12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - Punishment and Aftermath

Yeah, that took longer than I !@#$ing thought it would.

What, the story? !@#$ no, son. I meant taking a slash and then flushing the !@#$ commode. All this French !@#$ I've been chugging it's no wonder my kidneys were backed up, but then you figure that poor porcelain throne can only !@#$ing handle so much before exploding into a million white pieces all over the !@#$ floor.

Of course, since this isn't our !@#$ing apartment, and we are under house arrest, I suppose I'm within my rights to do the !@#$hole rock star thing and just smash the !@#$ place. But where would I take a !@#$ the rest of the time?

(Not in the bedroom bathroom, that's for sure. Me and my boyfriend got that straightened out first thing.)

No, son. What was really !@#$ing taking so long was watching the gold go down the hole.

No, it's not that I have a !@#$ing attraction to that kind of !@#$. I've done a lot of weird things in my time, but I'm happy to say that, while I might gladly stuff my !@#$ into one hole, and take another thing in my mouth, I am not really all that !@#$ing interested in what comes out of them.

Well, one thing that comes out of one of them, anyway.

Yeah, you probably didn't need to !@#$ing hear that. Sorry, son. You can take your hands off your !@#$ ears now.

No, what transfixed me, back there, was the fact that, unless you're a !@#$ing sanitation engineer, you probably have no idea as to what !@#$ing happens when you flush the !@#$ john. It all goes down the hole and away from you, and that's all you need to know, right?

But in reality, there's this massive, complicated system at play. All these !@#$ tubes and pipes, and filters and tunnels, and sluiceways and treatement plants... !@#$ son, it's like some crazy kind of alchemy, down there, all set to turn a city's leavings into as harmless a substance as possible before sending it back out into the wild.

And it is pretty !@#$ing miraculous, in a lot of ways. But it smells, and it's nasty, and when things break down it's a !@#$ing hazzard, so no one wants to know unless they have to know. And so it remains a weird mystery science for most people, and only those who actually !@#$ing tend to the process know what's going on.

Yeah, son, I ponder things like that. I'm !@#$ing allowed. Had a lot of !@#$ing time to ponder that, now haven't I? You know how many minutes I've spent on the !@#$ can in my life?

I could count them, if I !@#$ing wanted.

...

No, the reason I got all starey-eyed back at the !@#$ can is because I was thinking about what happened next. To the Imago, I mean.

We tried them, we sentenced them. And then came the day we had to flush them down the !@#$ing toilet for their crimes.

And you better !@#$ing believe I was there for that one.

* * *

So, let's see, here. The sentencing happens on a Thursday in Paris. The very next day, I'm not there anymore, but the President is. And they get talking about some things that I genuinely had no idea were in the !@#$ing works, but wasn't entirely surprised to hear when it all happened.

(Yeah, yeah. We'll get to it eventually.)

Next couple of days I'm !@#$ing laying low because I really do not need to !@#$ off the President any further. Also, I can't !@#$ing go anywhere without people sticking cameras in my !@#$ face, or asking me how it feels to be !@#$ing responsible for a billion dead children around the world. We hole up in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., drink mojitos, and order out a lot. 

Then, late Monday night, we get a call from Mister Freedom. He's ready.

And Tuesday is when it happens. 

* * *

On the Southeastern side of Cuba lies a small piece of empire, left over from the time before.

It's known as the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, sometimes Gitmo. Since the earliest parts of the last century, it has been under American military control, helping establish a presence in this volatile part of the world. And, since about the middle of the last century, it has been a hated thing in the eyes of the Communist government that controlled Cuba.

But that was before. Before the end of that Government at the hands of the COMPANY. Before the death of their Dictator, and the messy liberation of its people.

And before the coming of the Imago, which made all that confusion and liberation something of an afterthought, or perhaps a black joke.

Now, Cuba is its own entity, once more. Its people have elected a new government, based on a mixture of capitalist economics and socialist welfare. And they, like so many other countries, have joined the Terre Unifee.

One of their earliest decisions, once they joined the TU, was to demand that the American naval base leave. And maybe, once upon a time, America would have been happy to, seeing as how the real reason to have a Naval presence there was no longer in effect.

Unfortunately, Gitmo was also home to Detention Camp Zebra, which cannot, under any circumstances, be moved.

Given the unique situation on the ground, the two nations made a historic agreement. The base was mostly decommissioned, except for the underground prison, which became its own entity. America agreed to pay back rent, in full, and to continue to pay rent on the area they hold. And they also promised that the island nation would be protected from anything and anyone that might be locked up in The Z. 

Not that such a thing is a concern with Mister Freedom on the case. (Usually)

By the time SPYGOD gets there -- flown in by the last remaining COMPANY Transport anywhere -- a number of distinguished guests have arrived. Mostly the same types who came to the verdict and the sentencing, here to see the end result, but also the well-known masters of several, esoteric fields. 

Leading scientists and great thinkers. Escape artists and magicians. Philosophers and religious leaders. All here to see the work of a man who melds their many disciplines into one, seamless art.

All front and center to watch the master of universal escapology create a prison not even he could get out of. 

One gets a sense of the gravity involved, here, this day, upon seeing the machine: a great, copper spiral surrounding a giant, silver cylinder. Lights flash around the cylinder, beating in time with whatever strange engine runs it. 

An elevating platform sits at the top of the spiral, holding a massive box containing many large, two-toned metal balls. These are obviously the condemned Imago, awaiting their sentence, and there are quite a few other, massive boxes nearby, waiting to be loaded onto the platform, and send barreling down the copper spiral, one by one.

In front of the machine, on the tarmac, is an ornate platform, done up in the colorful livery that Mister Freedom often uses when attempting some amazing feat. Before that platform sits the ball containing Green and Yellow, hooked up to the same speakers it was in court, in Paris.

The crowd assembles and sits down, talking amongst themselves. The last time Mister Freedom gave a public performance, like this, was when they finally trapped the Emperor of Dust. And what he did to him gave everyone who saw it nightmares for months.

Some fates are too cruel, even for interdimensional soul-thieves.

SPYGOD's up at the front, along with other witnesses for the Prosecution. He can't help but chuckle at how the Judge is jockeying for a good position, leaving his secret lover (the Prosecutor) well behind him, out of what may be eerie caution or simply not caring about his feeling at this moment in time. 

Mr. USA sits on one side of him, Director Straffer on the other. All the other Strategic Talents have elected to be somewhere else, and quite pointedly so. 

"I really wish Mrs. Liberty was here to see this," Mr. USA sighs.

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, putting an elbow up on the man's shoulder: "She'd have talked some !@#$ing sense into them by now, let me tell you."

"Well, I was thinking more of her actually... oh, never mind."

SPYGOD smiles: "That's always been the difference between us, hasn't it?"

"One of many."

"Yeah, well..." he pats the old man on the shoulder: "Welcome to the pariah club."

"If you two don't stop arguing I'm going to have to assert boyfriend rights," Straffer says, leaning over and winking: "He and I are the ones who are supposed to be bickering like an old married couple, by now. Not you two."

Mr. USA just stares at him for a moment, and then laughs. It's a long, rich laugh -- one that silences a lot of other people -- and before long SPYGOD and Straffer and laughing right along with him. 

(Some !@#$hole tries to shush them, but they don't even look in his direction.)

Eventually, the laughter fades, as it must. And just then, as if by some quirk of perfect timing -- or what might be design, knowing him -- there's a strange whooshing of black cloth at the front of the massive machine, and Mister Freedom is standing there, resplendent in his dark uniform.

Silence falls like a headsman's hatchet. He smiles solemnly, and holds up his hands. They have clearly been manacled.

"Today, we ponder the mystery of imprisonment," he says, holding his chains aloft: "We look upon a group of individuals who have earned our wrath, and are therefore deserving of our punishment. But we also must realize that they are sentient beings, deserving of the same respect we give to any such creatures. 

"Thus we affirm the paradox of prison: your body must be chained down, for your past crimes, but your soul must be allowed to soar, or there can be no future redemption."

'Soar': if there's any irony in his use of that word, given the Imago's tendency to use it to great effect, he makes no sign of it. A cool customer, this science magician. 

"And so, we commit the Imago to this cell," he says, gesturing to the silver cylinder: "It is a virtual matrix, specially built to accommodate their many minds, and respond to their needs and desires. Within its architecture, they may have whatever civilization they can devise, and one limited only by their imagination. 

"But they will not leave it until we allow them to do so, and doing so will prove... challenging, to say the least."

There's a collective nod, a muttering of assent. 

"I asked the one known as Green and Yellow if she had any final words to say, prior to her sentence being carried out. She did, and so I have allowed her this moments."

He walks down, and turns on a dial by the box: "You may speak now, Green and Yellow. They are all here."

"Oh, excellent," Green and Yellow sneers, her voice crisp and clicking: "I suppose you expect that I'm going to beg, or possibly even promise that we'll learn our lesson and someday prove worthy of your trust, again? 

"Well, I'm not. I am not sorry that we did what we did. I am not sorry that we were able to escape that prison we were put into, by beings more powerful than you will ever be. I am not sorry that we took over your planet, and planned to use you to escape it, in the wake of what's coming. I am not sorry we decided to murder you all, at the end, there, either. 

"I am sorry that we won't be able to see you all die, soon. Because that will be entertaining. You may have dealt with us, at great cost, but when ((UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT)) gets here... oh, you are in for a shock. 

"But, not to appear entirely ungrateful, I will give you this. Of all the worlds we ever conquered, and all the peoples we ever utilized, you are the only ones to throw us off, ever. And it wasn't because we were weakened, or sloppy, or too kind for our own good.

"But it wasn't because you were just that good, either. It is simply because you are the only race that was so clearly willing to sacrifice so much of your own kind to save the rest.

"And that alone made so much of the difference."

There is silence, then. No one here has no difficulty understanding what Green and Yellow was referring to. 

No one wishes to have it elaborated upon.

"Mister Freedom? I have said all I need to say, both for myself and my people. You may do what you are going to do, now."

The black-clad man nods, solemnly. He does not disconnect the speaker, but instead presses a few buttons on a remote control he snatches from the air, as though it were part of a magic trick. 

The silver cylinder hums into life. Green and Yellow screams, sharply, as her essence is pulled out of the sphere she's inhabiting, and siphoned into the cylinder. A loud BEEP! sounds out from the machine, and the green and yellow ball she had been inhabiting, just seconds before, begins to smoke and crumble, turning into two-colored dust as it collapses in on itself.

"The process of incarceration has begun," Mister Freedom says, pressing another button on his control. The box at the top of the copper spiral releases a sphere, which rolls round and round the cylinder like a pinball. The cylinder BEEP!s and the sphere rolls on, falling into a shallow pit at the end. 

A crumpling noise is heard as it hits the bottom, and a puff of two-colored smoke wafts up, gentle and pathetic. 

"Out of respect for the process, I ask that, if you stay, you remain silence for the entire event," he says, pressing a button and releasing another sphere: "I estimate that it may take six hours, give or take."

A few people politely leave, heading for the reception that's been set up some distance away, on a rise that allows them to see what's going on. Others sit and watch, for a time.

And some -- like SPYGOD and The Owl -- join the magicians and philosophers, and sit and watch the entire thing. 

* * *

A long !@#$ing six hours, son. But worth every !@#$ moment, just to see those !@#$ers get handled as efficiently as they'd planned on handling us...

...

After it was done, Mister Freedom checked a few things, and then bowed to the crowd, and vanished without saying another thing. 

The copper spiral collapsed down into a big !@#$ ring, like a giant slinky or something. The cylinder went straight down into a hole in ground that I hadn't even !@#$ing seen, just a moment ago. As soon as it was gone, there was a sound like a million !@#$ cell doors slamming the !@#$ shut, one after another, each one louder and more !@#$ing final than the last.

And then the hole it went into just vanished like it wasn't even there. 

The magicians stood up and applauded. Everyone else just sort of scattered, like they'd watched their parents !@#$ or something. And then it was just me and The Owl, and she walked right by me without saying a !@#$ thing.

I wanted to say something to her. But after how things went in Paris, and what happened on !@#$ing Thanksgiving, I don't know that I would have !@#$ing dared. 

No, she had a right to her anger, son, so I let her have it. At least for then. 

So I went over to the rise for a much-needed drink, or ten, over at the buffet. It was a pretty upscale thing, complete with a string quartet playing orchestrations of the Beatles (mostly from Revolver). Straffer and Mr. USA were in the middle of a !@#$ing hilarious conversation, so I joined them, and we had a few snorts and giggles.

One thing I didn't find !@#$ing funny was the other Strategic Talents. They were all over by the !@#$ cake table, talking about the future. A new Freedom Force was in the works, over there -- old heroes, new faces, allies from all over the !@#$ world -- and it looked like The Owl and the new New Man were heading it up.

And it was pretty !@#$ clear, from how they all had their !@#$ backs to us, that they weren't asking us over to join.

Lucky for me, Mr. USA didn't notice a !@#$ing thing, especially over the music. So we kept !@#$ing talking, downing the champagne, and figuring out some next moves. He knew how much !@#$ I was in with the President, and why (after all, he was !@#$ing there when it happened) so he promised to try and talk the man into calming the !@#$ down and seeing reason, at least as much as it was possible to do. 

A while into the party, I got called away by one of the magicians who'd been on the stage. Some Spanish !@#$ I never heard of before, and haven't !@#$ing seen since. He handed me a small note, made the Vitarka Mudra at his right eye, and said "Le esta viendo."

(Har-dee-!@#$ing-har)

I open it up, and of course it's a note from Mister Freedom. Says he'd like to see me at his workshop. And, given how we left things last time, I figure it's time for that !@#$ing apology he said we didn't !@#$ing need. So I grab a bottle of the bubbly no one's touched yet, two glasses, and head on down. 

* * *

"Come, my friend," the older man says, leaning up from his neat and orderly workdesk, and brushing a hand through the multi-colored bangles in his long, white hair.

"I ain't even breathing hard, yet," SPYGOD says, ducking under a low-hanging piece of equipment: "Besides, my man and I have a bit of an understanding on that."

"I am sure you do," the old man smiles: "And you brought champagne?"

"Yeah. I kind of stole it from your table, up top."

"Oh, that is not mine. That is all the Americans' doing. And the Cubans. And the French."

"Hard to tell who's in !@#$ing charge of this !@#$ show, huh?"

"We are," he says, gratefully accepting a glass and letting the man fill it: "So what are we drinking to, (REDACTED)?"

"How about an apology?"

"I already told you, not needed. That was an excellent test of my security. I am glad to see you made so much of what I allowed you to see."

SPYGOD coughs into his fist: "Well... that's !@#$ing sobering."

"As it should be. So we have both underestimated each other? A good thing we are friends and allies."

"How about we drink to that, then?"

"I will agree to that," Mister Freedom says, clinking his glass with SPYGOD's and taking a sip: "And, if I may propose a toast?"

"Yes."

"To the eventual freedom of the Imago," he says, winking as they clink glasses once more.

SPYGOD stammers: "Um... what?"

The old man laughs, and gestures to a screen. On that screen is a giant, metal box, made of what seem millions of small, interlocking parts, each one cunningly nestled against one another.

"This, I think, is the finest cell I have ever constructed. I have made it in such a way that no one, not even I, knows the exact combination. To unlock such a thing would take a truly herculean effort, perhaps several of them all at once. So, I can say with some confidence, the Imago will not be let out of there."

"So what do you mean about their freedom?" SPYGOD asks, downing his glass and then just pulling off the !@#$ bottle: "Do you intend to !@#$ing let them out, someday?"

"Oh no. They are never going to be worthy of our trust," Mister Freedom says, sadly: "Their souls are manacled things, weighed down by dreams of limitless power and endless conquest. They will never take the steps to free themselves without some kind of external influence. 

"And as they tend to utilize, as they say, all things external to themselves, I don't think they'd listen to any such well-meaning force or fellow that came along to show them the error of their ways."

"Yeah, I never really saw an Imago Jesus coming down the pipe."

The old man chuckles: "I was thinking of an Imago Buddha, myself. But at least we are traveling in the same direction, this time."

"So what are you saying?"

"I am saying that, so long as they perceive the need to gain power by conquering others, they will never be satisfied to merely sit in a wondrous box and be given whatever they need to survive. They will try to escape, and, given enough time, they just might succeed, as they did before."

"Okay. And how are you going to stop them?"

"I am not."

SPYGOD shakes his head: "Okay, I'm still confused."

"Then let me tell you of the future, my friend," Mister Freedom says, gesturing to a pair of chairs that have quite literally appeared from nowhere, and indicating that they should sit in them: "One billion years from this day, when the Earth is a broken and blackened thing-"

"What?"

"Let me finish, my friend."

"Are you talking about that !@#$ing thing we can't understand? The thing that's on it's !@#$ way?"

"I am. And it will scour us clean of life and move on, leaving only a sorry remnant, circling an impotent Sun."

"Okay..." SPYGOD blinks, having another pull and deciding to see where this is !@#$ing leading.

"So, to this ruined world, an exploratory craft shall come. When they search what little remains, they will find that there are a few pieces of technology still working. This cube will be one of them, and they, being machine creatures, will be eager to unearth it, as they believe it may be a last survivor of whatever apocalypse came upon us."

SPYGOD blinks again: "At which point they let the !@#$ing Imago out."

"Yes, and the Imago, as they put it, 'utilize' them. They use their machines to make even more bodies. They leave our broken solar system, and begin to ravage and repurpose other parts of the galaxy. And in time they create an empire that makes the one they had, back in their old dimension, look like a mere trifle."

"And you know all this, how?"

"Because I have programmed the matrix to make them think this is what is going to happen," the old man says, smiling: "You see, time is not relative in there. To us, it has been only seven hours, but once the cylinder was locked down, their perception of time was slowed down considerably. In the last hour, several decades have already gone by. And a year to us will seem like a billion to them."

SPYGOD snaps his fingers, getting it at last: "So a year from now, they think the machines come and get them, a billion years from now. But it's really just an illusion. They're only leaving their perceptions of a prison for their perceptions of freedom."

"Exactly. And once they think they're free, they will no longer plan, plot, and conspire to get out again. And so we will not run the risk of them freeing themselves, somehow, in ages to come when this horrendous danger will be lost to time."

"You think they won't notice, even after billions of years?"

"No. In fact, I know they will not."

SPYGOD nods, and pours the old man some more champagne: "That's brilliant. It's a complete ripoff of the end of a Star Trek episode, but it's brilliant."

Mister Freedom laughs and raises his glass: "I never said I was completely original, my friend. But I think the application is, dare I say, flawless."

"I sure !@#$ing hope so," SPYGOD replies, looking at the box on the screen: "I wouldn't wish those !@#$ers on the worst bastards in the universe. And that's !@#$ing saying something."

"I rather think we've dealt with the worst bastards in the universe, now," the old man says, shaking his head.

And with that, there's some silence between them.

"So, I hate to ask," SPYGOD says, having another pull from the bottle instead of filling up his glass: "Have the other talents come to ask you to join up with their new group, yet?"

"They have, yes. But I have turned them down."

"Really?" SPYGOD asks, amazed: "I thought you'd be all over that one. The reasons they didn't let you in the Freedom Force after the Liberty Patrol fell apart were... well, they were complete !@#$. You should have been there, with them. And I told them that."

"I know, (REDACTED). And I appreciate that. But the truth is that I needed to be outside of that group. I needed to be doing this, outside of them. And I think I have done more here, outside, than I would have done inside."

"Well, that's a good way to look at it. Now me, I'd have been !@#$ing-"

"That and, a year from now, I will be dead," Mister Freedom says, holding up a hand.

"... What?"

"I need to move forward in things," he says, gesturing around: "I spoke about traps, before? Life is, itself, a trap. And I have been manacled too long. I need to move on in order to be free."

SPYGOD looks at him, and nods, having another shot of the alcohol: "I understand."

"Do you approve?"

"I don't, no," SPYGOD says: "I mean, I understand your reasons. I get you, and where you're coming from. But it just seems so weird to just say, hey, next year I'm cashing it in."

"That is because you have also been manacled, my friend," the old man says, getting up and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there anything you need me to do?" SPYGOD asks.

"Yes. Someone will need to follow in my footsteps. I plan to spend the next year finding this person. I want your promise that, when they need help, the COMPANY will give it, fully and without question."

"I will," he says, putting a hand on the man's hand: "I will see that it's done. You know that."

"I believe you," he says: "But there is something you should know, my friend. And I think you already know it, but do not want to admit it."

"What's that?" SPYGOD asks.

* * *

And then he told me. 

...

Yeah. 

Well, wasn't much to say after that. So I left, and collected my boyfriend, and we came back to Neo York City, hoping that we could start putting all that !@#$ behind us. 

Except we couldn't. And we didn't. Mostly because they wouldn't let us, and also because some things I'd let !@#$ing lie there for too long decided to jump up and say "hi."

And then things took their course, and here we are. Under house !@#$ing arrest and facing a trial for being the man they get to blame for what happened.

So who won? Well, son, I'd say we did. We beat those !@#$ers and have them locked down. They won't be threatening anyone ever again.

But then, we also lost something, here. A billion children around the world are dead. Millions more were killed outright in the war. And let's not even get into places like Israel, or Southern Asia, or anywhere that people got caught in the !@#$ing crossfire. 

And now everyone's signing up to be part of some !@#$ing world government, rather than picking up their own pieces and getting their !@#$ in order. Of course, maybe it'll !@#$ing work, after all, but I really doubt it. 

And maybe that's the crusty, old conservative saying that. But I just have a bad !@#$ feeling about this. 

And I know why, too. 

...

Yeah. Go to bed, son. Let this old man sleep it off. Tomorrow's another day. 

For as long as I have it, anyway.

(SPYGOD is listening to Ocean (Dead Can Dance) and having nothing now)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - Verdict and Sentencing

An ending, then. And about !@#$ing time, too, if you ask me.

Not that you're bad company or anything, son. But this has been one long !@#$ night, talking about this !@#$. Lots of !@#$ I really didn't want to !@#$ing think about or bring up, again. Lots of unfinished business, nasty !@#$ing connections, unfortunate god!@#$ revelations, and really !@#$-ugly truths.

And, always, it all comes right !@#$ing back to me, now doesn't it? Same as it ever was.

Heh. "My God, what have I done...?"

...

You gonna drink that, son? No? Okay, lemme take it for the common good, here...

Ah, down the !@#$ing hatch.

* * *

So, Thanksgiving happens. I pull my gun out and shoot something that should not be so full of magic !@#$ing bullets that it's a wonder I don't have to go back in time and snag one of the ones they tried to use on President Kennedy, that one afternoon in Texas. It's all over the !@#$ world by the next day, and I'm having to explain my !@#$ to the President of the United States of America, who, as you might understand is not !@#$ing happy with me. 

At all.

A day after that, while I'm at home in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., essentially laying low by Presidential order until he figures out what the !@#$ to do or say, or do with me, the Fourth Estate finally tracks down Mister Chaos at the Ashram he's been !@#$ing hiding out at since the Reclamation War ended, and asks him for his version of things that day. And he makes it clear that, yes, he broke orders, and a team member died, and so on.

But yes, Wolf, he was able to bring those children back to life. 

And yes, Anderson, it's possible he could have done the same !@#$ thing for all of them, if he'd been given the time and the right circumstances to twist around.

And, yes, Sean, he didn't have the time because it was not given unto him. Because I ordered those White Boxes be destroyed once the initial plan didn't !@#$ing work. 

A day after that, it's official. I am now the mother!@#$ing face that's been applied to the absent gravesites of a billion dead children. My face goes up on signs and banners and websites all over the world, and they all want my !@#$ing fine gay !@#$ on a silver plate for having made that decision.

And just like that, I'm public enemy number one, all over again. 

Now, you know me, son. My first instinct when someone throws a punch is to shoot them in the !@#$ing guts. And here's all these fists coming at me, from all !@#$ directions, and you know I have enough !@#$ing guns to shoot their owners all down like ducks at the !@#$ state fair, right?

Fortunately, my boyfriend smacks some sense into me... well, !@#$s some sense into me is the better term, not that you really needed to know that, but okay. And a few hours later, after I've nutted over half the !@#$ bed, knocked back a drink or two, and kicked the !@#$ cat out of the room about five !@#$ times because it keeps stealing my !@#$ing vodka, I'm back in some semblance of control, again. 

And that's !@#$ good, because the day after that is the day we've all been !@#$ing waiting for. The day that the trial of the Imago officially ends, and the verdict is read. 

Now, you I know you haven't been !@#$ing living under a rock, son. You know how it all went down. And you know that this was all as certain as sunrise. 

But it's all the little details that matter, because you know one of the go-to questions of the next 100 years is !@#$ing going to be "Where were you when the Imago were found guilty?"  

And I will never !@#$ing forget.

* * *

Silence so absolute you could cut it with a butter knife -- that's what greets SPYGOD the moment he shows up at the courtroom, heads down the row, ready to take his seat with the other Prosecution witnesses.

Everyone is here, today. All the Strategic Talents who fought in the Reclamation War, from all the nations that had them to spare, most of whom pretend they don't see him. All the heads of the Weird Armies that attacked and defended, some of whom SPYGOD dealt with, and some of whom have since been replaced due to madness or death. All of the Spymasters and Talent Handlers, most of whom either give SPYGOD a cold glare or just nod, and do nothing more. 

Heads of state and their endless assistants and bodyguards. Ordinary people who have been brought to watch and bear witness. The press, the writers, the media personalities. 

And none of them want to shake hands with the pariah. (Not here and now, anyway.)

SPYGOD moves quickly down the aisle, glad that, here at least, no one's going to shove a !@#$ing camera in his face. Director Straffer walks beside him, casting a withering glare on anyone who looks like they might be the one to start booing. And somewhere between the occasion and the look from his eyes, no one dares.

The three chief Defendants are here, under lock and key, and guarded so completely it's a wonder anyone can see them at all. Every so often they can hear Dark Star cackle about something, or hear The Sight gibber something nonsensical, or ask what time it is. One time he declares "time has come today!" and, thankfully, a ripple of laughter makes its way through the court.

SPYGOD looks around and smiles, hoping to see one directed back at him, but his gaze all but withers the human moment on the vine. 

"Tough crowd," he whispers to Mr. USA, who's sitting beside him.

"Very," the man says, and, not caring that Straffer has his arm around him, puts his elbow up on the man's shoulder, in a wordless sign of solidarity and support. 

"Thank you," Straffer whispers just loud enough for the other Talents there to hear.

"Anytime," the old hero says, looking at both of them, his eyes just a little wet from the emotion.

And then the Judge ruins it by entering. 

* * *

One loooooooooong !@#$ing speech later...

* * *

"... so, as best as it is given unto this court to judge you for your actions, and as best as we are able to hold you accountable for the crimes that you committed against this planet, this court, as agreed upon by all parties, finds the entirety of the race of the Imago guilty on all counts."

There is a roar, then, of uncertain provenance. Is it happiness at the right thing having been done, or relief that it's finally come around? Is it anger at the defendants, now finally being uttered now that they have been found guilty, or sadness at how many deaths it took to get to this day?

No one knows, but, like some kind of virus, the roar spreads from person to person. It engulfs. It immolates. All within the courtroom pick it up and carry it for as long as they can, as loudly as they must.

SPYGOD is no different. Indeed, he's the one who actually stands. And, even though he is now, in many eyes there, as bad as they are, the others in the court follow his lead.

As one human being, the many people in the court stand and roar, carrying out their own pronouncement upon the Imago. A message both personal and impersonal, unique and not. A condemnation from all lips.

A message, unmistakable and sere, that they picked on the wrong !@#$ planet. 

The Judge, wisely, lets this go on for as long as it needs to. He does not so much as reach for his gavel to quiet it. He sits there, staring at the Imago -- defendants no longer, but properly named the guilty -- and lets the people of the court say the things that he cannot give utterance to at this time.

Duty has stilled his voice, but the people of the world have let it be heard.

How long this "human scream" (as the press and historians later call it) goes on for is a mystery to all who are involved within it. But, by degrees, it dies, moment by moment, and voice by voice. 

And then there is the silence of the court, broken only by the mocking, but subdued laugh of Dark Star, herself. 

"We shall meet here again in three days' time for sentencing," the Judge announces, putting the rest of his speech aside: "The guilty will be escorted from here to their holding cells to await their fate."

The gavel speaks. All rise. All eyes turn to the trio as they are slowly and solemnly marched from the room.

And then it's just the room, and SPYGOD. Thankfully, no one within it's in a mood to take their frustrations out on him. 

Not that he sticks around long enough to give anyone the chance. 

* * *

 A lot can !@#$ing happen in three days, and believe me son, it did.

I had to do something I really did not want to do, but had to. And then I had to do something that I'd been !@#$ing waiting for a chance to do since !@#$ing forever, but couldn't have come at a worse time, or in a worse way. 

Then I had to !@#$ing duck the blowback from both those things, which didn't !@#$ing help things at all. And then I had another talk with the President, who was even less amused with me than before, if that was !@#$ing possible.

And then, on the third day, under threat to not do anything else to !@#$ things up on pain of the mother of all Executive sanctions, Straffer and I headed off to Paris to watch another piece of !@#$ing history happen. 

And this time, we had special company waiting for us, there.

* * *

"... and so, it comes to us to find an appropriate punishment for you," the Judge says, his hands steepled in front of his face: "And this is where things become very difficult."

"I have a few suggestions, if you are short of ideas," The Sight giggles, much to the consternation of Dark Star and Green and Yellow. Someone shouts obscenities from the back row, and the Judge holds up his hand, rather than banging on his gavel.

"I share your anger, here and in this moment," he says, perhaps breaking decorum a bit: "But please, let us reflect upon this solemn moment. It is a rare thing for a race to hold another to account for its crimes. Rarer still for such a race to place a consequence upon it."

He steeples his hands before his face, once more, and then puts both hands down on the desk in front of him.

"There is a school of thought that you should be executed, somehow. We have the means to configure energy from one kind to another. We should, therefore, be able to channel your energy in such a way that you lose all sense of identity during the transfer. 

"A cruel thing, perhaps, to be condemned to an endless, living death. But given the cruelty you showed us, it would be justice of a sort. Indeed, unlike us, at least you would know it's coming." 

There is some measure of assent throughout the court on that.

"But, there is another school of thought that says that we, perhaps, have no right to execute you. Earlier in this trial, you spoke of wasps and spiders. Was the wasp guilty of immobilizing the spider and laying its eggs within it, or does guilt not apply in what is an instinctual response? An evolution-tested act of survival?

"This time, the spider has merely turned the tables upon the wasp. But does that spider have the right to destroy all such wasps, everywhere? Do we? 

"I must say no," he says, holding up his hand against the roar that would otherwise erupt in his court: "I cannot condemn you all to death. If we would kill you for, as you rightly point out, obeying your species-based drive to survive, then we would become no better than you. And that is not a line I am willing to cross."

There is silence, then. And he looks at the defendants, all of whom mock him with their eyes (save for Green and Yellow, of course).

"Imprisonment, then, seems our best option. It punishes you for your crimes against us. It takes you from the board. It relegates you to somewhere where you can be no harm to us.

"And, as this imprisonment must be eternal, it ensures that you will never be a harm to anyone or anything, ever again."

This makes the court happy. The Judge allows them their susurrus of agreement, and then continues speaking. 

"But we must learn from those who imprisoned you, before. They sent you to another dimension, our dimension in fact, and here to spend your days far from them, but also not be within their control. We must never lose control of you, but yet we cannot have control over you, for fear of someone or something acting to free you."

The Judge nods to the older man who has come with SPYGOD and Straffer. He stands, his dark uniform something of a rarity in a room filled with so many bright costumes and shiny fatigues. His white, long hair is braided and looped all the way past his waist.

"This is Mister Freedom. For many years, the American government has relied upon him to create escape-proof prisons for their criminals. Unto his care we relegate the lot of you to the darkness, for an eternity. May you find kindness there, within it. We have none to give you here."

A gavel ends the session. The guilty are taken away, down a different hall, and the older man goes to follow them.

"We still need to settle up after Cuba," SPYGOD says, nodding goodbye to him.

"No need," the old man says, putting a hand on his shoulder and winking: "It's good to know I can still be foiled from time to time. I'm just glad it was a friend."

And the word 'friend' makes SPYGOD's heart smile for the first time in days. 

* * *

The next time I saw them, the imprisonment was happening...

Oh, what? Yeah, just need to take a slash, son. Be right back. Have another drink.

Just got to deal with one more thing before we get to the end of this !@#$ story. 

Really. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to In Power We Entrust the Love Advocated (Dead Can Dance) and having a Three Monts )

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)

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

Green and Yellow: That would be correct.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green and Yellow: Which do you think?

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

Green and Yellow: Yes. We did. 

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

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

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

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

SPYGOD: Gag me with a !@#$ing spoon. 

(LAUGHTER)

Judge: Order. There will be order. 

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

...

Anyway, onward.

* * *

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

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

Prosecution: Would you tell us more, then?

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

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

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

Prosecution: So you were parasites, essentially?

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

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

Green and Yellow: Not conquered. Undone.

Prosecution: Please do explain.

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

Prosecution: And they undid you?

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

Prosecution: I am sorry, can you go on?

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

Prosecution: You know of humility?

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

Prosecution: And you were found guilty?

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

Prosecution: I beg your pardon...?

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

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

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

Prosecution: No. These are not malicious acts-

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

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

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

Prosecution: And could you?

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

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

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

Prosecution: This is... quite extraordinary.

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

Prosecution: And that is what happened?

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

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

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

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

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

Prosecution: How... how did this happen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they'll all drink to that, tonight. 

* * *

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

...

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

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