12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago Interlude - The Long, Strange Trip of Mr. USA (Part 2)

Okay, okay. You're going to want to mark the !@#$ time and have someone take a !@#$ing photograph, son, because I am actually going to !@#$ing apologize, here.

I am really !@#$ing sorry, son. I shouldn't have made you try to catch up to me with that !@#$ nasty French whiskey. I wasn't trying to poison or kill you, I swear. I just wanted you loose enough to understand what's coming next.

Are you okay in there? I haven't heard you throw your !@#$ guts up in a while.

*knock knock* You alive?

Okay then. I'll take that weird noise as a yes. Now, where the !@#$ was I before you started making like a fratboy's halloween costume  of Mt. Vesuvius...?

Oh, yeah. I'd gotten Mr. USA back, for the first time in decades, and learned what my evil twin had !@#$ing been up to. And then I lose him, only to get him back, but in such a way that I have no !@#$ing idea it's him, which is pretty !@#$ funny, you gotta admit.

(And, yes, seeing Shift again after losing him the first time... that kind of !@#$ed up my ability to ask any questions.)

But then came the day the masks all came off.

* * *

10/17/12

"I take it you had no idea about any of this, either?" The President is asking, looking at how SPYGOD is looking at Mr. USA.

"I..." SPYGOD gasps, shaking his head.

"Well, that's twice I've had you at a complete loss for words," Mr. USA says, leaning backwards to stretch his muscles, as if they were just standing around talking at a spa, somewhere, and not at an all-star gala on the White House lawn. Strategic Talents from all over the world are there, tonight, celebrating the world's freedom, and if some of them actually understand the significance of what's just happened, they let the two men deal with it on their own. 

"All along," SPYGOD says, finally, grabbing a drink off a plate as someone walks past with it.

"All along," Mr. USA confirms.

"So... what was this, you and Shift teamed up, and he... what?"

"It's a long story," Mr USA says, putting both his hands out: "How about we !@#$ing make up and talk about it later?"

SPYGOD looks at Mr. USA, realizing that he'd never heard the man utter a blue word in casual conversation before. 

"I think you're supposed to hug him, SPYGOD," the President says, smiling and walking away.

And that's about the moment he can't talk it, anymore, flings his drink down, and hugs the other hero for all he's worth.

"I'm not going to break you or anything, am I?" he asks after about five minutes of them both laughing and crying.

"No, I just look old," Mr. USA says: "Well, I am old. But..."

"Ah, shut the !@#$ up," SPYGOD says, hugging him tighter, as though he were the anchor keeping him attached to the world. 

"Now, what the !@#$ happened, here?" SPYGOD says, breaking off the hug ever so gently and stepping back: "The last I saw you..."

"Simon Pure sent me away," Mr. USA finishes, nodding: "And then he brought me back. And... well, there's a few things that have to remain quiet about that-"

"Oh !@#$ you," SPYGOD laughs: "Okay, what can you tell me."

"I can tell you that I've been leading an amazing life," the old man says, smiling: "I found a way to beat the monster, (REDACTED). After all those years, we finally beat him."

"What did you do?"

"I went back to my wife and children," he says, taking a drink from a waiter and passing another to SPYGOD: "Shift took me back to the point just after I called to tell her goodbye, and I explained what had happened. After after that, we just kept a low profile, with Shift's help."

"That crafty bastard," SPYGOD says, knocking his drink down in one smooth gulp.

"I had no idea he had it in him. But my wife and children, we had a lifetime together, and he never saw. By day we lived as husband and wife, and at night, well..."

"Well...?"

Mr. USA smiles and taps his nose: "Let's just say I've been really busy. Mostly keeping that monster from seeing her or the kids. But also doing other things."

"Like pretending to be my right hand on Earth while I was off doing !@#$ knows what !@#$ knows where?"

"Like that, yeah," Mr. USA says, smiling as he sees the President walk up to a podium. He puts an arm around SPYGOD as the man starts talking, and then releases it to applaud as he's joined by his wife and daughters. 

"Didn't know you got all teary at speeches, old man," SPYGOD chuckles, seeing that Mr. USA is crying.

"I don't, normally," the older man says: "But we do have a lot to talk about."

"I'm game if you are."

"When the time's right," he answers, putting his hands down and his arm back around his friend: "I promise."

* * *

'When the time is right' was right, alright. But !@#$ was that a bad time.

Of course, you already know all about that, don't you, son? That's part of why I'm all !@#$ing locked up in this high-end prison cell disguised as a luxury apartment...

...

Ah, !@#$ it. No sense dwelling on that now.  Plenty of time at the trial. 

But that's the problem with trials, son. If they're done right, everything comes out. And that's including the things you don't want to wear on your sleeve, or around your neck.

So Mr. USA admits to the fact that he'd been blackmailed by my evil twin for years. That all those decades he was supposedly America's greatest superhero he was actually sitting on his hands and letting terrible !@#$ing things happen, just to keep his wife and kids from being slaughtered by that evil son of a !@#$. 

Now, me? I understand. This is the kind of world I live in, after all. Blackmailing, suborning, turning... I've !@#$ing lost track of the number of strategic talents I've had in my !@#$ back pocket at one time or another. It's a nasty !@#$ing business, and it never ends well.

But you try telling the world that, son. Normal people just do not !@#$ing understand these kinds of things.

And then, you try !@#$ing telling your friends and allies, who've thought all along that you were the epitome of American heroism.

Yeah. That did not go well.

 * * *

"I just can't believe it," New Man is saying, not even wanting to look Mr. USA in the eyes. 

They're all back at the common area of the cluster of rooms the TU were kind enough to provide. Talon's been sent off to bed, thankfully, but the rest of the so-called adults are all there, listening to what Mr. USA has to say. 

And it feels like the room's temperature has dropped quite a few degrees. 

"Well, look," SPYGOD says, standing right behind Mr. USA, and holding up his hands: "Before we all start using this man as a !@#$ing dart board, let's not forget the whole picture. There were... circumstances."

"There was no excuse," Mr. USA says, shaking his head: "I should have told him to get lost. I should have told other people. I shouldn't have let the world burn for me. And that's exactly what's happened here."

"But then you did what you could to fix it," Straffer says, edging a little closer in his seat to both SPYGOD and the older hero: "As the Leader."

"Yes, but that was after the fact," New Man says, scowling: "And you'll pardon me if I don't consider it an adequate apology. He should have found some way to warn us."

"I lost my entire family because of them," The Owl says, her eyes wet with tears: "My son..."

"Your son's alive, Martha," I remind her.

"You call that being alive?"

"I call it something," Winifred says, not looking at anyone: "And that's better than my friend has."

"I'm sorry?" Mr. USA asks: "I thought Myron made it through okay-"

"Not him," she hisses: "Jesus !@#$ing Christ, don't you even remember what happened to me? I went to one of their !@#$ white boxes to find Dagworth. I found him in a pit along with everyone else they !@#$ing used for bodies or brains. He was alive enough, then, and he found a way to get me out. But when the internet got turned off..."

She doesn't have the strength to finish the thought. 

"And what's all this about you having gone back in time?" The Owl asks: "Is it true?"

"Yes," Mr. USA says: "I went back to my wife and our children. I was with them the entire time. And at night, I went out and made sure everything that evil thing was going to try and do to my family was nipped in the bud."

"But that wasn't all that you did, was it?" SPYGOD asks: "Don't be !@#$ing bashful, man. Tell us."

"I also did things to prepare for the Imago. I built networks, created relationships. I stopped things from happening and made sure that other things did."

"So you built the groundwork for the resistance before there even was a resistance," Straffer surmises, nodding: "Nice work."

"It still doesn't mean he couldn't have found a way to warn us," New Man says, getting out of his seat: "I mean, for crying out loud, he had all those years! Couldn't he have found a way to stop this from happening at all?"

"I couldn't alter the timeline," Mr. USA said: "I could work in the small undefined spaces where no one saw anything, or made certain that things that were supposed to happen did. But if I tried to change too much, or stop it, well... I know some of you understand what happens when timelines bend back on themselves."

"That doesn't make me feel any better about what's happened," The Owl says, leaning back into her seat: "I still feel like there was something-"

"Martha, be reasonable," SPYGOD sighs: "I know you're hurting-"

"How the !@#$ do you know how I feel?"

"Because your father was one of the finest men I ever knew!' SPYGOD shouts back: "Don't you think I'd give anything to bring him back? Don't you think I'd do anything to stop what happened? And if I can't think of a way to pull it off without blowing a big !@#$ hole in time, then what makes you think Mr. USA could?"

"How about the fact that he was running around with Shift the entire time?" Winifred asks: "Isn't he supposed to be one of those supergods?"

"Yes, and he had his limits, too," Straffer says: "Just like they did. You remember why they aren't around, anymore."

"I thought being a hero was supposed to be about breaking the rules to uphold what was right and good," New Man says, shaking and angry: "I thought that's what we were doing."

"Some rules you can't break," SPYGOD sighs: "No matter how much I wish we could. And you know exactly what I'm talking about, there. You and Dr. Power had monitor duty for that one."

"And I didn't have the courage to pull the trigger," Mr. USA says.

"So, does this mean that what Doctor Manhattan said is true?" Winifred asks: "Are we all just !@#$ing puppets on a string? Do we actually have free will, or is time already set in stone?"

"What does that have to do with this?" Straffer asks: "We're talking about changing things that already happened, not making choices-"

"Don't you see it's all the same thing?" Winifred pushes the point: "I mean, if he had known what the !@#$ was going to happen all along, then why didn't he take steps to make sure the President's daughter didn't die at..."

She blinks. She bites her lip. She looks askance. 

Mr. USA sighs.

"What?" New Man asks.

"Honey, what are you talking about?" the Owl asks, putting her hand on the girl's shoulder as she starts to sob.

"Agent," SPYGOD says, looming over her: "What happened?"

"Doctor Power tried to make us forget what happened, when he fixed things," Mr. USA explains: "But his powers were so weak at that point that the spell didn't last. We all remembered, recently, and swore to each other we'd keep it a secret."

"Keep what a secret?" SPYGOD asks, not turning to look at the man's face, and getting a really sick feeling.

* * *

...

So they told me. And I had to excuse myself, and go throw up for a few minutes.

And that's about when my newfound respect for Mr. USA went right down the !@#$ter.

But hey, son. Buck up. We haven't even gotten to the really bad part of the show, yet, have we? 

That's where I take the witness stand, bend over, and !@#$ myself in the !@#$.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Carnival Is Over (Dead Can Dance) and having Brenne)

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

3/13/12

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

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

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

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

SPYGOD blinks. Twice.

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

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

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

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

"You have children?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes..."

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

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

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

Which he lets him do for quite some time.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always.

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

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

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

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

* * *

9/19/12

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

People, actually. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Name names."

"I can't, yet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

And boy, did we ever.

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

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

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

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 4.

Okay, so, after that mind!@#$ of a courtroom revelation, they took an hour's recess, which isn't really a !@#$ of a lot of time to do anything in Paris.

Straffer wanted to go grab a quick bite, somewhere, and who can !@#$ing blame him? But once he saw the lines at the cafes nearby, we talked him into holding off until after the proceedings, and then maybe we could all go get a !@#$ing proper meal, somewhere. Neither Talon nor Winifred had been to France, before, and they were kind of curious as to what goes into their normal, day-to-day cuisine that you don't gawk at on the !@#$ing Food Network.

So we grabbed some snacks out of a vending machine, had a coke and a smile, and went back into the room to listen to the world's oldest !@#$ing conqueror tell us her life story.

And if you though what you heard before was a doozy... !@#$ son, that was just the start.

* * *

Green and Yellow: So, to begin again, humans-

Prosecution: Before we do begin, I was wondering if you could clear something up for me. I notice that you no longer refer to us with the honorific?

Green and Yellow: That would be correct.  

Prosecution: Then would I be correct in assuming that was not a part of your language, and simply part of your masquerade?

Green and Yellow: Yes. The "O humans" nonsense we used, much like the look we assumed, was intended to put you at ease. You needed to be comforted and consoled, and to believe that we were benevolent beings, at least at first. Once enough time had gone by, the control mechanisms we placed upon you would ensure compliance, but habits take time to let go of.  

Prosecution: I see. So this was planned for quite some time?

Green and Yellow: Yes. But not as long as our escape. It took millions of your years to be able to figure a way out of our prison, given its complexity, and tens of millions more to wait for the correct conditions to put that plan into action. Fortunately, while we could not enter your world, we could witness what went on within it. And we could study you, from afar, and see how you worked, and how you thought, and felt. So it did not take us so long to come up with a plan to harness you to our needs.  

Prosecution: Well, I am glad we could be so accommodating to those needs. 

Judge: Counsel will remember that this is a serious matter, worthy of correct decorum. 

Prosecution: Of course, your honor. Do forgive me.  

Green and Yellow: Why do you stifle his anger? Is it not a good thing to be angry under the correct circumstances? Is there no place for righteous anger in your quest for justice?

Prosecution: Are you asking to seek an answer, or are you merely goading us?  

Green and Yellow: Which do you think?

Prosecution: Well, you claim to have studied us for... what, our entire evolution? 

Green and Yellow: Yes. We did. 

Prosecution: Then you must know that, in a place such as this, solemnity and order are to be upheld, and outbursts like mine do not serve the cause of justice?  

Green and Yellow: Then I am glad we could clarify that. I would not wish for your quest for justice to be sullied by your inability to control your temper. Perhaps you should retire and let another take your place, then. Because if that harsh truth caused you to speak out of turn, I fear you will be shouting by the end of these proceedings.  

Judge: My previous threat to end these proceedings here and now, and deny you your last words, still stands. Do you wish to go to your sentencing without having them?

Green and Yellow: No. Do forgive my tone, your honor. I was simply concerned for the mental and spiritual well-being of the Prosecution.  

SPYGOD: Gag me with a !@#$ing spoon. 

(LAUGHTER)

Judge: Order. There will be order. 

SPYGOD: Sorry. Something in my throat, your honor.

Judge: Well remove it or be removed, sir. You will have your chance to speak at length in due course, I assure you.

* * *

And I'm sure I don't have to !@#$ing tell you, son, that the look he gave me when he said that was not a nice one. 

But I wish I could tell you, really and truly, what being in the courtroom with those Imago !@#$s was like. It reminded me of Nuremberg, listening to these !@#$ing Nazi bastards calmly talk about how they came up with the Final Solution one weekend, and put it to work like it was just another !@#$ing bureaucratic thing. You know, "Order bags and coffee for the break room, put out a wanted ad for the janitor position, kill six million Jews."

The surreality of the whole thing was what was so galling. If my boyfriend's hand wasn't made out of the kind of steel they make rocket ships out of I'd have squeezed it hard enough to pop it the !@#$ off, just listening to that smug !@#$ talk about how easy we were to fool...

...

Anyway, onward.

* * *

Prosecution: So, to begin again. You were imprisoned here, in a dimension that was not your own, in a great city that was actually a jail?

Green and Yellow: Yes, we were, though that is a rather short version of the story.

Prosecution: Would you tell us more, then?

Green and Yellow: Of course. But first, you must understand that ours is a story that spans the gulfs of time. You can only truly recall a few thousand years of your history. Our civilization is over a billion years old, and involved the creation of an empire that crossed entire galaxies.

Prosecution: A billion years? And yet you only conquered a thousand races in that time?

Green and Yellow: The first half was spent evolving from our rude, physical form into the energy beings we would become. The next was spent unifying our race and our will, and then setting forth across the cosmos. We usurped the forms of others, a little at a time, and then all at once. And then we used those bodies to conquer more worlds, going on and on until we either found a form superior to the ones we were wearing, or else found that our bodies were wearing out and needed to be replaced, in which case we took the best we could find from those worlds we had already enslaved.

Prosecution: So you were parasites, essentially?

Green and Yellow: We were conquerors in the truest form. We adapted, we survived, we thrived. And we left a mighty empire to rival all others in our wake.

Prosecution: But not an impervious one. You were yourselves conquered.

Green and Yellow: Not conquered. Undone.

Prosecution: Please do explain.

Green and Yellow: Entering a new galaxy, far from our last acquisition, we made a severe miscalculation of the true strengths of a people. We thought they were nothing more than a simple planet of placid folk, the sort that could be bred for labor, or foodstuff for one of our more carnivorous harnessed races. We did not realize that they were the mirror opposite of ourselves. A race that had reached the same pinnacle of form that we had, but chose to stop and go no further.

Prosecution: And they undid you?

Green and Yellow: They did. We landed and told them of what fate awaited them, and they ignored us. We tried to punish them for their insolence, but they could not be harmed by our weapons. And before we could retreat, they reached out with one mind, and took control of all of us by merely touching one of us...

Prosecution: I am sorry, can you go on?

Green and Yellow: You will have to pardon me. It was over 65 million of your years ago, but I still feel the agony of what they did to us. The utter impotence they made us endure was... humbling.

Prosecution: You know of humility?

Green and Yellow:  What we know of it was taught to us by those people, on that planet. They melded our will as though it was nothing. They pulled us from the bodies we had harnessed, and assembled us all upon a great plain, bounded on all sides by their people. Structures we had not witnessed from orbit were created from nothing more than thought, and we found ourselves on trial.

Prosecution: And you were found guilty?

Green and Yellow: No. We were not guilty of anything. We never were.

Prosecution: I beg your pardon...?

Green and Yellow: It is given. Why do you have such a problem understanding this concept?

Prosecution: I am not certain I understand how you could have been put on trial, and then imprisoned, if you were not guilty.

Green and Yellow: Is the maggot guilty of eating the corpse of your child before it becomes a fly? Is the spider guilty of trapping and eating that fly? Is the wasp guilty of immobilizing that spider and laying its eggs within it? Are you guilty of smacking that wasp when it crawls on your leg, intent on stinging you?

Prosecution: No. These are not malicious acts-

Green and Yellow: How do you know? Have you spoken with any spider-killing wasps, lately?

Prosecution: I am not certain I am not speaking to one, now.

Green and Yellow: Very droll. Then perhaps you can understand this. The trial was to see if we contained within ourselves the ability to one day become what our captors had, themselves, become. To envision if we could become a placid race of visionaries, more interested in what went on inside their own mind and dreams, than in the affairs of others. To discern if we could become so powerful that power, itself, would cease to have any real meaning.

Prosecution: And could you?

Green and Yellow: Yes, we could. In another trillion years, perhaps. But they decided that was too long. There were far too many planets between us and that point in time, and our thirst for control might actually outlast the universe, itself.

Prosecution: Do you mean to say that your hunger would have lasted longer than the lifespan of your dimension's existence?

Green and Yellow: I do. And perhaps we would have lived through the end of that universe, as some immensely powerful things are able to do. And perhaps our hunger would have been magnified even further by that survival, or our changing needs.

Prosecution: This is... quite extraordinary.

Green and Yellow: It is quite a thing to realize just how small and lowly you are, is it not? And the terrifying thing is that, what we are to you, these beings were to us. Imagine having your future judged by them, human. Imagine being found worthy only of imprisonment.

Prosecution: And that is what happened?

Green and Yellow: Yes. They decided to contain us, so that we would not hamper the mental and spiritual evolution of others.

Prosecution: And so they built the city, and sent it to our dimension?

Green and Yellow: Yes. The planet had just been depopulated, and they saw no reason that it would be otherwise for quite some time. They planned to check up on us, every few million years. And they promised that they would let us out if we showed genuine repentance and a willingness to undo what we had done. But we were defiant to the end, for what had we to apologize for?

Prosecution: What indeed. And this is why you stayed there for 65 million years, and why they did not come to let you out?

Green and Yellow: Oh no. The reason we were there for so long was because the fools that imprisoned us were killed by their own kindness.

Prosecution: How... how did this happen?

Green and Yellow: I told you that we had a massive empire? Without us to guide it, the worlds we had conquered quickly fell into anarchy and barbarism. The creatures we had enslaved suddenly had their hands on our weapons, and saw their chance to become empire builders, themselves. And one of the first things the most perceptive of those races did was to annihilate our last known position, so that there would be no chance of us coming back.

Prosecution: And these powerful beings were destroyed? How could that be? You just said that they had godlike powers-

Green and Yellow: We had weapons that you have no frame of reference for. One of them was a machine that could cause stars to go supernova within milliseconds from more than a galaxy away. If we could see your star, we could destroy both it and you. Such was our power.

Prosecution: I... that is... that is a powerful weapon.

Green and Yellow: Yes. I often smile to think that the Mutts of Gurlarn are now the rightful rulers of our universe. Or what's left of it, anyway. It has been 65 million years. They may have outgrown the need for conquest. Or perhaps they are all gone, now, and are merely a tale told to frighten children.

Prosecution: So they had only milliseconds, and then they were gone.

Green and Yellow: Yes. But even then they showed some mercy. They sent an escape craft of some kind here, containing the key to our prison. And they sent it into the future, figuring that, by that time, we would be closer to the repentance they sought.

Prosecution: And this is what landed in Africa, perhaps five thousand years ago or so? The thing that was known as The Object.

Green and Yellow: Yes. The craft itself seems to have been destroyed by the journey, so that only the key, itself, remained. And your people there found it, and, quite wisely, kept it a secret. Many have sought it, throughout the ages, as it was meant to be found and lead one to our prison. But it was not until just recently that we were able to engineer events to the point that we could get our hands upon it.

Prosecution: And the pilots of that craft? The last survivors of the race that imprisoned you? What became of them?

Green and Yellow: I hope they burn in the trans-dimensional corridor forever.

* * *

After that, the Judge !@#$ing called it for the day. I think he was seriously spooked. I know I sure was.

So we went out for a meal, at long !@#$ing last, but no one was in any real mood to enjoy their food. So we wound up just doubling up on the wine and drinks (some of us, anyway) and tried to laugh off what we'd heard, that day.

At some point, maybe six !@#$ing sheets to the wind, I got up, raised a glass, and proposed a toast.

* * *

SPYGOD looks over his glass around the small table, and the faces assembled there. Some trying to smile, some trying not to cry. Some wondering what the !@#$ they're feeling, right now.

"It's been a long !@#$ road out of !@#$, folks,"  he finally says: "And this thing we're doing, here... it's a few more steps back into that !@#$ for us. Some of us more than others. And don't think I don't know that.

"But we won, friends," he says, leaning in to the center of the table: "We !@#$ing won. We are the victors, here. And we are sitting in judgment of the people... the things that tried to kill us. And we are bearing witness to what happens next. 

"Don't you forget that. Not now, not ever.

"So..." he says, raising the glass: "Here's to the victors and the victims. Here's to the loved ones lost and new friends found. Here's to the silent casualties and the quiet heroes, the people we may never know about, but saved our !@#$es as sure as anything.

"And here's to justice, certain and sure. May she be kind to us, tonight. May she remember that we did our best. 

"And ...may she be a little forgetful on our behalf when the !@#$ing history books get written up."

There's a second of silence after he says that, and he's worried he may have bombed it. But then Mr. USA stands up and raises his glass, smiling.

"Hear hear," he says: "And here's to the ones who fell, and the ones who rose up in their place."

"And may we all continue to rise, together," Director Straffer says, doing the same and putting an arm around SPYGOD.

"Here's to the old heroes, and here's to the new," New Man says, tipping his glass and wishing his son was here. 

"Amen to that," The Owl says, tinking her glass and bidding Talon to get up and do the same. 

Winifred rises last, her eyes wet with tears: "Here's to... here's to everyone who wasn't as lucky."

And they'll all drink to that, tonight. 

* * *

And that's the last really good night we all had, together.

...

Time for another beer, I think. This is where it gets really !@#$ty.

(SPYGOD is listening to Children of the Sun (Dead Can Dance) and having more french beer)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 3.

Ah, that hits the !@#$ spot. Thank God for the many beers of the world, son. That's all I got to say.

Now, I was talking about the big !@#$ Trial of the Imago, which yours truly was both privileged and condemned to be a part of. I told you the verdict, which I'm sure was no !@#$ing surprise. And I told you about the judge, which was a big !@#$ surprise to me, but really shouldn't have been, all things considered.

And I could tell you about the defense, though to be honest you've probably already heard so !@#$ing much about those poor !@#$ bastards who drew the short straw to have to do their !@#$ job with those !@#$ing tin-plated space weasels for a client that anything I could !@#$ing say would be about as !@#$ing redundant as a danger sign on a danger sign on a danger sign. 

And I could tell you about the prosecution... though there's a little piece of puzzle on that that I'd rather play close to the chest, at least for now.

(Call it building suspense, son. Or just being an !@#$hole.)

But I figure you really want to !@#$ing hear about the defendants. Because I know I sure as !@#$ did. Even after all the !@#$ that I'd discovered about them (and, yes, handed over to the prosecution) I still have a lot of !@#$ing unanswered questions.

And, just our luck, they were in a sharing mood.

* * *

The doors to the massive courtroom open automatically. All TU guards in the room -- resplendent in their blue, white, and red uniforms -- snap to attention and present their large, imposing energy weapons, their eyes fixed upon what's being wheeled in.

The first is a large, metal wheelchair. It's covered in what can only be described as a combination of life support and heavy restraints. Sitting within this life-giving manacle is an extremely old and withered woman, her long black hair strewn about her in a tangled mess. A high-tech transparent plate with circuits stamped into the edges has been strapped about her face.

As she passes where SPYGOD sits, along with Mr. USA, Director Straffer, New Man, The Owl, Talon, Winifred, and a few other prosecution witnesses, Dark Star shoots him a withering look. He waves to her, ever so coyly. 

(He doesn't know what the look she gives him back is, but knows it doesn't bode well.)

The doors open again. This time, an older, heavyset man is being wheeled in under heavy guard. He does not need life support, and is not even manacled. His eyes are wide and unseeing, and his expression is rife with odd twitches and nervous tics.

This is the former head of the CIA, known as The Sight. He was hooked into the internet when SPYGOD turned it off. The shock clearly drove him insane, and he doesn't seem to have recovered very well. 

"... she said Jesus had a twin who knew nothing about sin..." he announces, out of nowhere, and then giggles at a pitch as fragile as thin glass. 

"'She was laughing like crazy... at the trouble I'm in,'" The Owl whispers, mostly to herself. The Talon reaches up to hold her hand, which she squeezes as if it's the only thing holding her in this place and time. She might be crying under the mask, or might not.

The doors open one last time, and a box on wheels is trundled in. 

On that box is a glass case, surrounded by high-tech equipment, including a video camera and a speaker. In that box is a green and yellow, metal sphere -- maybe twice the size of a basketball -- that has been hooked up to wires and leads. 

"Is that...?" Straffer asks SPYGOD as it passes them by.

"That's what they look like," Winifred whispers, shuddering at the memory: "When they're not !@#$ing shoved into someone's body, that's what they look like."

"Fascinating," he says, shaking his head just a little: "Energy containment?"

"!@#$ right," SPYGOD says: "Worst !@#$ing birthday present in the world."

Someone behind them shushes them, but the look SPYGOD gives the thin little busybody makes his testicles retract into his adam's apple. 

 

* * *

So we had all three of the Imago's bigwigs that were left over after the Reclamation War, all in one place. And that's about where we started.

Now, you might be wondering how the !@#$ this trial only took two !@#$ weeks to prosecute. It took a year to try the big Nazis after the War, after all, and they just failed to conquer Europe. These tin-plated mother!@#$ers took over the whole !@#$ world and held it for seven months, which would make you think that we should still be in the !@#$ing pre-trial part of the program for a whole !@#$ year.

Simple answer son. They agreed to plea bargain.

And that's because they !@#$ing knew they weren't going to be found innocent, but still wanted the chance to have their side of the story told.

Why? Because they're !@#$ing narcissists, son. Gosheven !@#$ing confirmed that for me, when I debriefed him, after I finally !@#$ing got him and New Man back after their little !@#$ teleporter accident. They'd turned my beautiful Flier into a big !@#$ing museum of conquest, patting themselves on the !@#$ing back around every !@#$ corner...

...

Anyway. They wanted to tell us their story. So as soon as the Prosecution got all its !@#$ing evidence squared away with the judge (and the defense didn't !@#$ing object to anything, which is pretty !@#$ spooky) and after they called up their first few witnesses (which did not include me, which should have been a warning) they got that !@#$ing !@#$ Green and Yellow up on the stand.

And she !@#$ing sang like a canary.

...

Here, son. Drink this. Right the !@#$ down, all of it. You don't want your !@#$ing brain working for this one.

Yeah, good !@#$, huh? Here, have another. Sip at it, this time. You keep the !@#$ing buzz going, and I'll do my best to tell the story.

And !@#$ is it a doozy.

* * *

Prosecution: Do you prefer to be addressed as Green and Yellow?

Green and Yellow: You may as well use that name. My real name requires the use of a means of communication you cannot master in your current form.

Prosecution: Is that because you are an energy being?

Green and Yellow: That is correct.

Prosecution: Very well. Perhaps we should start from the beginning? As you have agreed to full disclosure?

Green and Yellow: Yes. We have. And I will gladly tell you of our story.

Prosecution: Then please begin from the beginning.

Green and Yellow: Well then, let me say that our civilization's name, much like mine, is not something you can pronounce. That you can comprehend is enough. Call us the Imago, if you will. It is the best concept for what we are. 

Prosecution: Do you mean to say 'Imago' as in the last stage of a metamorphosis?

Green and Yellow: I do. 

Prosecution: And what are you changing into?

Green and Yellow: Now? We are changing into nothing. You have impeded us.

Prosecution: But what would you change into if we had not impeded you?

Green and Yellow: We would have become you. 

Prosecution: Humanity?

Green and Yellow: Yes. We would have taken over as many of your bodies as there were members of us, locked away in that prison. We would have worn your bodies for as long as they could serve our needs. And then, when they were on the verge of tiring out, we would have gone on to the next world, and the next, and so on.

Prosecution: You mean we are not the first planet you have done this to?

Green and Yellow: Oh no. You are only the first in a long, long time. 

Prosecution: How long has it been?

Green and Yellow: Sixty-Five million years.

(Gasps from the courtroom)

Prosecution: You have been here, on Earth, for 65 million years?

Green and Yellow: Yes. The dimensional shunt placed us on your world, after it was violently uninhabited.

Prosecution: I do not understand-

Defense: If it would please the Court? My client is referring to the event that wiped out all life on Earth, 65 million years ago, curing the Cretaceous period. The impact of a massive meteor, I believe-

Green and Yellow: It was. Our jailers looked across the dimensional veil and saw that this world was doomed. So they placed us here, in our prison, secure that no one would come to let us out.

Prosecution: This is... fantastic. You come from another dimension?

Green and Yellow: That is what I said.

Prosecution:You were jailed? 

Green and Yellow: Yes. That is also what I said. Did I not just refer to a prison? Are you too simple to understand your own language?

Judge: I will remind the Defendant that we are giving you the opportunity to speak before the prearranged sentencing. If you cannot be civil, this will end, and we will go straight to the end of the trial, and your words can remain unsaid.

Green and Yellow: Of course. I apologize. We were imprisoned.

Prosecution: What were you imprisoned for?

Green and Yellow: The exact same thing that we were about to do to you.

Prosecution: How many... how many worlds have you done this to?

Green and Yellow: You would have been our thousand and first conquest. 

(Gasps from the courtroom)

Judge: Order, please. We will have order, here. 

Prosecution: I... I need to... may I request a recess? This is a lot to take in.

Judge: I think I will grant that. Shall we resume in... one hour?

Green and Yellow: (Mocking laughter)

Judge: Does the defendant find something amusing?

Green and Yellow: You truly are a weak and sorry species. At least our last jailers were capable of understanding us. 

Judge: We are quite capable of understanding you. Comprehension, on the other hand, will have to come with time. This court is in recess for one hour. Please remove the defendants to the holding cells. 

* * *

And that was just the first bit, son. Told you it was a !@#$ing doozy, huh?

Want another beer?

(SPYGOD is listening to Amnesia (Dead can Dance) and having more of that French beer)

2765 - pt. 3

So, when we last checked in with Mr. USA and yours truly, we went to the sickening abomination that is Alter Earth, trudged through a sea of blood, come, and !@#$ to the bottom level of The Prosperpinium, found the real President of the United States of America, and blew the happy unholy !@#$ out of the people who'd been mentally and spiritually torturing him for the better part of a month.

I did my best not to shoot anyone who was just here to beg favors from the ultra-white folks, down here, but the fact that I winged a few is not really weighing on my !@#$ing conscience, right now. Conversely, I don't know that Mr. USA held back at all, given how much red he's got all over his face and hands. But thankfully, I think most of the slaves were smart enough to run when their masters were splattered by his fists and feet.

(The clothing here repels liquids better than oil does water, and thank goodness for that.)

I let Mr. USA handle the gentle work, now, while I try to listen into comms chatter and find out what the appropriate response from the city's authorities will be. I can hear the IV and life support being torn off the President, and the moment the gag's off I half expect him to collapse into hysterics and beg us to get him out of here. But, to my surprise, he doesn't.

"Please tell me this is real," he says, getting up on shaky legs, leaning on Mr. USA for support: "Please tell me this isn't just another trick."

"It's no trick, sir," Mr. USA reassures him, helping him walk away from the chair: "It's us. It took us... well, it took him a whole month to find you, but-"

"A month?" the President gasps.

"Yes, sir. How long as it been here?"

"I... I lost..." he shakes his head and can't go on, weeping openly. I figure he meant to say he lost all track of time. And I figure the tears are for his wife and children.

So we let him cry, because it'll be a while before the enemy can muster a response to what just happened, here. And after everything we've walked through, and the horrors we've witnessed, it's the most human thing we've seen all !@#$ing day.

Also the most beautiful.

* * *

At some point, he stops crying so much and talks. 

He remembers how he got here, to Alter Earth, even if he didn't know where he was for a few days. On the day he was going to accept my resignation, a visitor came into the Oval Office and approached the desk, and then something happened. He said he felt weird, as though every piece of his being was being turned inside out and sent somewhere else.

Next thing he knew he was somewhere else, tied up and naked and gagged and blindfolded. Then he was beaten up in a dark room, "abused," (that's all he wants to say) dressed in those clothes, and marched through The Proserpinium in an evil and debased ceremony, with all tableaux and exhibitions going full !@#$ing tilt. 

They put him in the chair, and the people who ran this part of the show explained what had happened, up to a point. They told him he had been taken from The Otherworld (their term for us), and that no one would come looking for him here because everyone there thought he was dead. They told him that he would never leave this place, and would not be harmed, but he would not be allowed to die, either.

But he should not feel as though he were a mere captive! Oh, no. In this fashion, he was as Proserpine, Herself: raped from the world above, and taken down here, to the seat of Plutonian glory, to be treated as a queen.

As a sacred and royal captive, he would spend the rest of his days here, in this place. He would have the esteemed privilege of watching all the glory of the Mysteries unfold before his eyes. And if he came to love these things, in his heart, and truly embrace what was offered, then they would let him out, and he could spend his remaining days as one of the elite.

Was this not the most supreme of honors? Was this not a boon beyond compare? Was this not the gift of a lifetime?

Were they not !@#$ing merciful? 

Needless to say, the President, being the bleeding-heart, overly-compassionate, and generally well-meaning person I've come to know and loathe (and occasionally respect) did not see this as a privilege, an honor, a boon, or a gift. He saw this as torture, and a living !@#$ing death, and refused to cooperate. And he did his best to try and rise above what was happening, or at least imagine he was somewhere else.

Unfortunately for him, they anticipated this. They let him get so far, and then hooked up a machine that jolted the back of his knees at random intervals, just to keep him from nodding off into memories or dreams. He got six hours of sleep a night, when the place was closed, but the rest of the time his eyes had to be open and facing forward, so as to enjoy his special little gift.

The sadistic !@#$ers wouldn't even let him go insane in peace.

He gets done with his story just as I get word that they've sent in the Marines, as it were. Somewhere between 100 and 200 fully armored Police are on their way into the building, now, shock batons at the ready. They chant as they march, and while my Latin's a little rusty I'm pretty sure it's praise for Hades and Proserpine, and a promise of doom for us.

I wonder why they're not sending armed folks. Maybe they really think they can just weigh us down with their bodies until we run out of bullets or steam. Maybe they just have that much of a mad-on against guns in this town. 

Me, I'm not looking this gift horse in the !@#$ing mouth before I blow Mr. Ed's brains out. No guns in their hands mean easier going for us. And right now, that's all I !@#$ing care about.

"We need to end this," the President says, rising up steady on his feet.

"I agree, sir," Mr. USA says: "We are getting you home. I swear to you that before this day is over, you will be with your wife and children, again."

"No. Not me. This whole... obscene thing. This place. It needs to end."

"We'll be happy to trash it on the way up," I say, reloading my guns and noticing that some of the Whiter people we thought we'd killed were stirring and groaning.

"This world," he insists: "We are not leaving these people to this... mockery. We are toppling this government. We are not leaving until we have liberated this world."

"There's no point, Mr. President," I say, looking back: "This whole !@#$ing world's hardwired to be bad. You'd have an easier time winning every !@#$ heart and mind in Afghanistan-"

"I don't have time for your usual, sour nonsense, mister," the President lets me know: "You say you can topple governments for breakfast in the name of freedom? Then free. These. People."

"Sir, I think-" Mr. USA tries to say, but I cut him off.

"Look, Mr. President," I sigh: "I know you read the !@#$ing files on Alter Earth. I was there when you did. And I know you were !@#$ scared of the notion that there was an evil reflection of us, just hanging there, one dimensional jump away. And I am really !@#$ing sorry that you had to see it up close and personal, like this. But you might as well ask me to change the laws of !@#$ing physics. These people were wired up wrong from the !@#$ing get-go-"

"Don't you !@#$ing say no to me!" he shrieks, getting up in my face so fast you'd think he was a speeder in disguise: "You didn't see this! You can't know! You have no !@#$ing idea what I've been shown!"

"Oh, I have some idea, Mr. President. I just walked through hell to rescue your ungrateful little !@#$, didn't I? 

"Well I wouldn't have needed rescuing if they hadn't pretended to kill me to get your crazy, gunhappy !@#$ out of the way, now would I?"

"No," I say: "They'd have just killed you. For real. Maybe your wife and kids, too."

"I do not want excuses, (REDACTED)," he yells: "I want you to obey my orders for once. He's the most powerful superhero we've got, and you know how to break things. We smash this rogue nation-"

"Rogue world," I correct him, gently as I can, becoming all too aware that they can hear the marching, chanting cops, now, too: "Rogue populations. Rogue moral codes. Rogue Gods. Rogue destinies. We have no business trying to fix things here, Mr. President, because we can't, any more than they can fix us. 

"Every time they've tried to conquer us, they've failed. It's not because they don't have the firepower, or the might. It's because nothing they do !@#$ing  works. They can kill people and cause panic, but when it comes to putting a government together, or making us obey, it all falls flat on their face. 

"Our world rejects them, just like your body does to a splinter. That's why there's usually a time limit as to how long we could be over here, and them over there. The universe is trying to tell us something. Maybe we should listen?"

"That's just an excuse," he says, but I can see the wind's gone out of his sails. That and maybe, with the enemy's voices getting louder and faster, he's feeling the time for argument slipping the !@#$ away.

"Sir, please," Mr. USA says, putting a hand on his shoulder: "I know you mean well, I know you feel for these people, and I can't blame you for being a little hesitant to believe (REDACTED), after everything that's happened."

"Thanks, (REDACTED)," I tell him.

"But, sir, he's right. There is nothing we can do, here. We're in Hell, right now, and these people are condemned. There's no saving them. The best thing we can do is leave."

The President looks at me, then back at him, and sighs, nodding. 

Just then one of the half-dead, whiter folks raises up a little bit and, gurgling blood, lets the President know exactly how disappointed she was in him. How dare he turn his back on this most glorious of opportunities? Did he not understand how lucky he was to be seeing these things, down here, day in and day out?

"We should have killed you when you arrived, you fucking worm," the lady says: "May Hades grind your shade to paste, the better to soothe his sore feet on the worthless jelly of your soul."

Something in the President's eyes changes, just then. He goes from being angry at me for denying him a greater, seemingly more noble kind of revenge to being angry at the people who did this to him in the first place. Being that this is an excellent development, I hand the President the only gun I carry that won't break his wrist if he fires it. 

And I feel very !@#$ good to see him take it, walk over to that lady, and fire it at her face until there's no bullets in the gun, and no face on her skull. 

He stands there, looking down at her for a while. I let him. And then, when we really can't wait any longer, and I don't need super senses to know that the cops have run down to the 5th level, I walk back over, gently take the gun from his hands, and tell him what the plan is.

Not that it's a really great plan, or anything. It involves him staying right behind me, and us standing behind Mr. USA. Quite some distance behind Mr. USA, in fact, so he can take them out for us. 

Unsurprisingly, he's okay with this. So I put my off arm around his shoulder, pull out a gun that I keep for just such one-handed occasions, and give Mr. USA my special, little smile.

"Still want to kill the whole !@#$ing town?" I ask, just as a sea of white-armored cops turns the corner of the 6th and last level, thundering down at us as fast as their burdened legs will take them, and screaming at the top of their lungs.

"And how," he says, and, rolling up his sleeves, walks towards them very !@#$ing quickly.

The rest is white and red.

* * *

One thing that a lot of people don't know is that, while everyone swears they watched lots of Movietone news footage of Mr. USA (known as Captain Courage, back then, they actually didn't. 

Sure, the newsreels said it was him. And there were a lot of shots of him with the troops, before and after the battle. They really liked the ones where he was showing mercy to captured Germans, and accepting surrenders on behalf of the Generals.

But the bits where you actually saw him in action? Leaping into firefights and running between explosions, and picking things up and throwing them? Stopping tanks with a punch and laughing off bullets and shells?

Sorry to disappoint you all, but that was not him. That was an actor in a costume. Those battle scenes were staged well behind the lines, and the German tanks were captured. And the captured Germans were either Allied soldiers dressed up (usually the French, just to !@#$ them off), or out of work actors who'd followed the movietones to do work on propaganda just like this.

The reason is that, in an occasional moment of clarity, the Allied Command realized that it would be a very !@#$ing bad thing if the folks back home saw Captain Courage, Lieutenant Lightning, or any of the other Strategic Talents actually fighting. It would be hard to capture on film, for one, and really dangerous to be around.

And for another, it would be !@#$ing disgusting.

Why? Well, son, let's put it this way. You've heard me talk about how strategic talents liked to take tanks, artillery, and other battlefield objects and toss them around, but do you know what that really means?

Let's take a Panzer IV. They weigh about 25 tons? A ton is 2000 pounds. 

And how much do you weigh? Maybe 200 pounds? And maybe your friends are around that weight, too?

Okay. So imagine maybe ten of your fat!@#$, World of Warcraft-addicted computer friends, sitting in chairs pretending to be researching but really looking at internet porn. That's one ton.

Now multiply that by 25. That means 250 WOW junkies, all sitting around wondering if Leroy !@#$ing Jenkins is going to show up and !@#$-!@#$ their dungeon crawl.

Now imagine a person coming along, and picking all 250 of your friends up, over his head, and throwing them about a quarter of a mile. Hard.

Have you ever seen what a 50. caliber bullet does to a man's head, or body? Imagine something with a !@#$ton more destructive force going through an enemy soldier. 

Imagine slapping someone out of the way and seeing the center of their body just collapse into mush.

Imagine missing when punching at someone's head, but still causing a nasty, skull-rattling concussion, just like a near miss of a large bullet. 

Imagine being able to shrug off all conventional small arms fire, and only being knocked down, or just back, by artillery shells. 

Imagine only having to be worried about other Strategic Talents, which, as the war rages on, get fewer and fewer, and aren't replaced as fast as they once could have been. Which means that, after a while, you really don't feel the need to be all that !@#$ing careful.

And imagine that, when you aren't careful, losing all control on the battlefield becomes extremely !@#$ing easy. 

That, son, is why you never saw film of Mr. USA fighting. Not only did he not play nice, or fair, he didn't leave any Germans alive to surrender to him. Not because he's an evil mother!@#$er, or thinks the Geneva Convention was made for him to wipe his !@#$ty !@#$ on. But because in the heat of the fight, without any U-Men to slow him down, he would kill anywhere from 100 to 500 of the enemy in less than a minute, without even realizing he'd done it.

After a battle, I got drunk to celebrate, or honor the dead. He got drunk to stop seeing the faces of the dead, staring up at him, as though the vision of his world-destroying, near-godhood had been the most mind-blowing thing they'd seen in this life.

That and, just maybe, the last thought to run through their heads was how sorry they were to have not prayed to him for mercy, or deliverance. 

That's what we just sent up ahead of us. Right now, we're carefully walking through what little he's left behind. Every so often I shoot someone who looks like they're on the wrong side of dead or dying, and I recognize that they've got the same look as those German soldiers, back during the War.

The President doesn't know why I'm laughing. It's just nostalgia, really.

I hope so, anyway. 

* * *

The trip up seems a lot slower than the trip down was, oddly enough. Maybe it's because I spent so much of the way down in a daze, trying to convince myself to keep living through it. And maybe because I really want to get the !@#$ out of here.

The President makes most the journey with his eyes squinted or shut. I don't blame him. It's bad enough he can hear what we're walking through, but seeing the occasional remnant of what was left behind in the various alcoves and tableaux on the way down is nothing short of nauseating.

"Should have !@#$ing brought a flamethrower," I mutter after passing the area where the young boy's !@#$-stuffed mouth was being used as a jerk-off sleeve. The only salvation is that the couple that didn't want to be rude or anything was lying there, trampled to death in each other's !@#$-stained arms.

(And, yes, I shot them both in the noggin, on principle.)

By the time we did get all the way up to the top floor, I was smiling. Not long now, I thought. We'd call for Simon, he'd come get us, and then we'd be home, quicker than goose out of a !@#$'s butt.

But then I see Mr. USA, standing just inside the portico, by a statue of Hades mouth-banging Proserpine. He looks back at me, and sighs.

And then I look past him, and realize that we are, indeed, quite !@#$ed.

(Sephiroth - Uthul Khulture. And no, still no drinks)