Missing Time: 11/28/12 - This Is What You Are - Pt. 3

10/04/12
Yekaterinburg, Russia
 
"You do not understand our story, O SPYGOD," Orange and Gold says, ever-smiling: "You know only the edges of it. You know nothing of who we were, or how we came to be here, or why. You see our actions as evil, perhaps monstrous, but you of all people should know that a people will do anything to survive."

"And you should !@#$ing understand that we might have helped you, if you'd just !@#$ing asked," SPYGOD says: "All you ever had to !@#$ing do was ask for help."

"That is not in our nature, O SPYGOD."

"Well, neither is rolling over and dying, O !@#$face. We will also do anything to survive. And if there's one thing I can do, it's do anything." 

"You can, indeed. We have clearly underestimated you, O SPYGOD. It will not happen again."

SPYGOD smiles as the Specials re-aim their guns right at him.

"Just so you know," SPYGOD says, looking right at the Imago: "Everything that !@#$ing happens from here on out? That's on you. All of you."

"It is indeed," the Imago says, and gives the order to fire.

The Specials make ready to pull their triggers. Their gauss rifles -- capable of killing even SPYGOD -- hum and hiss.

SPYGOD outstretches his arms, as if he is ready to embrace death at last.

And then, just before the super-swift, heated projectiles can turn him into a hot, gay BBQ, he does something no one's seen him do since just after the War -- he pulls a shining, silvery sword out of nowhere, and puts it down between himself and his foes.

Except that it's not much of a sword, anymore; It's big and bulky, oblong and misshapen. It almost looks like it's developed cancer from disuse, or something. 

As SPYGOD positions it, and quickly ducks down behind it, he forces the sword to expand even more. It becomes an aegis of sorts, creating a barrier between himself and his enemies. 

And as soon as it's as wide as he thinks he can make it, he holds still and prays that this will still work.

That the shooting doesn't happen right away he puts down to their surprise. That it doesn't happen a second or two after they should have stopped being surprised is, itself, quite surprising. But then the seconds roll by, one into another, and SPYGOD realizes that they should have tried to kill him by now.

So he very carefully looks up, creating a small hole in the shield so he can see what's going on.

What he sees is the last thing he saw before he pulled the sword out and ducked down. The Imago, floating. The Specials, aiming. The guns, ready to fire. 

"Well that's !@#$ weird," he says, still not daring to move.

Yes, it is, a voice answers him. He quickly spins to see who it is, and is mystified by what he sees there.

"Who the !@#$ are you?" he asks, searching for an appropriate gun to aim  at the wavering, indistinct figure.

A friend, the presence says, walking past SPYGOD and his sword-turned-shield, and heading for the Specials and their Imago master: I know that sort of answer doesn't make you happy, but a longer explanation would be... well, longer. And you don't have a lot of time. 

"I seem to have a !@#$ing lot of it, all of a sudden," SPYGOD says, watching as the Presence quickly (but carefully) repositions each and every Special so that their guns are pointed at one another: "Are you... I mean, you look kind of !@#$ing familiar, but-"

Here's the deal, (REDACTED), the presence says, surprising SPYGOD by using his real name: As soon as they realize that these people haven't caught you, they're going to use Deep-Ten to wipe out this entire area, just to get to you.

"Unacceptable," SPYGOD growls, still thinking of that train full of doomed people: "We have to stop it-"

We can't. The best we can do is give you time to get out of here.

"What, you mean you can !@#$ing stop time, but you can't !@#$ing do anything to save these people?" SPYGOD shouts, aiming his gun at the figure as he makes the sword-shield go away: "That's bull!@#$, pal. If you can stop time like this, there's got to be something we can do-"

There is, the presence says, sliding over to where SPYGOD stands -- faster than he can see, much less hope to pull the trigger: you can shut up, trust me, and go for a ride. 

And then they're somewhere else entirely. But as soon as SPYGOD realizes that someplace is most likely in Japan -- in an abandoned building, far from prying electronic eyes -- the presence has all but vanished.

"Well, !@#$," SPYGOD says, putting away the gun and looking out the window. He's just in time to hear the Earth's atmosphere part as a pulse cannon touches down, over in Russia.

"!@#$," he mutters, not at all happy at how this rather !@#$ty day has gone.

* * *

Which is how you got to Japan without anyone knowing you were there, the Presence says, patting SPYGOD on the cheek as more of his lungs goosh out of his upside-down mouth: But you had it right. You had seen me before. Sort of.

SPYGOD coughs some more, glaring up at the mysterious figure -- a being not even the Chandra Eye can clearly make out.

That's right. I was at Bastogne, too. I didn't appear until you walked away to try and relieve yourself. And by the time you found out the hallway went on forever, and decided to just use the wall, it was all over. 

But you did catch sight of me, didn't you? Maybe just a little while you shook the last few drips away. Just enough that, when I helped you, last month, you weren't completely surprised to see me.

And then there was that dream, the Presence goes on, getting a little more comfortable, beside SPYGOD's head: Except... wait, that hasn't happened yet. But it will. And soon.

A quizzical look, even through extreme pain.

Sorry, (REDACTED). When it comes to time, I'm on the outside looking in, most of the time. You might see our meetings as a linear progression, since that's how you experience time, but it's more than likely that my schedule for meeting you is well out of synch with yours. 

I go where I'm needed, when I need to be there, and the rest of the time I'm just looking down, or inside, or beyond. 

Yes, I know it sounds confusing, the Presence sighs, still reading puzzlement on SPYGOD's pained face: But believe it or not we have had this conversation, before. Several of them. In fact, while I haven't had them yet, you have had them with me, in my future. Which is your past.

SPYGOD's eye goes wide at that.

Took you long enough, the Presence says, dropping the blurring field. His face is a fantastic silver mask, and his high-tech costume is also silver -- shimmering and glittering and gleaming in the sun.

It's Shift.

"You..." SPYGOD coughs, trying to reach out a hand.

"Yes," Shift says, reaching out to take it: "It is me, my friend. It has been me, all along. And even when it hasn't been, it has."

SPYGOD tries to say he doesn't understand, but fails to overcome the stream of goo rushing from his chest to his mouth.

"I know," he says: "You saw me die, then. You see me live, now. I sounded different, then. I am different, now. Two limited lifetimes, one immortal life. Such is the nature of godhood, when all is said and done."

"Don't... you aren't..."

"I am," Shift says, tapping his chest: "All we ever were was an idea made flesh. And you of all people should know that ideas are very hard to kill or destroy, even if Heaven decides otherwise. If all else fails, we just find a new body to exist within.

"And thanks to you, I have done just that."

SPYGOD coughs some more, twitching.

"Yes, I know. You have more questions. And I promised you secrets. But first, let us look at yours."

With that, Shift gets up, and spreads his hands wide across the scene. As he does, it's filled with tiny, shimmering windows in space and time: pockets of places and scenes from long ago, or not too long ago.

And in those small replayings of times past, SPYGOD sees himself -- however inverted.

He sees his earliest days as a hero, fighting supernazis on the road to Berlin. He sees himself sneaking around behind the Iron Curtain, after the War. He sees himself in Korea, Vietnam, South and Central America, Europe, Africa, the Middle East, Asia.

He sees himself with the Liberty League, the Freedom Force, and the COMPANY. He sees himself with heroes and villains, spies and freedom fighters, destabilizers and nation builders. With President after President, and politicians and appointees galore.

He sees himself running the COMPANY. He sees himself fleeing from it. He sees himself trying to recreate it, however restrained by this new, post-Imago world order.

He sees himself sober and drunk, happy and sad, angry and angrier. He sees himself !@#$ing, !@#$ing, and !@#$ing.

And all the while, as he watches, he sees himself in charge. He sees himself making decisions, for good or ill. He sees himself giving commands, either knowing their consequences or no longer caring. He sees himself doing what needs to be done, however flawed his understanding of what led to these events, or how they might play out.

He sees a man he was, there. He hardly recognizes him, now.

"And that is the problem, isn't it," Shift asks, waving at one example in particular: "Look at yourself, here, (REDACTED). All that hard work you had to do to get the underground armies of the world on your side for that last battle against the Imago. All those deals, all those promises, all those bargains and tricks and called-in favors...

"Oh, look," he says, pointing to one particularly hair-raising negotiation: "You do make a very convincing Chinese prostitute. If I didn't know you as well as I did, even I might have been fooled."

SPYGOD tries to say something but the words get caught on something. It might actually be his diaphragm, oozing into what's left of his throat.

"Yes, I know," Shift goes on: "You really put yourself on the line for that one, and Gods only know how you are ever going to pay that back, much less live it down.

"But that is the point. You didn't even stop to think about any of that, did you? You just looked through your little black book, kicked down doors, and got what you wanted."

"Had to..." SPYGOD croaks, wondering how much more lung he can lose at this point: "No one else..."

"Exactly!" Shift all but shouts, pointing back at him: "That is exactly it, my friend. No one else can do these things. No one else is you. This is your calling. This is who you are.

"This is what you are," Shift continues, stepping in closer and continuing on: "You are the one who makes it happen, (REDACTED). You make the hard choices, the impossible decisions. You throw your life on the line because no one else will do it.

"And that's why all... this," he says, gesturing to the dead and dying around them: "Is so massively disappointing. Because you could have done much better, my friend. So much better than this."

SPYGOD grits his teeth: "So could... you-"

"Could I? Is this my thing to do? I patrol time and space, friend. I deal with things even you can't see, and problems even you can't imagine.

"In fact, as we are speaking, I am several different places at once. A clutch of chronovores are sliding into New Zealand. A time paradox is threatening at the South Pole. Certain safeguards and stopgaps I had put in place, in ages past, need to be checked up on and reinforced this very second, this very day. Locks must be checked, barriers strengthened, the fabric of reality shored up...

"That is my calling, my friend. And while I am happy to help you with yours, when I need to, the rest of the time... well, I'm really busy.  And besides, how would you have taken if if I had just appeared, while you were putting this plan together, and told you it wouldn't work?"

Not very well, SPYGOD has to admit. But then...

"Yes, here I am, berating you on your bad plan, after all. But let us consider this an intervention-"

"Liked you better... when you didn't... !@#$ing... talk..."

"I know. And I am sorry. But this time, it is necessary. And not just because of the dead, here, but because of what it signifies for times to come.

"You've done this before, you know," Shift says, gesturing to the remade nation he's just assassinated: "Gone it alone. Been so angry at your circumstances and orders and leaders that you've ignored all the friends and allies you have, and all the resources at your beck and call, and just strapped on all the guns you can fit onto your jumpsuit, and whatever else you can fit into your sword..."

He looks back at SPYGOD, smiling: "And that, by the way, was a stroke of genius. All those times you amazed people by putting things out of nowhere? They were just all hidden in your sword, all along. That was good thinking on your part, (REDACTED)."

"Thanks..." SPYGOD coughs: "Thought so... myself... !@#$..."

"Of course, it did lead to you having to rely on guns, but maybe that's not such a bad thing, given your profession."

"Can't stab someone from... half a mile away..."

"This is true," Shift continues, stepping through a small portal between two images and reappearing beside SPYGOD's tree: "That is not one of your skills. Not yet, anyway."

"What...?"

"Ah, I forget myself," Shift chuckles: "But then, so have you, (REDACTED). Consider what you have to play with. Consider who you can call for aid. You have geniuses and madmen. You have heroes and villains. You have a demon and an angel, for God's sake.

"Do you not think of of them could have found a way to save these people, somehow?"

No. He doesn't. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes.

"But yet, you went it alone. You told no one, except for your lover. You commandeered the people you needed to destroy that woman's extra bodies. You took the dangerous things out of storage.

"And then you came here, and killed millions of people, just because you did not want to get anyone else involved in your mistake."

"My mistake..." SPYGOD says: "I let her out... she got free..."

"Yes, but it was not completely your fault she did so. She had help, voluntary and otherwise. And just as you did not need to shoulder the entire blame and responsibility,  yourself, neither did you need to solve the problem all by yourself. Plans work better when you get other people involved. You should know that by now."

"Not always..."

"Well, how about this, then?" Shift says, gesturing to himself: "This is the result of one of your better plans, SPYGOD. This is what happens when you really think about what to do, and how to do it, and who to use to get what you need done.

"I am here, today, because of you."

And before SPYGOD can cough up anything else, the Super-God does something that, in all the years they've known one another, he has never seen this man do.

He takes off the mask.

Beneath the gleaming, smiling silver is the face of a youngish man -- and a familiar one at that. It takes SPYGOD a moment to realize who it is, as the last time he saw him he was much younger, and was most certainly not smiling.

"Questions, yes," Simon Pure says, his face flickering: "But I have talked enough for one day. It is enough for you to know that, when the time is right, you and Mr. USA really do need to have a talk about what happened to him, and to me."

With that he gestures, and the many pockets of times gone past disappear. And he kneels down and holds SPYGOD's head up, looking into his eyes.

"Let this be a sacrifice, (REDACTED)" Shift pleads with him: "Let this be the end of your old mistakes. Let what comes from this be the penance you pay for them. Let what springs forth from this be the start of something entirely new and different.

"Learn from this, SPYGOD," Shift whispers, putting his mask back on: "Heal and learn."

And he's gone, and there's nothing but the tree, the dead, and SPYGOD -- somewhere between all of them.

* * *

He hangs on the tree for nine hours, not sure if he's going to live or die -- not even certain that the conversation he just had was real or imagined.

By the end of that time -- reasonably certain that he's no longer in danger of choking on his own fluid -- he carefully pulls himself up, and stands on his own two feet again. 

Walking to the shore is painful, both physically and otherwise. With each step he sees the dead, arrayed around him. He can hear no heartbeats, here. No one has survived this holocaust but himself.

At the shore, he sees one last echo of Zalea, lying face-down on the beach. A massive bloom of brownish-red sand lies beneath her head -- a tombstone of sorts, and an accusation.

For a moment he almost kneels down to pull her head from her shoulders, just so he can have the head of another enemy on his wall. But he realizes that would be a bad idea. For all he knows, she might be able to resurrect herself from even that.

So he leaves her be -- taking only a second to flip her the bird -- and then wanders into the surf, wondering if anything can make him clean, today. 

Anything at all. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Pure (Gary Numan, demo version) and having a lot of shame)

Missing Time: 11/28/12 - This Is What You Are - Pt. 2

"So that's the Nation of Atlas, huh?" SPYGOD said some time later, as the car came to a stop in a lot in the center of Jerusalem, overlooking the remade nation he'd just invaded: "Guys doing all the brute work, girls doing the smart stuff, and no kids?"

"Oh, most of the children are in school, right now," the frontseat Zalea Zathros explained, allowing her backseat self to continue making out with Tish: "But we've gotten a few of them up here, just so this can be seen by a suitable representation of the populace."

"You want to go for an all-in-the-family vibe when you try and kill me," SPYGOD snorted, lighting up another cigarette and looking out the window at all the people that had assembled there, in the lot. The eager look on their faces was !@#$ed unnerving.

"That's a rather crude way to put it, but, yes," frontseat Zalea admitted, opening the gull-wing doors on both sides: "If you'd be good enough to exit the vehicle?"

SPYGOD did, making sure to get a good look around as he did. It was a circular lot, fenced in, with some lethargic olive trees along the periphery. From here you could get a good view of things, and that was probably why she'd chosen this.

That and the center spot was probably in the path of several of her heat beams.

He'd figured that was going to be the end of the guided tour she'd been good enough to give him. All the way from Ashdod, she'd been going on and on about all the great things they'd accomplished since she'd revived the nation. All their societal and technological advances, all their plans for the future. All that stock-standard, gloating supervillain bull!@#$.

He hadn't been listening, though. He'd been looking out the world at the transformed cities, and remembering things that had happened there, both to and around him.

They'd passed a cafe where he'd once told Golda Meir's personal secretary to suck the !@#$ from his !@#$hole, over something that was still !@#$ing classified, all these years later. They'd gone by the building that now stood in the spot where Molchanie once ran their strategic talents program, before one of their own people had rendered it uninhabitable by normal humans. The bar where he'd toasted certain HAGANAH agents for catching up to a rather hideous Nazi war criminal in 1969.

(The sad street in Tel Aviv where BUSH had killed Geri and Johan -- the loss still heartbreaking, even after all this time.)

All those times, all that history -- all of it was gone, now, except as minor pieces in the minds of the frankensteined people that now labored to rework and perfect this transformed nation.

And with each mile -- as one Zalea had essentially kissed a mirror right next to him, while another kept talking and talking -- his stomach had become exponentially sour, and he found himself wishing he'd just done what he'd wanted to do, the moment he'd watched Zalea's televised announcement about what she'd done here.

Nuke the whole !@#$ thing from orbit, just to be !@#$ing sure.

* * *

Yes, and that would have helped... how, exactly? the Presence asks him, taking him through the day's events one step at a time: Just scattered their ashes and atoms, again? Sent waves of radiation down onto the neighbors? Made the world just that much more damaged, especially after what the Imago did to it?

SPYGOD tried to talk, but couldn't. It was all he could do to keep breathing, what with his lungs dissolving almost as fast as they could heal. 

You see, that's always been your problem, the Presence continued: They say that when all you have in your toolbox is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Well, all you tend to have in your toolbox is weapons. Even that sword you don't use, much, anymore? Imagine all the things you could do with that, if you'd just expand your mind a little.

A sour look from SPYGOD.

Oh, I know. Believe me, I know all the work you've put into the spy game, (REDACTED).  All those plots and plans. All those schemes and conspiracies. It's just delicious how much time and trouble you put into making that huge web of cause and effect, and all the little things that happened when one strand or another got pulled on.

But in the end, there's only one thing that can happen with you. One final solution... if you'll excuse the phrase, especially in these circumstances. And that's that, sooner or later, when everything else fails, there's just you, and a gun.

And some poor fellow who walks right into two bullets, right to the eyes.

The presence tapped his obscured peepers for extra effect.

Case in point, what's happened here today, it said, gesturing to the dead and dying: All these poor people. They had no idea what happened to them when they died, and had no way to avoid coming back. And then you come here, today, and all you can bring them is death. 

More angry looks, coupled with a few weak coughs as the bloody stream of lung-mush gets even worse.

Well, perhaps, and perhaps not. But you know what they say about shooting guns, (REDACTED). You fire off one just big enough, and it goes around the world and comes right back to hit you.

With that, the presence made a gun of its fingers and thumb: "Bang, you're dead," I think you said?

And what could he possibly say to that?

* * *

"So, how do you plan to keep the rest of the world out?" SPYGOD asked, looking off into the distance, towards Egypt -- seeing the far-off TU troops massed there, waiting.

"The same way we'll be dealing with you," some of the people closer to him replied, holding up their hands. As they did, a heat beam arced from a tall building, striking the ground right in front of one of the TU's hovertanks.

"Well, that's pretty effective," he admits, watching the TU's line move back, quick as it can: "But aren't you worried they'll ask for their people back?"

"What people?" other people asked, holding up compact video cameras -- all trained on him.

"Well, it wasn't just Israelis and Palestinians who were killed here, that day," SPYGOD said, looking around: "Lots of tourists, even then. I'm sure their countries would like their ashes back... however animated they might be-"

"We didn't return them to life," backseat Zalea admits: "Just so we could avoid that little problem, in fact."

"Well, that was !@#$ing smart," SPYGOD admitted, winking at the nearest camera.

"So what did you think of our new society?" the many people there asked as one: "Is it not glorious? Is it not everything we've promised?"

"It's contradictory bull!@#$," SPYGOD pronounced, playing to the cameras: "You claim you're following in Ayn Rand footsteps? That's bull!@#$. As much as I hated that !@#$, I have to give her credit for upholding the individual over the state. But here? There's no individuals. Just one person."

He points to the backseat Zalea as she exits the vehicle after Tish.

"Oh, that's not really fair," she said, coming closer to him and indicating that he should stand in the center of the lot: "We've achieved something unique, here. We've created a true over-mind. Many minds, all operating together, sharing ideas and memories, innovations and inventions..."

"All under your control," he insisted: "That's not in keeping with the idea of the individual being free from force."

"I think you're failing to see the possibilities."

"And I think I've listened to enough of my boyfriend's early Rush LPs to know you're full of !@#$, Zalea," SPYGOD insisted: "But then, most so-called Objectivists are, anyway. I don't know why you'd be any !@#$ing different."

"Well, I guess we can't expect intelligence from someone who gets his information from concept albums."

He just smiled at that, and then looked at Tish: "Well, let's see what I can find out from real !@#$ing life, shall we?"

"How do you propose to do that?" Zalea asked.

"Tish?" SPYGOD asked, turning to look at the reanimated woman.

"Yes?" the woman answered, stepping forward.

"Zalea says you're an individual, and you can think for yourself. Is that right?"

"Yes-"

"Then what's your husband's name?" SPYGOD demanded, stepping towards her and staring her in the eyes.

There was a moment of confusion, and then she answered: "Amir-"

"How old are your children?"

"Seven and... and..."

"What are their names?" he asked, watching her grow even more confused: "What's their blood type? What cartoons do they like? When's the last time you were !@#$ing proud of them?"

The woman stammered and looked around, uncertain -- knowing that the memories should be there, but just weren't.

"An individual, huh?" SPYGOD snorted, turning to look at the backseat Zalea: "She can't even !@#$ing remember the name of the man she's had two !@#$ kids with, lady. God only knows what else you lost along the way."

The crowd murmured for a moment, and then all smiled and golf-clapped.

"You keep bringing that point up, SPYGOD," they said in unison: "I fail to see why."

"Because she's not alive," SPYGOD insisted, looking around at the cameras: "You're all dead, all of you. This !@#$ took your DNA and brought you back, and she can !@#$ing slip into you like a hand into a !@#$ glove. But you died that day. Your soul's gone on to someplace else.

"And some !@#$ing !@#$ with a god!@#$ god complex is walking you around so she can have her big !@#$ utopia at last!"

"I think that's enough of that, then," backseat Zalea said, stepping forward: "We've been polite, even to the likes of you, but this is where the hospitality ends."

"I thought I still had three days before I stank like fish?"

"Oh no," Zalea said, putting an arm around Tish and kissing her ear: "All those years in that awful hole, never expecting to leave it? I swore vengeance against you, SPYGOD. And now I'm going to get it, and you're going to take it."

"Really?" he said, smiling: "You don't think I'd come here without a backup plan, do you?"

"What could you possibly do?" She asked, smiling just as wide: "How can you fight a foe made of people? Will you kill all these people, here and now, on camera?"

"Eventually," SPYGOD said, a glowing sword appearing in his right hand: "But first? I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, look," the crowd laughed, pointing in unison to his weapon: "The mighty man, hiding behind his penis extension. Do you think you can chop your way through all of us with that-"

Suddenly, they all stopped talking. Then they all cocked their head to the side, looking askance as they did so.

And then they all looked hurt and helpless, as if something precious had been taken from them by a thief too large to stop, too fast to chase.

"That'll be my TU strike team in Barcelona," SPYGOD announced, holding up the sword: "Next up is Minsk. Then Rio."

"No," they all gasped, and then twitched twice as each pronouncement came true.

"See, I know how this !@#$ing game is played, Zalea," SPYGOD said, his sword suddenly changing its shape -- becoming thicker and shorter: "You'd never have your remote bodies anywhere near something like this, just in case someone called your !@#$ bluff and decided to nuke your nasty !@#$ from orbit. So you'd scatter them far and wide, like always, and normally we'd never be able to find them all without a lot of !@#$ time and work, since the signals are so !@#$ faint.

"But that's when you're running maybe 50 bodies? Not a couple million. You need a lot of signal to make that happen. And while it's still too !@#$ing faint for most things to detect, well..."

He tapped his eye, under his eyepatch: "Let's just say I !@#$ing did."

The crowd got very angry, then -- infuriated tenfold with each new twinge as another hidden body died. Then they twitched one more time, and screamed in utter despair.

"That'd be St. Louis, right near the Arch," SPYGOD surmised, doing something with his shrinking sword: "The last body. You're on your own, here, Zalea. Just you and your meat puppets. All you little !@#$ing Frankensteins."

"We'll tear you apart, you pousti," they all shouted, taking a step forward -- hands raised to do the deed: "And then we'll kill a tenth of us, just to show the world their error."

"I think we can !@#$ing do better than that, Zalea," SPYGOD said, holding up a pair of small, metal canisters -- each no longer than a pop can -- and popping the top on each can.

"What is that?" the clones asked as they stopped, and took half a step back.

"That, Zalea, is what we !@#$ing call 'blowback,'" he replied, scowling: "Remember back in the day, when you needed !@#$ing money for your early operations, after we froze your !@#$ accounts? Remember those weird German !@#$s you met with, and the bio-weapons tech you gave them? The viruses that homed in on specific genetic markers?"

There's a gasp, and then they all held their hands up to their mouths: "You didn't."

"That's just it, Zalea. I didn't. You did. You gave ABWEHR the means to drop viruses on Israel that would kill anyone with any !@#$ing Jewish blood in them. Even the slightest little drop. And you even threw in the !@#$ Arabs, just in case they wanted to scorch the !@#$ing Earth and salt it when they were done.

"Well, maybe you forgot about it, mostly because even those Nazi !@#$s were smart enough to hold off on using them as a final straw. But they !@#$ing kept them, Zalea, just in case. And when we stormed the Ice Palace, last year? I !@#$ing found them. And I took them somewhere safe and hid them, planning to !@#$ing destroy them.

"But, you know, with everything that's !@#$ing happened? I just never got the chance."

"And here they are," he said, holding the opened canisters out, revealing that each one bears German writing, and a bio-hazard symbol interspersed with a swastika: "You've been breathing them in for about a minute, now. They should start working in another minute."

"What?" the crowd said, some of them looking very ill.

"Short version?" SPYGOD said, making guns with his index fingers as he continued to hold onto his deadly cargo: "Bang. You're dead."

And then he laughed -- long and black. 

The crowd was no longer leering, nor threatening. All the faces that were of one, menacing expression just a second ago -- as they surrounded SPYGOD where he stood -- now shared one of fear. All those hijacked bodies took a step back, and then another, holding their hands up to their faces.

All of those voices screamed "no" -- many mouths, one mind.

One soul that realized it was about to meet its maker.

SPYGOD dropped the small, metal canisters to the ground. As they pinged and bounced on the concrete, he wondered: how much blood has been spilled over its ownership?

None more than today, he realized, watching as his enemy started to die

He wanted to stop looking as the men, women, and children of an entire nation fell down dying around him, but he could not. He wanted to stop hearing their wet and ragged screams, but his ears betrayed him.

He had to see and hear this because there was no way to tune out or block it. Her could not, and dared not. It was his penance -- his karmic payment having to do such a horrible thing.

For a moment, he thought he was crying. But then he coughed once, then again.

Then he looked at his hand and realized there was blood, there.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$?" tried to say, but it all came out bloody and ragged, pieces of his lungs flying up into his mouth...

* * *

Did you even know your Great-Grandmother was Jewish? the Presence asked, looking at him as the stream of blood gets even worse, somehow: Or was that just not discussed around the table in your Catholic living room?

More coughing, more blood. Now maybe some tears to go with it.

Ah, I see. Your grandmother never talked about her. And, given how she was, you never asked her. That makes perfect sense, now, (REDACTED). Just another mystery in a family full of them.

Only now, that mystery is going to kill you, it says, looking away: And just how ironic is that?

It pats SPYGOD on the side of the head, and then leans in to whisper -- But before you die? We have Some secrets of our own, you and I. Big secrets. The kind that change destinies and shake the world.

And I'm going to make sure you live long enough to tell me yours before I show you mine.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pure (Gary Numan) and having... lung junk. Lots and lots of it.)

Missing Time: 11/28/12 - This Is What You Are - Pt. 1

11/28/12
Jerusalem, Israel/Palestine
14:48

First there is nothing in SPYGOD's world but pain -- intense and searing, like the noonday sun in the desert.

It is his beginning and his end. So all-encompassing that he has forgotten how he came to this pain, or what has caused it. So amazingly complete that he wonders if he has finally died and gone to the Hell he's sent so many others to, over the years.

(Is that hell, he wonders: punishment without explanation? Pain without prologue?)

But, gradually, pieces of that blazing pain break down and away, so that other things can appear.

There is sound as hundreds of invisible others cough uncontrollably -- unable to scream as their bodies betray them. There is an intense, red smell as they void blood and filth from their ripped, billowing mouths. There is the sticky feel of that blood, carried on the breeze, and the horrid taste of what's coming from his own lips.

And then there is sight, as a mysterious, shimmering figure -- upside down, along with the rest of the world -- strides around the bodies of the stricken, walking towards him as though they weren't even there.

It's time, (REDACTED), the presence says to SPYGOD as an entire nation dies around them, felled by a deadly virus.

"Like !@#$ it is," he says between ragged, red coughs as he hangs upside-down from an olive tree -- his lungs turning to mush in his chest almost faster than he can heal them.

Being upside-down the only thing saving his life. 

No, it is, the presence gently insists, carefully walking up to him so as to avoid the stream of chunky, bright blood that's flowing from SPYGOD's nose and mouth like water from a weak firehose: This conversation's been scheduled since the day you put that eye in your head. You were always going to be here. I was always going to join you.

And we were always going to have this talk.

"I got... !@#$ing nothing to say,"

Wouldn't that be a first?  Well, maybe when I say "talk" I really mean "I talk, and you listen." And for once that's just about all you can do.

"!@#$ you," SPYGOD hacks, wondering if he's just hallucinating this. Is the virus melting his brain along with his lungs?

(What all does this !@#$ do?)

No. No hallucinations, the presence says, kneeling down so as to have his cloudy and indistinct head next to SPYGOD's: I promise you, (REDACTED), this is as real as it gets. I am here. You are here.

And they are dying around you because you couldn't think of any other way to stop her. 

And SPYGOD looks around them -- seeing men, women, and children writhe on the ground, bleeding out through their mouths -- and finally allows himself to admit the depth of his mistake.

And that, if he dies here and now, it would be highly justified.

* * *

"Welcome to the Nation of Atlas, SPYGOD," Zalea Zathros said as he stepped out of his personal torpedo, shaking the wet from his black leather jumpsuit as he did.

Of course, it wasn't exactly her standing on the beach at Ashdod. It was some large woman, dressed in a skintight, white jumpsuit padded with sophisticated electronic gear. But she spoke in her voice, and her mannerisms were exactly the same.

She was a meat-puppet, just like everyone else within the borders of what had once been Israel and Palestine.

"Not much of a !@#$ing welcome wagon," SPYGOD snorted, lighting up a cigarette and looking around: "Did I actually slip under your !@#$ radar, for once?"

"No," the woman answered, taking a step closer to him: "We saw you coming well before you got to the Terre Unifee's blockade. We just chose to allow you to land. You're really not as threatening as you seem to think you are."

"That remains to be seen," he said, scowling at her: "This person. What's her name?"

"I'm Tish Allon," the woman replied in her own voice, her own mannerisms coming through as well: "I'm a first level computer engineer, assigned to improving our data infrastructure."

"Well, ain't that just !@#$ing spiffy," SPYGOD spat, walking past her and looking around, observing all the new, high-tech construction: "'Assigned.' Like you had any choice about !@#$ing anything, after she turned you into an extension of herself."

"I'm alive," Tish said, walking up to him as he strides away from the beach, and towards the road beyond: "Isn't that enough?"

"Not in my book, it isn't."

"Easy for you to say, mister. You weren't here, that day. You didn't see what happened to us. To me..."

She fell silent, then, looking askance. 

"What happened to you, Tish?" SPYGOD asks, turning back to look at her as he taps some ashes out.

"The Imago... they cornered my family in a cafe, that day," Tish said, her eyes becoming red and wet as she did: "At first, I thought they just wanted to talk to us. But then I heard the screams from outside, and saw what was happening. And..."

"Go on," SPYGOD said, tossing his smoke away: "Please." 

She looked away, but then shook her head and went on with her story: "They ripped my husband's head from his shoulders, like he was a doll. They used their eyebeams on my children, leaving me holding piles of dust. And then they decided to kick me through the glass window, just to conserve power.

"I died screaming and in pain, bleeding on the streets while they floated above them, turning people to ashes. I think one of them might have stepped on my head, at the end. Or maybe I'm just imagining it."

SPYGOD nodded, and stepped forward to hug her. She tentatively allowed the embrace, and soon began weeping onto his shoulder. He stood there for quite some time -- his arms around her, his hand on the back of her head.

"I am sorry," he said after a time.

"For what?" she asked.

"That this happened to you," he said, slowly disengaging from the hug: "That you were !@#$ing victimized by those metal-plated !@#$s. That you got victimized again-"

"How can this be victimization?" Tish asked, shaking head head: "I'm alive, !@#$ it! I think, I feel, I-"

There was flurry of movement, and then a loud BANG, and then Tish Allon was lying on the ground -- her forehead a wet, red ruin from where the bullet had entered.

SPYGOD put the gun away, and then checked his watch. One second, two, five, ten. By the time it got to 15, the red mess he'd made of Tish's forehead was mostly healed, and her eyes were focusing on him. After a full minute she was wiping the muck from her totally-healed skull, and slowly getting up, as if she'd just fallen asleep. 

"And what did you think that would prove?" SPYGOD heard Zalea ask through Tish, as well as all the mouths of all the people nearby, over the bluff before the road.

"You're so !@#$ing smart, you figure it out," SPYGOD said, extending a hand to the woman he just shot, so as to help her up the rest of the way. She thanked him by slapping him full across the face. 

"You're pathetic," she said in her own voice: "I feel sorry for you."

"I am sorry for you," he said, tapping her forehead: "How can this be life, Tish? I just shot you dead. You just came back. That's not !@#$ing life, hon. And I oughta !@#$ing know."

 "Did you come all this way to kill one woman?" the voices demanded.

"No," SPYGOD said, lighting up another smoke and turning around in a circle to face his many accusers: "I came all this way to kill you, you nasty !@#$ing !@#$. If I have to return all these poor !@#$s you brought back to life while I'm doing it, I'm more than prepared."

Then he turned back around, and continued on towards the road, Tish not far behind him As he crested the hill of the beach, he looked around at the newly-reborn city, and watched as every person that could see him suddenly turned in unison to regard him.

"This is not life, you stupid !@#$holes!" he shouted to the men and women on the street, all wearing white jumpsuits padded with electronic gear: "This is slavery! This is living death! You've all been !@#$ing Frankensteined!"

"And we're so happy to be that way," every single person announced, all in her voice.

A high tech, luxury car pulled up before he could say anything else. Inside of it were two Zaleas -- one driving and another sitting in the back.

"Get in, (REDACTED)," the one in the back gently commanded as the door gull-winged open: "And lose your weapons, please."

"Or what?" he asked, flicking his cigarette at her face.

A beam of light arced from one of the buildings, just then -- incinerating the cigarette less than a foot from his fingertips. Then another beam came, going over his head and towards the beach.

He heard something explode, back there, and knew it was his personal torpedo.

"A heat beam, capable of destroying you," the Zalea behind the wheel explained, smiling: "You're currently surrounded by twenty of them, and they're everywhere, here. I could kill you at any time."

"So cooperate, please," the Zalea in the back added, somewhat languidly: "I have a lot I'd like to show you before this comes to its logical conclusion." 

"Well, okay then," SPYGOD chuckled, beginning the process of stripping off his many weapons. His pistol, his other pistol, his other other pistol. Micro-grenades, macro-grenades, stun-grenades. Tasers, masers. Laser pistol. Knife after knife after knife. The sword no one knew he carried. 

Even the !@#$ build-a-gun -- dropped down to the sand at his feet.

"That good enough, or you want to go up my !@#$ with a camera?" he asked, holding his hands up.

"I think you'd like that too much," the Zalea in the back replied, gesturing to the seat: "Tish, you first. Sit next to me."

Tish seemed really happy to accommodate that directive, for reasons SPYGOD didn't need to wonder about for long. The moment he got in, behind her, the backseat Zalea began to kiss her passionately, as though she was a long-lost lover, seen for the first time in years.

And then they were all in the car and driving off into the Nation of Atlas, its many perfections on display.

* * *

Are you back with us, (REDACTED)? the presence asks, running its hand before SPYGOD's blood-soaked face: For a moment there I thought you were out of it, again.

"Still here..." SPYGOD gurgles: "Wish you weren't."

Well, we can't always get what we want. If we could, you'd have been smarter, today.

"!@#$ you."

I'd ask if that was the best you could do, but given all this... well...

"And you could have done better?" SPYGOD tries to say, angry at how squished and helpless it sounds -- like a whimper.

Given time? Yes. But I have a unique perspective on this. For me, it's already happened. For you, it's just now taking place.

In retrospect, I can see a dozen ways to have avoided this sorry mess, and what's going to come after. But I have a different set of tools in my box than you do.

SPYGOD tries to tell him what to do with his !@#$ing box, and where to cram it. What comes out is a pathetic mewl mixed with bloody vomit.

I'm sure you'd like me to! the presence responds, smiling a little: And maybe, if you weren't dying by your own hand, you'd even try to shove it on up there. Gods know, I've had worse offers.

But here you are, dying on a tree. Your last moments in this world spent as upside-down as you've lived your life since you put that eye in your head. Since you decided to be a God, rather than a man.

More gurgling, and more blood.

Yes, I can see that's worked out for you. Pretty well, all in all. You've saved the world dozens of times. Saved your country millions of times. All the things they say about you, they're true. Especially the good things.

But what about you, (REDACTED)? What about your soul? What about your future? What are you going to do when you can't just tell people you killed Hitler, so their argument is invalid? What are you going to do when you can't bully a President around, or work behind his back? When there is no COMPANY, when there are no allies, no victims, no patsies?

What are you going to do when even your immortality fails you? the presence asks, pointing to the stream of bloody mush that's rushing from SPYGOD's face like a weak firehose: What's your plan for that?

And SPYGOD screams in pain and rage, if only to prove his plan is to live. 

Even if he doesn't think he deserves to, anymore. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Hybrid (Gary Numan) and drinking his own lung junk)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 6.

Yeah, drink that !@#$ing beer down, son. We're operating at six for me to one for you, and this part needs a good !@#$ drunk to be able to tell.

So where were we? Oh yes. Oldest living withered crone hosting a malevolent alien intelligence just outed yours truly in court. Everyone there's just wheeled around to look at my fine, gay !@#$, and all I can do is stare back and shrug... at least for a moment.

And then I realize exactly what she means. And it takes everyone there to keep me from pulling out the two guns they didn't  !@#$ing confiscate and shoot the nasty !@#$ full of holes, right then and there.

* * *

SPYGOD: You !@#$ing genocidal whore! You !@#$ing !@#$headed smear of ET !@#$! I'm going to shoot you so !@#$ing full of lead they'll be picking !@#$ing pieces of you out of the walls in !@#$ing Norway, you withered... gah... (incoherent cursing)

Dir. Straffer: (REDACTED), this is no good. Please, calm down.

Judge: Order! There will be order, here!

Dark Star: (Maniacal, incoherent laughter)

Mr. USA: Stop it, (REDACTED). Please. It's alright.

SPYGOD: The !@#$ it is! She's the one! She's the one who !@#$ing set us up, (REDACTED)! She's the one who !@#$ing set us against each other-

Mr. USA: I know. We both know, now. Let her finish the story. 

SPYGOD: I've !@#$ing heard enough-

Judge: If you have, indeed, heard enough, then perhaps you should leave the courtroom until we are ready for you to give testimony, Msr. SPYGOD.

Defense: If it would please the court, I would like to recommend he be removed entirely. I think we would be poorly served by letting a witness for the prosecution kill one of the defendants. 

Winifred: Speak for yourself, !@#$face.

Judge: Young lady, you will be quiet-

Defense: Nothing he has to say is of any use to the conclusion of this trial, quite frankly. It can be entered into evidence without his presence.

Prosecution: I respectfully disagree. I would really prefer to have him here.

Judge: Very well. If we are done trying to kill the defendant...?

SPYGOD: ... yes. I'm done.

Judge: Are you, msr. SPYGOD?

SPYGOD: I am, yes. 

Judge: Good. Then we shall take an hour's recess, and come back to this point. In the meantime, Msr. SPYGOD, I suggest you relinquish all your weapons before re-entering the courtroom. One more outburst of any kind from you, armed or not, and I will throw so many contempt charges upon you that you will wish you were sharing the defendants' fate. And that goes for you too, young lady. 

SPYGOD: She'll behave herself, your honor. We all will.

Judge: See that you do. This court is adjourned.

* * *

Oh yeah, that was embarrassing as !@#$. I really don't like people to know that I have those guns, any more than I like them knowing about the sword, or a few other nasty !@#$ tricks I've got up my sleeve.

As for self control issues, well, !@#$, son, we just listened to that !@#$ cackle about eating the world's children for fuel and running their parents' electric cars on the overflow current. If anything, everyone in that courtroom should have been pulling out hidden weapons and carving the !@#$ up like it was !@#$ing Christmas.

(Especially Winifred. After what she went through I'd have !@#$ing applauded if she'd grabbed one of my pieces and let the !@#$ have it.)

But yes, I bet I know what you're thinking. How the Prosecution just sort of rolled the !@#$ over, there? Well, it will be important, later. But for now let's go on with the big !@#$ story, here.

So they let us out, and I hand over my guns like a naughty schoolkid who got caught with a paper airplane. Then we all go downstairs, and the first thing my boyfriend asks me is "how many things?"

And I say "A whole !@#$ing room."

A minute or two later I'm !@#$ing smashing tables, windows, and computers in a small room no one's using. Straffer's in the room, watching to make sure I don't go out of control, and the Owl's outside, running sonic interference. Everyone else is off getting coffee or a smoke or !@#$ knows what. 

And I smash and crash and break and wreck !@#$ing everything in there until I can finally stop seeing red, and start breathing regular again. And then I'm two seconds away from needing the mother of all drunks to !@#$ing kick in and knock my brain back from thinking. But fortunately Straffer's there to smack some sense into me and tell me I'm no good to anyone if I'm blasted out of my mind and hallucinating, again.

Yes, it involves the mother of all kisses, son. And thank !@#$ he's good at those. 

So we brush off as much of the sawdust and plaster flecks as will come loose, I wash up in the men's, and we get the !@#$ out of there before anyone walks in and has the mother of all freak-outs at what happened to a large room full of innocent office stuff.

Then we're all back upstairs, and I'm back in the courtroom with that nasty, withered !@#$, again. And she's just looking at me, quietly cackling. 

And I know we're in for a good time, now. 

* * *

Prosecution: So, to begin again? You said that SPYGOD was the one who told you that this... I'm not certain how you say it-

Dark Star: (UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT), human.

Prosecution: Yes. That. He told you it was coming?

Dark Star: Yes, he did. And he was not alone-

Prosecution: Is that man in this courtroom?

Dark Star: No, he is not.

Prosecution: I am not certain what you mean. 

Dark Star: There's this SPYGOD, here, who at least has the courage of his convictions. And then there is another SPYGOD. Someone you have not met, perhaps, but someone you have seen.

Prosecution: And when have we seen him?

Dark Star: Shooting the American President on television, of course...

(GASPS)

Dark Star: ...except that was not the President, either. Except that it was. 

Prosecution: I do not understand...?

Defense: This is new to me as well. We did not discuss this.

Dark Star: Allow me to explain. There is another Earth, traveling besides yours in space. It is your closest parallel, and it is, to your sensibilities, at least, a dark reflection of this one. Those scientists who know of it call it Alter-Earth. And I suspect its existence has been kept a secret to avoid panic, as well as having to avoid telling your rather squeamish citizens about what things are like there.

Prosecution: And how are they?

Dark Star: Quite hideous. I think I will spare you the details, given how poorly you took the truth about what we did to you, for all those months. 

Prosecution: And what is your connection to this world? This Alter-Earth?

Dark Star: A very complicated one, now. Initially it was so much simpler. We had each had information that the other wanted. But then we took advantage of a coincidence too great to leave alone, and then things became rather... baroque, for want of a better word. 

Prosecution: You have our full attention, I assure you.

Dark Star: In the early 1950's, we were clandestinely approached by two individuals, both claiming to speak for their world. A man and a woman, both possessed of a fierce intelligence and very savage appetites. They had actually been here for at least a decade before, she infiltrating certain circles within America's Strategic Talents, and he lurking in the background, keeping an eye on certain developments. 

Prosecution: Certain circles? Could you be more specific?

Dark Star: When she surrendered to the Allies, after your second World War, she claimed to be Dr. Gertrude Hoffstatler. I believe you know her better as Dr. Geri Yesterday? 

Prosecution: The wife of the late Dr. Robert Yesterday? The one you took over and turned into, the Motion, was it?

Dark Star: The same.

* * *

Now, right about now, Mr. USA and I are !@#$ing looking at each other. And neither of us is wanting to say what this means. 

You'll remember that, a long !@#$ing time ago, I told you that Gertrude was the conjoined twin of Gerde Hoffstatler, who learned a lot of sick !@#$ at the vivisection lab of Dr. Josef Mengele. Gerde who vanished after the War only to show up later as the !@#$ing leader of HONEYCOMB. Gerde who then spent way too much !@#$ing time telling us how we really should just accept her crazy-!@#$ ideas of a perfect planet, under her rule. 

But then, we only had Gertrude's word to go on that, now didn't we? That Gerde had a conjoined twin was a matter of record, given the exactitude of German pre-war records. But could we be so !@#$ing sure that the Gertrude we knew was the actual twin?

Think about it, son. For all we know, the nasty scar on her back could have been self-inflicted. Or maybe there was a Gertrude and Gerde over on Alter-Earth, and they were separated as well? What would have stopped her from killing the real Gertrude at some point and taking her place?

And it's not like we actually got the !@#$ing chance to interrogate Gerde, now did we? Crazy !@#$ jumped to a nasty, atomic death the second she realized the main H.I.V.E. was compromised, back during OPERATION BUGSMASH.

So that was our little mind!@#$, right there. The nice person who made cookies, talked sense into her crazy!@#$ husband the mad scientist, and actually did the real brainwork when her hubby couldn't figure out what to do was actually an evil twin, all along. 

And that meant that she'd had access to !@#$ing everything all along.

So we looked at each other, and the look he gave me was something along the lines of "We need to talk, later."

And mine said "You're god!@#$ !@#$ing right."

Back to the front of the courtroom:

* * *

Prosecution: And who was the other?

Dark Star: At first, we did not know. She said he was her protector, and he did not care to speak. But we soon came to realize that he was as much a part of the venture as she was. He just preferred not to converse with her in front of us, so they could conspire and have their lies well-prepared.

Prosecution: So these were not trustworthy allies?

Dark Star: Far from it. On Alter-Earth, duplicity is the norm. To be honest is to be weak. And weakness is destroyed, along with the weak. 

Prosecution: I see. So you eventually discovered that this man was SPYGOD's... twin?

Dark Star: Yes. The same man, in most respects, but just slightly different.

Prosecution: Similar enough to be able to kill the American President on television and have others believe it was him?

Dark Star: Similar enough to pass any number of mental and physical scans, so that there was no doubt amongst America's Strategic Talents that SPYGOD was the culprit.

Prosecution: But that would not come until much later. What did they come to you for, and with, initially?

Dark Star: A cooperative project, designed to save both of us from the onslaught of (Unintelligible Concept). 

Prosecution: And how did they know of it?

Dark Star: Their parallel had also been visited by a reflection of it, roughly a million of their years ago. Unlike this world, records of that time survived, handed down from the advanced race that once lived on that world and was destroyed by nascent humanity, there. They knew it was coming, and had some ideas on how to stop it. But they needed access to our world to see if their plans had merit. 

Prosecution: Why?

Dark Star: Two reasons. This world is actually going to be the first one visited, by a factor of a year and three months. They hoped to see if their device worked here, first, before trying it on their world. And, as we later learned, were also quietly planning to move their own people over here once the thing had been and gone, in case the device did not work. That way they could either wait here for their world to be ravaged, and then return, or else rebuild on this new Earth. 

Prosecution: And the other reason?

Dark Star: Apparently, when our world was visited, it was not ravaged as badly as theirs was. There was something here that kept it from being completely annihilated, and drove it off, to an extent. 

Prosecution: Which something was that?

Dark Star: That is not known, even to us. But we know it has something to do with the structure in ABWEHR's Antarctic redoubt, which you call the Ice Palace. The answer lies within the Chamber, and she had quite a bit of access to it, once your SPYGOD took control of it, and after, once it was just her and Dr. Yesterday and the United Nations watching over it. 

Prosecution: And did she discover what she needed to know?

Dark Star: That is the strange thing. She never told us. After she shot Dr. Yesterday, thus denying us a total copy of his mind and inventive skills, she left us. 

Prosecution: Now why would she do that?

Dark Star: We do not know. We tried to get her protector to tell us why, but he claimed ignorance. He said that this was just her way, and that if she fouled up our plans it was doubtlessly for a good purpose. And as a sign of his good faith, such as it was, he continued on with the plan to replace the American president, and kill the replacement on live television, thus discrediting SPYGOD and keeping him from stopping us. 

Prosecution: And this plan was yours?

Dark Star: It was. We needed him out of the way, you see. We knew that, if he knew what we had planned, and what we really were, he would stop at nothing to destroy us. We initially thought we could wait to do this, of course, but then he decided to go on the offensive, after decades of a somewhat pathetic stalemate. So we had to advance our plans, and perhaps this was too much too fast for Geri's liking? We do not know. 

Prosecution: What else did this plan entail?

Dark Star: Oh, many years of small things. Once we realized that her protector was the near-exact duplicate of SPYGOD, we decided to have some fun. There were many times that he was less than sober, thanks to his personal failings. On those times, we would sometimes have him pretend to be him, and do strange and unsettling things to make him seem less reputable an individual. And since he would not remember these things, he could not say whether he'd done them and forgotten, or not. And he'd either deny it, or blame it on mind control. (evil cackle)

Prosecution: Well, that's quite diabolical-

Dark Star: Oh, that's nothing. When we learned that Mr. USA and SPYGOD had been feuding since World War II, we decided to make certain that America's most powerful superhero was also neutralized. 

Prosecution: What...? How?

The Owl: What?

Dark Star: We found out his darkest secret, and used it against him. And we had our SPYGOD call him up, and threaten to take full advantage of it, if he didn't do what we wanted. 

Prosecution: And what did you have him do-

Mr. USA: I killed people. 

(Gasps)

Judge: Sir, you are out of order.

SPYGOD: (REDACTED) Sit down and shut up. 

Mr. USA: I sat on my hands and did nothing while terrible things were going on. I looked the other way and let them do whatever they wanted. I remained silent, though I wanted to scream. And I betrayed my world, my nation, my oaths, and my friends. 

SPYGOD: Oh god...

Mr. USA: And I did it all for love, which is pretty sad when you think about it. 

Dark Star: Yes, it is. (maniacal laughter)

* * *

And that was the end of that day's worth of testimony. 

And the end of a few other things, besides.

(SPYGOD is listening to Kiko (Dead Can Dance) and having a Tenebreuse)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 5.

The next day of testimony was nowhere near as much of a mind!@#$ as the day before. We didn't talk about other !@#$ing dimensions, space gods in disguise, or the like.

Instead, we talked about horror.

See, it's like I said, son. I was at !@#$ing Nuremberg. I remember everything that went on there, clear as a !@#$ing bell. I remember when they grilled the architects of the final !@#$ing solution about what the !@#$ they were thinking when they just sort of decided to !@#$ing kill the millions of people they'd told their citizens it was !@#$ing okay to hate, fear, and turn in for a big !@#$ "Attaboy, Citizen."

And I remember them just sitting there, in the witness box, and telling the story like it was !@#$ing nothing. Just another !@#$ day at the office with Adolph and Heinrich... 

...

And I also remember that I wasn't at Nuremberg, actually. I was somewhere else. Somewhere I'm still not !@#$ing allowed to talk about.

Now how the !@#$ing !@#$ did that happen? It's like I can remember it, clear as !@#$ing day. The whole !@#$ing thing, too...

...

Okay, another mystery for another !@#$ing day when I'm not trying to tell a !@#$ story. Maybe it's the beer, or maybe it's weird-!@#$ !@#$ I don't have time to deal with, right the !@#$ now. Onward we go.

I was at the Imago Trials. I sat, I listened, I mostly kept my !@#$ mouth shut, and then I testified.

And then I !@#$ed myself. Hard.

But we're getting to that. Really.

* * *

Prosecution: ... so you eventually figured out how to escape the prison this other, more powerful race had constructed for you.

Green and Yellow: Yes. Obviously. 

Prosecution: And what happened then?

Green and Yellow: We marshaled all the energy we had been saving for millions of your years. We focused it on one small, tiny corner of the city. We threw everything we had at that corner, with no regard for our own lives or safety. We all lost much of ourselves in the gambit, and some of us lost their lives...

Prosecution: I'm sorry? Was there something more?

Green and Yellow: Oh yes. There was something more, and now it is gone. If I had but a tenth of the power I once had, I could kill everyone in this room, here and now, with barely a thought. I could destroy most of the city immediately thereafter. I would not need to steal your bodies to do it, either. 

Prosecution: But you are diminished?

Green and Yellow: I am. We are. We crippled ourselves trying to escape. 

Prosecution: Did you know this would happen?

Green and Yellow: Yes we did. We were not stupid. But our love for one another was so great that we would have all gladly laid down our lives just so that one could leave the prison, and see our race returned to glory.

Prosecution: And one of you did manage to leave?

Green and Yellow: You ask me a question you already know the answer to. 

Judge: He did, yes. Please answer that question. 

Green and Yellow: One of us did escape, yes.

Prosecution: Is this person here, today?

Green and Yellow: She is, yes. To me, she is Absolute Black and Bright White. You know her as Dark Star. 

Prosecution: She does not look like you.

Green and Yellow: No, she does not. Her encounter suit was discarded long ago, when she made contact with the human she harnessed.

Prosecution: And just for clarification, by "harnessed," you mean "took over."

Green and Yellow: Yes. She came upon a small, fishing vessel, far off course. Inside of it was a young girl who had been thrown out to sea in a storm. Everyone else on board had been long dead, and she was insane from thirst and hunger. So I suppose what my sister did to her was something of a mercy.

Prosecution: Killing her.

Green and Yellow: You make it sound so pedestrian. We do not kill. 

Prosecution: I beg your pardon-

Green and Yellow: It is given. We are the Imago, human. We change. We absorb. We harness. That young, dying girl was harnessed by Absolute Black and Bright White. Her memories, experience, and skills were absorbed by her, and added to us. She lives on in us, as has every human we have absorbed. We have given her immortality. 

Prosecution: Did you ask, first?

Green and Yellow: Of course not. Did you ask your last meal if it minded that you add it to you, for as long as you might live?

Prosecution: I happen to be vegetarian, but-

Green and Yellow: Oh, the things I could tell you. 

Judge: Perhaps it would be best if you confined yourself to the questions you are asked. 

Green and Yellow: Of course, your honor. Do forgive me, human. Your meal was mindless and asking for it.

Prosecution: Well... I am certain a large number of people around the world just breathed a sigh of relief.

Green and Yellow: But now you know how we see you. 

* * *

What they talked about then was mostly nothing you don't already !@#$ing know about, courtesy of my explosive fact-finding missions in China. But it did fill in some gaps.

The monster wearing the girl was Absolute Black and Bright White, and she was something of a legend to the Imago. I guess that's why Dark Star could !@#$ing suck the life and memories out of your !@#$ head by just !@#$ing making eye contact, instead of having to !@#$ing touch you, like the others. She fed off sealife and anything else she could get her !@#$ eyes on, and rowed back to shore, somehow. 

And then she !@#$ing blended in, using her skills to infiltrate the military in the best way she could. She let those degenerate !@#$s in the Japanese underworld take her off to the brothel, knowing she'd make military contacts once her skills were noticed. After that, it was Manchuria, Unit 731, the creation of GORGON for her own needs, and then she !@#$ing vanishes, leaving the Japanese high and dry just as the War's come back to their !@#$ing doorsteps. 

After that, the Imago had learned enough about human biology to be able to modify it to their needs. And their number one !@#$ing need was to open their prison up and let them all out. But the people who'd thrown them in there had been smarter than that: you couldn't get out (in !@#$ing theory, anyway) and you couldn't get in, either. Not without the !@#$ing key.

And that thing was well !@#$ hidden, thank you very !@#$ing much. 

So they went out into the world to try and find the !@#$ thing. And that's when GORGON came to be, as I understood it. Or at least !@#$ing thought I understood it. All the time they were doing crazy super-science-terrorist !@#$, they were actually looking for the Object. Which, now that I think about it, explains a whole !@#$ of a lot.

And when they weren't doing that, they were !@#$ing marshaling their forces, and copying their technology as best they could from outside the prison. They were also taking control of the things that their jailers had patrolling the outskirts of their !@#$ing city, just in case something came back to try and bust them out.

Yes, son. The DEROS. Those massive things weren't supposed to be in league with the Imago, or GORGON. They were supposed to be watchdogs. But I guess if you beat and feed someone else's dog long enough, it'll start calling you master. And that also explains a whole !@#$ of a lot.

So they took control of the outside of their jail as best as they could, and used the DEROS to provide energy and defense. And they made massive submarine bases around their new tools, and infested the !@#$ing Irian Jaya. All getting ready for the day they got their !@#$ turtles in a row, and could march them into the !@#$ing sea in triumph.

And then, at long !@#$ing last, they found it, and then they took it. They were able to go down and open the prison up, and let their people out.

Which is where the really sick !@#$ began.

...

So that's the last they got out of Green and Yellow, for that day. They had an hour recess, we all got some snacks and came back, and when they started back up again they got that withered old Dark Star !@#$ up on the stand.

Now, you have to remember, son -- this !@#$ is nasty. This is the one who can !@#$ing kill you by just !@#$ing looking at you. She's a stringy old crone, creeping up on being a !@#$ing century old. And yet, as frail as she looks, and as !@#$ed-up as she seems, she's all there and more upstairs. Her eyes are !@#$ing black, powerful pits, full of hate.

And her voice... Jesus !@#$ing Christ, that wet, overly-friendly voice. Even if you're not looking at the !@#$, it's enough to make your skin crawl off your body and go down the street for a !@#$ing drink.

But seeing her talk? Hearing those words come out of that mouth, with those eyes? 

Dear Jesus in Heaven, son. It's like watching the !@#$ing Exorcist for the first time all over again. And I know that !@#$ scared the !@#$ out of you.

The last time I saw that nasty !@#$ she was yanking my soul out of my !@#$ body, but at least she wasn't !@#$ing talking. Laughing, maybe, but dealing with evil, black laughter is kind of part of the !@#$ing job description.

But here I was, now, listening to her talk all !@#$ing afternoon, in that voice, about the planned genocide of the human race. And throughout it all she kept looking at me, and smiling, like there was some joke we were sharing.

I sure as !@#$ wasn't laughing, son.

* * *

Prosecution: So, Yasuda Aika-

Dark Star: I beg your pardon.

Prosecution: It is given.

(Laughter)

Judge: There will be order.

Prosecution: I beg your pardon, your Honor. I couldn't help it.

Judge: Noted. Please continue.

Prosecution: So you do not wish to be called the name of the girl you are... harnessing? Is that the right word for it?

Dark Star: That is correct. I am not her. She is within me, but I am not her, any more than you are the meal you had several years ago.

Prosecution: Does any of her still live within you?

Dark Star: Her memories, her ideas, her hopes and dreams. These are known to me, but they are not me, not any more than anyone else I have absorbed over the years. I keep those thoughts and memories locked up inside my head, like you keep your books on a shelf. I just happen to be wearing this one's dust jacket. 

Prosecution: I see. Thank you for explaining that.

Dark Star: You are so welcome. May I go, now?

Judge: If you do not wish to testify, you do not have to. But I will not let you back up here when you change your mind, seconds before sentencing.

Dark Star: I apologize. I was trying to make a joke. We should keep this lighthearted, should we not?

Prosecution: So, for the record, what should we call you?

Dark Star: You should call me by my rightful title, which I have earned. Absolute Black and Bright White.

Prosecution: It's quite a mouthful. Is Dark Star alright, at least for the purposes of this trial?

Dark Star: No it will not. You will either refer to me by my rightful title or you will refer to me by my true name.

Prosecution: I fear your true name is not pronounceable. But you have another name, do you not?

Dark Star: ... I have another title, yes.

Prosecution: And that title would be Leader.

Dark Star: Yes, I am the leader of the Imago. I once sat above The Motion, The Sight, The Fist, and The Dragon, and ruled your world while you sleepwalked. I am the one who spoke to you, first, on the day we assumed control. I am the one who arranged for the words to be said by others, and ordered your rewards or your punishment.

Prosecution: So you are... you are the one who developed the plan for what took place over the last year?

Dark Star: Yes, I am the one who condemned you all to die. Green and Yellow was merely our most popular spokesperson, and the one with special duties in the United States of America.

Prosecution: You condemned us to die. Personally.

Dark Star: I did.

Prosecution: And how... how was this death to be accomplished?

Dark Star: For some it was immediate, or nearly so. I am referring to the ones that were absorbed by our False Faces, or else the mentally-damaged ones that we Imago directly harnessed. Some were fortunate enough to be absorbed by one of us. Others were thrown into the Overmind, there to perform the tasks we needed the massive mutability of the human brain to accomplish. The editing of information at lightning speed over the internet, the altering of thought and idea, the endless surveillance. Things of that sort.

Prosecution: And for others?

Dark Star: The children who were sent to the harvesting boxes you thought were schools all died slowly, their memories and dreams leeched from them a little at a time. It was necessary for us to recharge on what they had to offer, and with the surplus we powered our special devices and engines.

Prosecution: What sort of devices?

Dark Star: Oh, come now. Did you not have a nice, new car, Mr. Prosecutor? Did you not wonder where the power really came from?

(Gasps, a stifled scream)

Judge: Order. There will be order in this court!

Dark Star: Every time you drove to the store, a child, somewhere, had its soul sliced open again. And when those children were of no further use, we turned them into servitors and had them process and tend to those children we had not yet gotten to.

Prosecution: My god. ... I...

Dark Star: Come now, good sir. You wanted to know the truth, so here it is. To us, you are raw materials. You are building blocks for an Empire to come. Your sense of self-worth is an ignorant indulgence that we do not care to indulge. You were made to serve those greater than you, just as those things that are lesser than you are yours to do with as you will. And if we chose to let some of you use the byproducts of our needs, well, I believe you sometimes feed your livestock some of what's left when you process them?

Prosecution: And was that what awaited us all? Processing?

Dark Star: Oh no. We only intended to harness the children, but by the end we would have gotten to them all. We planned to tell you that we needed the superior brains of growing children to help us come up with a plan to overcome the threat that was coming, but then we were going to take those children, harness their energies, and store them within our escape craft.

Prosecution: Like batteries? You were going to... all the children?

Dark Star: Yes. All the children. Everywhere. Babes out of the nurseries, even. No exceptions.

Prosecution: And what of the rest of us?

Dark Star: Well, we were just going to leave you, before you proved to be so troublesome at the end. After that, we decided to kill you all and make do with what we had.

Prosecution: But if we had not rebelled, you would have just left us in peace?

Dark Star: Of course! We would have had bodies and energy and a ship, and no need for you. We probably would have destroyed our installations from orbit, and caused Deep-Ten to explode just to be sure you didn't attack us from behind, if you regained your senses too soon. And, yes, we would have annihilated that cursed prison, too, which may have caused the Pacific to go horrendously toxic. But it wouldn't have mattered much.

Prosecution: Well, it would have mattered to us.

Dark Star: Perhaps. But we do not concern ourselves with those we no longer need. It would have been cleaner to kill you all, just to be sure you did not rise up to take revenge. But considering what you now face, you could sit and scream yourselves hoarse for all we cared. For soon you must die, as is the rightful fate of a weak race such as yourselves in the face of what's coming.

Prosecution: What do you mean? What is coming?

Dark Star: The thing we have hastened to escape, human. The massive threat that is even now coming closer to this world, as it has so many before. The thing that was here, once before, and is now on its way back. You might know it as Ragnarok, or Gotterdamerung, or the Decreator. But it is the (Unintelligible Concept) and it is on its way.

Prosecution: And how do you know this?

Dark Star: Other than simply feeling it in our bones, as you might say? We were given reliable intelligence.

Prosecution: Who by?

Dark Star: SPYGOD, of course.

* * *

You ever have one of those moments when  literally every eye in the room swivels and looks right the !@#$ at you, and there's no !@#$ing escape? And, worse of all, you have no !@#$ idea what they were !@#$ing talking about?

Yeah, that was my moment.

Back in a moment, son. Need to drain the alien sex machine. And then some more beer, I think.

A lot more.

(SPYGOD is listening to Opium (Dead Can Dance) and having a Castelain Grand Cru, or ten)