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

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

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

The TU transports, already halfway across the Atlantic.

Elite kill squads, one carrying the special package. 

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

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

A hidden driveway, behind the White House.

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

The villains in their lair, making last minute preparations.

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

* * *

 Their orders are simple and unalterable.

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

A massive, wide sword sprouts from his hand.

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

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

Heading for the Heptagon, ignoring the sirens. 

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

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

* * *

In the Third Base, an orderly kind of chaos.

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

Josie walks out of the Heptagon's front doors. 

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

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

Kicks one to be sure. Enjoys the groan. 

Tempete Bleu sitting on his throne, over it all.

Watching the TU transports head for America. Contemplating. 

* * *

Yanabah and Red Wrecker have joined the others.

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

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

Chuckles, admiring the old man's sheer ballsiness.

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

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

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

This is his black promise. His masters seem pleased.

* * *

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

Shouldn't this op be his show, really?

Bely Rytsar whimpers, under his useless armor.

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

Up the main driveway to the seven-sided building. 

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

Remote cameras show their teleporter appear. 

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

* * *

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

Ah! Neo York City's coming into view. 

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

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

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

Franklin takes it and grins, patting her thigh.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

For a moment, Josie forgets who he is.

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

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

But then, Tempete Bleu senses something else down there.

Something has just shifted in the world. 

* * *

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

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

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

Becomes ghostly and white, with glowing visual echoes.

They fall down pathetically, guts like streamers.

Smash on the ground goes a Russian super-molester.

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

It’s awake, now. Alive and moving.

* * *

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

“No hesitation, no fatalities, no mistakes."

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

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

SPYGOD leans out the shattered window, waves to Antonia.

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

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

His masters chatter like night insects. Useless. 

* * *

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

Something blue, man-shaped, and glowing…

… appearing next to SPYGOD, and Antonia.

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

The world falls away, something large comes into sight.

A naval destroyer. Cannon Class. USS Eldridge.

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

“You have your coordinates. You are go.”

* * *

The transports bank and scatter, trying to evade.

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

“We are, yes,” SPYGOD confirms.

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

Ben drives the Bugatti right up alongside the ship.

At which point his passengers remember, and jump.

The teleporter complains, but the villains just laugh.

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

* * *  

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

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

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

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

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

Holograms surround her, showing progress across country.

He hears a name: “Sudarshana Chakra.”

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

* * *

“See you later,” Yanabah grins at Gosheven.

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

… leaving Josie to join Straffer, watching the progress.

On every screen, the exact same story unfolds…

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

Toons in white power armor overwhelm and capture.

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

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

* * * 

Their transports are taken over, one by one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

He gives a thumbs up, as if hitchhiking.

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

Suit smeared with blood, ready for his payload.

A long flicker. Night Phantom appears, with heroes.

Then it goes dark. Punching and cracking follow.  

* * * 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is unacceptable," Tempete Bleu hisses.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

The phones from France ring and ring.

Someone thinks they should find the President. No response.  

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

And after him, the world. 

* * *

When they get to Jersey they see what he meant.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Then Ben reverses, heading for the present.

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

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

“Kiss Barcelona goodbye!” 

* * *

Almost there. Almost. 

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

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

And each one is taxing her even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That and she's not the only one.

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

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

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

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

And in her case, the journey ends in both.

She grits her teeth and jumps again. Almost there.

Almost... 

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

1/16/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 5.5

The New Men - Son and Father
(New) New Man {aka Violet Demon}, (Old) New Man
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Five miles off the coast of Choshi, in Japan, there's an undersea hangar no one's been in for at least a decade. 

It's a sizable affair, though most of it is now flooded. In fact the only areas that have not fallen to the relentless pressure of the ocean floor -- and the occasional seaquake -- are the ones that were hurriedly encased in thick, radiation-blocking concrete, just before it was abandoned.

The areas that housed a certain, amazing spacecraft that had fallen to Earth, back in the late 60's. Laboratories that played host to the brilliant exo-cyberneticist who'd discovered how to make it work in the first place. Apartments that housed the brave young men and women who made it fly and fight, all confined to the base for what they believed to be reasons of absolute security. Machines that kept it all together, somehow, there on the bottom of the bay.

Those people are all gone, now -- this cold, damp hangar their secret tomb

The problem -- as a stack of Organization 9's ultra-redacted reports would later indicate -- was the ship, itself. More accurately, it was the strange, interdimensional power that animated it, and allowed it to transmute into pure energy, for a time. The energy gave off a particular etheric vibration that eventually drove its pilots mad.

Each team of Flying Young Science Commandos could withstand perhaps seven months of near-constant flight and battle before starting to go insane. This is why they were proactively euthanized in their sleep after six. They would then be replaced by a fresh, new team that had no idea of the fate awaiting them, half a year from then.

Dr. Toriyumi Ryu believed that not being in the ship would save him, but he had no idea how long and deep the vibrations could travel. Over the years, his mind was slowly warped by the energies of his great creation, but its effects were carelessly written off as the stress of isolation or overwork. The fact that he'd been quite eccentric before being sequestered didn't help matters much.

So it wasn't until he had to be shot before he ordered an attack on Tokyo -- all over a small misunderstanding with the Prime Minister over funding and autonomy -- that his superiors realized the extent of the problem.

Worse still, without Dr. Toriyumi's unique understanding of the ship, no one else had a hope of fixing the problem. Knowing the precariousness of his position, he'd jealously hoarded all information to himself. Even the most technically-oriented members of any Commando team ultimately had to follow his radioed directions to fix the simplest of mechanisms.

So was Project Fire Flier halted and buried by direct order of the Prime Minister, himself. The workers suddenly removed the air from the Flying Young Science Commandos' quarters, suffocating them where they stood. They slathered concrete everywhere, and then left on subs that were remote-detonated to preserve the secrets of the base. 

Mister 9 is, himself, quite dead. The leadership of his organization died along with him. From its ashes rose a new Organization, Ju Kikan -- Organization 10 -- whose leader entered into a rather unusual agreement with SPYGOD and the former President of the United States of America, in order to oust the Imago from the world. 

That leader -- the appropriately-named Mister 10 -- is no longer the leader of his own group, thanks to the Terre Unifee. And even if he were still in charge, he is no longer in the mood to make agreements and arrangements on behalf of what's left of it.

Now he is in the mood for revenge -- swift, brutal, and total.

It was a simple thing to steal a salvage submersible from one of their old, secret lockups. It was even simpler to come out here, to this sealed underwater tomb, and open one of the hatches that his predecessor had installed "just in case." 

It was not so simple to come down into a cold, wet chamber, smelling of damp and rot, and trudge through the condensation and disgusting, dead bodies of disposable teen heroes. It was also not so simple to do so with only a flashlight to guide him, and so many strange and unnerving surprises, waiting down there.

But Mister 10 is not afraid. He is the one others are afraid of. He tells himself this, step after step, as he imagines the strange, interstellar radiation of the Fire Flier working its lethal changes upon his brain.

No matter. Once he gets to the ship -- still in perfect working order, in spite of what he told that one-eyed gaijin -- he needs only a few minutes to get it to recognize his commands. Then it's just a matter of getting its engines warmed up so he can lift off, which shouldn't take more than a day.

And then getting up to the Sled and back, which shouldn't be a few hours, provided they do what he demands...

But if they refuse, and he cannot have Hanami? Then he has no desire to come back.

If he cannot win her back? He will gladly turn the Fire Flier into its namesake, and plunge it right into the Sled. 

If he cannot have her? Then he will die with her, and the Earth can watch him burn.

One last passage, one last body, and he stands before the ship. The spacecraft lights up at his approach, sensing the presence of a warm body after so long in the cold and the dark.

Mister 10 takes it as a sign, and gives a rare, begrudging smile.

* * *

The old man looks down at the city fifty stories below his feet, feeling the thrill of the hunt for the first time in years.

The TU transport vibrates as it hovers, which is throwing off his aim a little. He likes to tell himself that's why he keeps missing as he tries to kill his quarry. It's not true, but it's not like he has to believe in his own lies.

Lies are for other people, after all. He can handle the truth.

In fact, he demands it. 

He is Underman -- the original Underman, at that. The one who built the Tunnelator. The one who developed the vibration guns, drill bullets, rock melters, and numerous other devices and gadgets that made his criminal career.

And what a career he had! He stole and pillaged both above and below the Earth's crust. He struck terror into the hearts of law abiding citizens and police officers. He went further and deeper than any Lithonaut before him, mapping out wide swaths of the amazing world beneath our feet.

He came, he saw, he took -- discovered, learned, and stole.

And when he no longer felt the thrill of theft or discovery, and his joints began to ache too much to keep repairing that ancient, well-worked machine of his, he did the same, smart thing so many other aging supervillains did. He auctioned his franchise off by way of the Legion, and then retired to a tropical paradise, down in South America. There, in a small house between the jungle and the city, he would spend his sunset years happily spending what he'd earned, dreaming of his glory days, and maybe someday put it all down in print. 

That was the plan, anyway.

But then the fat piece of !@#$ who'd outbid the others had gotten himself captured by the COMPANY. And, rather than tell them to get stuffed, he'd utterly capitulated to their demands. He'd gone straight, as they said, which was bad enough.

Except that part of his "rehabilitation" was telling them where his aging predecessor had retired to.

Which was why one fine morning in September, two years ago, some ridiculous-looking man in a costume led a group of much less-camp soldiers into his mountaintop hideaway, and arrested him while he was having his morning shower.

That was bad enough. Worse still was that, as he'd refused to have his mind wiped, it wasn't too hard for the COMPANY to get all the information it needed from him. Thankfully, he'd given all his files and information over to the traitor, so they didn't have to use the N-machine.

That didn't stop them from giving him quite a workover, though. And when they were done with him, they sent him off to the Ivory Coast, there to be stuck in a super-slam.

That was two years ago, and he still lives with the reality of every terrible thing about that place. The lack of privacy and freedom. The removal of humanity and dignity. Being forced to live with some of the worst examples of humanity, and be guarded by even worse examples.

That and waking up every day knowing he'd been sold out. Betrayed by the overly-eager kid whose eyes had been so alive with wonder that the aging villain had actually told the auctioneer to all but give it to him, just because he thought he'd be good for it. The fat-faced piece of !@#$ who had sworn -- sworn -- that he would keep what he knew a secret.

Lies are for other people, but no one lied to Underman. Ever. 

Which is why he's slowly floating through the city, now -- carefully watching its streets through the scope on his gun.

The laughing madman -- Friendly Fire -- is acting to flush the pretender out. He's working to get him to step out of the maze of alleys and abandoned buildings and actually show up in the main streets.

Once he does, Underman will use the vibro-cannon on him.

From this distance, it'll take a while to reach critical mass. He'll have time to realize what he's in for as his entire body shakes, and the veins and arteries begin to burst under his skin, inside his lungs, and in his eyes.

He'll know who's killing him  -- and why -- before his bones shatter and organs burst, and his mind runs out of his mouth.

All he has to do is aim straight. All he has to do is nail him with the wide beam that doesn't quite reach down from this height.

All he has to do is rely on a crazy !@#$hole who hunts by echo-location, courtesy of his insane, endless laughter.

But sooner or later, he will have his revenge. Myron Volaar will show himself. The fake "Underman" will die.

Sooner or later, his pain will be redressed, and his betrayal avenged.

And that's the truth.

* * *

"Mssr. President, I must admit to some confusion..." Jean-Jacques says, hoping the man can hear him over the sounds coming from that ridiculous rifle the man's shooting at his own office walls.

"What do you mean?" the President asks, putting his spent gun down and sitting down in his chair, waiting for his gaggle of interns to put up fresh new targets.

"Why are we putting SPYGOD back into the very cell that he escaped from?" the fat man asks, trying to mask his frustration with apprehension: "We know full well, thanks to your inside person, that he was involved in a plot. Several, in fact!"

"We do, yes," the President answers, pulling a large flask from one of his desk drawers and unscrewing the cap.

"And if he was involved in those plots, he must have many more conspirators than we know of," the Minister says, gesturing to the screen halfway down the room that's tallying which members of Team Alpha have been captured or killed: "With all respect, I fear that having him back there, in plain sight, may act to rally them."

"Well, if you had to guess?" the President asks, offering the man a drink, which he refuses.

"Are you waiting for more information from the Owl and her lover?"

"No," the President says, having a long and fragrant pull from the flask: "We've got enough info as it is. Just the original charges alone are enough to pin him to the wall for an eternity, provided you've got your ducks in a row."

"Um, yes," the man says, a little miffed that the President would doubt his efficacy: "All your ducks are, as they say, in a row."

"Then we're good."

"I do not understand, Mssr. President."

The President snorts, and, taking another pull from the flask, raises a finger: "Let me explain something to you, Jean-Jacques.... you know that SPYGOD trained me for spy work for a time, right?"

"I think so..." the fat man says, knowing full well what happened in Mongolia, last September.

"One of the things he told me was to learn to think like the enemy. And one thing I know about SPYGOD is that, no matter how well you have him backed up to a wall, outgunned, outmaneuvered, whatever? He always has an exit strategy. !@#$, he always has fifty of the !@#$ things. He's got so many plans it's a wonder they aren't all stepping on each others feet like kids at a school dance."

"He does show remarkable foresight," the Minister admits: "So, you are worried that some of them may go off? If so, should we not place him someplace more secure?"

"Oh no," the President says: "He probably already figured on that. He's most likely got the exit strategies for the ten most likely lock-ups. So putting him back where he escaped from puts him at a disadvantage."

"Except that he may have had other things hidden there-"

"He did. But we know what they are, thanks to Straffer. And we took most of them away, and left a few behind, slightly altered. If he tries to use them he'll be in for an unpleasant surprise."

"Can we trust his lover?"

"Oh, I think we can," the President smiles: "I turned him good."

"You did it?" the Minister asks -- that is a surprise.

"I did," the man says, selecting a new rifle to fire, and then hefting it: "I got in touch with him not long after that farce with the Nthernaut, the other week. I made him a promise and a guarantee, just like SPYGOD taught me. The promise was that, if he cooperated, I'd put him in charge of the Space Service again, which was more than enough to get him back on our side."

"And the guarantee? I presume that was a threat?"

"Oh yes," the President says, his eyes like cold stone: "We can take him apart a lot easier than we put him back together. And when we're done, and he's just a brain in a tank? We can leave him in a dark room, somewhere, pumped full of those drugs we use to keep disembodied brains alive.

"The kind that cause the sort of nightmares where you don't know if you're alive and in pain, or dead and in Hell. And thanks to being unable to form long-term memories without sensory input? Well, every second it's a new bit of confusion and terror. A horrible sort of thing to do to a man, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would, yes," the Minister of Justice says, thinking of how many people he has in cerebral detention: "But what of SPYGOD's connection with the Nthernaut? Surely this must be a concern?"

"Ah!" the President smiles: "You've hit the nail on the head, Jean-Jacques. That's his ace in the hole. He's imprisoned in a city run by one of the most powerful allies. And you can bet his escape plan is going to use that."

"So we should move him-"

"No," the President sighs, shaking his head and turning the gun over and over in his hands: "You're missing the point, Jean-Jacques."

"Then perhaps the President can remind me of what it is?"

"Gladly," the President says, shooting a round into the floor between the fat man's feet, which does wonders to sharpen his concentration: "Remember how this man thinks. He's so paranoid that he thinks everything is out to get him, anything can go wrong, and everyone could either screw up or betray him.

"So he makes as many plans as he can to deal with every eventuality. Plans that even Straffer didn't know about. And to make those plans he needs as much information as he can get his hands on, and as many people to help him as he can command or force to do so.

"Now, does that make sense?"

"Yes... yes. It makes total sense," the man stammers, hoping he doesn't get shot at again. 

"Knowing that, we have to assume he knows we're making something to deal with the Nthernaut."

"But how? Even that eye can only see so much-"

"Same way he knows everything, Jean-Jacques. If he didn't have someone look into what we were doing, and find out our plans, he'd probably have used that box we confiscated and come spy on us himself..."

The Minister's face goes stark white at that. Clearly he hadn't considered SPYGOD and Straffer ghostwalking all the way to Paris.

"This also means we have to assume that he knows we have to wait until it's done to use it, and that the Maker will not be rushed.  Now, what does that suggest to you?"

Jean-Jacques opens his mouth like a fish, and then closes it. He has to shrug, and feel stupid under the President's withering glare.

"It means, Minister, that your prize criminal is going to try and escape from his cell just before that device becomes available. And that's because he always waits until the last minute to pull off a plan like this. Always. It's how he says '!@#$ you' to his enemies. And because he can't !@#$ing help it."

"But that is also when he at his most vulnerable..." the Minister says, finally getting it.

"Yes," the President says with a smile: "So we pull the rug out from under him, just then, and catch him with all his pants down. And then you'll have your trial, and we'll have the city under control, and everything will be right in the world again."

"Agreed," the fat man says: "But, what of his remaining allies? Could they not try and affect some plan of their own?"

"They're being mopped up as we speak," the President says, getting another text to indicate a success by Team Omega: "And as for others, I sent Henri over to talk to Josie. She's in charge of the COMPANY now, knows where the bodies are buried, has no love for SPYGOD at all, and wants to stay at her job.

"So if there's any chance we've overlooked something? I think they'll find it," the man says, indicating that someone should change a face on the board from AT LARGE to DEAD. 

"It's all about filling in the blanks, Jean-Jacques," the President says, grinning a little wider than his Minister of Justice is used to seeing.

* * *

"What does 'vanished' mean?" a certain, shadowy person is asking over the phone.

"I mean they're not here, sir," an invisible man wearing a no-suit explains, looking around the vast, underground cavern that used to hold the Toon Nation.

"How 'not' is 'not here'?"

"Sir, there are no people here, Toons or otherwise. There is no equipment or vehicles. There are no papers or supplies. If it wasn't bolted down to the walls, it's gone."

The shadowed man sighs and shakes his head: "Unacceptable. Getting tired of people just vanishing."

"Can we get something from IMINT, sir? Something must have seen something."

"Can't depend on satellites for anything, Agent. Believe me."

"Yes, sir," the agent says, knowing full well that the man does know all about that.

"No, this is a good, old-fashioned gumshoe problem. Look around. Talk to people. A whole colony of cartoons come to life doesn't just disappear without some trace."

"Will do, sir," the agent says, turning off his phone and heading out of the echoing chamber, knowing full well that he's probably pulled a losing assignment. The Toons picked a great place to hide out in: no one for miles around. If he finds anyone out here, they'll either be lonely weirdos or gun nuts, crazed from the heat. Maybe both.

He gets about three feet from the front entrance before a shadow hides the sun. He looks up and realizes what's casting that shadow has big ears, beady eyes, and very big teeth.

And can see him. 

"Good evening, good sir," the fuzzy, non-animated coyote -- standing up on his legs -- says with a strange, upper-crust accent: "Allow me to introduce myself..."

* * *

"So, why aren't you coming to me directly?" the scrambled voice on the other end of the old Freedom Force communicator asks. 

"Because I'd rather not get my name attached to this, if you don't mind," New Man sighs, hoping this Scranton flophouse he rented for the night isn't bugged, or worse: "And I think you know why."

"I do, yes," the voice says. There's a pause, and then: "What do you think I can do for you?"

"My son," the man says, putting his hand up to his eyes: "He's... he's mixed up in something big. Something that's gone out of control, I think. He tried to tell me as much as he could, before all this !@#$ started. And I had assurances he'd be okay, no matter what. But now..."

"Now, you know those assurances aren't worth a whole lot," the voice picks up from where he's left off.

"Yeah," the old man sighs: "Not a load of beans, near as I can see."

There's silence for a time, and New Man is afraid he's being blown off -- even after everything.

"Alright," the voice says: "I'll do what I can. And you know I'm good for it. But I'm going to need something in return."

"What's that?" 

"Call it a leap of faith," the person says: "Did SPYGOD ever tell you where the Third Base was?"

New Man's heart skips a beat at that: "What, the COMPANY's Third Base?"
 

"That would be it."

"I thought... it's just a joke, right? Something SPYGOD told people to get them looking in the wrong direction to find all his secret !@#$?"

"Well, it didn't hurt that they wasted all that time looking for it. But no, it's real. It's been hiding in plain sight all the time. And back when he and I weren't exactly friends? I found it."

"You're kidding."

"We don't have time for jokes. So here's the deal. I'm going to give you the coordinates. You go straight there and secure it. And in return, I'll make sure your son walks out of this. !@#$, I'll make sure he walks on water for the rest of his adult life if you pull this off."

"Is it that hard to get in?"

"Let's just say it's... unusual."

And when the National Facilitator of the United States gives him the address, New Man understands exactly what Mr. USA means by that word, and why this counts as a favor.

He also understands just how far he's willing to go to save his son. 

* * *

"Oh God, you idiot," the Violet Demon says, looking at what's left of Sir Smashalot -- a wet human outline thrown up against the whorehouse wall.

It hadn't been too bad, as far as assassination attempts go. Talk him into a well-deserved night out, now that they'd achieved their goal. Get him a few drinks. Convince him to splurge on one of those Croatian hookers for the two of them. 

And then try to kill him while he was good and distracted. 

It might have worked, too, except that the moron made too much noise putting his smash gloves on. They were weighty metal and plastic. They clinked, just so.

And the moment he heard that clinking, and looked around, he saw the villain aiming his high-tech hands at him, clearly intending to use them for their intended use. 

The reaction was automatic: he spun right off of the woman he was paying for, ducked by the bed, and aimed his own, innate power right at the man he'd been working with for the last few weeks before he could do the same. 

He hadn't intended to do that much damage. Maybe the fact that he'd been !@#$ing had messed with his metabolism. Maybe he'd panicked. 

But now his ally-turned-assassin was a smoking spraypainting of a man -- his gloves the only recognizable thing left.  

As he stands there, hearing the woman scream and cry for help, he realizes that this was doubly senseless. There was not only no reason for him to have actually killed Sir Smashalot, but there was no reason for the man to have tried to kill him. It just wasn't in his nature -- he wasn't that kind of supervillain. 

Which means the only reason this just happened is because someone higher up in their group has called for him to die. And that means that either the Scarlet Factotum finally figured out what he was up to, or else -- and far more likely -- the crazed, red robot was no longer in charge, and the new regime was not wanting her actual allies to complain about it. 

"The Pusher," he intuits, a whole lot of things suddenly making sense. 

He grabs his clothes, leaves a lot of money, and starts running. He doesn't know exactly where he's going, yet, but he knows where he can't go anymore. 

And that's as good a place to start. 

* * *

Myron sits down in a pool of his own blood at the front of a corner party store, not really sure how long he's got after what he's just done. 

It wasn't a bad plan, after all. He just had to make the laughing idiot think he was scared and helpless. Make him chase him everywhere he went, no matter what. 

Even if it meant going somewhere like this. 

Myron had no weapons. None of his gadgets. Nothing that could help him win a fight but his brains and what little he had to show for brawn. 

But if there was one thing he had -- something he's always had -- it's the ability to cobble !@#$ together on the fly. Take ten mismatched items, break them down, and make a radio out of it, or something. That kind of thing. 

So when he ducked in here, just ahead of Friendly Fire, he knew there was something here he could use to confuse a blind shootist who hunted through echolocation. If nothing else, a few ruptured canisters of helium might make his voice go so weird he'd have trouble shooting straight. 

But when he saw the noisemakers? Oh, that was the moment. That was it. 

That was when he realized he had a chance, after all. 

The crazy !@#$hole walked right into it. He ran in, laughing like a loon and grinning like a freak -- guns blazing. And then, just as he thought he had Myron dead to rights, his quarry let a whole pack of those blaring things go off. 

The effect was instantaneous. The idiot stopped laughing and started screaming. His over-sensitive eardrums burst like plums. He dropped his guns in pain and shock. 

And Myron, not wanting to lose a second, grabbed one of those guns and shot the blindfolded man in the head. Several times. 

It wasn't until he was sure the man was dead that he allowed himself to realize that, in the confusion, the man had shot him, too. Upper chest. A lung was ragged and painful, and didn't want to inflate all the way. He coughed blood and other, less happy things into his hand. 

So he sat down, feeling the pain come on. He couldn't quite feel his legs, anymore. It was just shock, and he knew that, just as he knew that if the !@#$-scared employees had stuck around to call 911, he'd probably live through this. 

If. 

He can hear the old man coming, now. A TU transport makes the whole block hummmmm under his !@#$. There's the twinned clopping of heavy boots on the ground outside. A swagger no amount of age could disguise. 

Even now, he could still beg for his life. He could crawl and say he was sorry. He was forced, he was threatened. His younger brother, his mother, his family. 

His own life, for that matter. 

He could, but it would be a lie -- well, most of it. In his heart he knew he was doing the right thing in the wrong way, even then. He'd known the story of his life was going to go a different direction the moment he bought that old machine and made it his own. 

He didn't know all the strange turns it was going to take, of course. He didn't know he'd take down a science terrorist organization, find and lose love, and then save the world almost all by himself. He didn't know he'd lose his soul and then find it again. 

And no idea he'd put on a costume and call himself a hero.

But now, at the end, he knows something else. Something Yanabah tried to tell him. Something Shining Guardsman tried to remind him of.

Something that, after being caught in a vibro-blast, it had taken a long day's run to finally shake out of his brain. 

The truth. 

The old man's here, now. He's yelling and shouting at him. Telling him how worthless he is. How low. A liar, a cheat. A fraud. A traitor.

Myron just closes his eyes and smiles, denying the old fart the honor of looking scared in his presence.

And then, just before the original Underman can lift his rifle, and vibrate his errant protege out of his own skin and bones, he flips the old man the bird and says just three words. 

"Game Over, mother!@#$er."

And then it is.

* * *

Up Against It

The Higher You Fly - The Further You Fall

Up Against It

Wondering Why - We Fought After All

* * *

(SPYGOD is listening to Up Against It (Pet Shop Boys, remix) and having a Labelle Game Over)

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 2

7:59 PM

"Man, who was that drunk !@#$?' Fred asks, helping his companion -- a brown, somewhat-dopey cartoon dog in a tuxedo -- put his face back together after the fracas on the dance floor.

"I think her name's Yanabah," an upright, blue dog in a porkpie hat drawls, watching her as some of her friends try to get her to sit down, well away from the Toons: "Never met her before now, though."

"Yeah, well, she needs to get her act together," Fred sighs, still trying to get his friend's eye in the right location: "Talk about bumming the party."

"Are rhey rhowing her out?" the stricken brown dog asks.

"No," the blue dog replies: "Why the !@#$ would they? We're just Toons."

"I don't think that's what they're thinking, Huck," Fred sighs.

"I do," the blue dog insists, having another drink from the cocktail glass he's almost always got with him: "I bet they don't even send anyone over to apologize for her bad behavior."

"Ruck 'em," the brown dog curses, patting Fred's hands away and tending to the last stages of his first aid himself. Fred puts his hands up and lets him, shoving his hands in his jean pockets and just staring at the drunk !@#$ as she tries to get up, only to have a fairly large and powerful woman put her right back down in her chair.

(Curious looking woman. Buzzed, pink hair and tattoos running up her neck into her hairline. Uniform of some kind, but not a costume.)

"Hey," someone says, walking up to the Toons. She's a squirrelly little thing, dressed in early 80's nerd, complete with a bad sweater and thick, black glasses: "Is he, um... okay?"

"Rhe's fine, thank you," the brown dog says, scowling.

"Sorry," she says, clearly embarrassed at the faux pas: "I don't talk to you. I mean, you folks. I don't talk to you folks that much. At all, really."

"Maybe you should start some other time?" the blue dog snorts.

"Sorry," Fred says, extending a hand to shake: "Do we know each other? I'm still getting used to what people look like out of costume."

"Yeah, and I'm still learning to talk to people," she says, shaking his hand" "I mean, outside of my costume. I'm still nervous. Really totally. Nervous."

"I know the feeling. I'm Fred."

"I'm Antonia Crisp," she says, not letting go of his hand: "I'm Gold Standard. Well, the new Gold Standard. I don't even think we've met in costume, yet, actually."

"Oh, okay!" he says, shaking her hand a little more enthusiastically: "Yeah, I guess the Reclamation War was kind of your debut, right?"

"Right, yeah," she says, glad she's being understood: "So I guess we haven't met, period?"

"No. I knew your father, though. Edward was quite the genius."

"That he was," she smiles, a little sadly: "Well, look, the others sent me over... well, no, I wanted to come over. And say sorry. I mean, that was totally... well, stupid. On her part."

"I can't tell you how warm and fuzzy that makes me feel," the blue dog says, turning his back, collecting the brown dog, and walking away.

"Sorry," Fred sighs, shaking his head: "He's gruff at the best of times, these days. This was not the best way to start the party."

"No," she agrees, releasing his hand and activating an e-cig: "I mean, what she did? No excuse. She's been !@#$ed up since what happened to her grandfather. So, this really should be no surprise."

"I see no one's escorting her out, though," Fred replies: "I think that's why my friend's really so angry."

"Oh!" she nods, getting it: "Well, something you have to understand? And this isn't an excuse or anything, but trying to push her out would just wind up with a lot of people busted up. Badly."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. I mean, her and I are about the same age, but my dad always told me to stay away from her. He said her grandfather, Wayfinder? He told him some things about her that'd just make your blood run cold. She's not nice. At all."

"She looks like she's broken," Fred observes, watching as she withers under whatever the large woman is saying to her.

"She is, yeah." Antonia says: "I mean, you heard what happened to her grandfather, right?"

"I know he was killed during the Reclamation War, but no one wants to say how."

"Oh," she says, turning visibly pale: "Well, he didn't die well. That's what people don't want to talk about. Someone murdered him. Badly. I mean they chopped him up and.... well."

She shakes her head, not relishing the memory. Fred nods and holds up a hand: "Say no more. I got you."

"So yeah," Antonia continues, taking another drag off her silver stick: "She wasn't firing on all cylinders before? She's trashing her engine, now. Big time. All out of oil, rods thrown, doing five hundred in a school zone full of potholes. I think they're going to sober her up and get her out as soon as they can, but..."

"I got it," Fred says, extending his hand again: "Thank you for coming over and talking to us. I, for one, appreciate it. And I understand the delicate situation. We've got some interesting folks in our camp, too."

"I know!" she says, gushing as she takes it and shakes it: "Listen, I know you all don't like being treated like lab animals. And I wouldn't! I mean, not like that. But I would love to come and visit, sometime. I do mechanical engineering, you know. Just like dad, but obviously not like dad. He was a genius."

"But you'd like to come and see how we do things out in the Toon Nation?" Fred asks, smiling.

"Yes! Oh gosh, yes. I would. If that's okay? I mean, I know you all don't like it when people like me come poking around, but-"

Fred holds up a hand: "Antonia, it would be my honor to escort you around. Anytime."

She smiles like a child, and yet not. He smiles a little wider to see it happen, wondering what it might mean.

8:19 PM

"Not quite the kind of party you're used to, Faraj?" the Major asks, wondering if his superior's going to nurse the same drink all night long.

"Not quite, no," the man says, looking over the dance floor and smiling a little.

"Too much dancing?"

"Too many clothes," Faraj answers, dropping his subordinate a wink. Harvey coughs at that, and Brightstarsurfergirl giggles.

Hanami just stands there, smiling -- her eyes distant, as if fixed on something in the distance only she can see.

The Space Service folks up on the platform look extra sharp, tonight. This is the first time any of them have had a chance to roll out their star-white dress uniform, and the gold brocade is still fresh, the black piping still distinct.  And while they've got hats, they're mostly for funerals and other, solemn occasions -- which this is mostly definitely not.

Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir turns suddenly, his long, silver, braided hair whipping around as he does. The object of his concern turns out to be a beefy Japanese man in dark sunglasses with buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. He's wrapped in a loud, Hawaiian shirt and dress slacks, and while he doesn't have a drink, he has clearly had a few.

"Ju-San," Faraj says, bowing respectfully: "I am pleased to see you again, my friend."

The man snorts and waves him aside, stumbling up the platform. He's only got eyes for Hanami, clearly.

"Friend, please," Faraj says, trying to put himself between them: "I know that Straffer promised you we would do what we could, but you know-"

"Shi ne!" Ju San hisses, waving him away. Before Faraj can say anything, the Major's taking him aside -- "I think we should be elsewhere, now" -- and Faraj is too stunned to say anything else.

And then it's just the wide-eyed girl, the drunk man, and Brightstarsurfergirl, who's either escaped the man's notice or is simply invisible to him -- ruby hair and all.

"(Hanami)," the man says in Japanese, reaching out to take her arm: "(Hanami, do you remember me?)"

"(I do, yes,)" the android says, turning to look at him and smiling: "(You are Mister Ten, leader of the Organization. You were my superior. I worked very closely with you for many years.)"

Her smile, her tone, and her eyes do not flicker as she says these things. She seems friendly and engaging, but anyone who knew her from before would know that something was missing. Something vital and warm.

Something real.

"(Was that all I was to you?)" he asks, almost on the verge of tears: "(Was I... not a friend? Someone you cared for?)"

"(Of course. I held you in very high regard. I still do, though I am now with the Space Service.)"

"(Would you ever want to see me?)" he asks: "(As something more than my former employee? As a friend?)"

"(I do not understand,)" she says, her eyes going a little vacant.

"(I love you, !@#$ it!)" he says, trying not to shout, but failing: "(I've always loved you! Always!)"

"(I know,)" the android says, her smile not wavering, her tone not changing.

"(You know? Is that... is that all you can say? Do you love me, too?)"

The android looks at him, cocks her head to the side and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship.)"

"(But do you love me?)"

She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side, and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship)"

"(Hanami... please... show me some emotion. Show me you care! Show me you're still in there, somewhere!)"

She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side again, and smiles -- shallow and automatic: "(Question not understood. Please rephrase?)"

The man looks at her eyes, and then closes his own. He drops to his knees and howls, holding her hand as though it's the only thing keeping him on the world, right now.

Hanami stands there, looking down at him, not realizing what's just happened. Brightstarsurfergirl walks up and puts a sympathetic hand on the man's shoulders, knowing that this couldn't have happened any other way.

And the party goes on around them, uncaring and loud. 

8:45 PM

"So how you been, Underman?" Blastman asks, grinning like a bastard to finally find someone to talk to.

"Myron," the poorly-dressed, unshaven man says, wishing to !@#$ he'd stuck it out at the now-crowded bar and gotten a !@#$ drink: "It's just Myron, now."

"Ah, that's nonsense," the older fellow says, clapping the younger man on the shoulder: "Once you're a Superhero, you're always a Superhero. You can't quit the life once you've gotten a taste for it."

"Really?" Myron says, looking at the man: "Because I thought I did."

The old guy's about to make some snappy rejoinder, but the intense look in the young man's eyes turn it to dust in his mouth before he can get another word in. So he purses his lips, nods, and goes back to drinking his own. And Myron, for his part, scans the crowd.

"Sorry," Myron says, eventually: "Just... I've been dealing with a few things, lately."

"Say no more," Blastman says, patting him on the arm: "Last couple months haven't been all that great, really. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself?"

"Maybe."

"Ah, what do I know?" Blastman sighs: "Here I am, working with one of my old enemies and a bunch of new kids, and half the darn time the French jump in and tell us to go soak our heads somewhere else."

"Sounds like you need a career change," Myron says, looking over the man's shoulder, and then elsewhere. 

"Maybe. You know anyone hiring fliers with a talent for smashing things with their head?"

"Some used car sales lot, somewhere," Myron replies, looking elsewhere: "All the other gimmicks are played out."

"Yeah. Who you looking for?"

"Oh, someone," Myron says, smiling a little: "I was hoping she'd be here, but..."

"But what?"

"But I keep forgetting, she's underage," Myron sighs: "Might not mean anything in this crowd."

"Probably not. Of course, there's some people who are old enough to drink that shouldn't be let near the darn bottle?"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you remember Wayfinder's daughter, right?"

Myron's ears prick up at that: "Yanabah? She's here?"

"Oh is she ever! Poor gal got sloshed way early, got in a fight on the dance floor. I think Josie managed to calm her the heck down, but I bet she's up and at it again by now."

"Okay then," Myron says, looking for her in the crowd: "Sorry to dash, but I think I need to talk to her."

"Oh, okay," Blastman says, watching at Myron dashes off: "I'll just... stand here, then. Yeah."

He finishes his drink and wonders who else he can talk to, here. Across the room, he sees Brainman (now Rakim) over with some of the others, having what appears to be a lively and fun conversation.

And the old hero stays right where he is, grousing at the indignity of it all.

9:00 PM

Right at the stroke of the hour, the music abruptly stops.

Everyone dancing boogies one or more steps further, and then stops, looking around in curiosity. Someone starts laughing and it carries. The lights come on a bit, and everyone starts to boo and laugh, and then they go down a little darker than before.

Over by the far wall, a shimmering light appears. It resolves itself with a blue glow that takes the form of a young man in a dark blue, form-fitting uniform that gives off no shadows or reflection.

The Nthernaut smiles and waves, and the room applauds -- somewhat warily, though. It's as if, after what happened on Christmas, they don't quite trust what he'll do next.

As the applause dies down, he smiles again, and seems to step in two directions at once. When he does, there are suddenly two of him, which garners some more applause. Then one of the two does the same, forming a total of three figures, all moving in time with one another.

And then, after the applause from that "trick" dies down a bit, a further bit of legerdemain occurs: two of the figures blur and change, and suddenly SPYGOD and Straffer are standing there - dressed in identical white suits.

The crowd gasps, applauds, and goes wild. The two men step closer, hug, kiss, and wave to the crowd.

"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how you show up to your party when you're under !@#$ing house arrest!" SPYGOD announces.  More applause and laughter, and suddenly there's a rush to get up and meet the hosts in their stolen, digital flesh.

"A nice trick," a suit-and-tie wearing Disparaître says to the shrouded person standing next to him as they observe from the back of the hall.

"Are you going to report it?" she asks, sipping at her cocktail.

"Of course not," he says, smiling a little.

"You are too soft on them," she snorts: "You could gain some major favors by being selfish, just this once."

"I do not care," he says: "Why would I risk promotion to anger a friend? I like where I am, now."

She smiles a little and goes back to her drink, wondering how to turn this to her advantage.

And the party goes on around them, unaware.

(SPYGOD is listening to Fascination Street (The Cure) and having a big bottle of Up Yours)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 11

... Dr. Yesterday, broadcasting on all the channels I know we used to use. Hopefully it will get to its intended recipients in time to avoid disaster, or at least a tragedy. Maybe both. 

So, hello there, Mister President. Are you having a nice war?

I guess that's a stupid question. I'd be having a nice war, if I was you. Hidden in your secret location, somewhere, surrounded by strong walls and all the people who told you this was actually a good idea.

I guess they told you this would be a cake walk, Mister President? Just get on television and tell the world the liberation is here, just sit tight and keep your heads down and you'll all be free by morning.

So how's that working out for you, Mister President? Really?

Because the last I checked, you're not doing too well. Those satellites you tried to launch are dust in the upper atmosphere. We outnumber you on the ground by a factor of 100, maybe even 1000. Every time you take out one of our cubes we answer with fire from the sky. 

And you won't be taking those cannons out of the equation, Mister President. Not with what you have. 

So what do you hope to accomplish, here? Sooner or later you're going to run out of proxy armies to throw at us. Sooner or later you're going to have no strategic talents left to follow you. And even if you do, sooner or later they're all going to tell you to take your rebellion and stuff it.

And if you don't, well... I guess I shouldn't tell you this, but there's a movement afoot on our side of things to just say !@#$ it and kill you all. We don't really need you alive, at this point. We'd rather not get that messy, to be honest, because it makes more sense, and costs less effort, to leave you all alive.

But if this keeps up, and you cost us too much? We might just decide you're not worth it, after all. 

Now, I'm sure the people who talked you into this fiasco are listening to this, and saying "oh, don't listen to him, Mister President. Just give us another hour or two. We'll have this war won by then, we hope. And if not then, then not long thereafter. Trust us. We know what we're doing."

Heck, SPYGOD probably threatened to castrate you with his teeth if you don't keep up your end of the bargain. Am I right?

Well, I could wait for you to see sense and understand that you're backing the wrong horse, here. But, having dealt with you in the past, I don't have faith that you'll actually grow a backbone in time. 

So I'm going to make a more personal appeal to you, Mister President. And hopefully this cuts right to the chase.

Can you see the screen behind me, Mister President? I sure hope so, because I have someone here that you haven't seen in a while. 

Now, I'm sure I don't have to introduce you to your wife. And I know you know your two little girls. No introduction needed there, either.

But let me introduce you to this, here. This, Mister President, is a hammer.

And I am going to give you half an hour. And then, every five minutes after that, I'm going to introduce it to one of them, one swing at a time. 

I think I might beat one of your children to death, in front of your wife. Or maybe I'll be nice and hit her, first. I might do fingers and toes before I do skulls. Or maybe I'll just aim for a temple and !@#$ them in the !@#$ with a chisel while they're still twitching and !@#$ing themselves...

You see, you have me at something of a loss, Mister President. I'm not the monster, here. I was a research scientist who got caught up in the mess when Superheroes went to war and became Strategic Talents. Being brutal and bloody isn't really my thing. That's more SPYGOD's bag, and he's welcome to it.

But we are staring down a bad situation. I am working hard to keep my colleagues from deciding you're better off as dust under our feet. And I figure, I really can and should rise to the occasion, here. 

And I also figure that, in 30 minutes, I can think up some really clever and nasty ways to hurt the ones you love.

So that's where we are, right now. You have the war in your hands, and I have your wife and children. If you surrender, and all major hostilities end within the time I'm giving you, you can have them back. We will not punish them. We may punish you, depending on how we feel, but you have my word that they will live, and freely. 

You also have my word that, if you ignore this, they will die. They will die slowly, and painfully. And they will know, with each swing of this hammer, that they're dying because you wouldn't save them. 

They will know that they are dying because you thought this world, and this war, was more important than them.

Of course, there's the chance that you won't get this in time, or at all. And if that's true, then they'll die for nothing. But that's a risk I'm willing to take to help you see that this is a mistake. 

That's all I have to say, Mister President. The hammer is waiting, and so am I. All you have to do is tell them to stop attacking our cubes and Specials, and I'll tell you where to surrender. Your wife and children will be waiting. 

You have thirty minutes from... now.

* * *

SPYGOD grimaces as Dr. Yesterday finishes, and turns the screen off. 

He's the only one who received that message -- of that he's !@#$ sure. All the communications channels that the Freedom Force used to use are being run through Lady Gilda, right now. Everyone else is only using their own channels, and getting information from his when he sends a signal.

The President is not going to know of this message unless he sends it on to him. And if he does, what will happen?

He'd like to think the President will do the right thing. He'd hope that the President would not give in to what could only be described as a desperate ploy by an amoral enemy terrified of losing.

He'd hope he'd trust in SPYGOD to assemble a fast and timely response, and get it moving in time to save his wife and daughters.

SPYGOD would hope so, but he isn't sure. He thinks of how the President has hesitated, before. How he's second-guessed the mission because his heart told him something different from his head. How he held off on shooting the Chinese Premier because of his doubts, and how that almost ruined the entire plan.

And that was just some !@#$ idiot they had on a list marked USE ME BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE DOES. How the !@#$ is he going to react to his own wife and children?

How would anyone?

SPYGOD takes a deep breath, and realizes that he can't trust the man to do the right thing. And, once he's made that realization, the rest comes easily.

He puts in a call to Fred, hoping that the Toon's got his !@#$ back together after their colony was vaporized from orbit. Sure enough, he does.

"SPYGOD, what's up?" the Toon asks, looking quite worse for wear: "We're still picking ourselves up, here-"

"Fred, this is !@#$ing urgent," SPYGOD says: "Total priority, black one. Do you !@#$ing understand?"

"I do," Fred says, straightening up just a little: "What do you need?"

"I need you to get in touch with Wayfinder, right !@#$ing now," he says: "Tell him to locate the First Lady. When he does that, tell Doctor Power to !@#$ing contact Wayfinder for directions, and then assemble anyone they can !@#$ing spare to form a strike team to get her. I don't care if it's drunk sidekicks and animal !@#$ing companions. Anyone they can spare. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Fred says, nodding: "I'll get hold of him right now. Can I ask-"

"No," SPYGOD says: "This is something you're !@#$ing better off not knowing !@#$ about, Fred. Just do what I need and get back to your !@#$. Okay?"

"Alright, will do," Fred says, and switches off.

"Did I just do a bad thing, Bee-Bee?" SPYGOD asks his cat. The beast shrugs and mutters something in Russian, reaching for another swig from its bottle of vodka.

And he figures that's the only answer he deserves, right now. 

* * *

"Are you there, God? It's me, Timothy..."

Director Straffer pauses in his work, closing his eyes and centering himself -- ignoring the pain and strange sensations that come from this kind of undertaking and trying to take hold of the situation.

"It's been a while since we talked, I know," he continues, shifting on the seat of the lunar escape lifeboat to get a better hold on something from the the exposed innards of the control console, and the mysterious, wire-garden workings underneath it: "Hope you don't mind."

With a firm, steady pull, a knot of fine, green wiring is loosened and pulled out as far as it will go. He regards it, and then, gritting his teeth, reaches into his open chest cavity -- a disgusting mash of synthetic and organic parts, strewn with old, outdated circuitry and mechanical parts -- and pulls out a cluster of circuit boards.

"In fact, I think the last time we talked was when I had this done. You remember that, right? I was just some eager kid, really. They told me I'd earned the right to watch the candy store. All I had to do was submit to the kind of surgery that would be needed..."

He bites his lip to avoid screaming as he loosens some of the parts, and then, as quick as he can, he shoves the green wires into an open port on the boards. He shudders for a second, and leans back on the seat, his eyes screwed shut.

"We're going to make you a part of this, they said," he breathes, feeling the pain subside and be replaced by something else: "Can't command it, otherwise. Not really. Too large... too complex. The things they made up there. The things they left behind..."

The lights in his insides start to glow in time with the lights from the lifeboat's console. He opens his eyes, and pulls a few more things out of his chest, including a very ominous-looking, red switch.

"Had to all come down to one man, didn't it? And I didn't know if I was that man. Not really. So I prayed to you, God. I said 'I know you, and you know me. And I know you might not approve of everything I do or think, because I'm small and flawed. But this is important, and I think I can do it. I want to do it.'"

He reaches out to take something from the emergency kit, under the seat. It's a heavy-duty flashlight with an old-style battery. He smashes the flashlight between his hands to get at the battery, creating a violent, floating cloud of plastic shards as he does.

"And I said 'send me a sign, Lord. If I'm not the right man for this job, tell me before I let them do this to me.' And you never said anything either way, but I woke up the next day thinking that I'd done this before, every step of the way. And I figured that was the best sign I was going to get."

He looks at the switch, and then, setting the battery aside, gets more wiring from under the console, and plugs it into the switch. And then he pulls apart some things he doesn't need -- redundant systems, spare parts, old junk -- to get wiring and connectors. He uses these to bind up certain things inside himself, and create a lead to the switch from the battery.

"And look at me, God, All these years in charge of that platform. All the work I've done. All the times I've used it to save this planet you blessed us with. All the things I've seen... and then it all comes apart because I broke my own rules to help someone I was falling in love with.

"And now, I'm going to break the really big rule. And I need to know, Lord. Is this okay? Do I have the right to survive in spite of what I'm about to do, now?

"Could you please just tell me? I mean, just send me a sign, or even talk to me? Please?"

He looks up at the ceiling, perhaps reflexively. But he hears nothing. Sees nothing. No burning bush, no writing on the wall. No voice from up above, echoing, booming.

But he does feel like he's done this before, somehow. And maybe that's the best sign he's going to get.

"Alright, then, God," he says, turning on the lifeboat's main propulsion systems and getting ready to launch it: "I'm taking that as a yes, and thank you. Now, if you could just see to it that they don't see me until I want them to, that would be just !@#$ amazing."

The lifeboat shudders and moves forward, out the broken doors that Straffer forced open, earlier, and up and away from the shattered remnants of Alpha Base Seven.

He gives the base a final salute as it sinks away into his rear view, and turns off all propulsion and extraneous systems -- including life support -- allowing his lonely, small ship to glide into the orbit he needs it to.

"And now," he says, staring off into the distance at the blinking, black hub of cannons that surrounds the Earth: "I break my toys and go home."

* * *

"Really?" Winifred asks Myron, who's finally sitting down on the job, wiping the flopsweat from his forehead.

"You got it," he says, clearly mentally exhausted: "I just have to enter the coordinates and throw the switch. The machine'll still need a little while to warm up, but we can go back whenever, now."

"Oh, thanks God," Skyspear says, stretching her legs before helping the Scouts get the gear and move it over to the platform.

"How's Thomas doing?" Myron whispers to her as she comes over.

"Not well, I fear," she says, looking at the blanket-wrapped stump that used to be a superhero: "His breathing is becoming slower and harder. He will need help, and soon."

"I think we'd better take him to Neo York City," Myron says, reaching for a water bottle: "We'll get him to a decent hospital, there. Plus, I think they were going to be running operations out of there. We might be able to get useful, again."

"I think you have been very useful, here," she says, squeezing his shoulder and smiling. He looks after her as she walks away, and then at Winifred, who's just staring at him.

"What?" he asks.

"I saw that," she says, smiling a little: "I think Mark's got his eye on her, though."

"I don't think the one he wants is here," Myron says, sighing: "Anyway, why do you care?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... us," he says, wishing he hadn't said anything: "We were a thing, and now we're not. Does it matter what I do?"

"I guess not," she says, looking away. He's about to say something else to her, just then, but Mark and Mr. USA come back into the room, and everyone looks in their direction.

"Did you find anyone?" Skyspear asks, heading over to Mark.

"We didn't, no," Mark says, shaking his head. The look in his eyes is blank and tired, and Mr. USA seems rather grim.

"I think Green Man may well have died, back there," he says softly, looking over at Thomas as the SPYGOD SCOUTS carefully move him onto the teleport platform: "We couldn't find a body, but maybe he was caught up in what happened to The Fist and The Wall."

"Well, you know what they say about bodies," Myron says, trying to smile: "He might surprise us...?"

"That would be nice, actually," Mark says, moving to make himself useful: "I wanted to punch him silly, half the time, but I guess he did the right thing in the end."

"I knew he would," Mr. USA says, nodding: "And he'd have just dodged you, Mark. He could dance between raindrops, remember?"

There's some laughter over that, and then a flurry of activity. Everyone gets excited at the notion of going home, again. Getting away from this treehouse that's suddenly no fun to live and work in, any longer. Getting out from under all the death and fire that's happened here, today.

Getting back where they came from.

And so no one sees how the Great Machine they've been working on is different, somehow. They don't hear anything as the device reforms itself into a killing machine, ready to snap up and around at them. They don't see that it's forming massive arms, tipped with sharp fingers, in the back. They don't see the large, brute mouths as they slither out and over each other.

They don't see the echoes of Moloch as the beast reforms itself in the agglomeration of steel, silver, glass, and wire.

And brass.

* * *

 "... right through here, if you don't mind," Dr. Yesterday says, gently ushering the First Lady and her children into a large room, filled with lit-up computer consoles, broken furniture, and massive viewscreens -- some focusing on different areas of the Ice Palace in turn, and some trained on specific things.

"Where's daddy?" her oldest asks, shivering in the pink parka she brought from home.

"You said he was going to meet us?" the youngest asks, stepping closer to her sister.

"He will, honey," the First Lady says, smiling and pointing over to a far corner: "Why don't you go over there, for a bit? The Doctor and I have a few things we need to talk about."

Do the girls understand what the look on her face actually means? Maybe not, but at least they do what they're told. And right now, that's all she can ask of them.

That and stay alive.

"Good children," the ersatz Doctor says, watching them head for a far corner, and a table that's not as broken as the others: "You've trained them well."

"I like to think I've raised them," she says, looking at him: "And I am begging you, please. I am appealing to your humanity. Whatever happens here, just let them go."

"I can't do that-"

"Yes you can," she says, stepping closer: "You just need me. If he's going to do what you ask, it's going to be because of me. You don't need to threaten them, too."

"Really?" the man says, walking past her and over to one of the screens that's only showing one thing: "Because it's been my experience that men will let their wives die to save their children. They can always get another woman, after all. He may have already picked out your replacement-"

"You don't know him," she says, trying to keep her voice down: "He doesn't think like that."

"Well, I hope for your sake he can think rationally," he says, pressing a few buttons on one console, and then heading over to a large, rather ominous-looking bank of controls: "Otherwise, you're going to watch while I beat the younger one's hand to paste."

"Oh my god," she gasps, holding her hands to her face: "What kind of a man are you?"

"Man?" Doctor Yesterday says, turning around to regard her: "I'm not a man at all, Mrs. (REDACTED). I am Imago. I and my kind were imprisoned on your sorry little planet billions of years ago, and we're just now about to break out of prison."

She blinks: "But... I've met you before-"

"Don't be !@#$ stupid. You met the body I've copied. This isn't me, on the outside. I'm wearing his likeness, and have absorbed his memories and personality to help with the disguise. But inside...? Well, I think you'd find you have about as much in common with me as you have in common with a garden slug. And I know how you feel about them."

"Then what are you?" she says: "The Imago we see every day... the ones in the armor? Is that who you are?"

He smiles and turns, gesturing to one of the screens he was watching. On that screen are banks and banks of large, metal cylinders. Each one is marked with stylized, blocky, German eagle, and labeled ExoGebärmutter.

"All you have seen, so far, is what we wanted you to see,"  he elaborates, turning knobs and pressing buttons, and watching with satisfaction as the chambers hiss and clatter open: "Public relations, you could say. The stolen bodies of the braindead and retarded, hijacked by our superior will and girded in armor. The armor made to look like something you could accept, all topped with a kind and patient smile..."

The chambers pulse and glow red. Things begin to move inside them.

"Even what you are about to see is not our true form, but it is as close as we could come to it with what we had available. Our true bodies were abandoned countless millions of years before our imprisonment. But we have always had certain preferences of shape and size. Certain comfortable configurations."

He points to the screen as one of those things comes out of its chamber, and it's all she can do not to scream.

"'They were not altogether crows,'" he quotes: "'Nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings; but something I cannot and must not recall...'"

The First Lady turns to look at her children, and is horrified to see that they're standing right behind her, looking at the screen. Their eyes are so large as to fall out of their skulls, and they're ashen-faced and crying, truly and firmly afraid.

"I'm about to send them off into battle," he says, going back to the larger, more ominous bank of controls: "You can watch your husband's sorry efforts to take back the planet reach their logical conclusion, while we wait for him to make up his mind. It'll give us something to do... while we're waiting for the hammer to fall."

Her youngest starts to sob. She's not ashamed to want to join her, but does her best to stay strong in the face of this horror.

"So please, do appeal to my humanity, Mrs (REDACTED)," he says, bent over his work, the hammer in easy reach: "You'll just have to find it, first."

(SPYGOD is listening to Tora Tora Tora (Depeche Mode) and having a Blue Ice Beer)