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

Some time ago -- what now seems several lifetimes in the past -- when Whisper was just starting down the long battery of tests for the Ladykiller Program, her extremely sadistic initial Instructor looked her right in the eyes and told her, point blank "I am going to fail you, soldier. Leave now and save us the !@#$ing bother."

That rather hefty fellow had told every other person up and down the line the exact same thing. And they'd all either gulped, or shrunk, or tried to argue with him.

Her? She didn't even blink. She just smiled and said "You can try, sir."

That slappy answer got her the mother of all chew-outs, and almost did get her bounced out. But someone put a word in the Instructor's ear that she was to be given another chance, and he obeyed. He did, however, do everything possible to make her quit, or drop out (or dead, after a certain point) -- slowly ratcheting up the challenge to the breaking point, and then beyond, no matter who got hurt.

But nothing worked -- it was as if she got just that much better to match his mean-spirited attempts to shake her off. The same could not be said for the others, however, and before long she was the only candidate left standing.

The Instructor didn't instruct much, after that -- just another casualty in the strange, one-person war this sideways-smiling young woman was intent on waging against the world. And when he conferred with her other teachers, much later -- the ones who'd helped make her the killing machine she would become -- they came to the conclusion that she was only ever as good as the opposition she was up against.

She needed to be up against the wall to overcome it.

That hefty fellow didn't live long enough to see her eventually get bounced from the Army, thanks to a bum ticker that was as sadistic as he was. So he didn't witness how she slipped right into professional mercenary circles, and went on to work for just about every regime in the world -- no matter how black, evil, or nasty their leaders, or the mission. He never saw her partial rehabilitation, under SPYGOD, or how she managed to make that go South, too.

(And he would have been !@#$ amused to see how badly she !@#$ed up, when she got weird, went soft, and stopped seeking challenges.)

But if he could only see her now...

Now, that the world outside her New Jersey hideyhole's window is a massive !@#$ing mess of rampaging Specials, murderous imago, and metal-plated hybrid monsters. Now that wave after wave of the beings that said they were here to save us are teleporting in to do the exact opposite, now that their mighty !@#$ing space cannons are dead and gone. Now that the only things standing in their way are what's left of the police and emergency services, people who wisely kept their guns (and are somehow keeping their wits) and newly-minted superheroes.

Now that she has finally found a supreme challenge to rally against.

Some scared slip of a boy in an ill-fitting, white and blue costume -- who doesn't quite know how to use his telekinesis to keep a Blue and Violet monster from using his eyebeams on a crowd fleeing down a smoking, car-strewn street -- is ever so grateful when the thing's head explodes, and it falls down dead and quivering.

"What's your name, kid?" she asks, striding out from behind rubble with a very large, very long, still-smoking rifle in her hands. Weapons, ammo, and gear are strapped to every free inch of her body, and she's wearing a bandana mask over her nose and mouth -- one emblazoned with the lifesize face of the Queen of Hearts, and folded over so that the playing card's nose and mouth are where Whisper's should be.

"Josh..." he says, clearly in awe of her: "Josh Duchamel... er, I mean Blue Force."

"Blue Force, huh," she says, looking at him, and smiling behind her mask: "You're drafted, kid. I'm going up to the tallest !@#$ building we can find, and then, while I'm putting spent uranium anti-shield slugs into every tinhead I can get an LOS on? You're going to cover my !@#$ and make sure they don't sneak up behind me."

"Okay," he says, looking around at the people they just saved, and then back at her: "Who are you?"

"Red Queen," she chuckles, turning to go: "Move it, soldier. I aint-

* * *

"... gonna take my time," Dr Yesterday sings along with the song he's playing, using the hammer like it was a microphone: "I have all the time in the world..."

"Please," the First Lady says, putting herself between the man and her children as they run to the other side of the large control room: "Please be reasonable."

"To make you mine," he warbles, seriously off-key, and pulls out a small, strange ray gun from his pocket: "It is written in the stars above..."

"I know you're in there somewhere..." she says, and then he shoots her. 

It's a weird, chittering beam of white and green energy, and she feels strange, but not hurt. He just looks at her and then, quickly, marches well to the side of her as he heads for the children, hammer up and ready to swing.

"The gods decree!" he belts out, increasing his step: "You'll be right there by my side..."

"No!" She screams, running after him. But then she realizes what's wrong.

Her first stride towards him is normal, but the second is half of that. The third half of that. And before she knows it, she can hardly move at all. 

"Right next to me..." he says, putting the Zeno Pistol away, and returning his attentions to the two girls, who are backed up into a corner and crying: "You can run... but you cannot hide..."

The First Lady screams, as-

* * *

the main group of well-armed and well-endowed genetically-engineered dwarves prick up their ears, get up from their nasty deprivations on the main floor of the Ice Palace, and wonder what the strange vibration they're hearing is.

"Is earthquake?" one of them asks as the noise gets louder.

"Is reactor?" another asks as the floor starts to rumble.

"Is Nazi science boobytrap?" yet another inquires as the floor cracks and crumbles under their feet.

And then there are screams of panic and whoops of surprise as the entire floor collapses in and around them, disgorging a massive drill tank that literally explodes into the room, right in the center of the giant tile swastika that dominated the room.

As soon as the machine stops moving forward, and the drill starts slowing down, a hatch opens up at the back, and out comes a very old man dressed in a very patriotic -- if ill-fitting -- costume. The surviving dwarfs have just enough time to aim their guns at him before he shouts and runs at them, swatting their bullets out of the air like they were no more than buzzing gnats.

And running down the small beings that shot those bullets as though they were less than that.

Behind Mr. USA comes Skyspear, who teleports herself past a burst of gunfire and then behind the dwarf that fired it, the better to kick in the back of his skull. After that comes well-armed Yanabah, who very quickly walks into the melee, capping off shot after expertly-placed shot with her twin revolvers -- not even flinching at what she's facing, or what she does to them. Then comes Doctor Power, who weakly casts a few quick, minor spells to befuddle their foes, or make them sleep, which is what he'd really like to be doing right now.

And then, last but not least, comes Myron: dressed in his long-abandoned Underman guise, wearing cracked sunglasses, and waving the map they were relying on.

"They're in there!" he shouts, pointing to a large and ominous door at the other end of the long room: "Someone get the !@#$ in there!"

Mr. USA doesn't have to be told twice. He smacks, slaps, and smears his way past a gaggle of dwarves on his way over there, and then crashes down the door like it was a set on a cheap movie. Skyspear follows thereafter -- possibly even beating him -- leaving Yanabah to mop up, and Myron to duck back into his machine and wonder if they've gotten there in-

* * *

time to show these fools what pain their folly has purchased, The Dragon thinks, and wills the Flier's forward weaponry to begin firing at The Dignitary, and the ridiculous, re-purposed Nazi UFO his ex-lover is riding atop.

SPYGOD has just enough time to see that he can actually see the city, and then he can't see it for all the cannons, lasers, missiles, and drones it's shooting at them. 

"Evasive !@#$ing maneuvers!" he shouts to Bee-Bee, but the cat's already ahead of him on that one -- dropping them down to just above the waves. SPYGOD aims his gun at the missiles he can see coming their way, taking great pleasure at blowing them out of the sky, but realizing he's just about out of ammo.

Behind him, he can hear the massive, white robot's shields begin to make noises he's never heard before. He turns to look back, and -- thanks to the Chandra Eye -- he can tell that the Dignitary's shields are holding, but starting to deplete.

"Can you hold out, Mister 10?" he asks, hoping the grumbly bastard doesn't give him one of his taciturn answers that don't really answer anything. But, before he can get even a glimmer of a reply, he realizes he's missed at least one missile that's coming for him, instead, and turns to nail it with his gun.

Sadly, he's just a second too late.

The projectile hits Lady Gilda right in the starboard side, causing a massive explosion and tearing a hole right in her side. SPYGOD shouts and tries to hold on for dear life, only to be flung from the flying saucer as it goes into a swift death spiral -- arcing up into the clouds and off to the South as it goes.

"Bee-Bee!" he shouts as he activates his jetpack, realizing he's lost his nearly-depleted gun to Davy Jones' !@#$ing closet: "Are you okay, you mangy Russian !@#$ball? Answer me!"

There's nothing but the sound of the saucer rattling apart. He can't tell over all the other noises and stimuli if his hard-drinking feline companion is alive, dead, or somewhere in-between.

Schroedinger's !@#$ing Demon Cat, he thinks, scowling, and pulls out a pair of knives. 

Up ahead of him, the Imago are coming down to try and finish what the Fliers' weapons started. He grins and shoots up to meet them in battle.

"Picked the wrong !@#$ing day to be here, you !@#$ing tin-plated alien !@#$s!" he shouts as he hurls himself knives-first onto the skull of the closest one: "Let dirty uncle SPYGOD show you how to-

* * *

die, already!" the Talon shouts, kicking the Special she's been pulverizing for the last minute and a half right in the face-plate. With a squeal and the crashing of glass, it goes down, dropping its gun as it does.

And there are so many more right behind it.

"Can't you do another burst, yet?" The Owl yells at the new New Man, who's quite winded and having to rely on a weapon he's looted from their enemies.

"Not just yet," he says, amazed at how out of breath he actually is: "I'm having a hard time recharging. I've never had this happen before..."

"Get over it, please," Talon says, grabbing the gun from the one she just dropped and dropping a few more of them before ducking behind cover: "We really need what you have, right now."

"Politeness, dear," the Owl chides her protege, moments before kicking the Special coming towards them right back into his fellows: "I'm sure our friend's doing the best he can."

"Believe me, I wish I could get over this," he says, clutching at his chest: "It's like... someone's borrowing my power again?"

The Owl considers what that could mean, and smiles just a little, in spite of-

* * *

everything, Thomas is somehow still alive. But it's up to them to find a way to keep him like that.

Winifred, Mark and the SCOUTS hurtle down seemingly endless corridors and ramps, listening to Wayfinder's instructions as he follows them on the cameras, watching them roll the maimed boy's gurney so fast it's a wonder the wheels haven't flown off yet.

"Up ahead, on the left," they hear him say: "The medical facility's there. I have no idea what half of it does, but there should be a machine that puts people into stasis... whatever that means..."

"I know exactly what it means," one of the SCOUTS says: "We put him in there, and it effectively freezes him. He doesn't get any worse, and that gives us time to get the specialists together to save him."

"Sounds like a !@#$ing winner," Winifred says, getting ready to turn the cart to the left.

"Young lady, I don't mind telling you that your language has deteriorated quite a bit," Mark says.

"Just wait til we've got him stabilized," she says, not really giving a !@#$ right now.

Inside the room they crash into are several clear, plastic pods -- each perched on a high-tech dais. All of them light up as they come into the room, and begin speaking easy to understand directions.

"Put him in, huh?" one of the SCOUTS says: "I bet we couldn't figure that out..."

"Less talking, more hefting," Winifred says, and, after they get the burned stump of a boy alongside the closest pod, they all put their hands under him, and -- one, two, three -- put him into the plastic bubble, and then yank his portable life support machines away.

At first, nothing happens. But then the dais lights up as it begins to read his DNA sequence, and diagnose his many ailments. A strange, fuzzy light suffuses the pod, rising and falling in brightness along with the humming of the machine it's connected to.

And then it says that it has begun uploading...

"No, no," Mark says, reaching over to what looks like the main panel: "We want to put him into stasis. Do you understand? Stasis."

"The order is understood," the machine says in a weird, Douglas Rain kind of voice: "However, it cannot be obeyed."

"What do you !@#$ing mean it can't be obeyed?" Mark shouts: "Obey! Put the boy in stasis!"

"According to protocol A-1, uploading of Thomas Samuels is called for," the computer announces: "This order cannot be countermanded."

"What do they mean by uploading?" one of the SCOUTS says, looking around nervously.

"Just what it !@#$ing sounds like," Winifred says, shoving Mark out of the way and trying to get the computer to obey them: "I will !@#$ing disconnect you and use you as a coffee maker if you don't !@#$ing do what we want!"

"Uploading beginning, now," the computer says. Winifred screams and pounds the controls to no avail. The SCOUTS run around, trying to find something to do that will help.

"Wayfinder, can you do something from where you are?" Mark shouts, looking up at the nearest camera he can find: "This computer's trying to kill him!"

"I'll see what I can do," the old man lies, getting to his feet and turning off the communicator he was using. 

He doesn't want the others to hear this.

"You knew this was coming?" his visitor says, stepping out of the shadows.

"I thought as much," he says: "I know how to find you, so it makes sense you'd come for me. And I've felt you nosing around me for days, now, just like a dog."

"Woof woof," the man says, grinning: "That why you kept your bitch around for so long? Did you figure you were safer that way?"

"No. I know what you'd do to her," the old man says, stepping to the side of the monitor bank: "But I also knew you couldn't resist doing it to me, instead, when I was alone. That way you could leave me for the others to find, and imagine their shock."

"Well... that's pretty much correct, old man," his visitor says, slowly moving to close the distance between them: "You know what I am, I take it?"

"I do, yes."

"Oh, please say it," the man says, holding out his hands in a pleading gesture: "So few people on this sorry world have any idea what I really am-"

"A pile of !@#$ wrapped in human skin that thinks it's a man," Wayfinder says, no longer moving, but fixing the man with a flinty stare: "You're a thing that's best kept in the wet dark under a rock, along with all the other nasty pieces of creation. You're the reason people like me have to come up with bull!@#$ myths and stories to explain to children how the Creator could have thought to make something like you, instead of kind and gentle things. And you're so far gone that nothing I could ever say or do would shame you, or call you to a higher code."

"Oh, I have a higher code," the man replies, pulling out a very long, sharp knife that's been rubbed in what looks and smells like human !@#$: "You just can't see it, you being so debased by what you think are virtues."

"Well, I guess the wasp that lays its eggs in a dead child's belly thinks its a hero, too."

"So, do you know what happens now?"

"I know what you think is going to happen, wasichu," Wayfinder says, pulling out a knife of his own and making ready to fight: "But I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

"I guess we fucking will," the other SPYGOD says, grinning ear-to-ear and charging in for the kill.

And, as they fight -- and one of them dies -- the sounds of Thomas' unstoppable uploading gets louder and louder behind them.

(SPYGOD is listening to A Question of Time (Depeche Mode) and having a Wake Up Dead stout)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have thirty minutes from... now.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How would anyone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" he asks.

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting back where they came from.

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

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

And brass.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

That and stay alive.

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

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

"I can't do that-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Aztec ghosts rouse themselves first, perhaps because they have the least to lose.

One moment the giant, white cube to the West of Mexico City is sitting in the sun, unmolested and surreal. The next it is surrounded by legions of resplendently-feathered warriors -- wispy, transparent, and ready for battle.

And very, very angry.

What happens next is best likened to what happens when an animal has the misfortune of falling sick on the plains of Africa, right in front of a column of driver ants -- only sped up by a factor of a thousand. First there is a cube, then there is a cube covered by hordes of obsidian-blade wielding Aztec ghosts, and then there is nothing but a smoking, broken heap of otherworldly, white plastic.

To the crystal eyes of Deep Ten -- not really attuned to ectoplasmic threats -- it seems as though the cube has fallen apart on its own accord. And by the time it fires at what's left of it, hoping to annihilate its unseen attackers, the ghosts have moved on to their next target.

And then, shortly thereafter, the next after that.

Bolstered by their success, the other assembled, weird armies of the world surge into overdue action. Squads of planes that look more like Mayan temples than aircraft hurl themselves at the Imago's installations, dodging particle beams and orbital heavy lasers with uncanny ease as they destroy target after target. Squads of Specials in Eastern Europe are suddenly overrun by black-clad dhampir commandos and aging men and women trained to seek and kill renegade strategic talents, giving the rusty, Soviet cyborgs they brought along the time needed to aim their decrepit, heavy weapons at their true targets.

Men become tigers and attack squads of Specials. Mountain warriors no one's seen since the Hong Kong handover come from nowhere and slaughter their enemies with long knives that shouldn't be able to cut through their armor, yet somehow do. Elephants modified for war stomp down the walls to the white tent cities of the plains and take the battle to the nearby cubes, howling and whooping as their ancestor spirits infest their weapons, making them more than a match for metal and plastic. 

In the mountains of Afghanistan, the plains of Mongolia, the Jungles of Vietnam. In the suburbs of Paris, the north of London, the outskirts of Madrid. In the savannas of Tanzania, the sprawls of Kenya, the slums of South Africa.

The world is fighting back, now -- coming to the aid of those few, brave shadow people who have fought and died on their behalf. There is no longer an option to do otherwise.

And as the weapons platform above their heads sends beam after beam down to punish their arrogance -- the simple, base arrogance that men should be free to conduct their own affairs -- even more strange armies follow in their wake.

The tide has turned. The war has gone weird.

And what it will leave in its wake is anyone's guess.

* * *

Alpha Base Seven is a tomb -- cold, silent, and potentially eternal.

The particle cannons made short work of what little remained. Nothing that the survivors of 3/15 had rebuilt and adapted is still intact. Nowhere remained intact.

No one survived.

On his way to find what he's looking for, Director Straffer encounters numerous corpses, floating weightless in the smoldering, shattered chambers and tunnels. Their bodies ruptured by exposure to the void -- mouths filled with bloody froth, eyes started from their sockets -- they trail red droplets behind them as they tumble slowly through their high-tech mausoleum.

He passes them, trying to avoid touching them, or even looking at them. He does not want to see their faces. He knows that if he sees someone he actually liked -- and there were a few -- he might waste precious seconds regarding their fate, and apologizing for having failed them.

And right now, in this moment, he does not have the luxury of sadness or apology.

He stumbles through the wreckage, climbing over and under the piles of rock, plastic, and steel. He pushes aside what he can, and scrambles over what he cannot. He forces open massive, stuck doors, and rifles for keys through the pockets of the dead.

And then, at long last, he gets to where he needs to be.

In a makeshift hangar, not far from what was the secondary control center, sits the base's last intact lifeboat. And, by some miracle, it was not even scratched by the attack.

The lifeboats were small and pathetic things, meant only to be used if all other means of evacuation failed. They could carry three people into near-lunar orbit, the better to be picked up by a rescue ship and ferried back to Earth. And they could keep those three people alive for about a week as they waited for deliverance from whatever fate had befallen their base.

After 3/15, there was just one lifeboat available. Some of the survivors said they should board it and try to contact Earth, in the hopes of getting the others rescued. Most of them realized that no rescue could come from that direction, and that if they launched it, their attackers would know they were still alive, and set about finishing the job.

And that's why Straffer isn't planning on launching it. He just needs a few of the things it has on board. If they work the way he hopes they will, he might just be able to put things right, again. He might actually be able to fix the mess today's treachery has created.

And if he's really lucky, he might just be able to survive that fixing.

* * *

"... have to remember that, when they injected us at Camp Rogers, no one had any idea what was going to happen," Mr. USA says to Mark as they rest up against a wall, on the way to the blasted, wrecked infirmary: "As it was, we were lucky more than half of us didn't die."

"I heard about it," Mark says, standing ready to catch the old man if he falls: "The original Owl came in afterwards to train you guys. He saw some of the results..."

The old man nods and smiles: "I remember. I was a cocky little son of a gun, flush with new powers and wondering why they didn't just let us loose on Hitler right then and there. He kicked my butt to the ground the first time I went toe-to-toe with him. Didn't even break a sweat."

Mark laughs, and then thinks better of it:"Sorry, that was rude of me."

"Don't be. I deserved it. And I knew it. After that, I smartened up... mostly."

"I guess we all need to learn a thing or two the hard way," Mark says, knowing just how true that was.

"We sure do. But he was a real gentleman, Mark. Someone to look up to and be proud to know."

"I consider you the same, sir," Mark says: "I wish there was something I could do, here."

"Don't worry," Mr. USA says, leaning forward and cracking his arms and hips, grimacing as he does: "I'm getting it back, I think. Maybe another few hours and I'll be back up to speed."

"So you were saying about the treatment?" Mark says, hands still ready to catch him if he falters, again, but slowly realizing he IS actually regaining his balance: "Your aging?"

"Well, there was some thought it might retard the aging process, and they were right. But it was like the powers. It all depended on the individual. Some of us stopped aging altogether, up to a point, and some of us just slowed."

"And you?"

"Near as we could tell, I didn't age at all for a few years, and then after the war I started going reverse exponential."

"Oh?" Mark says, smiling as the old man's gait becomes more even as they go.

"Yes. As near as they could tell, I aged one only year for every four for about 16 years, there. And then one for every three for the next nine, and every other year for the next two. After that, I starting aging normally, again, but unevenly. I didn't get wrinkly or feeble, or anything like that. I just had to start using hair dye to avoid looking older."

"Well, like I said, the last time I saw you...?"

"I was about 87 and looked on the kinder side of 65."

"And now?"

Mr. USA sighs, straightening up a bit more: "Well, Mark, I think I see why ladies don't want you to ask their age, after a certain point. But how about we say I'm 154-"

"Jesus!" Mark gasps.

"And let's pretend I'm only in my 130's, somewhere," the old man winks at him: "In truth, I think I hit terminal velocity thirty years ago. I don't seem to be getting any more decrepit. It just takes me a little longer to bounce back whenever I go all out, is all."

"Why?" Mark says: "What happened? How is this possible?"

"It's a long story," Mr. USA sighs, putting a hand on his shoulder: "Let's just say that, after the War, I did something really dumb. And I didn't realize just how dumb it was until last February, or so. And I told myself, then, if there was any way to make up for it, I'd do it."

"And did you?"

"Oh yes," the man says, his gait returning to normal: "And I had to do it the hard way..."

* * *

What is happening? the leader asks, sensing that something is wrong.

"I'm not certain," The Fist says, looking at his screens and wondering why things haven't changed. He has fired at Tokyo three times, and at the giant, striding robot twice, and yet the massive city is still standing, and the robot is still walking.

Where is the Android? The Dragon asks: Is she protecting the city, or the white robot?

"Let me check..." he says, adjusting his viewscreen a few levels, so that he can find the flying girl. And, as soon as he does, he gasps, unable to believe what he's seeing.

Well? The Motion asks: What's going on, Fist? My eyes have all burned out from watching the particle beams.

The Fist just stares, uncomprehending. The android girl is floating in the air, between the colossus and the city it is walking away from, her arms raised in either direction. Her skin is glowing a strange color, and the air around the Dignitary and the city is flecked with motes of light the same color.

"Um..." he says, shaking his head: "This is incredible. The little !@#$ is shielding both the robot and the city, somehow."

How can that be possible? the leader hisses: Can she be that powerful?

Yes, she can, The Dragon says: Perhaps you never saw her in action. The Organization did a superb job of hiding her exact capabilities-

How long can she keep this up? the leader asks.

"I don't know," the Fist says: "I could fire every cannon I have at her, but then I'd have to ease up on the forces attacking us. And that might be fatal at this juncture-"

I don't have time for this !@#$, The Motion says: How about we let the big dogs loose?

If you mean we send our freed brothers and sisters into battle, I say that would be a foolhardy idea, the Dragon counsels: It might tip our hand too soon-

A few squads, aimed at that !@#$ robot, just to add their firepower to the mix and drain her shields, the Motion offers: I can do it before I head out. Just give me the word.

The word is given, the leader commands: Fist, continue to strike at the city and the robot. Motion, beam them in just outside the cannon's strike zone. Dragon, begin to formulate a firing strategy in case that robot does succeed in coming this way. 

We must win this day, my loves. And to win we must be ready for every eventuality. 

Of course, they all obey. And this is because of both the wisdom of her words, and the hint of menace they can detect, there. It speaks volumes that she is no longer so concerned about The Sight, and what has happened to him. They know that, even if they should win this day, there is a good chance she may just leave him screaming in his own prison -- a sad casualty of war.

None of them want to wind up like him. 

And as they adjust their plans, the android they are so concerned with grits her metal teeth, unwilling to budge. She knows that she cannot keep this massive expenditure of energy up for much longer, and can only hope that her allies find a way to end the deadly threat from above, and soon.

But she will not bend or break. She will defend both the city and the robot that is walking away from it for as long as she can. Even if she must expend every last curl and trace of energy to do it, and burn out every last one of her circuits in the attempt, she will.

She was never promised an easy time of things, either in her time or this one. She was never told that she could expect simple choices or easy challenges. She was only ever given the opportunity to serve, and the rationale for doing so.

And if she must die in that service, then she is happy to oblige. Even now, weary and in great pain, she smiles brightly -- happier than she has been in years.

Could she be anything other, in this moment in time?

* * *

"I just don't like it," Myron says, getting ready to affix the small, glowing, brass cube to the great machine: "It really seems too easy."

"It is, yes," Winifred agrees, handing him a lead: "But do you have a better !@#$ing idea?"

"No," he admits, taking the lead and attaching it to one end of the cube: "I don't. And that bothers the !@#$ out of me."

"It hasn't been the best day for good ideas."

"No," he says, putting another lead on the cube, and making sure the switch attached to it is in the OFF position.

"Speaking of which, do you have an idea about what do to when we get back?"

He looks at her: "What do you mean?"

"I mean, with the satellites gone, the Imago and Specials are still fighting. And that means Deep Ten is still firing down at us. And that means fighting them is going to be really !@#$ difficult."

"Then I guess we'll have to come up with another plan," Myron says, checking the energy flow: "And hopefully it'll hold up better than this one did."

"I have every confidence in you," Skyspear says, looking a little more rested, now: "God willing, we will succeed."

"I sure hope so," Winifred says, looking over at Thomas, who's breathing is becoming shallower all the time: "I just keep thinking things are about to get really !@#$ ugly."

* * *

"Who are you?" the former First Lady of the United States of America asks, not liking the look of the man that's just teleported into her living room, where she's been hiding with the children since the rumbling and fighting started, and since they learned that her husband -- their father -- is still alive.

"Oh, you probably don't remember me, Ma'am," Doctor Yesterday says, taking off his hat while addressing her: "I usually stayed in the background and handled the big science while the guys in the flashy costumes did all the punching. But I used to be in the Freedom Force, once upon a time."

"Oh!" she says, getting up and extending a hand: "That's right... Bob, isn't it? And your wife was Geri-"

"I prefer Doctor, actually," he says, putting his hat back on his head before shaking her hand. And something about how he interrupts her, and how long he holds her hand in his, unnerves her just a little.

"Well, what can I do for you? I heard some of the heroes were out, fighting?"

"Yes! We are. And that's why I'm here. We need to collect you and take you somewhere safe."

She blinks: "Is anywhere safe, right now?"

"You'll see," he says, gesturing towards the two girls as they sit on the couch: "It's probably only a matter of time before the Imago show up, and then... well, let's not get into that. I can take you someplace safe to wait until this all blows over."

"Is daddy there?" the oldest girl asks.

"Yes he is, sweetie," Yesterday says, smiling at her: "You'll be safe as houses there, I guarantee it."

The First Lady smiles at him, but it's a hollow and guarded smile: "Did he say anything?"

"I'm sorry?"

"My husband," she continues: "Did he tell you to tell me anything?"

For a moment there's some confusion in his eyes, and then it's gone, and he tells her the sort of things any husband presumed to be dead might tell his wife when he's back to life, and fighting to regain their world. But in that moment of confusion, the First Lady stops listening, and starts thinking of a way to get her and the children away from this man, and out of this house.

"Well, how about we pack up, first?" she says, looking over at the girls: "Go get the small suitcases and pack up a few things, okay?"

She looks at them and half-smiles, and they smile and charge off, doubly excited. Not only do they get to see dad, again, but they also get to sleep over someplace! What fun!

As soon as they're out of earshot, she turns and looks at him: "Please don't hurt them," she asks: "Whatever you're going to do, take me. Leave them here."

"I don't think so," Doctor Yesterday says, his smile sharp and cruel: "We're going to need all three of you for what comes next."

"What's-"

"I'll make you a deal, though," he says, taking a step closer to her, and looking down at her: "If you say nothing, and cooperate, I won't make you pick which one dies here and now, in front of you."

She gasps and takes a step back: "Please..."

"We need three, but I can do without one," he says, stepping even closer, this time: "Maybe even two. Maybe if we tell him to surrender and stop after we kill those two little !@#$es, and it's just you, he'll be too shocked to think straight. You want to try it like that?"

"No..."

"Then you keep your !@#$ mouth shut," Doctor Yesterday hisses, running a finger down the side of her face: "And tell them to dress appropriately. It's a little cold, where we're going."

"You're evil," she says, some measure of steel coming back into her eyes: "You will pay for what you've done."

"We are what we are," he says: "And if we were really evil, we wouldn't be trying to stop this from getting worse, now would we?"

Something about his smile makes her blood run about as cold as where he's intending to take her.

(SPYGOD is listening to New Life (Depeche Mode) and having a few bottles of Antarctic Nail Ale)