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

The Crew of the Egress: Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

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

 * * *

*BEGIN TRANSMISSION*

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

Yeah? You sure? *thump thump*

Oh... the red light, okay.

*cough cough* 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how?

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

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

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

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

Nothing. At. All.

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

* * *

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

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

Maybe even larger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a fun scene, folks. Not at all.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

They will not be !@#$ed with. 

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

Because no one !@#$s with him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

Be seeing you.

SPYGOD out.

*END TRANSMISSION*

* * *

Your eyes are like saucers 

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

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

 * * *

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

* * * 

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

1/13/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 2.5

Team Omega
(Cataclysmo, Friendly Fire, Underman (original), The Technocrat, Suzi Slam, Glimmer)
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

There's a room in the White House basement that cannot be found on any map or floorplan, past or present. 

It's a small thing, that room -- barely noticeable for its absence. People walk by what used to be its door every day and never think that the rhythm of the hallway is slightly off, or that its proportions seem a little out of kilter. 

If it had a function before it disappeared, it was clearly not a greatly-important one. 

Behind the wall is a thick slab of metal that has replaced its door -- an impregnable alloy forged on another plane of existence. Behind that door is a fire so bright it could blind half the world in seconds, yet so cold it could freeze it shortly thereafter.

An eerie fire that pulses from a glorious, golden sword that has been thrust halfway into the pale grey concrete floor -- both as sign of an empire’s dominion and protection from its opposite number.

A protection that has remained, though the yoke of its dominion has long since been thrown off.  

Once the fire was as golden as the weapon it emanated from, but for the last eight months or so its light has been less like the summer sun and more like an autumnal moon. Now it more closely matches the color of a bulbous, inedible gourd, festering in pallid and unhealthy soil.

It almost seems as though it’s been poisoned, somehow. Lord alone knows how that was even possible.

For some reason, at or around 7:25 in the morning – just as the morning sun’s rays strike the stately building that houses this unearthly, wounded wonder – the light changes once more. It wavers between a bilious orange and a darker shade, almost red, before steadily sliding over to that alternate hue.

And as the change occurs, a strange feeling begins to radiate out from that room that no one knows about. The feeling that something else is about to change....

* * *

… especially for Prisoner 52, who stops his stride through the superslam for a beat as he shivers a little, wondering why he feels so absent.

For a moment, he feels as though he almost sense the syllables of his own name, sliding across his tongue. He thinks he knows who he is, and why he’s really here.

For the first time in untold ages, he thinks he can see the whole picture, and his place within it.

But then, just as soon as he gets a sense of that picture – or at least the shape of its frame – it’s gone from his sight once again, leaving him blind and frustrated.

He hisses and pounds his fists on the metal railing. The sound is like a mighty boulder smashing against the hull of a ship, and the ringing causes the din to subside, suddenly and nervously – but only for a moment.

The Choosing is today, after all. And while the prisoners’ god might be angry, their new masters are here on a mission.

A mission that could mean everything to a lucky few.

* * *

“Yes, I’m aware of the privilege I’m being offered,” Foudre Blanc says as he stomps down the wet and dripping underground hallway to where the Maker holds court, really not wanting to talk to the person whose holographic head is floating above his wrist.

“Do you really, Bruno?” Julien asks, raising an accusing eyebrow: “Sometimes I cannot help but wonder. You do so say the most unkind things to us.”

“Maybe if you gave me reasons to say better things, I would say them,” the white-armored man growls as he approaches the man’s door.

“Now, see, that’s the kind of attitude I’m talking about,” the man says, sighing: “It doesn’t do our movement any good to have this kind of infighting between the people in charge-“

“Look, you putain,” Foudre Blanc hisses, stopping in his tracks: “The only reason you’re in charge is because the old man can’t get out of that bed and see what you’re doing in his name. And the only reason I don’t tell him is because it would kill him to know.”

“Now, that’s-"

“That’s the last thing I intend to say on the matter, Julien,” the hero says: “Now casse-toi or I’ll tell him, anyway, if only to see if he’ll tell me to deal with you before he has a heart attack. I will see you at the meeting on Friday. Goodbye.”

He cuts off the communication, sighs, and bangs on the door.

“Did you bring my Beignets?” the old man asks.

“Of course!” Foudre Blanc answers, holding up the still-warm bag. As soon as he does, the sound of magical, amazing gears and pistons tinkling and turning comes from within the door, and he is once more allowed into the magical cave of wonders beyond.

Pick any astounding invention of the last fifty years or so – record-setting vehicles, paradigm-changing appliances, or things once considered science fiction that are now so commonplace that no one wonders at their presence in their lives.

Now imagine their prototypes and forerunners – all invented ten to fifty years too soon, yet created with materials from over a hundred years in the future.

Now imagine each and every one of those magnificent things were housed here, with the man who either created them for someone, or else came up with them well before someone else did, and then went on to create something else, and then something else beyond that.

Here, in this seemingly-endless stone chamber, well below the sewers and catacombs of Paris, are all the unsung and unseen wonders of the modern world – all created by a single set of hands over the last century or so, all constantly repaired and dusted by a legion of clockwork, golden cherubs, flitting this way and that in an endless geometric pattern.

“Up here,” the wizened and tiny man says from a floating, square platform of bronze and marble, some distance away. As soon as he gestures, a set of bronze stairs clatters itself together, one step at a time, eventually reaching the ground just inches away from his visitor.

“Thank you, Maker,” Foudre Blanc says, quickly skipping up the steps: “I appreciate that.”

“I should hope so,” the old man says, scratching at the tuft of wild, white hair that grows between his two, large ears: “No electrical ports in here to fly through, eh? A bit difficult for you, yes?”

“All too true,” the white-armored hero sighs, surmounting the final step and standing before the man’s magnificent workbench, where he needs only gesture to have any tool he needs literally jump from its storage space and into his hand.

The old man reminds Foudre Blanc of that tiny, green Jedi master from the second Star Wars movie -- all head and hands, with eyes that see more than one might care to reveal. He wears a pair of overalls that seem as old as he is, stained with an age's worth of oil, grease, and less salubrious fluids. Beneath that, a shirt that proudly proclaims La Propriété Ce Est Le Vol!

“Put them over there,” the old man commands, not ceasing in his work on the oblong, wire-laden thing he’s working on: “And open the bag for me.”

“Of course,” Foudre Blanc says, doing as he’s told, and trying to get a good look at what the Maker is making. No sooner does he comply than he’s swarmed by golden cherubs – half of whom reach into the bag to take a beignet apiece, and the other half of whom place themselves between his eyes and the man’s work.

“Trying to get a preview, yes?” the old man cackles, happily taking a bite from what one of the cherubs offers him.

“An update, actually,” the hero says, taking a polite step back: “Things have changed a little.”

“Things often do, yes,” the Maker says, talking through his beignet: “I may have anticipated that. I have decided to kill two birds with one stone, yes?”

“You have…?”

“Yes,” the old man cackles, tapping the box: “This device will now do two things. The first will be to short out your Nthernaut, and take him right out of the system. The second will be to take over that system mere microseconds after he is gone.”

“It will?” Foudre Blanc says, blinking behind his mask: “That’s amazing, sir. Truly.”

“I should say so,” the Maker says, gesturing for a soldering iron, which duly leaps into his gnarled hand: "You will have need of it, now that your Eclat is gone, yes?"

"Yes, that's true," the white-clad hero says, quite surprised: "How did you know about that-"

“You may go now, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” Foudre Blanc says, realizing he's either offended or just overstayed his welcome: “And I can tell them it will be ready on time?”

“I should say so,” the Maker repeats: “You may go now, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” he repeats in turn, unable to help himself.

On the way down the stairs he feels as though a pair of large eyes are glaring a hole into his back. He can only hope the old man will be over his parting jest the next time he comes down; there are reasons he brings pastries from the world above, after all.

As if to answer his question, the stairs begin to disassemble themselves just as he’s on the final step down. He takes the hint and hastens his departure, trying to avoid breathing too heavily as he marches for the door, which is already closing ahead of him.

That it doesn’t slam shut right on his con the second he walks through it is either a miracle or a reminder of precarious their understanding with this tiny fellow is.

"More Beignets next time," Foudre Blanc promises, if only to himself. But he's so wrapped up in that litany that, as he strides back up the steps he came down, he doesn't realize he's being followed.

A lady in red lurks behind him, wrapped in ghosts and shadows exactly ten paces behind. With each step the anger within Ciel Rouge grows -- the desire to do justice upon him though the heavens fall.

Justice that will come, and soon. 

"More Beignets next time," Foudre Blanc repeats utterly oblivious: "And maybe some coffee."

* * * 

"That'll be six-fifty, ma'am," the skinny, pockmarked kid behind the Sixth Avenue Starbucks counter says. 

"Thank you," Martha Samuels says, handing him a ten and pretending to not be amused when he has problem counting out the change. She's heard that sometimes they do that on purpose to get customers in a hurry to say 'keep it' so they can add it to the tip jar. So she puts a dollar in the jar and smiles, which seems to miraculously trigger the part of his brain that handles mathematical calculations. 

After that, she puts her sunglasses down, takes her coffee, and walks out into the scrum of Neo York City's morning foot traffic.

She goes down one block, then over another, and then up yet another. She retraces her steps every so often, as if she's lost, but doesn't do anything to attract attention to herself. She stops into a chintzy Asian "souvenir" store for a time and leans over the long tables, pretending to be interested in their suspect, plastic wares. She watches a raggedy street performer busk for coins as he plays "Wonderwall," over and over again on a guitar that's seen better days.

(She does not, however, leave a donation. She merely hated that song the first ten thousand times she heard it. Now she truly loathes it.)

As she does her best to blend in without seeming too anonymous, she thinks she can hear the omnipresent street cameras whirl and click in her direction, every so often. But when she checks to look she sees they're not following her, after all. Just moving in random tracks, depending on what the mind behind them is choosing to focus on.

Much to her joy and surprise, she's not one of those things.

She smiles and taps the white button she's wearing, wondering what her son would think about all this. But then, Thomas -- now better known as the Nthernaut -- not only has no idea she's here, but he can never know she was here.

Not now, not ever. 

"Absolute deniability," she whispers under her breath, finally knowing the meaning of those words. The dire personal cost of each syllable.

At some point, she decides she's thrown off whatever eyes -- human, mechanical, or some combination of the two -- would have had cause to follow her, and moves towards her true goal. It's a small lockup, not too far from the Starbucks she'd gotten her coffee at. She ducks down an alley as though she owned the place, which she does (through a few shell companies), goes up to a door and puts her hand on the knob.

It unlocks, just then, and lets her into a small garage that no one outside of her small, crimefighting clan knows about. It hasn't been used in years, except as storage for various endeavors based in Neo York City, and even then it was more of a drop-off and rendezvous point than anything else.

But there has been something here, all along. Something that was meant to be handed off to someone else, quite some time ago, but that never quite got to where it needed to go in time.

Something wonderful, waiting under a dusty, cobwebbed tarp.

She pulls it off in one, fluid motion, sending a rapidly-unraveling cloud up to the naked lights in the ceiling. A line from an old song from her childhood comes to mind, and she quickly checks to see if the package has held up, after all this time.

It has, and why wouldn't it? Mark and her father worked on this, together. Assembled it in precious, spare moments in the Owl's Nest, ever-arguing over the precise placement of things. Each part laid down with care and precision. Each inch fought over and argued for, put together and taken apart, done and undone and redone until they'd gotten it just right.

And now, at long last, this masterpiece was going to see its moment come 'round at last.

She smiles a little, wiping away a tear at the thought of how her father had beamed to see it completed -- a good and worthy gift for the oldest of family friends -- and takes out a cell phone. It's a cheap, anonymous, one-shot job she's kept laying around the apartment for such an eventuality.

"Hello, hon," she says to Mark Clutch, who, wisely, does not reply: "Tomorrow's looking good. I'll see you at 8. And we'll have guests..."

* * *

And just like that, the Choosing is over, and the lucky few have left the building. 

It's always something of an anticlimax -- at least at first. The Terre Unifee's guards come out of the reinforced bunker at the bottom of the elevator to the outside, bearing weapons that could shred even the toughest amongst them, and carrying nuclear weapons on deadman switches in case those weapons do not work. 

One of them has a list. It is read off, with all the pomp and circumstance of a lowly and bored soup kitchen worker listing off the wares of the day. It's a sign that those prisoners should come forward, provided they're still alive, or in any shape to present themselves. Should they not do so in a timely manner, they read off from the list of alternates, which is quite extensive. 

It didn't take too long, this time: the ones they called for were hard cons -- tough, experienced, or at least well-versed in how to survive life in such a place. One by one they came down, and extended their necks to be scanned for the combination ID chip and micro-bomb inserted at the start of their incarceration. And after they proved they were who and what they said they were, they got lined up under guard, by the door, and waited.

Just a short wait, after having waited for so long. 

One of them had to be withdrawn from the vault, down below: the place where those convicts too powerful, unusual, or just plain weird to be locked up in a standard prison cell were kept. It's the one made of hard light, Prisoner 52 remembered. Sometimes he can hear him weeping -- even from down there -- to be so far from the Sun. 

Weeping in the dark, and slowly going insane. 

The other five were less exotic, but no less remarkable. The middle-aged human bullet eager to kill his arch enemy. A betrayed, octogenarian gadgeteer with a score to settle. A furious woman more muscle than skin. A morbidly obese man who could make machines with his mind.

And, most frightening of all, the smiling, blind assassin who hunts with maniacal laughter.

All of them had been useful assets, down here, once upon a time. After the Imago left them all to die, and the riot broke out, they'd been as instrumental in establishing their new community as anyone. They'd banded together for survival's sake, one and all, and while leaders and regimes may have come and gone -- and rivalries been forged, fused, and then settled in blood --- the simple work of life had gone on.

It was only when the TU came, afterwards -- bearing real food and poisoned favors -- that the prison truly fell to barbarism and anarchy.

And now that no one needs to be presentable, any longer, those states of being descend once more.

It's like someone threw a switch. Punches are thrown, and blows traded back and forth over seemingly nothing. Arguments become fights, beatings become murders, and long-planned assassinations become truly gruesome and degrading things.

Here, a pyrokinetic roughly violates a seemingly-indestructible man in the showers, highly amused as his burnt skin keeps healing over, second after second, as the ordeal continues. There, a man explodes as someone who can shrink to infinitesimal size flies into his gullet and then regains his normal proportions, reveling in how far his rival's remains spray across the cell block.

High above it all, Prisoner 52 stands watch. The death below feeds him, without his even having to be present at the moment where life ends and something else begins. He grips the railing tight as his bones glow from within his pale skin, skull-pupils rolled back into his eyesockets as he rides the edge of what he can know, and what still eludes him.

A name. His kingdom for a name. The world for a name, if need be.

And if the world must drown in burning blood to bring it to him, then so be it.

* * *

"You think that's enough for the gravy?" Straffer asks as he scrapes the pan under the roast.

"I should !@#$ing hope so," SPYGOD says, stirring the vegetable curry just fast enough to keep it from burning: "Not sure how the !@#$ yorkshires are going to turn out..."

"Magnificently," the blonde man says, kissing his lover on the cheek. They smile, pause a moment, and then go back to making dinner. 

"You know what's going to be nice?" Straffer says after a time as the gravy begins to gel.

"What?"

"Eating dinner in a proper restaurant."

"Oh, !@#$ yes," SPYGOD says, taking an appreciative whiff of the curry: "Something someone else !@#$ing made for us."

"That didn't come in a !@#$ pizza box."

"Or a takeaway pack, for that !@#$ing matter."

"A long walk on a sunset beach, after that meal."

"!@#$ing like people who just !@#$ing met at a bar on that beach."

"Maybe we could do it at the meal?" Straffer asks, grabbing his !@#$ as he walks past.

"What, and get @#$ing arrested?"

"Well, we'll just have to do it somewhere it's legal," his lover chuckles.

They look at each other, then, and then over at the window, overlooking all the protesters. 

They look at certain bags and boxes that are stacked on either side of that window -- seemingly innocuous, but containing things that no one knows about. 

Secret things, meant to speed them to that special somewhere that no one can touch them. 

And they smile, just a little, wondering if they can get away with this, after all. 

* * *

"(You should not be here, outsider)" the beefy, salf-and-peppered Japanese man drinking alone at the mostly-deserted, bone-white bar says, regarding the strange thing that floats in his glass.

"(I know, Ju-San)" the shadowed stranger says, walking on up and putting away the taser he just used on the man's guards. They lie on the white marble floor, gibbering as the electricity leaves them. The few other patrons are getting up to go somewhere else, clearly terrified of the cyborg as he ascends the stairs to the bar.

"(Then tell me why I should let you leave?)" the former head of the Organization asks, swirling his drink so that the human eyeball in it floats to the top: "(This is not for the likes of you. You exist to expose the truth. But here, where all things are possible, we live with secrecy and lies to hide it.)"

As if to emphasize his statement, someone screams from a hidden room, nearby. A ragged, wet cry that ends as quickly as it began. 

"(All things are possible, here, yes,)" the man says, pulling out a short stack of photographs, but not yet showing them to the man he's intruding upon: "(Even the real truth, after a fashion.)"

"(Explain yourself!)" Ju-San snarls, downing his drink -- hooker's eyeball and all -- and then slamming the glass down on the bar's surface:  "(I can have you raped, killed, and eaten here, outsider. And not in that order!)"

"(I know,)" the man says, as respectful as possible: "(And I come to you with an explanation. But also a challenge.)"

"(What is that challenge?)" 

"(To become what you once were,)" the man says, flipping through the photographs like they were cards: "(Once, the name of the Organization was enough to cause even SPYGOD to be afraid. But now that the Terre Unifee has taken it from you, and confiscated the weapons and objects you once safeguarded?)"

"(Go on,)" Ju-San says. It sounds like a threat. 

"(They say you are a joke, weeping into a drink in a Tokyo murder bar,)" the man continues, shrugging: "(And, with all respect? I cannot say they are wrong.)"

"(You dare-)" 

"(I. Dare. Everything.)" Randoph Scott insists, banging his free fist down on the bar's marble surface, shaking the empty drink of the world's most dangerous man: "(I get the truth, Ju-San. I get it any way I can. And when I get it, I hand it out freely.)"

"(The truth can kill, Outsider.)"

"(So do lies,)" the outlaw reporter says, pulling up a white and silver stool to sit right next to him: "(And I think you've been lied to enough already.)"

"(What do you mean...?)" Ju-San asks, suddenly unsure.

"(Hanami,)" he says, pulling out one of the photographs in the deck. It's of the young woman he once commanded, but no longer has much contact with. The bright, beautiful, and immensely powerful android that saved Tokyo, but at a terrible cost to her mind.

"(What of her?)" the man says, trying not to show his true emotions, just now.

"(They told you they would help regain her mind,)" Scott says, pulling out photos of various members of the Space Service -- especially Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir -- and placing them down by the man's empty drink: "(But I believe they have been lying to you. I believe they have no intention of bringing her back to you. They've emasculated your Organization, after all. Why would they fix such a powerful weapon, and then hand it to you?)"

"(You have proof?)" Ju-San asks, his eyes growing darker by the second.

"(Not yet, but I know how you can get it,)" he says, handing him a card with a string of numbers upon it: "(Your access codes were rescinded. This will allow you to log back in under your old name, with all permissions given. You can look at all files, just as you once did. And I recommend looking at the personal logs and security footage.)"

"What will I see...?" Ju-San asks as Scott gets up from his stool, lapsing into English for the first time in decades. 

"The truth, Ju-San," Randolph Scott answers, bowing respectfully before he turns to go: "I hope you will know what to do with it."

And then he's gone, leaving only a mystery behind. 

* * *

It's night in Korhogo, and the killing has stopped. 

Prisoner 52 sits in his cell, unable to sleep. He doesn't need to, though he sometimes likes to close his eyes and pretend. And when he does, the ghosts around him walk into his dreams, as though they were the court of their king.

A new spectre has joined the other four: one of the ones who was slain, this afternoon, after the Choosing. He's weak and uncertain, muttering of pain he can't really feel anymore, and the horrible injuries his former allies wreaked upon him as they decided he was more fun dead than alive. 

He should be greeting him, tonight. He should speak to him of the things he must know, and the strange places that they will have to walk, together. All those kingly duties and responsibilities. 

But right now, the king of the dead doesn't care about that. 

What he does care about is something he realized, today, as the wave of murder and mayhem washed over his mind and body. The strange and bloody overwhelming of his senses acted to shake two things loose, within his glowing skull. 

The first was a single letter. S. 

And the second was an understanding -- crystal and clear -- that before long he would not only know the rest of the letters he'd been deprived of for so long, but that he'd be returned to full power once he spoke that word aloud. 

"A king in his kingdom, once more," he says, sniffing one of the sickly roses his living followers have strewn in his cell -- grown fat and wrong in the gardens where the dead have been laid to rest.

And he closes his eyes to dream of change, sweet and certain after so very, very long.

* * *

It May Not Last

But Here Am I

Once a Caterpillar 

Now a Butterfly

* * *

(SPYGOD is listening to Metamorphosis (Pet Shop Boys, remix) and having a Mephistopheles Metamorphosis) 

1/5/13 - METALMAID: Und wird von millionen Augen angeguckt - pt 4

   ... some brown-haired guy that looks about as remarkable as a mud puddle.

"Et, voila!" The Violet Demon announces, waving a hand at the man as though he'd pulled a rabbit out of a hat: "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Francois Dinoart."

"Who?" METALMAID demands, glaring down at their captive. 

"Who?" most of the supervillains echo, as they've never see the man in their life.

"Wait a !@#$ing minute," The Angle says, taking a step forward and looking at the man: "Danny...?"

Francois sighs, and begins to roll something around in his mouth. But before he can the Violet Demon waves a purple, glowing hand on the left side of his head, and the man falls down unconscious, once more.

"Sorry about that," the masked villain says, looking up at METALMAID as he kneels down and puts his fingers into the man's mouth: "I figured he'd have a poison tooth to chew, I just wasn't sure when he'd do it."

"And how did you know that?" the Lord of Spiders asks.

"Direction Noir always sent their agents provocateur out with a failsafe, just in case they got made and couldn't get away," he explains, pulling out the still-intact poison tooth: "Not as good as two to the eyes, but not everyone has an N-Machine."

"What the !@#$ is Direction Noir?" the Angle asks, shaking his head: "I know this guy as Danny French. He was one of the Secessionist leaders at the Montana compound."

"Yes," the Violet Demon says, coming up and holding the tooth aloft for inspection: "And before that he was Freddie D. Arthur, supposedly-American staff at the French embassy in Washington D.C., but really in charge of keeping a number of our spy organizations under surveillance. Especially the CIA, which had a number of people in bed with the American Secessionist movement, and was very interested in strategic talents, seeing as how they couldn't stand the guy that ran the COMPANY..."

He looks around the room at all the blank stares, sighs, and -- after tossing the tooth into the punchbowl -- waves his hands and smiles: "Maybe I should start from the beginning?"

"It would probably be a !@#$ good idea," Chassis says.

"I think I'm going to need some aspirin," Red Thunder sighs, looking down at what's left of Green Thunder.

"Just hurry it up, will you?" the Emperor of Pain sighs: "I can't hold this for too much longer."

"Okay, then," the Violet Demon says, vaulting up to the stage, nodding to The Pusher, and turning around to address the crowd: "Those of you who don't know me? I'm the Violet Demon. The Scarlet Factotum can vouch for me, and I can certainly vouch for her-"

"How might that be?" the Lord of Spiders asks, putting a heavy foot down on their unconscious captive's head so he can't escape.

"Well, we almost worked together, once, and stayed in contact thereafter. We would have worked together more, but, well, you know how the song goes. 'We all have to duck / when the !@#$ hits the fan.'"

There's a couple laughs, there -- especially from the turned heroes -- and he smiles behind his mask.

"Glad you thought that was funny. What comes next is definitely not. And before I get started, can we just agree not to kill the messenger?"

"Anyone who touches you will answer to me," METALMAID announces, walking up to the stage and standing next to him. And there's something about the look that he gives her when she says that which makes her heart do more strange things, inside her.

"Well, okay then," he continues: "Long story short? You've all been played, and badly. You were all set up to fail by the Terre Unifee. They've been the hand behind the wheel on a lot of things that have happened, lately. The idea to get the Secessionists together with the former members of the Legion? Making inroads with you new folks? Getting everyone to strike on Christmas?

"Well, that was all them."

Booing, now. But METALMAID growls, and it stops very quickly.

"I'd really like an explanation on that," Husqvarna says, pointing a chainsaw at the stage: "What exactly was going on?"

"Well, I can give chapter and verse, but it'd take longer than we've got," the Violet Demon says, gesturing to the very-beleaguered Emperor of Pain, grimacing behind them on the stage: "The simple explanation goes like this:

"To start with, there was the CIA. Like I was saying earlier, there were a number of connections between them, the Legion, and the Secessionist Movement. It was all one big conspiracy of convenience, with each of them playing off the other to get what they wanted, and then being able to toss the trail down the trash."

"That's got to be bull!@#$," one of the new heroes snorts.

"No, it's not," Nefartiti offers "When I got into this !@#$ing gig? King Totenkhamen told me all about the history of the Legion. There was a !@#$ing lot of CIA involvement in there, especially during World War II. And they just kind of made it a thing, after that."

"King Totenkhamen?" The Sound asks as softly as he can.

"Don't ask," The Pusher replies, shaking his head: "It's a branding thing." 

"So, anyway," the Violet Demon continues: "The Legion went down, as most of you know. And then the CIA went down, after the Imago took over. I'm sure you watched the trials on TV?"

"Kill your TV, man," Groovy Nightmare giggles from the back of the room.

"Can't disagree with that! But even with the Legion and the CIA gone, you still had the Secessionist movement, only now it could do whatever it wanted and not have to answer to its handlers in the Company.

"But did you ever wonder why they seemed to be all wait and no action, right up until Christmas? Did you wonder how the main compound just folded like a house of cards when Le Compagnie showed up? Did you marvel at how efficiently most of your now-jailed colleagues were rounded up afterwards?"

There's some assent, and a few verbal question marks. On the other hand, Black Rider seems to be nodding so enthusiastically it's a wonder his head doesn't pop off.

"Well the Terre Unifee knew that they'd have to take the United States of America in to get the rest of the world to fall in line. The best way to do that was to show the American people just how weak and vulnerable they were on their own. And, as you all know by now, things were pretty sketchy out there, after the Reclamation War."

There's nodding on that. No one there didn't feel the pinch in some way, shape, or form.

"But they also needed to find a way to get the serious troublemakers and loudmouths out of the way. That would be the Secessionists, who were all butt-hurt now that the Imago were gone, and they had to be part of America again. I'm sure you talked with enough of them to know how angry they were at the thought of taking orders from France, of all places?"

More nodding and mumbles of agreement.

"So they decided to get rid of a few birds with the same stone. So they got the Secessionists to work with you lot to build their compound, up in Montana. And they got them to work with you new folks so they could run guns, money, and supplies back and forth. And then they planned for there to be one big attack, during which all the necks would be stuck out and ready for the axe.

"And, well, the axe was swung," he shrugs, holding his hands out: "And you all, here? You're most of what's left of that. They built you up just so they could knock you down, as proof to America's people that they're weak and in need of foreign assistance to maintain their security. And as America goes, so goes the world."

"Diabolical," the Lord of Spiders says: "I must remember to congratulate the head of the TU on such a masterstroke, just before I bite him."

There's laughter at that, and the Violet Demon grins behind his mask.

"Well, why not make that happen?" he asks, looking around: "Before we were so rudely interrupted by the Terre Unifee, masquerading as the Brotherhood of the Righteous, you heard the plan to deal with the TU-"

"We heard a part of a plan," the Black Rider squeaks: "I still don't like the idea that we don't know the whole thing going in-"

"If we did, and they captured your racist !@#$, you'd spoil it all for the rest of us," Husqvarna snorts: "I'm okay with limited intel. It's how things work in the real world."

"And I think we're all aware that, if we don't like the plan, it's sixty-to-five right now," Chassis points out, glaring at the five people on the stage.

"And come on, folks," the Violet Demon sighs theatrically: "Is there anyone here who doesn't want some !@#$ing payback on the TU at this point?"

There is no one, judging from the cheers.

"Then I think my work is done, here," he says, walking off the stage and heading back into the audience: "And I think the lady has the floor, again."

METALMAID tries not to smile too widely at that, and, within a short time, has them eating out of her hand.

* * *

"I think that went rather well," the Lord of Spiders says, later, as he and the Emperor of Pain stand outside the church doors, shaking red bits and pieces of the late Francois Dinoart off of their boots.

"I can't disagree," the old man says, lighting up a cigarette and offering one to his tarantula-faced colleague, who politely refuses.

"It's a good thing that young fellow interceded, though."

"What, this !@#$hole?" the Emperor asks, pointing to a rather large, red piece that's stuck under his heel.

"No, the young man in the purple mask."

"Yeah.. what's his name..."

"The Violet Demon."

"Yeah. Violet Demon," he says, taking a long drag: "Right."

"My goodness, man. You are rather out of it."

"Ah, you know how it is. A herd of elephants could have thundered through that church and I might not have remembered. I'd have come out of it and wondered who made the holes and left the pats."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Doing my thing for that long takes a lot out of me."

"It didn't used to."

"No, it always has," the Emperor admits: "I used to just be better at hiding it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, making everyone double over in pain? That's no problem. It's making it so that everyone who was with me wasn't in pain that's the hard part. And normally it's just me and a few folks, and not half a !@#$ basketball team."

"All these years and I never knew," the Lord chuckles: "But it does explain some things."

"Yeah, well," the old man shrugs: "I guess we all got our crosses to bear."

The Lord of Spiders nods, and finally accepts the offer of a cigarette: "I hate spiders."

"What?"

"I hate spiders," the man admits, lighting up and taking care not to singe the tiny hairs on his face and hands: "I always have."

"You gotta be joking."

"I am not. There was an accident with one of my devices, early on. It transformed me into what I most feared. And while I have learned to use it to my advantage, and make myself the stronger for it, I still cannot look in a mirror. I can barely stand to look at myself."

"And you with eight eyes and all," the Emperor says, nodding.

"Quite the irony, yes?" the spider-faced man sighs.

"Well, hey, it could be worse."

"Really?" the Lord says, his voice re-acquiring its earlier edge, his eyes sliding to the Emperor in a not-so-friendly way.

"Yeah, I mean, at least a lot of people are scared of spiders. Imagine if you'd been terrified of something else?"

"Such as?" the man asks, turning to stare down the Emperor.

But then the doors open, and the Buzzard walks out, looking at the sheet of paper the Pusher gave him. The two men turn to look at him as he wanders away, as if in a daze, trying to pronounce his new, French name.

And as soon as he's in his buzzardmobile, they both break out laughing almost hard enough to burst, and keep laughing until he's well down the road.

"Your point... is taken," the Lord of Spiders finally gasps, clapping the Emperor on the shoulder.

"So, we're okay?" the Emperor asks after a time.

"I think so," the spider-faced man says, nodding: "On one condition."

"What's that."

"We remain firm in our oath to never say what happened that day at Doctor Morbo's Castle."

"Oh, don't worry about that," the Emperor of Pain says, remembering his conversation from earlier: "I think we're better off letting the legend speak for itself."

"Agreed," the Lord of Spiders says. And that's all that really needs saying on that point.

* * *

One by one, the rest of the people leave. They get into their cars and strange vehicles, their palanquins and giant monsters. They fly away on wings borrowed or created, or flit away as though they were no longer there.

And then do so knowing that something amazing has happened today, and they have been a part of it.

The rift between the old hands of the Legion and the new, turned heroes seems to be on the way to closing, now. People shake hands and laugh, no longer staring daggers at one another, much less contemplating their demise. There's a sense of cooperation and togetherness, replacing the mistrust and distaste from before.

(Someone even sort-of admits where a few of the missing people were disappeared to, on their way out.)

Was it the plan, itself, that turned their hearts around, and gave them hope? Was it the Violet Demon's explanations of how they'd all been played for suckers by their would-be rulers, and how this was the perfect chance to get back at them?

Or was it the final act, when METALMAID allowed all her people to take their rage out on their unfortunate captive, now lying in several small pieces on the floor?

Whether it was her ideas, his truth, or the bloody baptism that followed, none can say. All that is certain is that, at least for now, METALMAID has her army. Whether she can hold it or not is another matter, entirely, but that will be for the future to tell.

The Lord of Spiders and the Emperor of Pain shake hands for the first time in decades, and then the tarantula-faced man gets on top of the giant spider he hates, and causes it to lumber him out of town, to his waiting aircraft. After that, the Pusher and the Sound come to collect the Emperor, so as to drop him off at his new lair, and repay him for his excellent service, this day.

Finally, there's the belle of the ball, METALMAID. She leaves along with the Violet Demon, and is not at all shy about holding his hand as they walk away from the church, their feet still bloody from their object lesson.

Just before they get into their separate vehicles, he runs over to the church sign, and, using a few pulses of energy, burns the IST out of METHODIST. He seems to think it's hilarious, but she doesn't quite get it.

But never mind. He'll explain it later, along with a lot of other things. Bits and pieces of a life that she's only seen parts of, so far, but now wants more of. Tales of the road and the toil. The excitement and horror of being on the run for his life.

The joy of coming here, and being able to help in the way that he did. And the relief and the eternal happiness that she responded as she did.

They get into separate cars, yes, but they travel in the same direction. One gets the idea, watching them, that they'll be parking in the same place, tonight, too. These things have their own patterns and rhythms, after all.

The same story, told over and over again -- no matter how strange the actors or their circumstances. 

* * *

Not long after the two of them left, the Emperor of Pain finally relented, and the cloud of his namesake left Lebanon, Kansas along with them. 

Hardy hands were up first, tending to their own needs, and the needs of those they could see. After that, it was a matter of calling what passed for a local police force, and having them call the nearest emergency services to deal with the ones who couldn't rise just yet, or never would again. 

And there were far too many of those, this time. 

The authorities the survivors summoned would find clues, left behind. The defaced sign on the church, which no one understood. The bloody mess on the floor that used to be a French secret agent. Punch and pie they got from a Behemart in Phillipsburg, now poisoned with a fake tooth at the bottom. 

(A dead man dressed as a woman, stuffed into a trashcan by the restrooms)

Other than that, the room was frighteningly clean. No fingerprints or trace elements. No identifying markers of any kind. No videotape caught the revelers, no satellite tracked their paths in or out. 

It was as though they were evil ghosts, come to mock laws both moral and physical, and then go back the way they'd came. 

The local authorities didn't have the case for too long before the TU showed up, of course. A flying squad of people in bright uniforms appeared, not long after the church had been combed by the Sheriff and her officers. And as soon as they appeared, the information flow became one-way, and all cooperation ended. 

They were assured that justice would be done, of course, but that's what they always say. They got the idea that other, less kind things were said as well, but no one in town had much cause to speak French. 

So all they could do was care for the wounded, count the dead, and pick up the pieces as best they could. Life would go on, here in the center of America.  They would not let this beat them down or knock them out.

They were survivors, here in Lebanon. And now they had another, stranger tale to tell.

(METALMAID is listening to Das Model (Rammstein) and having... well, you can guess)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 10

 "(REDACTED), I know you can hear me," the President says into the CIA Director's voicemail: "Pick up the !@#$ing phone, okay? We're under attack, the whole world's gone to !@#$, and someone's coming into the White House basement. No flier, no COMPANY, no nothing. If you've got answers-"

The line goes dead, just then. He signs and puts Col. Richter's phone down on a nearby table: "Well, so much for that."

"Can we do anything else?" the First Lady asks.

"Wanna order pizza?" He'd asked, pointing back to the phone: "I bet it'll take more than thirty minutes. Might get it for free this time."

"Oh, that's what I love about you," the First Lady says, standing up and putting her hand on his shoulder: "All the world's falling apart, and you can still make jokes."

"Sorry, hon," he says, putting up his hands: "It's what I do."

"I know. I wasn't complaining. I was just telling you that it's a good thing."

"Well, I'd hope you'd think it was a good thing by now..." he smiles, putting a hand around her leg: "Still glad you married me?"

"Always," she says: "You are a good man, Mr. President. You will have a lot to offer the world in the days to come."

Something about how she says that bothers him, just a little. He's about to say something when the doors to the saferoom open, revealing Colonel Richter, a man in dark sunglasses who must be that Myron fellow, and a number of COMPANY Agents. There's a strong sense of urgency about them, but they seem to be somewhat relieved.

"Sir, we've got an escape plan for you and the First Lady-" Richter begins to say, but suddenly Myron shouts and draws a gun on the President.

A Secret Service Agent immediately hurls himself at the man, who starts shouting something that's hard to understand past the fists and feet launched at his face, knocking his dark sunglasses off.

More Secret Service Agents rush to either protect the President or pile on Myron.

The COMPANY Agents run into the melee to pull the other Agents off the man who saved them from the Specials back at the Heptagon.

And before Colonel Richter can tell his people to back the !@#$ off and let these men and women protect the President, he looks over at the First Couple and realizes that something is wrong.

The President looks bewildered, as usual, but the First Lady is smiling -- a smile he really does not like.

And then the air is filled with flashes of light and sudden motion, and the saferoom proves to no longer be safe at all.

Something terrible has been waiting for them, here, all along.

* * *

The insectile carrier that was once The Flier -- still changing its shape and configuration in mid-air -- hovers over a patch of the Pacific Ocean, not too far from the last battle that the COMPANY engaged in with GORGON.

There's nothing here to mark that momentous occasion, of course. The principal players both left the field not long thereafter, and their dead were swallowed up by the deep. Any lost weapons or wounded machines fell down to the punishing depths of the ocean floor, there to be crushed by the depths and picked over by what few scavengers can thrive in such extreme environments.

Hundreds of such rude cenotaphs litter the dark, hidden depths of the ocean -- cold and mute testament to the ferocious battles that happen on, above, or just under its surface. Down in the eternal, crushing black, they form the only memorials those lost to such conflagrations can ever have. 

But as the giant, metal butterfly that was the Flier hovers high above the water, a strange, circular perturbation on its surface would seem to indicate that something is being returned to the light.

The ocean surface roils and bubbles, and the circumference of the disturbance increases almost exponentially. Within minutes it is a full five miles across, and still growing. And from the vantage point of the Flier, it is possible to see the faintest hints of whatever is causing the phenomenon as it approaches the boiling surface.

Something vast and dark, and swiftly ascending. 

With the crashing of mighty waves, that something breaks through into the air. Something that has been under the surface of the Pacific for untold aeons. Something that has not been seen by unaided eyes before today.

Something alien, yet oddly familiar. 

A massive agglomeration of dark, stone towers -- built with giant, perfectly-cut bricks in the manner of the Mayan temples of old -- reaches for the heavens. It appears to be a city: one made for what may have been giants, or beings for whom cyclopean architecture was the norm. And as it rises and rises in what seems an unending train of black stone spires and platforms, the circumference widens out to ten miles, then twenty, then fifty...

At some point, its rate of ascent slows, and then stops -- just a scant ten feet from the keel of the Flier. Sea spray steams in the heat of the Sun, and strange, deep-sea creatures that had no business existing more than a single fathom beyond their normal habitat explode in the sudden change of pressure. 

For a moment or two, the city and the Flier are content to behold one another. And then something swift-moving and dangerous-looking all but erupts from the newly-risen metropolis, and hurtles towards the Flier with strange intent.

It is a Deros, clearly. And as it streaks towards the Flier, the bottom of the aircraft shudders twice, and then opens wide in order to accommodate it. Large, strange mechanisms unfold from the hole in its belly, clearly intending to provide a welcome mat for the creature.

At the sight of its landing pad, the metal beast curlicues and goes into a spiral, slowing its trajectory just enough to avoid crashing into the Flier. And then, just as it seems to have burned up all its forward momentum, it slides into the underside of the aircraft -- effectively docking with the devices that came out of it.

The Deros tightens its curves, becoming a ball, and begins a spinning motion that creates light, heat, and energy seemingly powerful enough to rival the Sun. The surrounding area is bathed with a bright, radiant light -- one that burns off whatever moisture and damp remained outside the formerly-sunken city, and then vanishes as the Flier pulls the containing machines back into itself.

Then the Flier lights up -- a brilliant, shining butterfly just above the new, dark island.

 * * *

When Second comes to, moments after the conversion is over, he is aware of three things.

The first is that he's no longer in engineering, nor anywhere near it so far as he can tell. The bulkhead he grabbed onto clearly moved several areas away. That one, he was kind of expecting.

The second is that those few Agents who survived along with him have been surrounded by even more Specials, some of which are teleporting in. They seem content to simply guard their captives for the moment, but it's anyone's guess as to when they'll start shooting, instead.

In fact, one stands right by Second's head, pointing the business end of a gauss gun between his eyes. There's no look on his face, but if there were it'd be him all but daring Second to not to drop the pistol in his hand.

(Second does, ever so slowly, but not in such a way so as to not have it back in hand within a moment.)

The third is that something new has entered the equation.

Teleporting in along with the new Specials are beings in colorful, gleaming armor and long, flowing capes. They move gracefully, compared to their heavier brethren, and where the Specials are anonymous behind their armored, blank visages, these ones bare bright and smiling faces to the world around them.

In a way, these newcomers remind Second of the over-the-top sueprheroes of the 70's. The ones who rewrote the book on how strategic talents operated. The ones who built Deep Ten -- Wonderwall, back then -- along with numerous other astounding creations.

The ones who gradually disappeared in the decades afterwards, leaving only fading echoes of themselves and the occasional, re-purposed artifact in their wake. 

Something in their mix of bright color, and the exaggerated lines of their armor, tickles the more nostalgic parts of Second's mind. And for a moment -- however brief -- he could almost believe that those lost heroes have returned, somehow. He could find himself entertaining the fleeing notion that this has all been some massive mistake, and now they're going to help clear it all up.

For a moment, anyway.

But these newcomers are not them. They can't be.

The supergods of the 70's were otherworldly but comforting, somehow filling our need to believe in benevolent higher powers. They were the kind of august entities that might save the entire world with powers beyond imagining, and then take the time to gently rescue a small kitten from a tree. 

These new beings may be similarly dressed, but there's something sinister about them. Their gleaming, colored metal costumes seem so exaggerated as to be caricatures. And their smiles are so desperate for love that they seem broken -- predatory, even.

Indeed, those smiles remind him of a photo he saw of a career pedophile: a human monster who'd abused hundreds of children. His smile was wide and disarming, but somewhere between the lips and the eyes the illusion broke down, and it became not a sign of trust, but a hunter's leer.

And when one of the newcomers' leers is focused on him, he throws caution to the wind and picks his pistol back up, aiming it at the green and yellow, female thing that's languidly walking towards him.

(He doesn't seem to care that the Special beside him's cocked the gun that's aimed at his forehead.)

"Oh, you must be confused and scared," the thing says, walking closer in spite of the pistol aimed at her: "Your world has changed around you. Things are no longer what they were. You think you need to reassert control over it, but there's really no need. From this moment forward, we will take care of you."

"Who... what are you?" he asks, realizing that the pistol has only got a couple shots in it. Maybe just one.

"We are the Imago," she says as the Specials behind her start pulling Agents to their feet and roughly immobilizing them: "And we have come to save you."

"I can see that," he says: "Tell your friend to back off or I'll shoot."

She looks to the Special, who slowly takes the gun from Second's head and moves a few respectful steps back. Not fast enough for his liking, but it's a start.

"Are you in league with GORGON?" he says, figuring he knows the answer, anyway, but might as well get what intelligence he can.

"GORGON no longer exists," she says: "The caterpillar has emerged from the cocoon. A new day has dawned, (REDACTED). And you will be a part of it."

"I don't !@#$ing think so," he says, cocking his pistol at her: "Let my people go or I'll shoot."

"You misunderstand my role in things," she explains, holding her ground: "I am not in control, here. I am merely a part of the greater whole. If you shoot me, others will come in my place. And you only have so many shots in that gun."

He's about to ask her another question when he hears a cry for help from down the hall. An Agent who was badly wounded in the fight is crawling along the floor, trying to get away from the Special who's walking behind her.

(New Agent, just shuffled in from the FBI. He's admired her bright blue eyes, but hadn't caught her name, yet.)

Before he can say or do anything, a number of teleports occur in the hallway -- all of them False Faces. One appears just behind her, not far from the Special, and kneels down to take her around the head with its long, anonymous fingers.

As soon as it's touching both temples with either index finger, the Agent screams, and the two light up in a rush of strange, pulsing energy. The pulsing is equal between the two at first, but soon favors the False Face. And as Second watches the Agent's body withers, turns grey, and collapses into flakes, powder, and fragments of bone.

The False Face stands up again, its body changing to match that of the Agent it just absorbed. The horrible, exposed skull is the last to change: flickering like a television set, and then resolving with her face.

It -- now she -- looks over at Second and smiles, and the baleful, metal eyes behind the projected skin change to a beautiful blue.

"My name is Leila Winters," she says: "COMPANY Agent, tactical section. I am ready to soar."

"Are you ready to soar, (REDACTED)?" The Imago asks Second -- her smile is the genius of languid evil.

"!@#$ you," he mutters, twisting around to shoot the Special guarding him in the crotch -- blowing him into three pieces --  and then pivoting to shoot her dead-bang in the face.

The blast hits her right in the nose, but to no avail. The energy simply slides around her like water, and doesn't so much as alter her complexion, much less her expression.

"Oh, that's excellent," she says as the last wisps of what should have just taken her head off dissipate around her: "We are looking forward to adding your passion and dedication to our new world."

"Like !@#$," he shouts, scrambling to his feet and dodging around the twitching remnants of the Special. He can hear Agents screaming behind him -- absorbed into waiting False Faces -- but there's nothing he can do for them, now. His options are as slim as his gun is empty, and as he flings it behind him he hopes the !@#$ chokes on it.

However, he doesn't get five strides into his headlong flight before the Imago teleports right in front of him. He only has a moment to realize what's happened -- and be amazed by this -- before she slaps him across the face.

It would seem to any onlooker that she gave him a gentle, effortless blow. But it hits like a sledgehammer to the skull -- all but caving in the left side of his face and knocking him up against the wall.

His head lolling on a broken neck, face shattered, eyes half-popped out of their sockets, Second collapses to the floor, gasping for breath in a mouth full of blood and broken teeth.

"I am so sorry to hear how reluctant you are to join in this effort, (REDACTED)," she says, slowly advancing on him: "But you will join us. Sooner or later, one way or the other."

It's to Second's eternal credit that, even blind and broken, he still tries to get up and run. That he fails -- unable to move anything below his navel -- is no blemish upon his effort. And when a False Face teleports in beside him, and starts to kneel down to do what it came here for, he could be excused for simply giving in.

But he still has control of his arms and hands. And he still has one last weapon to use.

"No surrender," he gurgles through blood as the sexless, skull-faced creature takes his crushed, bloody head in its hands: "Not to you."

He pulls at his belt buckle and pushes it up and to the side. A light comes on in the exposed circuitry behind it. A high, shrill beeping begins.

The Imago realizes what this means, and teleports right on top of him, knocking the False Face roughly across the room to try and stop what's about to happen.

Too late.

The white phosphorous explosion rocks that section of what used to be the Flier. The quadrant is all but obliterated, killing both False Faces and Agents in mid-Embrace with a rushing wave of white heat. Stress fractures begin to appear all over the stricken aircraft as bulkheads go molten and collapse in on themselves.

Within seconds of the explosion, it seems almost assured that the insectile aircraft will burst open and fall into the city that just erupted from the Ocean. But just then, the nanostreams that reworked the ship from top to bottom kick into action, and before too long the ship is being repaired on the molecular level. Burn damage is reversed, systems are put back together again, and whatever was put out of shape is quickly molded back into place.

Before long, all that's left to mark the passing of Second is the Imago who oversaw his last moments -- clearly undamaged by the blast -- standing right by where he detonated himself. There isn't even burned smell in the air, much less a single scorch mark on the wall.

"We have failed, leader," she says: "(REDACTED) is lost to us."

No matter, says a wet, feminine voice in her head: We have the entirety of their knowledge within us, now. What we have lost with him, we will regain with others. You have done well. Carry on.

"Thank you," she says, and teleports somewhere else, hoping to make up for what she still sees as a failure somewhere along the line.

And knowing she'll have many chances to to do so in the brilliant days to come.

* * *

"I applaud your passion, Daniel Richter," the red and blue armored man is saying as the Colonel tries to get to his feet and protect the President: "You are a good man. You have done good things for your country."

"I'll show you good..." he hisses, but can't get up. The armored hands holding him down are too strong, and come just within an ounce of breaking his shoulderblades like pretzel sticks.

"You struggle for no purpose," one of the ones holding him down says: "I assure you we have no plans to harm this man."

"Tell that to his wife, you !@#$er," Myron, also held down, retorts through a smashed-up face: "How long? Huh? How long has she been dead?"

The skull-faced abomination wearing the body of the First Lady looks at him with what might be pity or regret: "I am not dead, Myron. I have been Embraced."

"You'll pardon me if I can't see the !@#$ing difference," Myron spits, his mouth and nose dribbling blood.

"I am one with Imago in flesh, spirit, and purpose. This is not death. This is something entirely different."

The President, meanwhile, doesn't know what to say. Surrounded by smiling men and women in brightly-colored armor, all of whom have made it clear that he's free to do everything but leave this saferoom, he's realized -- all too late -- that this is the end of everything he's ever known.

"You too?" he finally says to what he thought was his wife. The way she looks back at him makes him look away. 

The Red and Blue Imago kneels down and picks up the broken sunglasses that Myron had been wearing when he came into the room: "A very ingenious design," he says.

"The specs are already going out all over the internet," Myron lies: "I hope you know that. You aren't going to take us over without a fight."

"There will be no fight," the First Lady says: "You were given no opportunity. Nothing was left to chance."

"We have taken the world in our hands," another Imago says: "From this moment onward, you will be ruled."

"Like !@#$," the President says: "You're underestimating America. You're underestimating the whole !@#$ing world. We will fight you. You will you lose."

"And how will you do that?" the Red and Blue Imago asks, crushing the glasses in his gauntlet: "We control Deep Ten. Your ability to make war on us is nonexistent. Your Strategic Talents have been neutralized. Your leaders will soon sing our praises and convince their citizens that ours is the greater good."

"They will be well fed and cared for," the First Lady insists: "Occupied and content. Safe from petty tyrannies and their accompanying tortures, protected from the worst things life could offer."

"They will have the illusion of liberty," Red and Blue says: "And with just enough freedom and enfranchisement to feel as though nothing is missing, and everything is in order."

"And within one generation, they will know nothing else but what we tell them," the First Lady says: "We have won."

"Humanity is never as magnificent as when they've got an enemy to fight," the President declares, rising to his feet and looking the Red and Blue man square in the face: "And you just elected to put yourselves in the crosshairs, you stupid son of a !@#$. Good luck holding onto it-"

"Oh, we agree," the Imago says, putting his hands on the President's shoulders: "And we have given them that enemy. You."

"What?" the President stammers.

"You, Mr. President, will be the enemy of the world," he says: "Ambition's debt shall be repaid."

"I don't.... I..." the President stammers, and then winces as Red and Blue 'gently' puts him back down in his chair -- all but breaking his clavicle as he does.

"You will soon learn what we mean," Red and Blue says, looking around the room at any non-GORGON personnel that remain. 

Myron and Richter look at one another. Now would be a great moment for one or the other to pull out some kind of last-minute save, or at least find a way to take a number of them out with them. But a look in each others' eyes reveals the sad truth.

They have !@#$ing nothing. 

"I really hated working with you," Richter says to Myron: "You talk too much."

"Likewise," Myron says to Richter: "You are suck a !@#$ing dick."

And they both half-smile, expecting to be executed at any moment. But that moment never quite comes.

They just wish, later, that it had. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Eternal (Joy Division) and having a Shakespeare Stout)