Apotheoclypse Now: 10/17/16 - 10/23/16

"I'm Looking For a Man / Who Knows the Rules of the Game"

(Anubis, who is not taking your !@#$, anymore)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

1

* * *

So... that's him? one Watcher asks the others with her as they observe and participate in the Fiction they have written for the six people they've plucked from Bastogne, on Christmas of 1944: The uncouth one?

Yes, the one who brought them here says, pointing to the one who can make swords come from his hands: That is (REDACTED), as he was then.

He seems rather... unimpressive, one of the others says, observing a bit closer as he shoves a very large mouthful of the fine food they've created for this meal into his mouth.

His speech is tiresome, another opines, clearing the plates from the table: He seems capable only of annoyance and self-satisfaction.

And his attempts at humor are... lacking, yet another chuckles.

True, their guide says: But consider how far he came. How he grew and changed. Also what he did, when it was truly important to have one clear, far-seeing person to usher in the changes of the 21st century.

So what is the purpose of this lesson? the least shy of the Watchers asks: Are we to glean the future from his excessive profanity?

No, Shift says to his five apprentices: You are, under my direction, going to decide how the future is to be shaped, and why.

They look at him with some confusion, so he elaborates: This meeting we have constructed is not so much a contrivance as an intervention. If we had not acted, they would have killed one another, and the world would be without six of its most influential men.

But they cannot all survive, one of the Watchers says: They cannot all prosper. That one there, the one known as Heimdall? He dies in a Soviet camp, not many years from now.

Yes, but why does he have to? Shift asks: Why does he not live? Why does that other one? What is the purpose of their survival, or death?

The Watchers look to their silvery leader, and slowly begin to comprehend.

We must not see the weave of history, the least shy one says: We must understand the pattern itself.

Yes, Shift says, pleased to see his words are likewise understood: You must be with them, now. Examine their lives from all angles. See what was, what is, and what could be. Collaborate, compete.

And when you have learned what you need to see... well, I will be here to answer any questions you may still have.

With that, they all take their places behind the men they have each chosen to explore. They wear the faces of people from their past.

And then -- as (REDACTED) gets up to relieve himself -- they make contact, and the lesson truly begins.

But as Shift's most fearless student begins to explore the life, potential, and possibilities of her chosen subject -- the one called Major Force -- she happens to come across another life that has crossed his, and becomes much more interested in that one.

The shining, nighttime crusader of Chicago. The man who gives rise to an entire line of heroes -- stretching all the way into their present, and beyond.

The Owl, eternal.

And as she looks at him and his life -- public and private, recorded and redacted -- she realizes that she, somehow, has become a part of it...

She looks up to her teacher in alarm, only to see him looking back at her. His eyes are as sad as ever, clearly knowing what she has learned this day.

And in that white-hot instant of total understanding, she knows that this is not merely a lesson for her, but prophecy -- both beautiful and terrible...

* * *

It's Sunday morning, in Washington DC -- oddly still and quiet after the tumultuous week it's had to endure -- and the Interim President really, really needs a !@#$ing drink.

He looks at the man sitting across the Oval Office desk from him, as if he just heard the most incredible and outrageous thing ever. And in a way he has. 

"I..." he starts to say, shaking his head. 

"I know," SPYGOD says, leaning back in the chair he's parked his butt in, and adjusting his new eyepatch: "It's some !@#$ing crazy !@#$."

"Well..."

"I mean, I'm having a damn hard time believing this crap. And I was there. Hell, I even knew it was gonna !@#$ing happen before it did, and I still can't take it all in."

"And you're telling me that... this whole thing was all part of the plan?"

"Sort of..." the superspy defers, looking this way and that: "It's more like I was following a !@#$ing flowchart. This !@#$ing thing happens, then that thing !@#$ing happens, then this other thing is gonna happen, except that something else happens inbetween..."

"Uh-huh," the Interim President says, tapping the report the Director of the COMPANY handed him, a rather confusing half hour ago: "But you wrote the flowchart?"

"I think so," SPYGOD says, shrugging.

"Well, either you did or you didn't!" the man shouts, pounding his fist on the report and causing everything on the heavy desk to wobble, just a little: "Were you... were you drinking? Or worse?"

"Mr. President, let me tell you something," (REDACTED) says, leaning forward and pointing to the poor, abused report: "When you !@#$ing meet yourself from a couple months in the future? And the bastard hands you the keys to the damn future, and then tells you not to ask any !@#$ing questions, or tell anyone else exactly what the !@#$ is to go down? Especially since they might be about to die?"

"Or not die, as the case may be," the Interim President says, shaking his head: "You know how much a state burial at Arlington costs?"

"Well, look on the bright side," SPYGOD says: "Now you don't have to !@#$ing dig them a grave when they die. It's already waiting for them. Just slide them on in."

"I'm not sure I understand that either."

"What, burying them later?"

"No," the former Speaker of the House sighs, tapping the report: "The bit where the Mars force didn't die when we were told they did. And how they've been hiding all this time. And where those crabs were actually coming from...?"

"Well, it's like I was trying to tell you, sir," the superspy says, staring the man in both eyes with the last one he's got, and then leaning back: "All this past and future and present and !@#$ing flowcharts? If that isn't enough to make a man drink on the damn job, I don't know what will..."

"Yeah," his audience nods.

"Speaking of which...?"

"I had that bust taken out of here after the Apocalypse," the Interim President admits: "I guess I can't be trusted around emergency booze."

"Well, good damn thing I can," SPYGOD says, pulling a pair of flasks out of his coat, and handing one over: "Because I have the !@#$ing feeling you're going to want me to go over it all again-"

"Oh, absolutely," his Commander in Chief sighs, taking the flask with something akin to resignation -- and yet relief -- on his long face.

"And if so?" his guest says, popping the top of his with a well-practiced thumb: "Then we're both gonna need to knock back a few."

They take a snort in a weird kind of unison, which causes them both to chuckle a little -- something they clearly both need as much as the booze. 

And then, after a few more rips to loosen the mind and tongue, the Interim President takes a deep breath, drums the desk with his fingers, and says the fateful words: "From the top, then?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, taking another snort before he gets into it: "So, the Great Mystery was shot and killed with the whole damn world watching, which is when the !@#$ well and truly hit the goddamn fan..."

Monday: 10/17/16

"Okay, this is officially !@#$ing disgusting, now," Black Freedom says, wiping gobs of Gosheven off of her boots as she stomps through the crime scene: "What the hell is wrong with him?"

"He just saw his god die, Florence," Randolph says, trying to take pictures of the aftermath with a broken arm -- careful not to step too close to the dead: "If he needs to fall the !@#$ apart, I think he's allowed."

"How can this happen?" she asks, looking at the red puddle that was the Great Mystery, and the leather-clad woman who's been kneeling beside it since it happened: "What the hell kind of gun can kill a god?"

"Probably the same one that picked off those riot cops after the panic started," the Outlaw Reporter says, looking at the beheaded, over-armored police in question: "Which made them freak the !@#$ out and start shooting."

"Which made everything go the !@#$ downhill," Black Freedom grumbles, kicking a handy abandoned helmet: "God dammit! Why did I have to be so !@#$ing late to this? Why?"

Randolph could tell her that it didn't matter, really. Because once the Great Mystery was shot -- right in the heart, from the looks of things -- and began to melt into a horrifying, human-shaped pile of red goo in Yanabah's arms? 

Well, there wasn't anything one more hero on either side could have done. 

* * *

To Gold Standard's credit, she realized where the gunshot hadn't come from, and tried to stop things from getting out of hand. But the protesters, already on edge from the back-and-forth with the police, diggers, and Freedom Force, panicked and ran, assuming the worst. 

And as soon as the police were killed, well, the blue line did what it always did in a case like that -- assume everyone that was not them was involved, somehow. 

At which point they went from contain and control to cripple and confine, with terrible results. 

The shame of it was that, if it'd been just the police, Gold Standard could have turned things around. She could have literally pulled Gosheven back together and gotten him to spawn extra copies to do crowd control. She could have gotten Free Fire or Black Falcon to investigate where the shots came from, or done it herself. 

But Free Fire had his orders, and carried it out on the side of their fellow law enforcement. Before she could call him back he'd turned into a one-android rampage -- knocking protesters this way and that using his fists, feet, and the dull ends of his signature flame wheel. 

Thankfully he was aiming to subdue his targets, and just going for broken bones and serious sprains. But Black Falcon wasn't holding back. Something in his dark eyes lit up as soon as he saw that he had a clear reason to cut loose.

And that is exactly what he did. 

Randolph was so caught up in the melee -- a whirling dervish of camera and commentary, along with the occasional kick to a rampaging cop or protester -- that he didn't even see what was happening until the Toon hero came at him, fists and feet wet with the blood of others. 

"Worthless flesh !@#$!" the caped crusader shouted, bearing down on him. Randolph instinctively went for his handgun, only to realize that he didn't have it on him. 

(He'd left it at the tent with the rest of his weapons, just as Yanabah did...)

The gesture got him grabbed by the maddened Toon hero, who managed to break his arm and fling him over his head with the same fluid maneuver before going on to the next victim.

And the next. And the next...

And all Randolph could do, other than try and secure his busted arm as best as he could, was sit on his ass and continue to film, knowing that the whole world was watching this craziness unfold. 

And hoping, somehow, that their seeing it would cause things to calm down elsewhere, rather than getting worse...

* * *

"Unfortunately, it didn't  !@#$ing help," SPYGOD goes on: "The whole world saw that !@#$ go down. And what really stuck the !@#$ out was that someone actually managed to kill a god."

"Which is why our country exploded on Sunday," the Interim President sighs.

"And burned on Monday," the superspy agrees: "All these gods, thinking that the police had a !@#$ing way to kill them? Of course they panicked. Of course they flipped the !@#$ out."

"And you knew this was coming?" 

"I did, yes," SPYGOD says: "But here's the thing. I couldn't change it."

"Now that's... that I can't accept-"

"Sir, you !@#$ing watch television, don't you?" the superspy asks.

"Well, not as much as I'd like..."

"What' the one thing every show that deals with time travel !@#$ing teaches us?"

"That you shouldn't go back in time and try to change things," the Interim President says, nodding.

"Yes," SPYGOD says: "And by !@#$ing extension? If, by some weird damn miracle, someone from the future comes along and says 'hey, here's what's about to happen?' Then you don't change a damn thing.

"Even if it's gonna be !@#$ing painful."

"Well," the Interim President says: "A good thing we had people to help with that."

"Yes it was," the super spy says: "And people you all didn't even !@#$ing know about, at least until they all showed back up again..."

Tuesday: 10/18/16

"You will not continue this rampage," the glowing purple man says, pointing his finger at the five Egyptian mortuary deities he's addressing at the other end of the burning street: "This has gone on long enough. You will cease your actions, return to your homes, and think of how to make amends."

"Amends?" the Jackal-headed god sneers -- looking somewhat ridiculous dressed like some kind of gangster, complete with a ball cap and baggy pants: "Do you hear him, my brothers? He thinks to scold us like naughty children!"

"Well, that is much better than putting a god-killer bullet in our buttocks," one of the other four says, pulling out a golden gun that's festooned with Egyptian hieroglyphs: "What say we anticipate his actions?"

They all grin and pull out their guns. New Man looks at them, and allows them their moment of seeming triumph.

And then, as soon as they start firing, he sends Anubis and his posse of visceral protectors sprawling down the road, and tumbling into the nearby river.

This is St. Louis. The Arch has been turned into an ankh.

And the dead are walking...

* * *

"So tell me how they didn't die, again?" the Interim President asks.

"Well, that is !@#$ing complicated," SPYGOD admits, knocking back some more hooch: "But it has to do with what was !@#$ing sending those turd crabs to us, down that long damn hole in time."

"Which was the future?"

"Right. Where some small pieces of the Decreator had !@#$ed off to, after the pounding they took when Mars got liberated the first damn time. And there, in the future, they hunkered the !@#$ down, spawned, mutated, all that !@#$..."

"And then started coming back to us, here in the present."

"Right again," the superspy says, noticing he's drinking too fast and slowing down a bit: "Well, while our people were blowing the !@#$ out of them, and planning to go into that hole to close it the !@#$ down? There were other people on the other side, working on pushing those things into the hole, and trying to close it up from their end."

"What sort of people?"

SPYGOD smiles, somewhat ruefully: "Believe it or not? We have no !@#$ing idea."

"Really?" the Interim President asks, raising an eyebrow: "How is that even possible?"

"Well, my fiance tells me he could !@#$ing tell me..."

"Oh?"

"... but then he'd have to !@#$ing kill me," the superspy grins.

"Well then," the Interim President says, frowning somewhat: "I fear for our country's safety if you can't completely share intel."

"You're a married man, aren't you, Mr. President?" SPYGOD asks: "Isn't the key to a good marriage knowing when not to !@#$ing tell the damn truth?"

"Fair enough," the former Speaker says after a moment, nodding: "So, all other considerations side, there was a hole in time. And our people went in?"

"Not like they had much of a damn choice," SPYGOD chuckles, deciding that was worth a slug of the good stuff after all: "Not after how things went down..."

* * *

"How does it feel?" Winifred finally asks from her co-pilot's chair in the new and improved Drill Tank, looking at the weird, new arm that Myron's sporting.

"I don't know, yet," he says, looking at how strangely the skeletal fingers and thumb move as he fans them, this way and that: "It's like... I can feel them, and I can feel with them. But they're distant, somehow."

"Not as good as what they gave you there, huh?"

"No," Myron smiles, remembering that nice prosthetic their hosts set him up with -- and then, sadly, took back before they all returned to their regularly-scheduled lives: "Not at all."

"Hey Myron, this is Dragonfly," the white-clad, former assassin communicates with the drill tank: "You there?"

"Yeah, we're here," the former Underman says, wondering why she's talking with them directly: "What's up?"

"We're being asked to keep eyes out for Black Falcon," she says: "He took off after what happened at Standing Rock, and no one's seen him since."

"Good," Winifred frowns: "Hopefully he just crawls under a !@#$ing rock and stays there."

"Well, if you do see him? Keep it on this channel," Dragonfly requests: "He doesn't need to know we're after him."

"Any word on Yanabah?" Myron asks: "Randolph hasn't broadcast since Monday, and he didn't mention her."

"I think she's at the camp," Dragonfly says: "I don't really know. I... well, I was hoping you knew...?"

"Because we were in the future?" he sighs: "Look, Gayle, our guests had us housed in some seaside village and didn't let us see where or when we were. We were told some things then, and learned more when we got back to this time. But we didn't get told every little thing about what's going to happen, or what happens to everyone involved. Frankly, I don't want to even know."

"Yeah... I'm sorry for asking. It's just..."

"I know," he says, smiling: "It's okay. If we see that sorry suicidal son of a !@#$ we'll let you know, okay?"

The white-clad former assassin nods, and disconnects.

"You two... right?" Winifred asks, holding his hand.

"Just once," he admits, squeezing hers: "It was more stress relief than anything else. Our clones were both about to get taken off the board. Or we thought so, anyway..."

"Oh yeah," she smiles: "That's some crazy !@#$, man. You'll have to tell me all about it, someday."

"Why not?" he asks, leaning over to kiss her: "We got time-"

"What have we got, folks?" Josie interrupts, doing her best to coordinate the chaos according to the rather long flowchart she's working from: "We're supposed to be getting past Chicago by now."

"Chicago's taken care of," Myron radios in: "Slambang and The Sound got the south side under control."

"Excellent," she says: "Once they're back, you need to rendezvous with Transport 112. You're needed in Green Bay."

"Don't tell me," the former Underman sighs: "More restless native spirits?"

"Actually, Sumerian agricultural gods trying to barricade the city," the pink-haired clone replies.

"Why Green Bay?" Winifred asks.

"Maybe they thought it was green?" the clone offers: "Maybe they're Packers fans? Who the !@#$ knows?"

"My money's on the latter," Myron says, seeing that his two teammates are coming back: "Speaking of teams you hate to love, when are we going to !@#$ing calm everyone down by telling them we didn't shoot the Great Mystery?"

And Josie looks to SPYGOD, who looks back at her with that look. 

The one that says...

* * *

"You couldn't," the Interim President says, looking over the report. 

"No," the super spy admits: "And before you ask? Yes. I !@#$ing hated doing that. But there were other considerations."

"Such as...?"

"Well, the only reason the whole damn country didn't burn the !@#$ down in those couple of days?" SPYGOD says, taking another hit from his flask and leaning back in his chair: "It's because a number of the Gods were scared as !@#$ of official reprisal. They thought that we could kill them."

"So when the stupid ones got all violent and crazy...?"

"They did the smart !@#$ing thing and stayed the !@#$ inside and down,"  the Director of the COMPANY says, nodding as he taps the President's desk with his free finger: "So the only ones we had to put down were the ones who were going to be a !@#$ing problem, anyway."

"Yes, I'm looking over that," the Interim President says, marveling at the arrests made: "That's a lot of them."

"Well, good thing we've got someone on the team who can !@#$ing handle arresting a god," SPYGOD grins...

Wednesday: 10/19/16

"I cannot believe this indignity!" a very battered Anubis grumbles, being marched off to a hole in time and space -- his hands and ankles shackled by high-tech manacles.

"The irony is quite inescapable," Mister Freedom says, overseeing the prisoner transfer: "As are those chains. Please do not strain yourself?"

The Egyptian mortuary god grumbles, but shuffles off to his waiting cell.

"One down, a whole lot more to go," Gold Standard sighs, looking at the long line that her drones are herding towards the hole -- all overseen by one of the Revolutionary Men.

"There is always room for one more in Hell," the manacled Olympian says, smiling at her.

* * *

"How long are they going to be kept there?" the Interim President asks, looking at the rather long list yet again.

"Well, some of them need to !@#$ing stay there," SPYGOD says: "Especially that one !@#$ing freak from Baltimore. The one who was eating kids and !@#$ing out food for street people?"

The President picks that moment to turn very, very green.

"Easy does it, now," the superspy says, holding up a hand: "Deep breath. Slow deep breath."

"I... I didn't see that," the man says, shaking his head: "Did we... did he...?"

"We most certainly did not allow him into the !@#$ing country," SPYGOD insists: "He came in illegally before the Haitians showed up during that last damn hurricane. We were going to deal with his !@#$, eventually. We just didn't have time."

"But all that's taken care of, now?" the Interim President asks, somewhat weakly: "All those gods are locked up, and going to stand trial for what they've done?"

"Yes," SPYGOD lies, deciding not to get into the really deep details of the whole damn thing.

Especially seeing as how it might color his perceptions of certain individuals...

* * *

"You dare to stand against me!" the slithering snake-diety hisses at his assailant, deep within the darkest recesses of the Void -- a place so far from the light of the all-consuming maw that one can only see in shades of darkest black. 

"I do, yes," Senator Ted Cruz says, raising his fists -- bloodied with the ichor and entrails of several, now-dead entities, all sprawled out about his feet: "You're a monster that has no place in this world. And I'm the !@#$ing cure."

"How dare you speak to me in this fashion!" Yig-Damballah screams, rearing back to strike with its many, sharp fangs: "I will devour your soul!"

"As if," the man says, allowing the thing to think it's got the upper hand -- right until all its teeth strike his skin, and break into small, white pieces upon it. 

The toothless beast howls and skitters away, looking rather pathetic with its face broken and teeth missing. One eye stares off into the wrong spot as the other rolls about loose in its socket. 

And Ted Cruz says one more prayer for forgiveness, and then administers a two-fisted coup de grace -- beating the brains out of the proto-human snake god before it has a chance to heal. He punches with fists blessed by the God he used to pray to, every day, until the head of the thing is nothing but bloody pulp and pulverized bone.

Then he kicks its neck-stump for good measure, just to make sure it doesn't come back to life.

"Mr. Senator," he hears SPYGOD in his ear about ten seconds later: "I need you topside, fast."

"A moment, here, (REDACTED)?" the man scowls: "I just killed 34 gods with my bare hands."

"Which you've !@#$ing known you were going to do for, what, five years now?"

"Yes, but I'm not exactly ready for primetime," the Senator says, wiping venomous slop onto his pants: "I need a shower. Fifty goddamn showers."

"Yeah, well, make 'em !@#$ing quick," the superspy insists: "Our mutual opponent's about to get on the !@#$ing TV to make his case. We need you ready to give the other side."

"Right," Cruz says, looking at his messy hands: "Maybe just one shower?"

"Don't !@#$ing blow dry."

"I never do," the Senator chuckles, and turns to find Shift standing there, waiting to take him to where he's fated to go...

 * * *

"... which is why we don't have the internet, right now," the Interim President says: "Right?"

"I'm !@#$ing getting to that," SPYGOD says, downing his own flask for the hell of it: "Hang on, sir. Hang on..."

* * *

"Good evening, America," the Candidate says to the camera he's sitting in front of, in the rather opulent living room of his three-story Manhattan penthouse: "I really must apologize for intruding upon your normally-scheduled television and webcasts. But, seeing as how our historic, first ten-person Presidential debate has been called off due to a national emergency, I find this is the only way to get my message across, one last time before the election."

Loki smiles through the beefy-faced man he's riding, thinking of all the technological wizardry his servant's press-ganged into existence, here tonight, just to make this possible. Most of them look rather scared.

(The others are rather changed -- most likely by the magic eye his servant keeps locked away for safety...)

"Speaking of that national emergency, I am being told, as are you, that this is currently under control. We are told that the gods who were raging through our city streets have been dealt with. We are told they are being locked away, or otherwise punished, and that this will never, ever happen again. 

"We are being told that. 

"But I see the fires and I am not comforted. I hear the screams and I am dismayed. I see a dark world growing darker with each day, each hour, and I am not satisfied with their progress.

"And so I am certain you do not need to be a reader of minds to know that this truth they peddle is not something I choose to believe. 

"One thing you can say about my forthcoming Administration. You will always know what is foremost on my mind. And that is because I will tell you, without reservation or hesitation. 

"And I tell you now that this problem will not go away," Loki says, preparing the glamour to end them all -- borrowed eyes glowing a poisonous, bright green: "That you should be afraid. That you should listen to what I have to say on this matter, and with rapt attention, for mine is the only plan that will stave off this danger. Mine the only voice you should listen to, for comfort and direction. 

"Mine the only-"

"Sir?" the person behind the camera says, looking rather afraid.

The Candidate looks up at him, furious to have been interrupted in mid-spell, but soon realizing the fear on the man's face has a purpose: "Well?" he demands.

"The camera... it's working, but," he says, pointing to the television feed from the other room.

It's blank. There's nothing but a black screen on every channel they flip to -- eventually replaced by the ubiquitous NO SIGNAL indication.

"I think they've... they have, yes," one of the more willing participants in this says: "They fucking pulled the plug, sir. They killed all the broadcast mediums."

"And the internet!" someone else shouts: "Oh my god..."

"Hey," yet another one of his helpers says, pointing to the window: "Is it just me... or is it getting lighter outside?"

And before the Candidate can call to them to come back and attend him, they're all at the windows -- basking in the first proper sunset they've seen in weeks.

"Looks like something fucking shifted, sir," the SPYGOD of Alter Earth says, coming up behind his master and leaning down to speak into his ear: "What's the plan, now?"

And the Candidate glowers at him, but then looks askance.

He has no plan. None at all.

* * *

The sun's light flares, at least so much as the people of the world can see.

For the first time since the debacle on Mars, everything is bright and shiny again. No lack of light. No growing false shadows. Just the sun, burning and beautiful.

As the light shines, it begins to coalesce in various places -- in front of every television and computer screen in America, every iphone and communications device.

And it takes the form of the face of Senator Ted Cruz, long since thought to be dead and gone in the fighting to retake the red planet, all those weeks ago.

He smiles, looking out at the nation he loves, and speaks to it -- his words somehow traveling from the hard light projections that the reborn Raitha is creating.

"My fellow Americans," he says, raising his hands to them: "I'm sure you know who I am. I'm also sure you thought I was dead, which is something I'm probably never going to get tired of hearing.

"But I apologize for the confusion and distress. It was not my intention to deceive you, or cause you to worry. I was simply unable to tell you that I was alive, due to the nature of what happened to us, and where we were for all that time.."

He smiles again, and the world smiles with him: "But I have returned, now. And I do so in the proverbial nick of time, in several senses of the word.

"I return in time to help stave off this current crisis which has embroiled our nation. As I speak to you, the last vestiges of rebellion and strife are being dealt with. But I want to say to all Americans at this time to be understanding, as what has taken place is an understandable reaction to what happened at Standing Rock.

"When a movement attracts a leader, and that leader is killed, several things can happen. Sometimes the movement embraces peace, and turns the other cheek. And sometimes it turns to violence, and forgets itself.

"And none of us can say that we would raise a hand in friendship rather than a fist, unless we, too, faced this awful thing.

"And so I ask for understanding and forgiveness, in spite of the damage done. The guilty will be called to account, and put to work righting the wrongs they have done. I hope that, when they have made restitution, you will join me in offering them another chance.

"The same chance we would all want in their place..."

He pauses for a moment, and then looks humble: "Speaking of other chances, I would like to ask for one of my own. In the past I have said some very awful and untrue things about a group of those gods. I picked a fight with the Olympians, out of fear and ignorance, and also to try and gain an upper hand politically.

"I humbly and deeply apologize for this. I now know how good these people are, even though they seem strange and unusual to us. I have seen the good they do with my own eyes. I have witnessed what they can be when they work alongside us, as allies and friends.

"And I promise, from here on out, to be an ally and a friend to them, whether or not I am elected President.

"Speaking of which," he smiles again, a little less humbly: "I want it said now, and clearly, that I wish to still be the Candidate of the Freedom Party. But the party I left here on Earth, before my apparent death, is not the party I have returned to. Neither is it something that currently embraces my feelings, as they have changed in many other respects.

"As soon as the internet resumes service, in 24 hours or so, please go to our new website. There you will find a new platform, a new ethos, a new vision for America. I hope you will join me in embracing free markets and free destinies, and help us all to usher in an America where we can all join in.

"There are some things that are about to happen that will not be very pleasant. All will be revealed in time. But for now, please go about your day secure in the knowledge that this nightmare is passing, and soon a better, stronger dream will unfold for us all.

"Thank you for your time, and may the Gods bless our country..."

With that, the image fades. All over America people put their hands to their hearts, thinking that they have never been so uniquely touched by such a message. So uplifted, so ennobled.

So filled with hope...

* * *

"Which was, of course, when things really started to get !@#$ing ugly," SPYGOD explains to the Interim President, pointing to the report.

"Right," the man says, almost afraid to turn the page...

(SPYGOD is listening to Headhunter - Beefcake Remix (Front 242) and having a Freedom Lager)

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)

8/14/11 - The Sadness of Shift

People always ask me if there was really a Murphy behind Murphy's Law. There was. He worked for the early, acknowledged space program (as opposed to the several secret ones we had before the 50's) and he was the guy who got the privilege of remarking, after the third or fourth test rocket blew up on the pad, that "if there is a way to !@#$ this up, he will."

He being the anonymous, long-forgotten guy responsible for not !@#$ up the rockets but !@#$ them up anyway, of course. The program eventually got un!@#$, the rockets flew, the saying got sanitized, reworded, and passed around.

And now we only know of Murphy because of it.

You might be wondering if there's a reason I'm bringing this up now, as I'm standing outside what's left of the Fort Raleigh National Historic Site, here on scenic Roanoke Island, N.C., lighting up something large and noxious and wondering why life !@#$ on me, sometimes?

Well, son, that's because it never fails. I spend a few days sneaking up on one of the big threats (that would be HONEYCOMB, more on them another day) and when I'm trying to relax I get a priority call from the Heptagon. And when your country calls, there's no use complaining about the amount of time you spent procuring safe and non-exploding ladyboys, good thai food, and enough cold Singha to drown a trained elephant, now is it?

No it is not, son. Especially when they show you some of the footage that made them send you the call, and you just about prolapse everything in your alien love god penis out onto the nearest wall.

(METALMAID was not happy about that mess, let me tell you.)

What you do is get on the horn with the E-squad, sober the !@#$ up, get dressed, tell the night's entertainment to keep himself occupied, start working on a new drunk, mainline some tjbang sticks, instruct METALMAID to play nice with the katooey you left behind, put your guns on, and jump off the balcony into the Flier to go see what the !@#$ is up.

And if it really is what you think it is. 

On the way i get a briefing, and it is as !@#$ spooky as I imagined. Apparently, as soon as it got to be twilight on the island, the caretakers started reporting weird flashes of light coming from the reconstructed fort. Strobing and crackling, it was, with thunder booms and after-images.

They thought it might have been heading from the fort to the shoreside theater where they put on that play about the lost colony, but the rangers all !@#$ themselves and ran at about that time. And that's because they thought they heard voices along with the lights.

Screaming voices. Lots of them.

So why do they call in The COMPANY? Because we have the E-Squad. No other intelligence outfit has a mobile strike team that is trained to deal with ectoplasmic or etheric threats.

You got a ghost in your attic? Don't go up there, and call an exorcist. You got ten ghosts, and they're coming downstairs? Get out of the house and call someone from the trenchcoat brigade. You got some big !@#$ spook thing going on downtown and it's throwing cars around like they were made of cardboard, or sucking the life out of yuppies? Call the Heptagon, and they'll call us.

Except that I wasn't 100% sure this was just another big spook. I had the idea that this was larger scale than that. Possibly even godlike.

Now, admittedly, I've had just about !@#$ enough of gods, what with those !@#$ Etruscans showing up and trying to turn the world back two thousand years the other week. But I didn't think it was one of them, and I didn't think it was one of the other ones we do deal with, out in the world.

And as soon as we jumped down to the island, set up the track traps, and started rolling forward to where the noise and light show was coming from, I knew who this was.

We've talked before about how we had gods on our side, back in the late 60's and the 70's, when things were more cosmic than they are now. It's how we have Deep Ten, and maybe a few other things besides that I haven't been at liberty to talk about before, and might never be at all. And I've told you, or at least hinted, at the fact that Rappin Ronnie and his backers kind of hustled them off the page as soon as he came to power, back in 1980.

Well, he didn't get all of them. And tonight I saw the proof.

They called him Shift. That's it. No super, no genders, no colors or letters or anything like that. Just Shift, and that's all you needed to know.

What did he do? He shifted, son. He was here and then he was there. He was there and then he was here five minutes ago, like he'd always been. He was in several different places at once. He was in several different times at once.

You didn't know you needed him until he showed up, and then it was all over and he was just standing there, silently, maybe smiling under that all-over, silver bodysuit he wore.

Then he was gone without ever making a noise.

I think I liked him the best out of that whole lot. Not that the other guys were bad, but Shift was the only one who never tried to out-monologue you while you were fighting the bad guys. One of them once told me the reason he was so quiet was because he had to concentrate in order to be all those places at once, and maybe they were right.

But somehow I don't think they knew, either. Especially after tonight.

What happened tonight? A god came and went. That's all I can really say.

(publicly, at least)

The screaming wasn't his. It was the voices of a whole bunch of people, all displaced in time as a magnificently !@#$ scary timewar was fought all around them. Men with muskets and women with children sprawling all over, unsure of their surroundings as the world went mad, and two luminous beings traded punches back and forth, each blow shattering the skin of time just a little bit.

I looked into that time and saw things. Things I knew and things I didn't know, yet. Only small glimpses, but still...

And then it was all over. The guy who wasn't the Shift dropped to his knees, his techno-muckety-muck timesuit breaking and smoking. It flaked away like brass dandruff in a windstorm and his hair grew long and white as his face wrinkled and shriveled.

"I didn't want this to happen," he croaked out. Famous last words if you ask me. The skin turned to cracked leather on a skull, the skull turned to powder over a neck, and the suit fell down with a rush of dust and a pathetic noise, like someone breathing their last.

I told the E-Squad to drop their guns and help the people out of there. There was no threat. There never had been. This was just the final moment of a battle that had been happening for a few centuries, crackling and booming all around us with no one knowing what was going on, up until now.

But over at last.

The idiot in the timesuit was the King of Time. He was a supervillain from the postwar boom, more infamous than famous due to the fact that his tech was as wonky as !@#$. He'd show up, fight someone, get beaten, vanish, and repeat the process every couple of years. No one knew where he'd come from or where he was going, only that he stole components he needed for his machines, and probably just wanted to be a criminal because it paid better than a research scientist.

What happened to him? One day in 1968 he sent a message, claiming that he'd gone back to the Roanoke colony, before it vanished. And he was going to disappear the lot of them in the timestream if he didn't get ten million smackers dropped off in Central Park in ten minutes. Cue evil scientist laughter here.

Why he bothered was a big question, as they'd already been missing for centuries. What harm could it have dove? But you don't tend to ask those kinds of questions when there's an emergency in motion and action at hand.

However, by the time we assembled and had a plan to deal with his !@#$, we got the message that the situation had been dealt with. Time had been restored to normal. And no one ever saw the King of Time after that, or really asked what had happened to him.

Now we know. Shift must have gone back and confronted him, and then spent virtual centuries locked in battle with him. To the people who were brought along, only seconds had elapsed, but that time energy was being deflected from them and used to overload the buffers that kept the King of Time from aging backwards or forwards while traveling in time.

Without them, he was dead on arrival, which was no great loss.

So I looked at the dustpile that was a missing supervillain. And I looked at the hero I'd known back in the day, but hadn't seen in decades. And I was about to say something !@#$ funny, or maybe offer him a beer.

But he held up a hand, cocked his head, and actually !@#$ said something. 

He said "I'm sorry, (NAME REDACTED). The times to come are going to be terrible. I cannot say what you will face, for no man must know his fate, lest he go mad. But I will tell you this, my friend, because it is important that you know these things. You will win through at the end, though all hands be against you. But to win all is to lose all, and you have more to lose than you could ever know."

"What happens?" I asked.

"I cannot say, and you know why that is."

"Why does it happen?" I asked.

"I cannot say, but when it happens you will know the answer."

"Well what the !@#$ is the use of telling me anything at all, then?" I asked. "Can you at least !@#$ give me a hint?"

And then, God help me, he told me.

With that deed done, he nodded, turned, and walked into another one of those timebolts. Then he was gone, doubtlessly off to whatever place Rappin Ronnie sent the others, back in the day.

That was a few hours ago. I've been standing here ever since, chain smoking and drinking and ignoring the E-Squad when they come by and ask me stupid questions whose answers are way above my !@#$ pay grade. Like "What do we do with these people?" and "Where did he go?"

Or, my personal favorite, "What just happened?"

I'll tell you what happened, son. One of the finest people we ever had looking out for us just saved a bunch of people from god knows what, and then broke a long-standing code of silence so he could help me save the world from something even worse.

I just realized why the Shift never spoke. It wasn't because he was maintaining concentration. It was because he was in the unique and unenviable position of knowing everyone's fates. He could look at people and see them born, see them live, see them die, and know everything that would happen inbetween.

And he couldn't tell anyone anything, even to warn a friend, because if he did that it would ruin their lives.

He wasn't smiling behind that mask. He was sad. Terribly, horribly sad.

And tonight, with just three words, he's shared that infinite sadness with me.

"Beware the gorgon," he said.

And that's good !@#$% advice, son. Because if there's any way to !@#$ things up, they will make it happen. We've seen that, and they've gone out of their way to let us know that.

But now I'm in a bind. Do I go to town on GORGON, knowing what I know, inviting worse trouble than before? Do I ignore them completely, or leave them for last, hoping they'll become complacent again? Or do I do what I was going to do, anyway, and go after HONEYCOMB next while sifting through options on the others?

This is the sadness, now. I will never be able to look at my actions from here on out and know that I'm making the right choices. I now know too much.

So this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to finish this noxious cigar that costs too !@#$ much money, thankfully none of it mine. I am going to leave the repatriation of the British Subjects of Roanoke Colony to the local authorities, with the express understanding that if they !@#$ with them I'm going to come back and return the favor. And I will go back to Neo York City, see if the entertainment's still awake, and get double my money's worth for the rest of tonight and into the dawn.

If I'm !@#$ed, I might as well be !@#$ed for what I'd do, anyway. And that sounds a lot like me, right now.

(SPYGOD is listening to Time Shift (2Drops) and having a Bad Penny)

8/4-8/11 - And the Sky and the Impossible Explode

You may have noticed that, the last few days, things were more than a little strange, even if you can't fully remember them now.

I won't apologize for the strangeness, as, for once, I can categorically state that I had !@#$ nothing to do with causing it.

And I can't take credit for its ending, as some of the things that happened before, during, and immediately after that strangeness are so high above your pay grade you'd break your neck trying to crane it up to look at it, and the less said about the strange things we had to do to end that strangeness, the better.

But, as I'm sure you'll be having nightmares about half-remembered things, and be puzzled over world events that seem to have come out of nowhere (like those riots in London, unless you live there and watch something other than !@#$ CNN or FOX), and be wondering why some of your friends and acquaintances, and I hope none of your family, have just flat out !@#$ disappeared, I figure SPYGOD owes you something of an explanation.

So, here goes. Deep breath. Sit down. Grab something really stiff to drink.

(Not my !@#$. That will not help with this.)

First a question: does the name Tyrrhenia ring any bells?

No, it probably doesn't. You might know it as Etruria, which sounds a lot like something off an 80's kids cartoon or something C.S. Lewis babbled on about when he wasn't writing that dog!@#$ apologia masquerading as a series of kids' books. But if I use the term "Etruscan" it'll probably come back to you, along with boring, grade-school trips to the Podunk Art Museum, and the traveling show of ancient goat horn carvings that was just sooooo interesting.

So yes, Etruria was Tyrrhenia, and Tyrrhenia was the empire that used to be in charge in Italy, about 900 years before Christ. They gave Greece its Gods and Rome its Arch, and its Gods, and a few other things besides. And now, all people can remember is Greece and Rome and the fact that something was around for centuries before is pretty much forgotten, thanks to the difficulties of translating Etruscan and Gods know what else.

Well, living in these modern times, we all know that Gods are real, and walk amongst us from time to time. Whether we need them more than they need us is highly debatable, but they're available for magic tricks, birthday parties, and the occasional cosmic crisis. Some of them hobnob with our strategic talents, some of them don't care to mingle, and some just stay the !@#$ away from the modern world and all its push-button, tricknological tomfoolery.

And given some of their habits, that's probably all for the best.

And I know that SPYGOD has told you, before, that the Gods who Greece and Rome's respective pantheons were based on were real, and walked amongst us back in the 60's and 70's before things got a little too colorful and weird for certain theological and economic forces in the 80's, right? It's why we have Deep Ten in the first place, and why we were so poetic and flashy back then, before Rappin Ronnie came to power and we got all dark and morbid and overly self-conscious.

Well, I didn't exactly tell you everything, which is, admittedly, my prerogative. But I think I may have erred in my oversimplification.

You see, those elder beings didn't just provide templates for Rome and Greece to base their Gods on, which were believed in, became real, and still exist in some semblance of their former power, like most so-called Pagan deities do these days.

The truth is that their magical footprint was so large and pronounced that it actually created echoes of themselves, and these echoes went on to have lives independent of any amount of belief they were receiving.

That's why the Greek and Roman gods still resonate with the power that they do. That's why classical antiquity and mythology stand so highly in our cultural forefront. And that's why, out of all the pantheons still active in the world, theirs are still the most powerful, even more so than the folks from the Indian subcontinent whose religions are still !@#$ active to this day.

That's why those two Pantheons never had a "slumber" period where their tales and stories, overwritten by churches or other forces, were downgraded and forgotten. They stayed active all the way from the decline of Greece and Rome up until the modern day.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering what the bright blue !@#$ this has to do with London burning, or those last few days you're having problems remembering fully.

Well, there's a piece of this puzzle missing. These ancient, powerful gods whose thunderous scale of existence created copies of themselves. The initial copies went to Greece. The later copies wound up in Rome. But the middle copies went to Etruria, and were not included with the purchase order when Rome took things over from them.

So where have they been all this time? Locked up by very powerful magic SPYGOD doesn't even pretend to understand. Buried under the earth on a ruined island in the Mediterranean that only shows up once every couple of years for only a day and a night, and then vanishes for a year, a decade, a century, who can say?

Of course, the problem with locks is that you need a key. And the key doesn't do any good if it's not where you can get at it. So the key to this lock on this ruined island has been sitting somewhere in western Europe for the last couple millennia, locked up in the sanctum sanctorium of some grand high muckety-muck religious order that doesn't tolerate anyone asking questions about who they are, what they do, or what they have in the vault.

So some !@#$bag from the Legion decides it would be cool to crash the party and take a bunch of these artifacts, because there's got to be something in there that would help him deal with that pesky Red Alchemist once and for all. And he finds this key, and the key takes him over, and marches his bad guy !@#$ down to an island that just happens to be returning to the world once again that very day. And...

Okay, I figure you got the point by now. Key gets lock unlocked. Forgotten, unhappy Etruscan deities come out and see the world for the first time in over 2000 years. Not-happiness ensues. A simple plan gets stamped out.

So I get this phonecall at 5 in the !@#$ AM on a Friday, after a full night of drinking, banging ladyboys, and trying to find out what happened to the Thunderball on Thursday, telling me that someone who looks like something from Quake is smashing what's left of the Parthenon. Oh, and the Colosseum is being used as a staging ground for what looks like the mythological invasion of Europe.

Do I have a few hours to spare?

And that, my friends, is why you're having problems remembering the last few days so well. Gods that have not been adequately remembered nor dealt with were loose in the world, !@#$ !@#$ up like it was going out of style.

Mythological beasts ran loose in the streets. Weather patterns went every which way. Seas boiled, mountains melted, dogs and pigs got friendly. Ichor flew across the clouds and spouted miracles, some darker than others, and I'm told they could hear the fighting from the next star cluster over.

It took every magician, every god, and just about every divine name in my little black book to put the genie back in the bottle (if you'll excuse that expression, given that the pre-Islamic deities of the Middle East were real hard sells on aiding us after the last few years).

But, in the end end, after 96 non-stop hours of fighting divine things I didn't know we'd forgotten, we've won, and the world is back to normal. Mostly.

Except for London, for which I profusely apologize, even though that was not my !@#$ fault, either. If it helps any things should blow over in another day or so, once everyone who was under (REDACTED)'s control realizes they've got better things do to than burn down their own !@#$ neighborhoods.

Like go see Attack the Block, or something. Tell 'em SPYGOD sent you

(SPYGOD is listening to A Strange Day (The Cure) and mainlining the java)

6/19-20/11 - The Day We Gonna Give It Back to You

The epic punking of GORGON is upon us, and I finally got an idea on what to do and how to do it. It came to me in a brilliant drunk dream that involved ice, snow, and trannie penguin strippers shaking it to Lady GaGa in the light of the Aurora, but has nothing and yet everything to do with these vaguely related elements.

The perfect plan, in other words. It's just too bad I had to spend a few hours in the infirmary convincing the doctors that I hadn't frozen half to death while sleeping outside in the nude to get it.

Of course, this scheme is so epic and massive that it will require about three weeks to get off the ground, both literally and figuratively. So we're going to have to get every COMPANY Agent we have up and running quadruple-time to meet or beat the deadline.

Which is right !@#$ now, incidentally.

I can't remember who said "Be realistic. Demand the impossible." It may have been Situationists or some mad scientist I used to beat up in the 60's. Maybe both at once.

But at The COMPANY those words are inscribed and enshrined in many public places, and a few places you wouldn't expect to see them. Because they are SOP at all times, in all places, in all ways.

After all, that's why we have a trans-lunar defense array for GORGON to have subverted in the first place.

Do you remember the 60's and 70's like I remember them, son? I'm willing to bet that you do not. Most of what happened back then has been rewritten, apologized for, explained away, or just plan ret-conned into happy, homogenized oblivion.

And some of that's because some very strange things happened back then. Things that, from a national security standpoint, we'd rather not dwell upon in this day of Youtube and Twitter and Gods only know what else.

But some of that's because things actually didn't happen the way that they did, because reality got shuffled around like a red jack in a three card monty game.

Case in point, Deep Ten.

In the early 70's, we did not have the capability of putting a defensive array in far far far out orbit, some distance past the Moon. We barely won the space race with the Soviets, after all, and everything we did after that was just cementing our claim on the big gray ball of rock, along with the occasional secret mission.

And yet, Deep Ten has been out there, watching out for us, since before the last Apollo Mission. Its massive batteries of missiles and lasers, and vast network of observation and annihilation sub-platforms, make it clear to any would-be alien invaders that they had better be sure they want us bad enough before they even try to step over our lines.

Because the robots that are tasked to tirelessly watch over it will shoot first and ask questions later. No question about that.

So how did it get there? Well, there's a story for you, son, and it'll fit right along with the other crazy hijinks that were going on at the time.

In 1965, Wendell Williams, 34 year old Archaeologist enfant terrible, was engaged in a one-man expeditions to the cursed ruins of Cyprus. A pit of despair a mile underground, those ruins had claimed every other tomb robber and treasure seeker who'd followed the clues to find it.

But by some dark miracle, Wendell didn't die. He braved the traps, defused the challenges, defeated the puzzles, and made it to a great hall of statues no one had ever seen the likes of before or again. The actual, true images of the Greek Gods, or, more accurately, the powerful beings those gods had been based upon.

In the center of the room was a large silver box. Wendell should have known better, but he opened it, anyway.

And in the twinkling of an eye his molecules were shifted from our dimension right into another. A fantastic realm where science and sorcery were one and the same.

The place where those ancient, powerful beings who'd been interpreted as the ancient Greek Gods had been hiding for ages.

They'd left us to our affairs, long ago, so they could retreat to where they'd come from and continue their researches into the impossible and otherworldly. They were content to wait, willfully ignorant of our progress (or sad lack thereof) until we found the box, which, by their reckoning, meant that we'd proved ourselves worthy to speak to them again.

But then they got to Earth, they realized that what this mewling, self-important little human was saying about the world was true. We really were a bunch of divided, little kingdoms all at war with one another over stupid reasons, and all loath to cooperate with one another unless there was some kind of profit in it, somewhere,

Now, anyone who knows anything could tell you that's how things were when the gods left, however long ago. But these beings were still not happy to return and find the world this way.

It's kind of like your parents coming back from vacation to find the grass wasn't mowed, the dishes weren't washed, and there's three dead hookers stuffed under the sink.

But the gods, being better parents than most, felt responsible for not having left better directions. They knew they couldn't just go home and leave things like that. And while it would have been just so easy to draw down wrath, flood, and lightning, they wisely decided that the time of gods was over.

So they would stay and help instead of punish. But this time they'd lead by example. And since new guises were called for, and, as most people who had abilities beyond that of a normal human explained it away by having a mask, a cape, and a silly name like "Captain Cape," the gods decided they should all become superheroes, too.

So there was a time, back in the mid-60's, when literal gods were walking amongst us human gods, helping us out and trying to get us back on the straight and narrow, like any good superhero ought to. Sometimes they succeeded, even if most of the time they failed, but there were plenty of us normal folks around to pick up the slack.

And whether we worked together, or in complete ignorance of one another, there was a sense that, even in our darkest hours, something greater than ourselves had our six.

So yeah, the late 60's and most of the 70's were glory days for the superspy and superhero business. The crap leather armor and dingy outfits we'd worn before, during, and after the War were switched over to amazing costumes in bright, primary colors. Our dour and cranky ways were recharged with the strange poetry of infinite possibility. And everything we said and did was elevated to a truly super heroic level.

Scientific romances crazier than anything we'd done, or had done to us, during the War? Possible.

Outlandish inventions that should not have worked? Mass produced.

The melding of the mind, the tool, and the weapon to the point where we could engage in titanic, life and death struggles for the fate of the entire world and yet speak pure poetry while delivering three-fisted justice square in the face? Seamless.

Anything was possible, nothing was prohibited, and anything forbidden could be dealt with a solid, skull-splitting kick to reality itself.
And that's how Deep Ten got to be there.

You see, when the gods came back, they saw that our defenses were total !@#$ when it came to being invaded from outer space. So one of the first things they did was to take steps to ensure that would not happen, and created the Wonderwall in trans-lunar orbit.

When I first set foot on board it, back in the day, I was impressed. And you know when I say that, that's something, because I am not, by definition, an easy man to impress. They had observation platforms that could see as far as the nearest star, and enough wonder weapons to turn a good-sized invasion fleet into space dust, all crewed by humanoid robots who were so lifelike that it was hard to believe they weren't flesh and blood.

Like I said, an A-1 operation. I was !@#$ proud to have strode its impossible platforms. Me and some of my colleagues jumped from sub-platform to sub-platform, all the way around the Earth and Moon, for a tour of our corner of the Solar System that few beings ever get to take, laughing all the way.

The impossible was, at long last, as realistic as we'd demanded.  

But things changed. You know they changed. I'm not at liberty to discuss exactly how and why, except to say that when Rappin' Ronnie sailed into the White House, he had a number of backers that needed executive pleasing.

From on high, as it were. In several senses of the word. 

That's not to say the gods vanished overnight. That would have been impossible, even for him and his quiet allies. What happened was that things were changed, through means I'm also not at liberty to divulge.

(Though you might want to ask poor Wendell. If you can find him.)

First, they weren't gods, anymore. They were ordinary people who could switch places with the myths and legends of the ancient past by speaking magic words. The theory was that being tied down to humans would make them less godlike and more flawed, but that was still too complicated for some.

Then they were just superheroes based on them, which is really ironic if you think about it. Some government lab created them and they got loose, and then went out to do what they'd been doing all long, only with crazy, super-high science instead of miracles.

But that was even more complicated, for some dumb reason I've never fully understood. Probably because !@#$ like that happens all the time in my side of the business.

So by the time the late 80's rolled around, and Ronnie was exiting the Oval Office, the gods had left the building, leaving an ultra-heroic void where they used to be.

That and a whole lot of leftover, ultra-heroic hardware that was not leaving along with them. Like Wonderwall and its army of killer androids, which was classified as Deep Ten by someone who imagined having nine other orbiting killer space doom platforms between it and the Moon by 2020.

No such luck on that one, but that's another story for another time.

The important thing is that you know why we have that floating relic up there. It's still as effective, magnificent, and dangerous as it ever was. It's still a remarkable defense against the many horrible things that are lurking out past the Moon, waiting to have a crack at us.

Except now we don't trust the robots who run it. So we have to send humans up there on creaky, old spaceships, and maroon them for years at a time in the most wonderful remnant of the 60's and 70's that weren't.

Not that it doesn't take care of them and give them a lot of things to take their mind off other things, but five-plus years in Wonderwall, away from Earth, is a real drag for some. Some people go crazy. Some people jump out of airlocks. Some are pushed out before they do something rash, like nuke Tanzania.

And some people will do anything to get home early. 

So it's no surprise that GORGON was able to hack their perfect, god-designed systems, and have no one notice anything. They probably bribed someone in exchange for getting them out early. I can't hear too well, up there, so I don't know just yet.

But, given that I remember things differently from most people who were around at the time, I remember something very special about Deep Ten, back when they called it Wonderwall.

I remember that, amazed as I was with all the power we had, a little suspicious piece of my head asked "What if it gets taken over?" Or, more likely, "What if I have to spy on this, someday?"

And that's a major part of the plan, here.

Judging from the keystrokes I'm hearing, my Agents in Neo York are about to call me. They're going to say that they found the thing in the back of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. that I told them to take to the Flier. And once I get a little something here up and running, we'll put two and two together and see to it that Deep Ten gets seven.

Because sleeping out under the Antarctic sky brings you a whole new perspective on the possible and impossible. And because, having lived in a time when both could comfortably sit next to each other on the bus, I'm happy to remind people like GORGON what they've probably all forgotten right now.

Fear and wonder on a cosmic !@#$ scale, kids.

Watch the skies.

(SPYGOD is listening to Heavy Metal: Black and Silver (Blue Oyster Cult) and knocking back a cold Mythos)