the most logical, reasonable, and intelligent person will go !@#$ing crazy and do the unthinkable if their goddamn immortal soul is on the line."

* * *

"Please, don't be afraid," the priest/ess of Rosi tells the confused woman s/he's encountered: "Come inside the Singlove. Dance with us. Accept Hir love-"

"No!" the Red Queen moans, stumbling past the tent's entrance, holding her hands to her ears like cups in the hopes of hearing more.

It's too much, this silence. This lack of total sensation.

This disconnection from who she was just a few days ago.

When she looks up the central spire, she sees her new body up there -- red and writhing, watching everything and everyone. And she wants to scream because she should be up there, in it.

And because her failure to use it properly has led her to be cast out from the grace of her God, Satanoth, who has ordered her to find this killer as a human, rather than an arm of an Olympian.

It's just so hard to live like this. To see nothing. To hear nothing. To feel less than nothing.

To be human all over again...

* * *

"Wait, so what the hell is a Mahdi, anyway?" one of the AGENTS asks, looking at SPYGOD: "It sounds familiar."

"Rakim?" Josie asks the old, rehabilitated supervillain with a long, thin beard.

"Well, I'm Sunni, and not Shia," the former Brainman says, nodding to her: "But as it's one of our points of doctrinal difference, I can explain. Basically, to the larger group of Shia, the Mahdi is the Hidden Imam, and God's hand on Earth. He will appear after Jesus returns, and act to redeem Islam before the day of judgment."

The AGENT in charge of the Middle East desk nods in agreement: "It's said he will have a number of fantastic, god-given powers. But he'll have been here for a long time before anyone knows he's even here, ruling in secret. It's taken quite seriously among them, sometimes reaching the same kind of messianic, end-times nonsense we get over here."

"Sounds like the sort of thing someone might try to take advantage of," Antonia says.

"It is, yes," Rakim agrees: "And some have claimed to be him. But in the end it's all just some nut in a cave, preaching to Twelver Shia and maiming the words of the Prophet in the process, Peace be unto Him."

"Well, guess what," SPYGOD says, clicking and showing a picture of the Big Man again: "Turns out that Gilbert was able to give Lansdale his Mahdi, courtesy of Gilbert's tendency to spread his love around town."

"Wait," another AGENT says, shaking her head: "I understood that Gilbert only ever had one child. Xerxes. The one you shot down a few years back, right?"

"Well, as far as we knew at the time, yes," SPYGOD says, coughing into his fist: "Most of us, anyway. And, yes, that includes me. But that's because, even though he had a bunch of kids, Gilbert only ever opened up his world to one of them.

"And that was Xerxes, who was one hell of a piece of work," he says, showing a picture of the leering, evil-looking young man -- somewhere between a young Malcolm McDowell and older Jeffrey Dahmer: "Apparently he thought it would be bad news to just let the little !@#$er live in the world without his guidance, and so he swooped in on the kid's 16th birthday, introduced himself, and let Xerxes amuse himself by having his real dad tell all the party guests what to do.

"Worst murder scene in years, and that's !@#$ing saying something."

* * *

"How long can you two keep going, I wonder?" Helvete asks, watching as his two newest personnel acquisitions continue to fight one another with long, sharp knives: "To the death, really? Or will one of you pull back at the last moment?"

Karl and Jana are too tired and weary to respond to their new master. They are naked, covered in sweat and blood -- bleeding from dozens of shallow, quick cuts.

He's had them knife-fighting for hours, just as a test of loyalty. And it really should have been over by now, except for one thing he isn't aware of yet.

Their mental connection, strong as steel.

Neither one is truly willing to kill the other, no matter how much he might force them to. And though their conscious minds are trying as hard as they can to seal the deal, their subconscious is not letting it happen.

They could go on like this for days, if necessary. Maybe they will have to.

Maybe they'll both die from exhaustion and blood loss before then.

Helvete crosses and uncrosses his legs. He's clearly turned on by this. The almost sexual dance between them. The sweat, the pain.

The blood.

Karl and Jana sneer and go at one another again, wondering if this will be the time one or the other makes some stupid mistake not even their minds can account for, and it all ends at last...

* * *

SPYGOD lets that gruesome thought sink in for a moment, takes another hit of his hooch, and goes on.

"Now, all the other kids? Well, he kept tabs on them. If they turned out to be normal, he left them alone. If they had any kind of powers? He had them killed. Xerxes was the only one who was !@#$ing crazy, so he's the only one who got taken in.

"But this one time? Gilbert was in some kind of damn hurry and left the kill job to amateurs. So this one kid went over the cliff in his parents' car, but managed to crawl away and live. He wandered across the state line, fell in with some !@#$ing weird folks in a UFO cult who just snatched his partially-burned, half-in-shock ass up, and hustled him off somewhere else."

He clicks the remote again, and another photo comes up. It's a young man who looks a little like Gilbert, and a lot like Xerxes, only with some substantial burn scars on the left side of his face: "His birth name was Holder Kane, but his new people called him Canis Star-Son."

There's some snorts and guffaws as that, and he just shrugs: "UFO people. Go !@#$ing figure.

"Anyway, the kid's not a terrible person, by anyone's measure. Got a puckish sense of humor, and a real serious side. Also got some nasty burns he'll carry the rest of his damn life.

"But then he also grew up with a refinement of Gilbert's voice control powers. He can tell anyone to do anything, no matter whether they're good, bad, or indifferent, so long as it's couched within a basis of faith. So if he says 'pick up the gun and shoot yourself,' you'll just laugh. But if he says 'God wants you to pick up the gun and shoot yourself?' Well, don't start reading any long novels.

"And he can do it over electronic mediums, too. So phones, televisions? Any way he can reach you, he can command you."

"That's damned scary," Antonia says: "That means he could potentially broadcast commands to people over the television, or the internet."

"Exactly," SPYGOD says, nodding to her: "And that's why I wanted this to be a small and private meeting, Josie. We don't know who all this guy's got under his thumb. And when he has you, well... you're stuck for life. It does not wear off. Ever."

There's some well-considered, unnerving silence after that revelation.

"Well, the CIA found him when the UFO cult got a little too influential too quickly in the small, Idaho town they holed up in. Thankfully, they had someone they knew who was immune to mind control on board, and that person was able to go in, have a serious talk with the kid, and talk him into giving up the outer space horse!@#$ for God, Country, and !@#$ing apple pie..."

Josie blinks again, and then sighs: "Let me guess. You?"

"Got it in one, again," SPYGOD smiles: "They briefed me, armed me, and sent me into the middle of this hippie love cult full of bored and brainsmashed suburban types, all sitting around smoking bad weed and waiting for the !@#$ing flying saucers to take them the hell away."

* * *

And then, with the closing of a hatch, and the rushing of engines powerful enough to nudge a small transport into orbit, the last refugee ship leaves Mars -- rocketing out of the last safe center within the planet seconds before its gates fall down.

On board is their leader: Speaks with Kindness and Authority of Years. He has refused to leave until now -- until the very last civilian transport ship was gone, and only he and his essential followers were left to go.

He leaves against his will, in many ways. He has no desire to abandon his world. Nor has he any desire to abandon those they had to leave behind -- the sick and the stricken, laid low by the dark poison that falls from the skies.

He thinks he should stay there with them, and render aid and comfort until the very end.

But he cannot. His people need him, now more than ever. His wisdom, his gentleness, his force -- all these things will be needed as his people adapt to their new home.

Especially as so many of the planet's inhabitants do not want them there.

Especially as the God they must bow to, now, seems dangerous to him...

The ship's engines surge again. They have broken through the atmosphere, now. He allows himself one last, sad look back.

What he sees terrifies him.

The red world has now turned mostly black. Seas of red sand and rock are covered in writhing, dark goop that throws forth twisted, viscous forms.

He cries in despair, his tears floating up and back behind him, as he says a prayer for his beautiful world -- killed one time to many by the Decreator. 

* * *

 "So, what the hell did the CIA tell you, then?" Josie asks, shaking her head: "How did they know he was Gilbert Biggs' son? How did you know he became the Mahdi?"

"I didn't know any of that !@#$," SPYGOD says, shaking his head: "Well, at least about Biggs. I didn't know anything about him until 1966, when the whole house of !@#$ing cards rolled down around them, only because the Legion got !@#$ing stupid and sloppy. All I knew was that the kid was powerful, and they wanted to groom him for some work, somewhere.

"Now, once they told me what they had in mind, I was a little skeptical. Especially since the CIA and I have had something of an interesting relationship, to say the least. But I didn't realize what they were actually capable of until 1966, when they !@#$ing used me to..."

"Yes?" Josie asks when he trails off into space.

SPYGOD shakes his head: "Another damn story for another day when I'm really good and drunk-"

"Bingo!' one of the AGENTs shouts, holding up a pad with a grid on it. Everyone just sort of looks at him, and he coughs, puts the pad away, and says "sorry."

"Smartass," SPYGOD snorts: "Anyway, what's relevant now is that they took this kid, trained the living !@#$ out of him, and sent him over to the Middle East to be their johnny on the spot. His job was to do anything needed to keep the oil flowing, which meant either keeping the religious types in check, or else using them make something happen.

"They had him on retainer for decades. He orchestrated !@#$ you would not believe. Made things happen, made them not happen, all based on this notion that he was some kind of religious leader, living in seclusion. One meeting in his tent, one phone call, or a tape in your deck? BOOM, you're a believer and doing what he wants.

"So..." SPYGOD says, looking around the room: "Who can guess where this !@#$ goes right down the damn toilet?"

"The Iranian Revolution?" an AGENT asks, somewhat nervously -- perhaps remembering their former Director's penchant for shooting people who answered incorrectly.

"Very good," SPYGOD says, cracking a wide smile: "If I had a beer I'd sling it your way, son. At some point, the little !@#$er went rogue, or at least native. Hard to be sure which. But he either could have stopped that revolution, or started it, and since it happened against our wishes? Well, clearly he !@#$ed up."

"So what happened?" Rakim asks, genuinely curious.

"Well, that's a damn good question. I can't imagine the CIA would tolerate this kind of !@#$ hanging off the end of their operational asshole, but then it's not like they can go and have a talk with him, either.

"So what I imagine happened is that the CIA gave him a chance to come clean and come home, and he did neither. So they figured out where he was and blew the !@#$ out of it. Cruise missile, suicide charges, who knows?

"But then, what do we know about his father...?"

SPYGOD looks around the room, and another AGENT pipes up: "He can't die."

"And if you don't see him, he's gone," SPYGOD nods: "Consider a zen beer slid your way, AGENT. If you still want to drink it."

And there's silence in the room for a time.

* * *

"(Don't feel like talking, huh?)" Randolph Scott says, hauling the black-leather thug up and slamming him against the bathroom wall of the underground bar, deep in the bowels of Frankfurt: "(What's the matter? Don't you speak German? Can't you speak this country's language?)"

"Bitte..." the thug starts crying, his sudden meekness in total contrast to his badass, racist tattoos.

"(One more time, !@#$face,)" the outlaw reporter hisses: "(Two American kids. Twins. Black hair, glasses. You picked them up from a private plane at the airport. You drove them somewhere. And you're going to tell me where.)"

"(No,)" the guy insists, shaking his head: "(I cannot... I must not... he will kill me. Worse than kill me.)"

"(And you think I won't?)" Randolph all but shouts, pulling out a very small handgun with a very wide barrel, and shoving it into the guy's mouth: "(Or maybe I'll just miss, just by half an inch. Blow the front of your face off, instead. You can be one of those poor !@#$ers they write sad stories about in the paper.

"(Blind and faceless and silent, except for the crying...)"

The thug's pissing himself, now. He's whimpering.

But at long last Randolph thinks he's got what he's come here for.

The Goddamn Truth.

* * *

"So the CIA thought they'd killed him, but really didn't," Josie picks up: "And now he's back, you say. But how do we know this for sure?"

"A couple things," SPYGOD says: "For one thing, the organization he created around him was codenamed Hadhih."

"Are you sure about that?" Rakim asks: "That doesn't make much sense. Hadhih just means 'this.' That would be like calling a group 'in' or 'there.'"

"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "Zen beer... well, no. Zen something else slid your way."

"Well thank you," the former supervillain says, chuckling: "Cream, two sugars while you're at it."

"My pleasure. You want a goddamn donut with that?"

"SPYGOD," Josie sighs.

"All good, Josie. But what's not good? What radical Islamic groups are we having problems with right now, all around the damn world?"

"Other than Al-Qaeda and its various splinter groups?" the AGENT from the Middle East desk asks, sighing.

"Bingo," SPYGOD says: "Islamic State of this, that, or the other damn thing. Also just called IS."

He holds up his hand, and no one gets it: "What? IS? 'This is'"

"That is a stretch," Josie says.

"Yes, but the kid's got a puckish sense of humor. That seems about right."

"That doesn't explain why he sits on his hands from 1977 until now," Antonia says, shifting her baby: "You'd think he'd want revenge, and quick."

"Also a good question, but let's go with the star of the show, here," he says, waving a hand to Free Fire: "How about we ask the only person lucky enough to have heard his voice and not got turned into a goddamn jihadi what happened?"

* * *

"... no surprise the Candidate took the top in Iowa, but what is a surprise is how close Rubio came to second, along with Rand Paul in third. They're almost a half a delegate away from one another."

"Yes, that's very shocking, Megyn. Almost as shocking as Cruz falling down below Ben Carson after his poor showing at the debate."

"Well, that's what happens when you talk tough about an enemy and they show up to call you on it, Ken. I was pretty scared myself, I don't mind saying."

"All the same, our current front runner's got some mixed news, tonight. He made it seem like he was going to sweep the polls, tonight. Instead, he's going to New Hampshire having to fend off Marco Rubio and Rand Paul, either of which might ultimately unseat him."

"Yeah, I think he's got some explaining to do..."

* * *

The android nods, and looks around the table: "Everyone else at the fire base in Anadan was compromised by the Mahdi when we got there. They took us out, one at a time, on what they called Night Patrol, and took us to a place where there was a hidden satellite phone.

"I was told that I needed to receive new, personal orders from the COMPANY. When it rang, I was told to answer it. I did."

The android stops talking for a moment, as if weighing the value of its words: "The voice on the other end told me, first, that in the name of Allah, most beneficent, most merciful, I must listen. Then it told me that a righteous struggle was coming, the Jihad, and that I was to be a soldier of God within that battle. God commanded me to obey my fellows in this struggle, and to keep quiet about it with any who had not been given the word. He also commanded me to kill any that the group decided was too dangerous to bring in.

"Of course, this had no effect on me. But I have been programmed to mimic human behavior in many different states of mental agitation, so I pretended to be as enraptured as they were. And when they told me that Shatter was actually SPYGOD, and that we had to kill him, as they killed New Man before, I volunteered to do it."

"He then came to me, under the guise of killing me, and we fought off the others together," SPYGOD explains: "I suspect they might have suspected he was a little off-"

"I was not," Free Fire insists: "My deception was perfect, up until they heard us talking."

"And then we had to throw down, and kill the others, or be killed," SPYGOD sighs, shaking his head: "Not a pretty sight. Lost a lot of good soldiers that day. Good people."

Rakim and Antonia both nod, sadly -- thinking of Chinmoku and Yanabah (who may be worse than dead, right now)

"So that's where are right now, folks," SPYGOD says, clicking back to the photo of the Mahdi, the last time anyone saw him, and slowly aging him forward to what he might look like now: "The CIA tossed all their info about this !@#$er down the memory hole. You go rooting through their !@#$, you won't find jack. Robert Kennedy, who signed off on this, is dead. So's Jack Kennedy, and Nixon, and any other President who had a hand in it.

"No one alive knows about this !@#$ but me. And all I have to go on after a certain point is bull!@#$ code triple black notes I scrawled down when I was too damn drunk to be !@#$ing legible, which isn't a whole lot of goddamn help.

"But this !@#$er is real," the superspy insists, pointing at the hologram: "He's making moves on a global chessboard. Setting people up to fight and fall. Only thing is, did he go native, and he's believing this !@#$? Or is he following someone else's orders? Or does he have his own plan?"

"If so, what is it?" Josie asks, looking at Antonia: "Gold Standard's got an excellent point. He could have appeared over the airwaves at any time and we'd be powerless to resist him. What's the holdup?"

"Maybe it only works on one person at a time?" an AGENT asks: "Maybe he can do these things over any medium, but it has to be a personalized message?"

People start nodding. SPYGOD nods, and smiles: "I think you got it, son. That might just be it. Clearly he can have multiple people running at once, but he's got to put the whammy on them one on one."

"If so, that gives us some leeway, but not much," Josie says, standing up -- at which point everyone else does the same: "This meeting is code triple black. Fight Club rules, folks. We were never here, we did not talk about this, we will not talk about this.

"Middle East desk? I want to know where this hidden guy is hiding, and I want to know yesterday. Antonia? I want electronic countermeasures, I also want them yesterday. Rakim? I want his next few moves mapped out for me. Also yesterday."

"I'll go warm up the Time Tunnel, then?" Rakim says, smiling, and then frowning when no one else seems to get the reference.

"Should have said 'TARDIS,' Rakim," Josie says: "Dismissed, except for SPYGOD and Free Fire."

"Yes?" Free Fire asks as she walks over to them.

"SPYGOD?" Josie says, just as the last other person leaves the room: "You and Free Fire are going to deal with this bastard once we've smoked him out. Assemble a team-"

"My pleasure," SPYGOD grins, patting the android on the back.

"You won't be leading it, though," she insists: "You'll be taking orders from Peg."

"Peg?" SPYGOD barks: "Who the hell is that?"

"That would be me," a woman with the same voice and general build as Josie says, coming into the room before the doors close on the last straggler. She's a clone, alright -- she just has a lime green faux-hawk as opposed to Josie's pink buzzcut, and no tattoos.

"I see," SPYGOD says, looking between the two of them: "And may I ask why?"

"Because I'm the Director of the COMPANY, and it's my decision to make," Josie says:"But on a more practical note? You're still recovering, (REDACTED). You're just professional enough to avoid being called sloppy, and just careful enough to not be called careless. But your fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants tactics almost caused you to not come back, last time.

"And as for Yanabah-"

"I'll accept everything you want to dish out at me but that, ma'am," he says, snapping to attention: "It was an accident during a fight to the death against several superpowered combatants. If I'd had more time to plan-"

"You used to tell people to have ten plans ready to go, every minute of every day," Josie says: "Now you're lucky to throw one together on the fly? One that almost gets you and Free Fire killed? One that led to the loss of a really good talent, and a current member of the Freedom Force? One that's got a damn werewolf running around Aleppo?"

SPYGOD could say something to that, but chooses not to.

"You gather the troops," Josie insists, putting a very large hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eyes: "Because you know the enemy, and you know who will be the best suited. And you'll fight with them, too, because there's no one I'd rather see skewer this person.

"But it'll be as equals, not their leader. Let Peg shoulder that for you, for now, and you just worry about making this happen.

"We clear, AGENT (REDACTED)?"

"As crystal, ma'am," SPYGOD says, snapping off a salute so smart it could have a damn doctorate at 18.

"Good," she says, looking to the three stragglers: "You're all dismissed, then. Peg, you're to defer to him on team choice unless it's someone you really don't think you can work with."

"Of course," her clone says, saluting as she turns to go: "Consider it done."

"Alright then," SPYGOD says, as soon as the three of them are out of the room: "Free Fire, you're on the team. No question there."

"I didn't think there would be one," the android smirks.

"Who else?" Peg asks.

"Well, that's... now, what should I call you?" SPYGOD asks: "AGENT? Peg?"

"For now, Peg. When we're in the field? Ma'am will be fine."

"Fine?"

"I'd prefer 'sir,'" she says, smiling: "It's got a nice ring to it."

"Alright then," SPYGOD says: "Free Fire, Peg, let's go put the !@#$ing band back together."

Tuesday: 2/2/16

"Wait," the young, bald, and skinny man in the Deftones t-shirt says, shaking his head in disbelief: "You're gonna have to run that by me one more damn time. I am seriously confused."

"There's no confusion, son," SPYGOD says, looking down at the former hero -- who made a point of not getting up when he entered his apartment -- "We need a team to deal with a serious threat. I want you on it. And I think, if you're totally !@#$ing honest with yourself, you want to be on it."

"Really?" he says, getting up from the couch so he can look SPYGOD in the eyes: "So what is this? You admitting you were wrong when you !@#$ing dressed me down in front of the Director?"

"I wasn't wrong," SPYGOD insists: "Every single word I said in there about being a hero? About war being a crime, and making hard choices? Those words were !@#$ing gold, son. I hope you stored them for a rainy day."

"So why are you here, then? I made it damn clear I was done being a hero if that's what it meant."

"Because you were right, too," the superspy says, taking a step closer: "There was something wrong at the fire base. The people you were working with were compromised. Another couple of days they might have compromised you, too. Or killed you, like New Man."

The young man blinks at that: "New Man... he's...?"

"Well, we're not sure. Energy beings don't tend to get killed by bombs, even if they are !@#$ing French. The bombs, that is. Not New Man-"

"Shut up," his audience says, shaking his head and holding up a hand: "Just shut up."

He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes, then screws them shut. When he opens them again they're red, and wet with tears.

"Sorry you had to find out about it like this, son," SPYGOD says: "He was a good man."

"He was, yeah," the former hero says: "He wasn't perfect, and god could he be a bad team leader at times. But he meant well."

"That don't always mean !@#$-"

"No!" the bald man says, shoving a finger in SPYGOD's face: "You do not disrespect him. Not now, not ever. Not in front of me, anyway."

"Alright," SPYGOD says, nodding: "Bottom line? You knew something was wrong, even if you couldn't !@#$ing put your finger on it. That something wrong got your CO killed. And I had to mop up the rest, and it wasn't !@#$ing pretty."

The former hero blinks, and considers what that means: "Yanabah? Chinmoku?"

"Dead, son. Compromised. They tried to kill me. They didn't."

"Oh god," he says, shaking his head and sitting back down: "Oh god."

"Now, way I see it? You got a couple reasons to say 'yes' and come back with me. Call it revenge. Call it proving yourself. Call it doing the !@#$ing right thing-"

"Why," the hero sighs: "Man, I've got a girlfriend, now. I've got... well, I work from home. But I got friends. A new life. We play Settlers and Dominion every Sunday night. How the hell am I going to explain all this?"

SPYGOD laughs: "!@#$, son. I thought you were supposed to be smart. Didn't you figure it out?"

"Figure out what?"

"This apartment building? It's all talents who either washed out or quit," the super spy grins: "Your girlfriend used to wear a cape and tights."

"Wait, what?"

"Well, no one's supposed to talk about it, so glad to hear no one !@#$ing does," SPYGOD says, extending a hand: "But we need you, son. Now more than ever."

"If I do this, then no more war zones," the bald man insists, getting back up again but not taking the hand just yet: "I'll defend this country, but I won't be bombing civilians. Not again. Never ever. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," SPYGOD says, extending the hand a little further out: "You got my !@#$ing word on it. I'll make sure it sticks all the way up."

"Alright, then," the no-longer-former hero says, shaking the hand: "I'll need my fire controls back."

"Brought it with," SPYGOD says, producing it with the other hand. The kid takes it, and, smiling, allows the armor band around his chest to accept it.

"Anything I need to know?" Shining Guardsman says, almost giddy to extend his suit once more.

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, looking the hero in the eyes: "Say goodbye to the good life and hello to hell, kid. This one's a doozy."

Wednesday: 2/3/16

"It's broken," Martha Clutch says as she looks out the car window, watching a seemingly-deserted Detroit go by: "Can't you feel it?"

"I think so, yes," Mr. USA says, sitting on the other side of the back seat. He's out of uniform, for the first time in ages, and he feels positively naked without it.

"It's just something in the air," the Owl goes on, patting her very pregnant stomach as she does: "Like ozone after a lightning strike."

"Or the riot, before all hell breaks loose," her husband, Mark, says, driving very carefully. There's a car on fire, just before an intersection. It's been burning a while, now, but no one has come to put it out.

"Maybe they know he's gone, somehow," she says, trying not to cry: "Maybe all the things he kept at bay are coming back."

"Maybe," Mr. USA says, not liking the look of the people he does see: overly-armored security guards putting up more cameras.

It feels like a police state, only without the usually-corresponding drop in crime.

* * *

Neither the Mayor nor the Chief of Police were happy to have the heroes in town for this long. And the Governor was furious -- especially after the scene the other day, in the police morgue. 

But the Feds were playing hardball, here: so long as the body of Thomas Samuels could not be accounted for, they were to allow them to conduct reasonable searches and investigation throughout the state. 

And that state of affairs would last until either the Federal emergency in Flint was over -- which it wouldn't be for quite some time -- or until the body was found. 

The Chief assured Mr. USA, personally, that everything they could do was being done. The older hero wanted to take the octogenarian at his word, but something about how the man shook his hand, yet refused to look him in the eyes, led him to believe there was something else going on here. 

The old man was afraid of something, or someone. The kind of fear that makes a good man do bad things.

And Mr. USA knew that kind of fear far all too well. 

So here they were, out of uniform, combing Detroit looking for clues with no backup from law enforcement. They couldn't use obvious powers, or do anything that would draw the attention of the press. 

All they could do was track down the very slim leads they had, and hope one of them panned out. 

* * *

"This is it, then," Mark said, pulling up to a small, run-down house on a tightly-packed block: "Last known residence of one Orenthal Caster. The night guy at the morgue."

"So they think what was on the sheet was his handwriting?" Martha asks, leaning forward to look at the place: "That 'he is risen' thing?"

"That's what the Examiner said. He also said he was the dictionary definition of 'meek.'"

"Hopefully so," Mark says, getting ready to get out of the car: "I don't want to have to be a jerk about this."

"No," Martha says, getting out before her husband does: "You stay here. (REDACTED), you come with me."

"Martha-" Mark tries to protest.

"I'll be fine," she says, trying to smile: "It's just twenty feet to the door. I can walk that."

And she can -- however unsteadily. Mr. USA walks right beside her, ready to catch her if she falls. But she doesn't.

The porch has seen better days. So has the inside of the house, from what they can see through the grimy windows. Both of them just know that something is wrong, in there. 

"Mr. Caster?" Martha asks, knocking at the door and hoping he's able to talk: "If you're in there, I'd like to talk to you."

No answer. Mr. USA cocks his ears and listens, and then shakes his head at her.

She sighs, nods, and then -- with a swiftness that a seriously-pregnant woman maybe shouldn't have -- kicks the door right at the knob. It splinters into matchsticks, and she's into the house before her husband can call out to protest. 

Mr. USA looks back at the poor man and shrugs, smiling weakly.

But then he hears Martha gasp, and he hustles inside, afraid of what they'll find. 

Rightly so, as it turns out.

Thursday: 2/4/16

"You gotta be !@#$ing kidding me," the raggedy old man stammers, flopped over a filthy mattress with a sweaty sheet just barely covering up the essentials, and doing nothing at all for the three Thai boys he's been with all night.

(Outside, Bangkok goes on -- noisy and aromatic.)

"No, I'm not, Steven," SPYGOD says, looking around the run-down hovel and not liking what he sees. Junk, half-rotting street food, and signs of illegal drug use.

"You gotta be... wouldn't come if you knew..."

"Oh, I know. I know you !@#$ed up. I even think I know why."

"Then why..."

"Because I need your help. This is a bad one. Maybe the worst yet."

"You always say.... say that !@#$ to me," he says, too weak to get up: "Hey, Swiftfoot. Put your suit on and save me. Save the country. Save the day."

"Was I ever lying?"

"No, but you..." the speedster starts to say, and then nods off.

SPYGOD sighs, pulls out one of his smaller handguns, and shoots it into the mattress, not too far from the old, disgraced hero's head.

"AhJesusWhatThe!@#$DidYouDoThatFor?" the old man shouts as he leaps out of bed almost too fast to see. The three boys he wore out all but !@$ themselves and clear out, heading for the other room as naked as jaybirds.

"So you'd stop sputtering and start remembering," the super spy growls, putting the gun away: "You're a hero, you dumb !@#$. This is what you live for. You're never better than when you're in uniform, following orders."

"OhSureRight-"

"I'm right and you know it, you dumbass. It's just your stupid pride !@#$ing with you again. And that's what gets you into trouble every time. You think you can coast. You think you're better. 

"And then, when you think you know enough to give orders instead of take them? You slide, you !@#$ up, and then you go feel !@#$ing sorry for yourself for a couple months."

The speedster doesn't have anything to say to that. He stands there, looking stupid and confused -- each twitchy movement a weird, supersonic blur.

"Well, it's been four months, pal," SPYGOD goes on: "Time to get back on the damn wagon. So clean yourself up, put on your suit, and-"

There's a whoosh and a blur of motion, and then Swiftfoot is clean shaven, less stinky, has his long hair back in a braided ponytail, and dressed in what be the only clean clothes in the place.

"I kind of lost my suit," he admits, scratching at his pits.

"!@#$ it. The observation team's had one on standby on months."

The speedster blinks: "What?"

SPYGOD grins: "It's a pattern, Steven. You go off the rails, you zip over to Bangkok. We just follow the weird stories to your den of shame, and then we keep an eye on you until you either !@#$ing shake it off, or we need you."

"Oh," Swiftfoot shakes his head, heading out into the humid morning: "Okay then. Am I really that predictable?"

"It's like you don't remember you're the one who got me into Ladyboys in the first place," the super spy chuckles, leaving a large wad of Baht for the occupants to find: "Now what's say we clean you up proper, get you something to eat that won't cause the screaming !@#$s, and then bring your ass up to speed. We got work to do.

"And I'm going to need your help finding the next volunteer..."

Friday: 2/5/16

"Look, man," the last person standing in the church basement says, holding up his hands: "We don't know nothing, okay? We just squatting here-"

"Is that what you're calling this?" Mr. USA asks, raising an eyebrow and waving a hand to the crates of firearms, over in the corner: "Because the way I see it, this is a whole lot more than just staying warm and dry."

"I've got ten knuckles, and you've still got most of your teeth," Martha hisses, dropping the unconscious body of the last person who refused to tell her what she wanted: "You want to avoid losing one to the other, you tell us what we want to know!"

"I can't tell you what I don't know!" the scruffy-dressed man insists, backing into a corner as the rage-eyed, crazy pregnant lady stalks towards him: "I ain't seen no Orenthal, alright? I don't even know who the !@#$ he is!"

"He goes to this church," Mr. USA says.

"Man, this place ain't been open in years. Why you think we here?"

"I didn't say he attended it," the older hero says, wondering at what point he should step in to keep Martha from stopping this man from talking, too: "I mean he comes here a couple times a week. Cleans up the sanctuary? Does minor repairs? Keeps it from falling down?"

"He's a sick man, we have to find him," Martha insists, all but growling: "And we come here and find you, instead, holding onto clearly stolen AK-47s, still in the damn crates. Tell me I shouldn't think the worst."

"Okay, yeah," the man admits: "I know who you talking about, now. We just call him the priest. He comes in, works upstairs. Sings, mostly. Sometimes he leaves us some food. I think he thinks we homeless."

"Are you?" Mr. USA says.

"No, man. We entrepreneurs. We get paid to look after !@#$. Don't touch it, don't play with it. Just store it for people, you know?"

"What kind of people?" Martha asks, raising her fists again.

"Kind of people you don't want to say 'no' to, lady," the man admits, holding up his hands in a weak defensive move: "Game is changing around here. Crazy bad is here, now. You gots to get with it or get jacked up. Simple as that."

"We're wasting our time," Mr. USA says: "He doesn't know anything."

"Then I can beat on him for not saying 'no' to crime and drugs?" Martha asks, grinning like something just broke inside her brain.

"Well, unless he knows where we can find the preacher-"

"Look! Wait!" the man shouts, putting his hands together to beg: "Maybe I do know something. Okay? Sometimes he talks about a mission, over on Woodward. He tells us we ought to go there and get some help. Or volunteer to help or some !@#$."

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" Mr. USA asks: "Martha, maybe we should let this helpful gentleman look after his friends while we go check the mission out."

"Yeah," she says, looking around: "But..."

"Oh! Right," he says, looking at the crates of guns. He coughs, makes a fist, and then slams his hand down into the crates -- breaking both wood and gun like they were cheap plastic toys.

"Oh man," the entrepreneur  gasps: "You didn't."

"We did," the older hero says, smiling: "Might want to find a new line of work, young man. I don't think Detroit's going to tolerate crazy bad much longer."

And then they both leave the church, hoping this last lead helps them find the man who -- as they are now extremely certain -- saw a lot more that night in the morgue than was healthy for anyone. 

Saturday: 2/6/16

"Okay then," SPYGOD says, raising an eyebrow: "I have officially !@#$ing seen everything."

"Oh blow it our your ass," Gosheven sighs, weakly trying to change his form but unable to do so. 

"NiceToSeeYouAgain," Swiftfoot chuckles, dropping the zapped shapeshifter onto the ground of his tent.

"You blow it out your ass, too!" Gosheven shouts: "All of you just... blow it. Out your asses!"

"It's like poetry," Peg says, crossing her arms. She looks rather intimidating in her heavy coat and fur hat.

"John Leaping Deer," SPYGOD says, sitting down and calling up the man's file on a pad: "Former villain, then rehabilitated through the COMPANY. Member in good standing with the Freedom Force, then put on special, Triple-Black infiltration duties."

"And then you went rogue with Randolph Scott, last year," Peg grumbles: "And boy did we have some fun with that."

"So it appears we sicced Swiftfoot on you both," SPYGOD goes on, "And then tossed your goofy ass into Mister Freedom's safekeeping after that, until we could figure out what to do with you."

"Only now we learn you've been masquerading as an elephant for a two-bit Russian circus, here in Yakutsk," Peg says.

"When you're not hitting the bars and cruising for a different kind of trunk," Swiftfoot chuckles.

"If I wasn't..." the shapeshifter growls.

"Well, you are," SPYGOD says, pointing to the shock collar around his neck: "You even try to shift forms, that thing'll light up your brains like a damn Hanukkah bush. So don't even try."

"What do you want," Gosheven says, after a moment or two: "I was looking for Red Queen, damn it. I was trying to save her ass! Or don't you care about that?"

"What I care about is people following orders," SPYGOD says: "Something you're apparently not very !@#$ing good at."

"I thought we were square," the shapeshifter says, looking at SPYGOD: "After everything that happened in Florida, and Cuba-"

"Oh, we're square," SPYGOD says, holding up a hand: "Problem is, I'm not in charge of the show, anymore. I'm just a regular dogface in a suit, now. Just like you."

"He's just assembling the team," Peg explains: "And we want you on it."

"Or else we toss your ass back to Mister Freedom," SPYGOD smiles: "Who might be wondering where the hell you've been all this time."

The shapeshifer just smirks at that: "Worst prison ever, by the way. For someone who claims to be the best escape artist in the world he's crap at making an escape-proof prison."

"What do you mean?" Peg asks.

"I mean all the jailers take bribes," Gosheven says, and then laughs himself hoarse.

* * *

"Well," Peg says as the COMPANY transport takes off: "So far the roster is filling up nicely, if you like a challenge."

"Doesn't everyone?" SPYGOD chuckles, looking back at Gosheven, who is clearly not happy at this turn of events. 

"A shapeshifter we can't count on, a speedster we can't trust, a tech hero with something to prove, a smart-mouthed android-"

"And me," SPYGOD says, grinning: "Who, incidentally, knows how to handle all of them."

"One might almost suspect you're making the team impossible to lead without your direct input."

"One might," the super spy says, no longer smiling: "But since I'll be telling you everything you need to know about the team, before we get into the field? I'd hope you won't feel that way for long."

Peg looks at him, nods, and takes her fur hat off: "So who's next?"

"That would be telling," SPYGOD says, looking at his pad: "But damn it, I wish we knew where this Myron is. He sounds like he'd be perfect for this kind of work."

"We've got Antonia doing tech solutions. She's good."

"Yeah, she's good. Hell, she's amazing. But this guy?" he taps the pad and holds it up: "This guy, from everything I've read, is !@#$ing phenomenal. A one man miracle worker. And we had to go and lose him."

"They're still searching."

"Do us all a favor, Peg?" SPYGOD says, looking back at the pad: "Tell them to search harder. Talent like this doesn't grow on trees."

Sunday: 2/7/17

He comes out of his room only when the screaming has stopped, and he's reasonably sure he won't get killed on sight.

Myron looks down the hallway. There's blood in both directions. Signs of a number of nasty fights.

Broken teeth on the floor, like loose change.

He walks down the hall towards his office. On the way he sees no less than three dead bodies, beaten to a pulp. He thinks he knows who they are.

He's not entirely sure he has the luxury of caring, right now.

* * *

"Yeah, you just choke on that," Randolph says, letting the guard try to breathe through what's left of his throat.

One good punch to the neck and the man went down, quiet as a stone, except for the sludgy, wet noises. He's probably going to choke on his broken larynx before long if he doesn't stop panicking.

A bad way to go, but it's his fault for having been the odd man out. The one who went off to smoke alone.

The one whose urban camouflage suit is almost exactly Randolph's size.

After securing one last precaution he slips it off the man, and onto himself, hoping he's got enough time to get into Odal's hidden headquarters, south of Frankfurt.

And enough time to get what he's looking for -- and who.

* * *

"Of course we know Orenthal," the large, matronly woman behind the desk in the Motor City Mission's business office says: "He's one of the most tireless and giving volunteers we have."

"Have you seen him lately?" Martha asks, trying not to plead too hard: "It's very important we find him and talk to him."

"Well, he hasn't been here for a while," the woman says, tapping her desk: "I think he had some trouble-"

"Ma'am, no offense, but you're lying," Mr. USA says, leaning forward: "And before you ask, it's because I can hear your heartbeat. And because you don't find it easy to lie. In fact, I guess the only reason you're lying is because you're trying to protect him.

"We're here to help him," the older hero goes on, putting a hand on Martha's shoulder: "And believe me, if we're right? He needs the kind of help you can't give him."

* * *

The office has been untouched, oddly enough. He thought they'd hole up in here, or at least vandalize it.

Maybe they felt it was sacred space, somehow -- it might as well be.

He looks at the ball chair, hating it. Hating how small it makes him feel. How weak.

A good, swift kick is all it takes. It falls over, and rolls somewhat lazily across the circular chamber.

Underneath it is a large, heavy box with a handle. He takes it in his arms and leaves the room.

* * *

Too easy, Randolph thinks as he all but walks into the complex: Much too easy. 

There's guards, milling about the main area behind the front doors. They just nod and wave him through. 

(Good thing, too. He's in no way suited for conversation, right now.)

There's stairs, leading down. He goes down them, using the man's key card to let himself in. 

No retinal scanners. No guards beyond the door when it opens. 

Too easy, he tells himself as he walks down the long, dark hall. He keeps walking, anyway.

* * *

"You have to understand," the woman says, leading the two heroes to the man's room: "He's been a rock, but he's also been very steadfast in his belief in God's hand at work in the world. He would tell us of signs and portents he saw on his way to work, or here."

"God's always sending signs," Martha says, holding her belly. The baby kicked, just now. 

"Well, yes, but not like the ones he talked about," she says, as they turn a corner and see a room at the far end: "He said he saw angels, sometimes. Beautiful beings, bathed in light. He saw demons, too. Sometimes at the same time."

"He's not wrong there," Mr. USA says, thinking about the city he's seen so far. 

"So when he came here, this Monday, telling us he'd seen something? Well, we wanted to take it in stride. But he wouldn't stop talking, or stop drawing what he'd seen.

"And now..." she opens the door, and lets them see what has become of the room they've let him have.

* * *

A goddamn, bloody mess -- that's the only way to describe his trip to the sick bay.

The halls from the office to there are littered with the raw, savage leftovers of murder, torture, and rape -- some with their deceased victims, some not. The spoor of the incidents he heard, but never really wanted to see.

The signs of what happens when a society decides its done being civilized and falls apart, one scream at a time.

He can smell what's happened in the sick bay before he even sets foot in it. The horsey, grey-haired doctor is dead, and it looks like her assassins took their time with her. There isn't a scalpel or blunt medical instrument in there that doesn't have her blood on it.

"Sorry," he says to her head, which is quite some distance from her body. They carved Xs on her eyes, either before or after her death, and that and the Glasgow smile makes her look somewhat comical.

Undaunted, he keeps going -- looking for who he came here to see.

* * *

"You look like a man with a story to tell," Scott says, shoving his gun into the rotten mouth of the wormy, pale man he found inside the door of this overly-opulent room: "But I don't want to hear it."

He backs the man up against the wall, glaring at him the whole time. He tries to whimper around the barrel of the gun, losing teeth with each word, but Scott isn't wanting to hear it. 

He points to a far door, and gives the man a questioning look. 

The man looks at it, then at him. He nods, slowly. 

Scott nods back, retracts the gun. Then he flips it around and then clocks the man in the temple with its butt. 

And then he's onto the room in question, not entirely certain he'll welcome what he sees.

* * *

 "Orenthal?" the woman says to the large, wide-eyed man on the cot to the right side of the door. He's wearing a nice sweater -- the kind a parent might have knit with love over the course of a year or so -- and old shoes.

"Oh my god," Mr. USA says, looking around the room, and seeing what's been done with the walls.

It's just like they found back at his house, only more pronounced. A multi-media diorama of divinity, using paint, tearings from newspapers and magazines, and anything else.

"Angels," Martha says, running her hands along one tableau in the corner where divine figures are taking a sick man up to what might be Heaven.

"He is risen," the large man says, his eyes lost to ecstasy: "She took him up. I saw. I saw!"

And he holds out one last, torn piece of a photo to them, to show who 'she' was...

* * *

The mortuary is bedlam. Someone went razy with the bodies in there, especially the woman from the improvement committee. He doesn't even want to think about what happened to her, or how.

But Number Two is still there, and still mostly intact.

"Right or left?" Myron tries to remember. He settles on right, eventually, and carefully forces the dead man's hand open. It still reeks of his own !@#$.

Then he closes the hand around the handle on the case. There's a hissing noise, then a sliding.

Then, the box is open. Inside is a weird, black mechanism.

On the top is a red button.

"Alright, you !@#$ing !@#$," Myron says, looking around: "I know you can hear me. I know you know what this is.

"You got ten minutes to come out and play, and then I blow it all down.

"Game. !@#$ing. Over!"

* * *

"I was wondering when you might pay us a visit, Herr Scott," Helvete says, leaning over Randolph, who's not in any position to argue.

Karl has him in a choke hold. Jana has a gun to his face.

Both of them look terrible -- pale and weak in their new, black uniforms. They also seem to have fresh cuts on their faces and hands.

But they are both quite ready to kill him. Of this he is certain.

"So, it seems you wanted to come to our operation?" the pale man says, turning to return to his desk, perhaps to pour himself a glass of schnapps from the bottle on the corner: "Perhaps rescue your missing children? Blow this story open for once and for all?

"Well, I have a further surprise for you," the man says, reaching for a remote control and turning on a viewscreen "One I think you will find most exquisitely painful..."

* * *

"Martha, wait," Mr. USA says, chasing after his fellow hero as she books it down the hall and to the stairs: "We have to think about this-"

"Think? About what?" the woman shrieks, holding the torn picture Orenthal gave her up like it was the answer to everything: "They have my son! They took his body! God only knows what they're doing-"

"And that's why we have to be careful," he says, giving up the pretense and swooshing down the hall, just ahead of her: "You know what they're like, hon. You've gone toe to toe with them before. With her."

"Well, I'm up for a damn rematch," she hisses: "Right now. There's a temple in town. I say we go pay her a visit."

He looks at her, gripping the picture like death. He sees she won't be dissuaded. 

And he can't !@#$ing blame her -- not one bit.

"Let me call for some help, first," he says, getting on his Freedom Force communicator: "I think we're going to need it."

* * *

"There's no need to shout, Myron," the Chess Master says, stepping from seemingly nowhere -- gun in hand: "I've known you were going to do this all along."

"And I know you knew," he says, his finger on the button: "So is that check or mate?"

"The first thing I did when I went missing was disable the destruct switches. That button is useless. So.. checkmate."

"But then you wouldn't have come here in the first place," he says, smirking: "You'd just let me stand here thinking I was going mad. So... checkmate."

"Do you think I need you mad?" she asks, pointing the gun: "What I needed was time. That and as few witnesses as possible. I took the one, and you've unwittingly handed me the other. 

"And now I just need you to do what you were brought here to do all along."

"Die?"

"Eventually? Yes," she says: "But for now, I need you to fix what's broken. 

"I need you to get me home..."

* * *

...Velma. It's Velma. 

She's walking from work to her favorite coffee place. She's wearing a nice coat and a cute knit hat. It's cold in San Francisco, this time of night. 

The crosshairs don't diminish her beauty. 

"So," Helvete says, indicating the live screen feed from his sniper: "Thanks to my new friends? I know how to hurt you. 

"And while I could simply command you to kill her? Well, I need you humbled, but not broken. So I think this is best..."

And he goes to give the order...

 * * *

... and the picture from the business magazine falls to the floor of the Motor City Mission. 

It's of Syphon, bragging about how her temple will change the city's future... 

* * *

... and Myron spits in the woman's face.

And presses the button...

(SPYGOD is listening to What Kind of Man (Florence + The Machine) and having a Boom)