Apotheoclypse Now: 8/22/16 - 8/28/16

"Sit back and relax / How can I when I'm Going Down in Flames?"

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

10

* * *

Ishida Hiroshi didn't start out his day intending to become a god, really. He just hoped to get to high school on time.

He missed the alarm. Then he missed the bus. And every taxi he tried to flag down was either busy, going the wrong way, or wanting to ignore him.

Tired, hot, and sweaty, he cursed fate. Today of all days! There was a major test in Chemistry, this morning. And if he wasn't there for all of it, he was in trouble.

He thought of running home, but his father was already at work, and his mother could do nothing but berate him once more for being asleep too long. 

So he walked. And as he walked he dreamed of being able to fly. Wouldn't it be nice to just spread his wings and be at school in moments?

Of course, that was foolishness. Just things from the Anime his younger brother watched. The same things he watched when he was that age.

Still...

He felt the bright light upon him before he saw it. He thought he was about to be hit by a car, or something, from the onrushing of the heat and the pressure. 

But then he was floating, far above the Earth, and a man made of red and grey metal was telling him that everything he'd ever hoped for was true. That he could fly, and do so much more.

All these things would be his, if only he would agree to let the Revolutionary Men join his soul within his body...

Ishida Hiroshi hadn't intended to become a god, that day. But when the school bus that left him in the dust arrived at school to find him standing there, waiting for it, he couldn't help but smile at the mere mortals inside it -- puzzled at how he got there ahead of them.

And he wondered what else might be possible, now that he was no longer entirely himself... 

Monday: 8/22/16

I !@#$ing hate Rio, son. Always have. 

(deep drag on a cigarette. slow exhale)

Why? Well, there's lots of !@#$ing reasons. Crime and exploitation. Brutality and squalor. Millions of !@#$ing people crammed into a city that should have given up while it was way ahead of the population curve, even for mega-Catholic South America. 

And that's all !@#$ing topped off by a police force that alternates between not giving a !@#$ about the fact that you lost your wallet, but is all too damn happy to deliver a beatdown to some poor !@#$er who didn't pay their protection money this week. Either that or organizing after-hours hunts for street kids, where the winner's the one who brings the most pairs of blood-spattered shoes back to the !@#$ing precinct. 

And yeah, maybe half the !@#$ing third world hellholes I crawl through while doing this job have the same damn problems. But for !@#$s sake, son, at least they're !@#$ing honest about it. At least they're willing to admit they got all this !@#$ going on, and try to apologize for it. 

(inhale. exhale. uses cigarette as a pointer)

I mean, !@#$ -- Bangkok? Cape Town? Kabul? Mexico City? Jesus, son, you start !@#$ing pointing out the flaws and your average tourist flack will say 'oh yeah, not so good over there. We need some foreign aid. But let me take you someplace nicer..."

But Rio? Oh no. It's all big diamond smiles in the Marvelous City. Bronze buns on the !@#$ing beach and carnivale in the streets, while people get their damn heads splattered on the !@#$ing curbs less than ten feet from the sand because they looked at someone funny, and the cops just laugh and drink their caipirinha on duty.

So when I heard they were getting the Olympics, this year? I about !@#$ myself. 

Were they !@#$ing serious? Rio? Really? Wasn't that like having Iran on the !@#$ing United Nations anti-terrorism council? Saudi Arabia on the committee to improve goddamn gender equality? 

Soviet Russia talking about economic freedom,for Christ's sake? 

(And yes, son, they did host the Olympics, once, in Moscow. Let's not even !@#$ing get into that. We'll be here all damn day.)

(inhale. exhale. repeat.)

So yeah, I wasn't exactly !@#$ing thrilled this year. Not that I really give a good goddamn about the games since the Soviet Union collapsed, and I didn't have to worry about steroid junkies, chemically-altered he-women, and !@#$ing replicants trying to steal hard-earned gold medals from our brave boys and girls. These days I just pay attention to the shooting events, fencing, and men's wrestling... for obvious !@#$ing reasons. 

That and I usually catch the closing ceremonies, because they tend to be so !@#$ing over the top that they remind me of the early 80's. I often wonder how many MTV video directors, europop costume designers, and new wave artists quietly retired to go organize these !@#$ing things, and what kind of illicit prizes they offer each other to one-up the previous Olympiad. 

This time, I wasn't !@#$ing watching. I was dealing with an in-house situation with one of my heroes, and the new weird-ass friends she's made since she quit being a !@#$ing Wendigo. 

(Or, more correctly, got that Wendigo !@#$ under control. I have to admit I was !@#$ing worried for a while. Not any more.)

So I was nowhere near the scene of the crime when the damn Prime Minister of Japan, who's hosting in 2020, got his stupid ass shot on live TV -- dead bang right in the center of the show. 

(one last drag. stubs it out. lights another.)

The facts, for anyone who gives a flying !@#$, are these:

The man made a damn surprise visit. No one knew he was coming, outside of his inner retinue and one or two people who were involved in the show, itself. They're !@#$ing swearing up and down they kept it quiet as hell. So far as anyone knew, it was supposed to be someone else coming out onto the stage, then.

The Prime Minister was wheeled onto the floor in a big green plastic pipe made to look like something from that Super Mario Brothers game an entire !@#$ing generation of college kids spent their best years getting !@#$ing stoned as hell and playing. He was supposed to rise up to the top as soon as a video animation sequence, showing one of the damn brothers in question falling through the Earth from Tokyo to Rio, ended. 

And he did, too. He just wasn't supposed to get his head turned into a target the moment he raised the red ball and smiled at the !@#$ing camera. 

(inhale. slowwwwwww exhale.)

The shots in question was fired from high up in the stadium. Up on the level where all the !@#$ing fireworks were shot from. A nice perch for a sniper, provided you were !@#$ing invisible and had something that could help you really see the ground floor to evaluate and shoot the mother of all targets of !@#$ing opportunity. 

As for the bullets? They're damn special things, son. The kind that !@#$ing disintegrate the flesh they go through, rather than causing the sort of hydrostatic shock damage that bullets normally create. The kind that tunnel from one goddamn side of the body to the other, leaving a bright red hole you could drop a !@#$ing quarter down.

 The kind that can only be fired from one kind of gun. 

The same gun last seen in the !@#$ing hands of the man I fear more than anyone else in this whole damn world. The one person who's outwitted me at every !@#$ing turn, hurt me in ways that can't be measured, and come close to !@#$ing destroying me on more than one occasion. 

That would be my Alter Earth duplicate, son. My evil goddamn twin. 

The same one who pretended to me, pretended to shoot our last actual President on !@#$ing TV, and then !@#$ing pretended to be the former First Lady, kidnapped and corrupted their last living daughter, ran a damn super organ ring, filleted poor Disparaitre, stood by while his !@#$ing apprentice used Red Queen as a damn science project, terminally !@#$ed over poor Jess Friend...

And then, after giving us one hell of a !@#$ing proof of concept demonstration? Showed us all his !@#$ing cards and told us to stay the hell away from his damn side of the casino? 

He just vanished. POOF. Not a word in months. Had no !@#$ing idea what he was doing, where he was, any of that !@#$. 

And I did look, son. I did. I was busy as !@#$, as you well know, but I did try to keep an eye out for that son of a !@#$ing !@#$.

Well, son, it looks like he's !@#$ing back, now. And he just left five holes in the forehead of the Japanese Prime Minister -- arranged in the pattern of the Olympic rings, minus the !@#$ing overlap. 

(pauses. inhales. holds. when he speaks next, it's with smoke)

So here I am, in !@#$ing Rio De Janeiro, dealing with their !@#$ing incompetent police and kleptocratic government officials, trying to get a word in with the Japanese investigators, who of course are still !@#$ed off at me over how things went down with Organization Ten just before we tangled with the damn Decreator, and deciding this really isn't my monkey, my zoo, or my damn bananas. 

The Japanese are trying to take over the !@#$ing investigation. I got Hanami in there, trying to !@#$ing talk sense into them, but they don't want to !@#$ing listen to her. I guess she's not Japanese enough for them, anymore, whatever the !@#$ that means. 

Meanwhile? The Brazilians want the Japanese to step the !@#$ back, and then off. And the Olympic people are standing around not knowing what to !@#$ing do. And every time I try to tell them what's probably happened, I get !@#$ing shot down like a clay pigeon in front of a !@#$ing gatling gun. 

But then... 

(inhales. exhales) 

But then, to be totally !@#$ing honest? I'm not even sure this is him, somehow, son. This doesn't seem his !@#$ing style.

I mean,  I could see him not !@#$ing taking credit for this. I could see him just doing it and leaving us to twist in the damn wind.

I could even see him somehow !@#$ing knowing this guy was going to poke his damn head up out of that green, plastic tube, all the better to get shot. 

But this doesn't seem to have his poetry to it, somehow. There's not enough damn bodies. Not enough blood. 

Not enough broken people left on the damn floor, trying to !@#$ each other to death with knives.

I don't know, son. Maybe he's changed his damn style. Maybe this is something !@#$ing surgical. An overture of sorts.

But I gotta know, son. I have to !@#$ing know if this is him, again. 

Because if it is, then that parallel Earth son of a !@#$ picked the worst possible time to come back and try to !@#$ with me. He just doesn't know it yet.

But I will show him. Yes I !@#$ing will.

(inhale. exhale. flings it.)

(watches it smolder on the wet pavement, in front of a video billboard telling people how great it is that the Olympics are in town.)

(shoots the !@#$ing billboard. watches as pieces of glass fall down to the street.)

(lights up again...)

Tuesday: 8/23/16

... only to put it out as soon as two visitors enter the stark, white observation room, not wanting to look at all unprofessional in front of both her boss and her number one client. 

"Thomas?" the matronly woman asks the young man sitting in front of her: "Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Please tell me you were not smoking in front of my son," Martha Clutch -- aka The Owl -- says to her, glaring hard enough to break steel.

"Ma'am, I know how this looks, but-"

"You may leave, Cecilia," Syphon says, smiling at her underling with something that might be mercy, or menace. Either way the woman's out of the room very quickly, leaving only the smell of her perfume and the wispy traces of a Parliament.

"You'll have to pardon her," the Olympian says, patting her large hands together: "Part of her philosophy is that her patients awaken faster if she's completely at ease when she talks to them. Sometimes it's cigarettes, sometimes it's a drink."

"Is it ever both?" the Owl says, looking at the cold, staring shape that is supposed to be her son -- sitting in a fuzzy, white bathrobe in a plastic, form-fitting chair, and completely dead to the world.

"At times," Syphon says, going around Thomas' back and looking down as his skull: "I think if we'd left things to her, we might have gotten better results."

"He's not responding," she says, holding a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing: "He's not... I don't see the light in his eyes..."

"He's there," the large Olympian says, putting her hands on his shoulders and giving them a quick pat: "The last time, when we created him? We brought his mind around at the same time as his body, and the two didn't play together very well."

"I remember," the heroine scowls: "And I also remember you telling me to be patient and be grateful."

"Well, you should have been," Syhphon says, shaking her head but still smiling: "But let's move past all that, shall we? We're not making the same mistakes this time. We're learning."

"I sure hope so."

"And while I know he doesn't look so good right now? That's his mind coming back online. Settling into his body, again. Making sense of it all."

"So... how long?" Martha asks, reaching out to take her son's unresponsive hand in hers, and squeeze it gently.

"Hopefully not too long," the Olympian shrugs: "It's not an exact science, but with any luck it'll be a day or two."

Martha nods: "Will talking to him help?"

"It might," the large woman says, walking around her patient and putting a hand on his mother's shoulder: "It might confuse him, too. But I think that, in this case? Having your voice be the light in his tunnel would be a good thing.

"Just don't rush him. Don't be impatient. Don't force it. Let him come to you... okay?"

Martha nods, biting back the sour things she really wants to say to this woman. And before long she's alone with her son, holding his hand and looking into his vacant eyes.

He looks lost and alone, more so than she's ever seen him. And she realizes that what the Olympian told her was correct -- he is in there, somewhere. He just can't come out right now.

"Thomas?" she says, trying not to cry: "I'm here, son. Everyone told me to say hi, and that they miss you, and they're praying for you. We're all hoping you can come back to us, soon. But I understand if you need some time to yourself, in there.

"You just take all the time you need," she goes on, squeezing his hand and smiling: "I'll be here when you come out."

And she sits there, looking into eyes that can't quite focus on her, and remembers the best piece of advice her Grandfather and her father ever gave her, back when she was just the Talon.

Sometimes, the hardest fights are the ones you can't punch your way out of.

Wednesday: 8/24/16

"No, really," Director Straffer tells Odin, who's not certain whether to call his bluff or not: "Feel free to run me through with that pig-sticker of yours. But you won't like what happens next.

"Not at all."

They're all on Naglfar -- the long and massive warship made from the fingernails of millions of dead men. It was made to be used when Ragnarok came, in the final battle between the Gods and the great wolf, Fenris, whose actions would bring only doom to the world.

Now? It looks like the doom might be coming after all.

Now all the Lightships that Straffer has left have surrounded the great warship.

Now all the Space Service personnel that aren't on those ships are on the Naglfar's deck, pointing very odd-looking laser pistols at their Aesir comrades.

And now, all the Aesir are pointing their swords, spears, and bows at them. 

Odin (once Mr. USA) and Straffer stand just inches from one another. Straffer's got a very large, odd-looking laser pistol pointed up at the Lord of the Aesir's chin. And Odin, for his part, has stuck a knife -- its dark grey blade forged in the heart of a star -- in the nape of the blonde cyborg's neck.

"You dare to threaten us," Odin shouts, clearly offended: "After all we have fought together? After all we have done?"

"Damn straight, mother!@#$er!" the head of the UN Space Service shouts: "Because if that's the only way I'm gonna make you all see sense, then that's what I'll do!"

"This base treachery can merit only one response..."

"That's rich, coming from you right now-"

"I will destroy you!" the Lord of the Aesir hisses.

"Well, that's damn fine, pal," Straffer says, jamming the gun up a little higher into the man's heroic chin: "You go ahead and you do that. Because if we don't stop what we're doing, here? If we don't really work together from here on out? Then we're all dead, anyway. All of us!

"And it will be all your fault."

* * *

The turning point had come about a day ago, though its effects were a little slow to manifest -- mostly because it had taken Straffer this long to limp what was left of his battle group back to the ship, make a plan, and spread the word. 

They'd been taking the Lightships deep into the riddled, dark bowels of Mars, seeking what Straffer had come to call "the hidden fortress." He was convinced there was a place down there where some small piece of the Decreator yet remained -- cranking out monsters and mayhem, and not caring that the other 99.99999% of itself was bottled up and in the hands of Mister Freedom, somewhere. 

It was slow going, as the ships could only operate down in the utter darkness for six hours without direct sunlight. And that time limit shrank the more they had to exert the ships: careful, slow flying was one thing, but fighting and heavy dodging was quite another. 

They also had to be careful not to tell the Aesir what they were really doing. Straffer disliked the secrecy, but he had the distinct suspicion that they knew more than they were telling about what was really going on, here. 

And that possible secrecy on their part was costing him lives and lightships -- losses he could no longer excuse. 

So they dove down into Mars -- day after day, sortie after sortie -- searching for some primal dark that the monsters were still climbing out of. Some weird corner where the scouring of the red planet had failed to completely take. 

Yesterday, they found it -- that and a few other things that Straffer really could have stood to not see.

Straffer and five other pilots were deep under the Lunae Planum when they came across a large cave they hadn't mapped before. It literally came out of nowhere, and was as black as shoe polish, even with the ships' illumination on full burst. 

Straffer was about to tell them to mark it and come back with fresh ships when their instruments went utterly haywire. Time and space seemed to bark at one another like angry, rabid dogs, for a moment. Up became down became sideways and inside out. 

That's when Straffer -- possessing eyes capable of seeing a lot more than any human, to say nothing of the sophisticated array of sensors of an Olympian-built Lightship -- saw something very strange inside that darkness. 

He saw a ring of black light, akin to what one might see around the event horizon of a black hole. 

He saw a very disturbing number of those horrible, massive crab things coming from out of that ring -- their perspective distorted by the distances involved, but clearly moving closer with each second.

But no sooner could be call out to the other ships to turn and run then they were caught in a crossfire between those monsters, and the beings who were waiting for them to come out. 

It was a number of Aesir, hiding nearby and waiting for the beasts to appear -- like campers parked outside a spawn point in a first person shooter. 

They fired indiscriminately, not even seeming to see the lightships. Half the battle group died then and there. The other half limped away, taking damage from the crabs as they fled. 

Somehow, Straffer was able to make it back. Even after his lightship ran out of power, and it was just him crawling through the black, nasty tunnels the Decreator and its self-made servants had made, all the way to the surface, he somehow made it.

(Thankfully, the last time his body was completely wrecked, he had them make certain improvements to his new frame -- incorporating countermeasures against vacuum, a lack of oxygen, and pressure variations into his skin.)

And as he quietly communicated with his people -- especially his new Second, who was proving to be quite amazing -- and he realized that his most recent fears had been correct, it was all he could do to avoid telling them to just blow the hell out of the Aesir. 

He knew, somehow, that things were not as they seemed. That something was wrong in all this. 

He knew there was no reason for them to act like this. None. 

Therefore, something had to be affecting them. Something bad. 

Something alien, perhaps.  

But this was the Aesir. They were proud. They were fatalistic. They would rather die than admit fault in anything. 

And it wouldn't be until they were here, at each other's throats -- with the point pressed home that what was going on could not continue -- that they could be made to see the damn truth...

* * *

... so here they all were, waiting for that truth to be told.

Odin looks down at the man he fought all the way from Earth to Mars with. The man he shared songs and oaths and victories with.

Somewhere in his eyes, Straffer sees the conflict. He sees the hero the god is riding trying to get out, and to speak.

Finally, two words appear -- almost choked back through semi-divine lips: "Stop me." 

So Straffer nods.

And he does...

Thursday: 8/25/16

... nothing, as per usual for the last couple of days.

Randolph Scott's new schedule has solidified around him slowly, like sugar crystals in a kid's science experiment. There's minor variations, of course, but generally the major movements remain the same.

He gets up around six in the morning, like he normally would. He tries not to cry when he thinks of Velma, and why she's not there beside him. He fails.

He eventually gets out of bed. Showers. Some mornings he weakly jerks himself off in the stall, but sometimes he can't be bothered.

He sits for a time in front of the room's darkened television, drying off. He wants to watch the news. He refuses to. That would be too damn normal, and he is well past that, now.

He dresses like some !@#$faced white tourist would. Makes sure his holographics are working, so no one can tell he's that notorious outlaw reporter from THIS IS BULL!@#$.

He gets a light breakfast in the hotel lobby, and then walks the streets of Nairobi. Every day he goes to a different tourist trap, careful not to spend too much cash. He takes a lot of pictures he has no intention of looking at ever again.

And then, around Noon, he catches the tourist van out to the Carnivore, gets a table by the back, and sits there for hours -- slowly eating crocodile and sipping at Dawas -- until they either close up, or he gets the feeling he's been there long enough.

The staff doesn't seem to care that the utalii is there all day long, milking their all you can eat policy. He gets a new drink every hour, on the hour, and tips extremely well. He also doesn't talk to them more than needed, which they probably appreciate.

That and he's not the only one --  there's other people, here, who are clearly waiting for someone.

Randolph thinks he recognizes some of them from old newspaper stories. Failed politicians, disgraced civil servants, maybe an outed spy or two. Most of them seem to hail from somewhere on the continent, but he notices people from all over Europe, Asia, and the Middle East as well.

They're here to do business, of a sort. They come in, meet with someone, and talk about everything but what they've really come to discuss. Sometimes they slide briefcases under the table, sometimes they trade cell phones. And sometimes they just talk in what's clearly code, and then leave either quietly satisfied or sublimely upset.

He watches them, quietly, as he comes to slowly enjoy the daily differences in crocodile. He can tell who's behind the bar by how much honey is in his Dawa, and whether the lime wheel is standing up straight, or somewhat flaccid.

And every day, either just before closing or just after the dinner rush, he realizes that he's wasted the afternoon here, and goes back to his apartment before the last tourist bus.

Each night be looks at the burner phone he brought with him. It's only got one number on it. And if he called it, he'd be forgiven. He could leave this hotel, this country, this quest.

He could come home. 

But each night he puts the phone away, and says tomorrow is the last day he's doing this. Just one more day. One more try.

One more chance to talk to the most dangerous man in the world, and see if he'll do the insane thing that Randolph needs him to do...

And each night he turns out the light, and weeps quietly in the dark - knowing that if he goes to Hell, after this life is over, it will look very much like this room.

And the Devil will be the bleary, red-eyed man who stares at him from the mirror, every day...

Friday: 8/26/16

... laughing at what he's done, now.

It was too perfect, really, the Candidate thinks as he watches the television in his fancy hotel room. Just too damned perfect.

That stupid, horsefaced !@#$ who made her career badmouthing people? The nasty and vindictive !@#$ who'd painted herself into a corner, this election, and had nowhere to go but with him?

The one who decided to jump onto his train, just to sell another book? 

Well, he showed her. He showed them all.

He did the one thing he swore he'd never do. He went back on his immigration policy. He said maybe he'd do what the last President had wanted, and what all the other interim people had done since.

He said he'd give amnesty to illegals already here.

And oh, did that bring down the log cabin!

He sat up all the night, laughing as his supporters decried his change of heart, but remained on his side. He chuckled to see them twist and turn on the late night political shows, trying to put lipstick on his pig.

And he realized that this thing King Whip gave him truly was a wonder. Because not only did it keep his people his, no matter how outrageous he got, but it also meant they'd stay in his side even if he totally and completely betrayed them.

He drinks the champagne his people brought up. 300 dollars per bottle. He drinks it right from the neck like some kind of drunk idiot.

Hell, he is drunk. On power. On invulnerability.

On possibility. 

He is the Candidate for the Republican Party. He is electorally invincible.

And he's starting to realize that he really can do and say whatever the !@#$ he wants...

Saturday: 8/27/16

"... which is a bit of a loaded statement when you're dealing with a God, I guess. But since we were in the middle of a massive orgy at the time, well..."

Straffer smiles at the camera, and shakes his head.

"Lover, you are amazing. I will never doubt you again. I know I told you not to send the Love Guns that Rosi made, as part of your deal. But if it hadn't been for them, we'd be dead right now, and Mars would be an even bigger mess than it already is.

"You won't preemptively divorce me if I make a 'make love, not war' joke, will you?" he asks, and smiles again: "Well, hopefully not. I just got the catering arranged, damn it. And from Mars, thank you, between battles.

"So here's the deal. As near as we can tell, now that we've all calmed down after a much needed post-sex conversation? There's something down there, under the Lunae Planum, that is bending the laws of time and space as we know them. It's also giving off a lot of entropic energy, which is what was affecting the Aesir.

"I suppose it makes sense. They're fatalistic creatures, not only aware of the fact that they're all going to die at some point in the future, but unnervingly eager to get on with it. And that means they're also willing to do whatever they need to in order to bring it about.

"So, they may have new bodies, but the impulse is still there. But where they were willing to kill other people by the millions before? These days they're just wanting to kill themselves, with the occasional sacrifice of us poor sky pilots being an unfortunate consequence...

"Eh," he sighs: "Anyway, we got it all settled. They aren't going to do any more of that stupid !@#$ that's going to get them killed. And we aren't going to hold their stupidity against them. I figure we're all entitled to be spiritually hijacked by some weird thing from beyond time and space, once in a while, right?"

He smiles at the camera and raises an eyebrow. SPYGOD knows what he means by this, of course.

"But we do have a bigger problem, hon," he goes on: "Whatever's down there? I think that some of the Decreator went through it. And now it's sending reinforcements back.

"Which means the fight for Mars isn't over, yet. In some ways, it's just beginning. Especially if I'm right, and the time distortions we're seeing down there are because what's going on at the other end of that hole is a lot slower than here, and we're dealing with a well-rested and rejuvenated entity.

"So," he claps his hands together: "After I get done with you, I'm going to talk to the UN, advise them of the situation, and tell them we need ground troops, now. I'm also going to send an emissary to talk to the Martians in the White City and see if they have any idea what might have been down there, in that area.

"Obviously, this complicates things," he goes on, smiling sadly: "And not just for the war, either. It means I'll be here longer than I'd like. Longer away from you.

"But I love you," Director Straffer says, putting a hand on the camera: "Never doubt that. Never believe otherwise. This is hell for me, being away from you.

"But we've got our duty, and our jobs. And I know you understand. You wouldn't be the amazing man I love if you didn't.

"So... goodbye for now," he blows a kiss: "And I will see you soon."

The screen goes blank, and then black.

SPYGOD leans back in the chair of his Flier Office and considers what he heard. He nods a few times, and pats the screen.

"I !@#$ing love you, too," he sighs, and then leans forward and lights up another long, black cigarette with his heavy, metal lighter.

(The one that says "!@#$ COMMUNISM" on the side.)

He's lost track of how many of these things he's been puffing a day. He doesn't even remember when he started, really.

"They say these things cause !@#$ing cancer," he says to the black skull on his desk -- the one that used to belong to Helvete, but now acts as his ashtray: "But I guess there's worse !@#$ing ways to go, huh?"

And yes -- there are.

* * *

He thinks of that day, over a month ago, when all the Aesir were leaving their old bodies for new ones. How they screamed and fought every step of the way, like cats trying to avoid a bath.

He remembers how Ve, in particular, did not want to go. How he bellowed and raged -- furious at how base a fate this way. How below his station. How ignoble.

How cruel to be taken from the fight, now that Ragnarok itself was raging upon the Earth...?

But then the spirit of the would-be Lord of the Aesir was elsewhere -- being given unto another, willing volunteer to shelter and maintain -- and there was just pale Helvete, crawling on the ground.

He didn't know what was going on, at first. None of the former hosts did. The shock of being removed from their state of semi-divinity was the equivalent of being smacked by a Mack truck, flung about twenty feet into the air, and then landing on concrete -- right on their damn noggins.

But it was a lot worse for Helvete, because not only was he not quite himself, but he hadn't been so for some time.

He hadn't been taking the pills since he became Ve. He wasn't Wilhelm Kietel, wrapped in the flesh of Helvete, any longer. He was just a somewhat psychotic, very sadistic Finnish pyrokinetic who'd been tricked into becoming a member of ABWEHR.

Realization was slow. But SPYGOD likes to think that, by the time he focused his eyes enough on the superspy to know he was !@#$ing dead, that realization had finally come and gone.

He'd hate to think that he died not knowing the full gravity of his offenses -- unaware of all the chaos and destruction he'd caused.

He'd hate to think that when the poisoned bullet struck him dead bang in the guts, and his flesh started to melt from his bones, that he didn't know that he was actually getting off easy...

* * *

The black skull grins at SPYGOD. He looks down at it, and then at his fingers. There's a wispy, grey cylinder of ashes there -- about two inches long, and just a second's burn away from the filter.

"Not !@#$ing paying attention," he chastises himself, putting the ashes where they belong, and then pushing the skull away. That's enough of that for now, he thinks.

Instead, he grabs a bottle from the side of his new desk -- the one that's got the carefully controlled refrigerator unit on it -- gets out a perfectly-chilled glass, and pours himself a neat drink.

And then he gets hold of a few people he's been waiting for news from, one after the other.

One is someone in successor to Ju Kikkan -- the Organization -- who owes the superspy a marker or two after some embarrassing events, over in Seoul. He is very happy to make a full report on the autopsy of their Prime Minister, even going so far as to send an exact copy of the files to one of SPYGOD's dropboxes in country.

The other is a less quiet ally, this time from FAUST. Their Director isn't doing too well, these days, so most of the information is coming from that man's Assistant. She's hard as nails and about as friendly as an Eagle who's found a snake in her nest, swallowing her eggs whole, but she's also incredibly competent and perceptive. Which is why SPYGOD likes her, and allows her to berate him as they compare notes about their mutual problem.

That done, he makes ready to call one more person up. But then he stops, as he realizes that there's a message in his queue from someone he hasn't talked to in a long time.

And what Karl has to tell him makes his blood run cold...

Sunday: 8/28/16

... watching the tragedy unfold -- only in front of his eyes, this time, instead of his mind.

The AGENT heard all the stories about this time, courtesy of his fathers, and their friends. They weren't supposed to tell him so much, he thinks, but they had no idea he was ever going to be in a position to go back and have to relive them, either.

So he turns the surveillance packages off, leans back in the hotel room's comfy chair, and decides that he's had enough of watching and listening, waiting for the big moment to come.

He decides he needs to get out and do something else.

He looks over at the case where the gun is -- the special machine that only he has any business operating, given how advanced and strong his body is. Not a lot of people were ever able to handle the stresses and strains it put on the human form, and those that did were never quite whole afterwards.

He considers that, and goes over to the case, taking it out and letting it speak to his flesh as it does.

"Tell me," he demands of the weapon: "You remember all the times you were ever used, right?"

"I do, yes," Hǫfuð replies -- its soft voice becoming more intelligible as the AGENT's eyes grow in size: "Every shoot. Every kill. I can never forget."

"So if I showed you a body, you would know if it was your work?"

"Yes," the gun says, breathing in his hand: "Without question."

"Then let's go see a body," the AGENT says, turning his ANIL on and setting it for where he knows the corpse of the Japanese Prime Minister is lying in state.

* * *

Randolph Scott lies on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, and wondering how long he's got before they find him.

He wasn't stupid about this. He took precautions. He covered his tracks, hid all traces.

No one should know he's here, in Nairobi. No one at all.

And yet, he's being followed, somehow. He has been since last night, on the way back from the restaurant.

Just some lady on the bus back. But he didn't recognize her from inside the restaurant. And when he got off, he caught her looking at him in that special way.

The way you do when you realize the person you're looking at is wearing holographics...

It's no one to do with the person he's here to see, either. He doesn't have "people." He doesn't need them.

(Not unless something has seriously changed...)

So that means it's probably the COMPANY. Which means his kids went to SPYGOD.

Which means he's about a day or so from having that mother!@#$er come stomping up to him, at Carnivore, and demand an explanation for this bull!@#$.

Which means today really is the last damn chance he's got to talk to this person.

Which means, as much as he'd rather lay there and look at the ceiling, he has to get moving.

In another moment or two. Really. 

* * *

 The AGENT stands in the mortuary, unseen and unheard by the many technicians and investigators crowding around the body. 

The autopsy is done. The necessary damage to the body has been performed, reverently and with care. 

There's just his head to deal with, and they're in no hurry to move forward on that, given its central position in the criminal case. 

The invisible man looks at the five holes in the Prime Minister's head -- amazed at how neatly they've been placed, knowing the kind of expertise such a grouping of shots would take to pull off. 

"So tell me," he asks his weapon: "Is this something you did?"

"Yes," the gun replies, its voice betraying neither pride nor remorse: "I did."

"Can you tell me where the person who did this is?"

"Yes. My tracking mechanism can find anyone on the planet. You know this."

"Are you there, now, with him?" the AGENT asks, choosing not to take the gun's chastisement to heart.

The gun is silent for a moment: "I am not certain."

"It would be nice to know," the AGENT says, more than a little miffed: "If you're there, and I take you there, the paradox could be catastrophic."

"Then perhaps you should not go," Hǫfuð says, something approaching annoyance coming into its voice: "This is seriously off-mission. This is none of our concern."

"Maybe, maybe not," the man says, not entirely certain why he's here, now. But something told him to see this through, and he will. 

So he tells the gun to tell him where its last user was, all these years in its past. And then he fires up his teleporter, and goes right there. 

Hoping that the man they're going to see isn't nearly as frightening, and powerful, as he was always told. 

* * *

Carnivore is rather busy, today. More so than usual. Randolph almost doesn't get his usual table in the back, thanks to what appears to be two tour buses and a coupon in the paper.

At least, that's what he's supposed to think. But he knows better. 

He can see the way the people in there act. The way they talk, and then don't talk. 

The way they disguise how they're looking over at his table, every so often, when they think he's not looking at them. 

He's been made. He really should leave. He really should. 

But as he gets his first Dawa, and then they start bringing around the skewers of crocodile, he decides he's come this far -- he might as well finish this weird dance. 

It would be a shame to not give SPYGOD the chance to use the speech he's doubtlessly been rehearsing for a full day, or more. 

* * *

"Oh dear Gods," the AGENT says, kneeling down by the remnants of what was once a man, there on the cavern floor. 

He was black, that much is certain. Maybe medium height. Bearded. In decent shape, maybe in his mid thirties. 

He can tell that much by what's left of him, but not much else. 

And that's because the man has been deconstructed -- piece by piece -- and laid out on the floor in what can only be described as an anatomical illustration made from the real thing. 

(He may have also been eaten. There are bite marks in certain muscle groups. Ones prized for their tenderness...)

"Who is this person," he says, reaching out to touch a pool of blood and get a genetic sample: "Is this... no. It can't be him. He didn't die like this... did he?"

"This is not the man who fired me," Hǫfuð insists. 

"Who is it?"

"Unknown," the gun admits, leaving the AGENT's suit to tell him the rest. 

But no sooner does it tell him that this man is a former NGUVU Agent known as Khalil then someone actually sneaks up on him...

* * *

Randolph hears him before he sees him, thanks to the bugs he's placed around the restaurant on bathroom breaks and trips to the bar when service was slow. 

There's a long car, pulling up front. The sort of thing one drives around Nairobi in if one wants to make a splash, and appear to be more important than one actually is. 

Someone lets its passenger out. He hears the familiar grunt of a certain someone getting to his feet and heading for the front door. Into the foyer. 

And then into the restaurant, itself. 

* * *

The blow hits the AGENT in the back of the head -- right where his neck meets his skull, and with so much force it's a wonder he isn't internally decapitated. 

(A wonder paid for by the American taxpayer, and put into action by a legion of COMPANY bio-sculptors)

"That kind of hurt," the AGENT says, riding the blow, rolling with it, and executing a perfect leap back up to his feet a second later: "I'd appreciate if you didn't do that again..."

But there's no one there. Darkness reigns in the cavern.

Not silence, though. He can hear breathing. Excited. 

Aroused, even.

* * *

He's not going to watch SPYGOD come up to the table. He's already decided this. He won't give him the satisfaction of pretending to be surprised to see him, or even happy, or angry. 

He's just going to sit here, slowly eating the roasted crocodile tail they've brought him, and wait for the superspy to make the first move. Say the first words. Deliver the first insult. 

Throw the first punch. 

* * *

"I can see you," the sound in the cavern says: "But you cannot see me, I think..."

"I think I can," the AGENT lies -- at least for a moment, as he allows his eyes' sensors to map the temporal anomalies that are unfolding before him. 

In that moment, he realizes that he is in the presence of the Wandering Shadow, himself. 

He also realizes that the man also has Hǫfuð in his hands -- from 28 years ago, by his reckoning. 

"Yes," the tall, black man says, looking at the AGENT with eyes gone large -- both because of what the gun does to human bodies, and what is either excitement or insanity: "I have your gun, sir. And you have mine."

"You shouldn't be seeing me," the AGENT says, playing for time: "And you shouldn't have that gun, either."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," the Wandering Shadow admits, coming back into normal time to make the conversation easier -- appearing as he does: "But then, my new friend gave it to me. And how could I refuse such a damned wonderful gift?

"Especially after he explained to me how one might use it..."

He grins. His teeth are bloody.

And they have pieces of red, stringy flesh stuck between them...

* * *

"... no, really," the man approaching Randolph's table says as he comes close enough to be seen and heard: "Don't get up. Please."

"I wasn't planning on it," Randolph says, looking up and smiling.

But then the smile drops as he sees who's standing there -- dressed in a suit made from supple, brown leather, and wearing an eyepatch made from what might be human bones. 

"That's probably the most fucking sensible thing you've said in a while, Randy," the SPYGOD of Alter-Earth says, pulling a chair from another table and sitting down, across from the outlaw reporter: "And now, I'm going to explain why.

"And then..." he goes on, grinning like a sickly pale jack-o'-lantern: "We're going to have one hell of an interview, you and me..." 

(SPYGOD is listening to Animal (Zoo) (Front 242) and having a Five)

Apotheoclypse Now: 8/1/16 - 8/7/16

"No, I can't see tomorrow, when I close my eyes
There is no tomorrow, my gift is of no use..."

(Yanabah and her Plus 1)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

13

* * *

In her dreams, she's running -- her feet falling endlessly across a lush, green field.

The sun is shining. There isn't a cloud in the sky. Cool breezes, the sweet smell of flowers.

And yet she is terrified.

And yet she runs for her life. 

As she hurls herself forward, panting in exertion, she can hear the beast behind her. 

It howls in anger and hunger, and the sound of it makes her blood turn cold. 

So she runs as fast as she can -- faster than she thinks she can. 

She prays to the Great Spirit, who she really doesn't care to talk to these days. 

And she does her best to not scream as the thing crashes after her, coming closer. 

Its breath the stench of rotting, dead things. 

Its arms, reaching to claim her as its own... 

Monday: 8/1/16

"There she is..." someone says to someone else in the room.

Not to her, though. She's being talked about, not to. 

It's a stark, white room. A hospital room, she thinks. She's been in enough of them, after all.

Large windows and white curtains. Beeping machines nearby. Rolling tables, a television tuned to something she doesn't recognize.

(The smell of human waste.)

"Hey girl," someone else says, getting in her face. Pudgy Native American. Dressed like a disco dandy, with more gold chains than Mr. T.

"Hey yourself," Yanabah mutters at Gosheven, her throat a dry wasteland.

"About damn time you came around," Dragonfly says, bringing her a white, styrofoam cup full of ice and water, complete with a straw: "We were starting to worry."

"You were worried, huh?" she asks, leaning forward to sip the offered water, and then trying not to cough.

(The woman in white. Didn't she used to dress in red? Wasn't she dead...?)

"Yeah," the woman (who clearly is not dead) smiles: "We had a good pool you'd be under another week. I bet on earlier."

"!@#$ you, paleface," she grumbles, but not without a smile.

And the two visitors smile -- happy to know that she is, indeed, back.

And she reaches up a hand to flip them the bird, but hears something clink.

Arm restraints. Heavy ones, too. And made of silver...

She looks at Dragonfly, and then at the door, where two heavily-armored guards stand ready -- large guns pointed just enough off the floor to aim at her in a split second.

And her brain picks that very moment to remember a lot more than she'd care to, which makes her blink, gasp, and start to stammer.

Of course, her friends try to talk her down. It doesn't go so well. In the end they have to call for the nurse, who thankfully thinks to bring a very large dosage of tranquilizer -- the kind they normally use on radioactive giant horses that eat steroids by the bucketful.

As she goes down, before she can claw her way out of her restraints, she sees what looks like two Warbots flying past the window. But that's crazy, surely. Didn't they blow them all up, back in the day?

What the !@#$ is going on here, anyway...?

Tuesday: 8/2/16

"This is World News Tonight on ABC. I'm David Muir, reporting live from Neo York City.

"In the background you can still hear cheering and celebrations, and for good reason. It's been about 48 hours since the United Nations Space Service declared Mars liberated. Thanks to Earth's new Asgardian allies, as well as a truly international force, backed up by the Olympians, the red planet is now red, once more.

"However, now that the elation has died down a little, and the long planetary nightmare is at an end, we have to ask what the cost will be. Video coming in from Mars reveals a wrecked planet, nearly cored out by the alien entity that took it over to make war on Earth. Hopes of quickly returning its population home following victory are being dashed by the sobering reality that it might take decades, if not lifetimes, to bring the planet back to its previous state.

"There are also questions regarding what's to be done with the alien entity that consumed the planet. The Olympian known as Resriit, better known as the latest incarnation of Mister Freedom, stated that, quote, 'All things will return to their proper state, as they should be.' However, what that actually means has yet to be explained.

"There has been some major consternation among many member states of the United Nations at the Olympians' lack of answers, given what happened  in the last week of June. The event, which the Vatican is still refusing to call the Apocalypse, resulted in the death of hundreds of thousands of people all over the world, and has left what can only be described as massive emotional and psychic damage to the survivors.

"There's also the question of what will become of Moscow. The city lies in ruins, following the last battle of what may have been the Apocalypse. More than half of its population is believed to have been killed by the Asgardians, prior to their being housed in much more heroic bodies. Some say the city must be rebuilt, some say it must be left as a memorial. There are no easy answers.

"And there's also the matter of what scientists say will be long-lasting ecological damage to large swaths of Eastern Europe and Russia, created both by the being that claimed to be the Antichrist, and the attempt to use nuclear weapons upon it. Smolensk is a blackened hole, surrounded by acres of irradiated wasteland. And while all the alien material has been collected and contained, there are still places that have been dangerously altered. As with Mars, itself, it may take generations to fix what has been done.

"Still, in spite of that sobering reality, celebrations continue. Spontaneous outbreaks of people saying the name of Jesus Christ as loudly as they can have erupted all over the world. There has been some news of violence against self-professed Satanists, as well as Pagans, Wiccans, and anyone seen as being in league with the devil. The ACLU has, surprisingly, refused to defend them at this point.

"In addition, all Presidential Candidates of the four major parties in the upcoming election have issued statements. Senator Bernie Sanders was effusive in his thanks to the world's liberators, saying that we would have to take steps to make certain things never get this out of hand, again. Likewise, Jill Stein of the Greens praised the group action of the world, and promised a continued sense of international cooperation under her watch. She also said that the world was owed a better explanation of how all this came to pass, and promised to investigate the matter thoroughly.

"Meanwhile, Gary Johnson of the Libertarian Party said that, while it was good that things got back under control, this was yet another example of why America leads best by getting out of the way, claiming that bad decisions made by several administrations were what led to these events. He wasn't able to provide specifics as to which decisions, however.

"As was expected, the Republican Candidate made the most striking and controversial statement. Speaking at an engagement in Ashburn, Virginia, he had this to say.

"'I mean, people say that it's a good thing the Olympians are on our side. But are they really? Because I think it's pretty obvious that the White City is to blame for the whole thing. 

"'They could have saved us ten times over from everything that's happened this last year, but they didn't. They're always late to the party. They always have an excuse for everything. Can't do this, there's this rule. Can't do that, there's this other rule. It's worse than dealing with a regulatory agency!

"And now, suddenly, they're everywhere, helping us? 

"'Well, as someone who understands supply and demand pretty well, as a businessman? And someone who understands making a market for something, and then making something seem scarce to drive up costs? I have to say that they've been doing good business at our expense. 

"'And I hate to think what the final price tag is gonna be...'"

"His comments drew almost-immediate condemnation, both from his electoral opponents and the international community. However, there was an almost-immediate bounce in his polling numbers, following that. In spite of that and many other increasingly-strange and inflammatory statements, he continues to lead in every poll.

"Which brings us to our other major story tonight. There is word within the Republican party of a newly invigorated attempt to either rehabilitate or remove the candidate. How this could be done is a matter of some debate, but it's clear that any attempt to do this will most likely revolve around Senator Ted Cruz, whose heroic actions in Europe during the crisis helped decisively end it, but didn't get enough votes in what was left of the Republican Primary to beat the Candidate.

"Viewed by many as a messianic figure, following his death and resurrection, the Senator has been rather reserved in his public statements. Asked if he would run, he said, quote, 'I'll have to see what God wants of me..."

Wednesday: 8/3/16

"Well, that's !@#$ing easy enough," SPYGOD says, licking his massive, black cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other while regarding the somewhat-awkward man seated before him -- small and humble before the Director's massive, new desk in the new Flier's executive suite: "I want you to remain under !@#$ing COMPANY surveillance, Senator. 24/7. All day, every way."

"But... I mean, I've got things to do," Ted Cruz stammers, holding his hands together.

"I'll !@#$ing say so," the man says,looking over his round, black sunglasses at him -- fixing him dead-bang cold with his new and interesting eyes: "And you'll do them with some AGENTS right the !@#$ behind you."

"But... did you see that I might be running for President?"

"I did, yes," the newly-reinstated head of the COMPANY says, inhaling the smoke in one long, epic drag and then putting it out in his latest ashtray -- one made from a pitch-black human skull: "And that's !@#$ing great, if you ask me."

"Really...?"

"Damn straight, Senator. It wouldn't be the first damn time we had someone in the !@#$ing White House with goddamn superpowers. Look at (REDACTED)."

"Oh..." the Senator says, looking around the office, somewhat nervously: "I'd rather not, if that's alright with you. That was all a bit of a mess."

"Well, he was acting under orders, most of the !@#$ing time," the superspy says, grinning long and sharp: "Mine, in case you didn't !@#$ing know."

"Yes. And that's something we need to talk about," Cruz says, holding up a finger: "I'm not entirely comfortable with the way our working relationship is starting to come together, here-"

"Sir, I'm not going to !@#$ing mince words with you, okay?" SPYGOD says, getting up behind the desk and staring down at the Senator: "Do you know what you !@#$ing did, over there?"

"Well... um... is this a trick question?"

"You !@#$ing punched the goddamn Antichrist into next !@#$ing week, sir," the superspy says, shaking his fist at the man: "Pow, zoom, to the Moon. Just like the goddamn Honeymooners. Did you know that?"

"Well, yes. I was there, sir."

"And that was after going through that !@#$ing zone where everything and everyone that got too damn close to it was being !@#$ing turdscaped."

"Um... yes, that's true," Senator Cruz says, shivering at the horrible memory of that he saw on his way down -- heavy-duty man-missile shaking and melting to pieces around him as he rocketed towards that obscene thing, outside of Moscow.

"So you not only survived an environment that was turning people who looked a lot !@#$ing tougher than you do into man-sized piles of bloody, worm-filled !@#$, but you landed on top of that thing's !@#$ing noggin, got its attention, and then pasted it right in the damn chops like he was some !@#$ing punk making fun of your mama!"

The Senator nods, pauses, and then nods a little slower -- more intently: "So you think maybe I've got... what, a superpower?"

"Sir, the last time I went toe-to-!@#$ing-toe with anything related to the goddamn apocalypse, I didn't !@#$ing make it out in once piece," SPYGOD says, thinking of that weird trip he took to the year whatever, just in time to help that era's Jim Morrison stop Heaven from ending the world: "And I only did what I !@#$ing went there to do because I !@#$ing cheated and brought something so powerful that even I couldn't have !@#$ing handled it.

"But here you are... alive and well. In fact, my doctors? The ones who get to shove cameras up goddamn superhero buttholes for America? They say you are, and I !@#$ing quote, 'pristine.' More human than human. More perfect than perfect.

"You feeling me, Senator?"

Ted Cruz nods, even slower than before.

"And if you think I'm going to let a power set like that !@#$ing walk out of my hands? Sir, you are dangerously deluded. Maybe even !@#$ing drunk. And I want some of what you're drinking."

"Um-"

"So here's the damn deal, sir," SPYGOD says, walking around his large desk so he can get up close and person with the man: "You go run. You go not run. You do whatever the goddamn !@#$ you want. Within reason, of course. No ten-ladyboy pub crawl orgy bull!@#$, please. That's my job.

"But you will do it with my AGENTS nearby, keeping an eye on you. It'll be just like the damn Secret Service, only they won't be seen, most of the time. You might not even realize they're there until they steal your beer and eat your damn Funyuns.

"But they will be making sure you don't !@#$ing hulk out on someone. They will be making sure you don't abuse your powers.

"And if we need you? If your country needs you to come kick !@#$ing ass for it, again? They'll be the ones to roust you out of bed, or off the damn podium, or away from the !@#$ing babies you're trying to kiss at the damn VFW, and they will hustle your square ass back here, to me, and I will tell you where to go, what to do, and who to punch into !@#$ing orbit."

He looks at the Senator. The Senator opens and closes his mouth a few times, but then just falls silent and nods one last time.

"This is where you stand, shake my hand, and go," SPYGOD says, extending the limb in question: "And then let me get back to planning my wedding to that sexy man who's off turning Mars red again."

And Cruz nods, stands, shakes the hand, and is gratefully escorted out of the suddenly-stifling office.

"God it is !@#$ing good to be back," the superspy chuckles, turning to get back behind the best desk he's ever had, and smoke yet another long, black cigarette -- if only so he can keep putting them out in his grinning, bony, and black ashtray.

The one marked HELVETE.

Thursday: 8/4/16

"Pink and black?" Director Straffer says, shaking his head at the email he just got: "Seriously?"

"Sir?" his skull-shaven second asks, floating beside him on the deck of the Naglfar -- overlooking the ruined, red surface of Mars, far below.

"My fiance and I are working on the wedding arrangements," the blonde cyborg chuckles, tapping his laptop and then putting it away: "He wants pink and black. I want blue and gold. I think we're going to have to discuss this further."

"Oh God, don't remind me," she says, grabbing hold of the nearest parallel structure on the massive ship -- looking for all the world like an old, Viking ship, only with a hull made from the nails of a billion dead men.

"That's right, you've got your own in a month, don't you?" he asks, observing the ring on her finger.

"Yeah, if it doesn't fly apart first."

"Oh?"

"My mother in law keeps trying to get us to move churches, and my dad's upset because we won't play his favorite song for the daddy-daughter dance."

"Do I even want to know what that is?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"'Friends in Low Places,'" she sighs, shaking her shaven, partially-tattooed head: "And I refuse to have the chicken dance played at my wedding, so..."

"Sherry, you stick with your guns," Straffer says: "With any luck, you'll only have to do this once. Make it good, make it yours. And don't let anyone talk you into anything you don't want."

"Yes, sir," she says, saluting. And he smiles at her, in spite of it all.

In the background, a phalanx of lightships pass over the hull -- small, winged bullets made of hard solar energy. As they do, they melt away, revealing the pilots within. The men and women drop down to the hull of the ship, looking relieved to be off duty.

They then hand over what look like steering wheels to another, waiting group of pilots. They smile, nod to one another, and then leap up and off the side of the ship. As they do, the steering wheels activate -- enshrouding them in new, shining lightships -- and off they fly to continue patrols.

"Anything else to report?" Straffer asks, trying to bring the conversation back around to business.

"Well, according to the other flight group, they've made a final scouring run on the southern pole," she reports, bringing up her arm pad and showing a 3D hologram of the operation in progress: "They report they encountered about ten targets, and annihilated them all. That should be the last of it."

"I sure hope so," Straffer says, getting to his feet and looking down at the planet -- filled with honeycomb-like holes so regular they set off his trypophobia: "I swear every time we think we've nailed the last of it, there's an other glob of it somewhere."

"It is to be expected, my friend," a booming voice says from behind them.

Straffer turns to see Mr. USA standing there, holding a long spear and wearing a winged helmet, with his two ravens and wolves in attendance. He smiles, and when he does it seems that his eyepatch both is and is not there.

"Afternoon, Odin," the Director says, being careful to address him by his new and rightful name: "Have you had a good hunt?"

"We did, indeed," the Lord of the Aesir says, striding by as his cohort leaps onto the longship -- swords and spears drawn, fresh from what seems a mighty battle: "Several of the beasts had escaped our notice, earlier. Good Tyr caught sight of their spoor, and then led us to it." 

"Excellent," Straffer says, trying to avoid seeming worried that yet another remnant of the previous occupant of the planet had escaped detection, yet again.

Instead he looks to the many members of the Union that accompany Odin -- the heroes of the 50 members of the New European Union, all now home to the Aesir.

(All of them looking very well for being dead...)

It had been a long, hard fight to get here. And it seemed so long ago since that horrible day, when it seemed everything was going wrong, and the world was doomed.

But then Odin appeared, along with the Olympians. And as soon as they began to do what needed to be done, and reality was changed for the better?

Well, after that it was all Straffer could do to get from his busted-up office to Moscow, just so he could get on board as the newly-homed Aesir raised their swords and spears to the sky, and, with the Lightships of the Olympians, took the fight to the enemy anew.

A month of near-constant battle followed. Day after day of destroying 8-Balls as they approached the Earth. Weeks of following them back to Mars. And then a long, week-long siege of the black planet, during which time the entirety of the Decreator was beaten back and down.

And then, at long last, collected by the Olympians -- slammed into a massive jail of Restriit's design, its fate unknown as yet.

Now, all that remains is the tedious and uncertain reality of cleanup. Making sure no traces of the beast remain behind. Putting all its massive, bio-organic factories to the sword, and destroying any of its children left behind.

In theory, an easy thing to do with around 50 gods and a whole fleet of ships made from light. In practice, as prone to mistakes and tedium as anything.

Straffer has been on the job for a month. He is tired and weary. He desperately wants to get home, run into his lover's arms, and argue with him about wedding colors, and cake, and whether to invite all their lovers.

But he's still got a job to do, he thinks.

And as he looks down at the cored-out, ruined surface of the planet below -- a surface that could be hiding many more horrible surprises -- he realizes that his job might be just beginning.

"Why these long and sad features, my friend?" Ve asks, striding over to place her arm around Straffer: "Behold the plain of our victory! Behold our works! Are they not good?"

"They are, yes," the Director says, looking at the Goddess, and feeling the old confusion coming back. Once this God was the enemy, in charge of the Aesir's war party on Earth. But now he's not only their ally, but a Goddess -- both changes due to being in the body of the Estonian heroine, Teras.

(And she was dead, at least until a certain Olympian followed through on his gift to the world.)

"I think this calls for mead and song," her brother Villi pronounces: "And as soon as Thor returns, I am certain we shall have both!"

"Yes," Odin agrees, joining his brother and sister at Straffer's side: "Songs and celebration at a war fought so well. And a peace so near at hand. 

"Just a push or two more, down there, and all shall be well..."

And Straffer smiles at him, but it's somewhat hollow. Because somehow he knows the Lord of the Aesir is saying that for his own benefit as much as his.

Almost as if he didn't believe it, either... 

Friday: 8/5/16

"How the !@#$ can this be happening?" Randolph Scott grumbles, pounding his fist across the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle: "How is he not halfway down the goddamn sewers by now?"

"That does seem to be the question," Karl says, doing his best to keep his bowl of cereal from flying off the table when his dad pounds the table yet again, clearly frustrated to see the Candidate still leading in all major polls.

They're all sitting around the staff room of the new studio of THIS IS BULL!@#$ -- hidden away in a secret location, known only to them.

(No more collateral damage. No more fear. They agreed.)

"You and Jana told them what happened," the outlaw reporter says: "We've all given over all the files we had. All the information. There's no way he can wriggle out of it."

"That's the problem, though," Velma says, her voice sounding a lot more natural after the last surgery: "He's not wriggling out of it. He's happy to tell everyone everything that happened."

"Yeah, and they're just eating it up," Helmut says, helping himself to more coffee: "At this point I think he could confess to being behind the Imago and they'd still find a way to forgive him."

"We have to find out what's going on," Randolph says, tapping the page instead of pounding it: "There's no reason in !@#$ing hell he should have won the damn nomination, much less remained this popular this long. Someone is !@#$ing things up."

"Isn't it more likely the American electorate is just damn stupid?" Helga asks, shrugging: "I mean, I hate to say it. But there it is."

"Not this stupid," Karl says, agreeing with Randolph: "He told someone to take a crying baby out of a speech. A politician that can't even kiss babies is a man in serious trouble."

"But how could it be working?" Velma asks, crossing her arms and looking around the room: "Do you think he has someone in the media, fixing the polls for him? Bribing someone in control?"

"There is no one person in control," Helmut says: "Pollsters are some of the most competitive bastards I've ever met. Worse than high school jocks."

"How would you know?" Jana teases, and they all laugh -- all except for Randolph.

"Someone's messing with things, alright," he grumbles, getting up from the table: "And I think I know how to find out who."

He leaves the room without closing the door behind him. Everyone looks around in silence, and Velma sighs -- deep and long -- as everyone else takes that as a sign to get back to work.

"For God's sake, screw him or something," Jana whispers in her ear as she leaves.

"I would if he'd let me," the Toon replies, but only after everyone else is gone.

* * *

"I mean, this is great," the Candidate chuckles, sitting in his easy chair at the end of a very long day and sipping his scotch: "It's working a lot better than I thought it might. This thing of ours."

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," his new chief strategist says, adjusting his crisp tie: "Still, King Whip tells me it might be a good idea to tone a few things down."

"Why?" the beefy man asks, raising an epic eyebrow as he pats the shiny, new button he wears: "I thought this sigil thing protected me?"

"Well, yes, it does," his underling says: "But I guess... well, let's put it this way. Say you have a bullet proof vest on. Would you rather walk into a small gunfight, or a combat zone?"

"The small gunfight," he answers, nodding. 

"Exactly. But you're still going into war zones, sir. Sooner or later that vest is going to be so full of holes it won't protect you. You have to hold back a little-"

"Well, if it breaks, he can just make another... right?" the candidate asks.

"I... I don't know," the manager admits, sheepishly: "I don't know exactly how King Whip does what he does. But I do know one thing."

"What's that?"

"Everything he does comes with a heavy cost," the kid says: "And it's the sort of thing where it's better to pay as little as you have to, and as infrequently as you can."

The candidate considers that, and nods. But all the while he's deciding he didn't come this far to have some desperate kid tell him to shut up, just like the slack-jawed goobers in his own party are doing, right now. He's going to keep saying what he wants to, when he wants to.

And if his sigil gets blown? If he needs another? Well, he'll do what he's always done -- he'll just open his wallet, pull out a lot of money, and pay for what he needs.

He used to tell people that wealth made its own reality. And now that he can buy magic with it, it's twice as true.

No one can stop him, now. Not the idiots in his own party. Not Ted Cruz, or any of those other morons he's running against. Not even that pesky, so-called outlaw reporter he tried and failed to have killed.

He sips his scotch and continues to pretend to listen to the kid who thinks he knows best. And he decides that when he wins, he'll have to make sure to give him some decent job, somewhere -- just not in the White House.

He also decides he'll have to spend some time !@#$ing with that reporter, just to show him that there are some people you do not cross...

Saturday: 8/6/16

"... and I am one of them," the long-haired, old man at Yanabah's hospital door tells the guards: "Now, if I tell you you need to be elsewhere? You need to be elsewhere. Don't make this difficult for yourselves."

Then he just smiles -- thin-lipped and wide. And they nods, turn around, and leave the room.

"That's better," he says, closing the door behind them and locking it for good measure: "It's a good thing to be able to close a door in a hospital, don't you think? Gives you some control over the situation."

"Yes," she agrees, still not entirely sure what the !@#$ is going on here.

She was asleep, again. She'd dozed off after Hanami and a few of the others had been to visit, and bring her up to speed, or at least try to. She really only caught every other word, though, and eventually just closed her eyes and let nature take its course.

It's the medication, she thinks. They must have put her on something really damned strong to keep her from freaking out again -- keep her from really coming up out of the fug and remembering.

At least they also put her in less cumbersome restraints, which makes it easier for her to sleep. But that's not helping either...

She opens her eyes with a start. The old man is sitting at her bedside, now. She doesn't remember him getting there.

"Sorry, dearie," he says, leaning in: "I hope you don't mind that I watched you sleep a while. I figure you need it, after everything."

"Yeah," she mumbles, blinking a few times. She really should be wearing sunglasses. Where the hell are they...?

She looks at the old man, thinking he looks familiar. In some ways he reminds her of her grandfather, Wayfinder, and yet not.

He's of the people, definitely: long face, flinty features, old eyes that seem bright as day. His long, silver hair is braided down the back, and he's got on enough turquoise and silver jewelry to start a gift shop.

He's also wearing the sharpest suit she has ever seen -- dark black pants that don't seem to reflect light back so well, with a dark grey shirt under a black vest. All topped off with a tie that looks like it did come from a gift shop: a tacky, old-style 'cowboys and indians' print that, by today's standards, is frankly racist.

"Found it in a store in Taos," the old man explains, somehow knowing that's what she was looking at: "It'd been a while since I walked the land. I figured going in there would be educational. It surely was."

"Do I know you?"

"Of course," he says, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other: "We're family, dearie. We just haven't talked in a long while, you and I."

"I don't remember you," she says, somehow unable to be too suspicious. (The medication? Maybe....)

"I'm not too surprised. Now, your grandfather? He and I talked a lot. Every day, if you can believe that."

"Then why don't I know you?"

"Maybe you never heard," the old man winks, leaning forward: "Maybe you never saw."

"Are you like him?" she asks, trying to remember: "Like he was?"

"You could say that, sure," he says, reaching out to take her hand in his -- something that calms her down immediately, as though she were touching heaven: "And that's part of why I've come here to talk to you, Yanabah. Because I owe you the apology that your grandfather can't give you, anymore."

"What do you mean?" she asks, very confused.

"I mean that all this time, you've been getting the wrong medicine. And that's why all this happened the way it did."

"What...?"

"Dearie, all this time you've been acting like one thing, and not the other you really are," he explains: "Your grandfather, well, he didn't want people to know how powerful you really were. Especially not that wasichu he worked with. You remember who I'm talking about, right? That magic-stealing conjurer."

"Doctor Power," she says: "Yeah. I never liked him. He always creeped me out."

"With good damn reason, dearie. If he'd really known what you were, he would have taken you from your grandfather as soon as he found a way to do it. Either that or found some way to use you like a tool to try and get more power. He was always making deals with spirits and demons, hoping to buy off what he'd bargained for all the times before. Like a gambler than keeps borrowing money to pay off debts, but can't help but try to make it all back at the table."

He winces, clearly remembering something distasteful.

"Anyway, he thought it would be easier if he just told people you were a shape changer. One of the Moon children. There's plenty of those out there. What's another?"

"But... I'm Wendigo," she says, confused: "He told me."

"That's right. But these days people think a Wendigo is just another name for a werewolf, dearie. They don't realize that it's something a hell of a lot different. And a hell of a lot more powerful."

He squeezes her hand: "I'm sorry this happened to you. I truly am. It's a terrible thing when one of them infests a person at any age. That it happened to you while you were still a girl? That's a crime. Not much I can do about it, now or then. But at least we can treat the disease correctly, now."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that all this crap, here?" he says, gesturing to the silver restraints they have her in: "It doesn't do a damn thing."

She blinks -- once, then twice: "That... no. It kept me from changing. All those years, I wore that jewelry and it kept me from changing."

"Dearie, do you know what a placebo is?"

"A really crappy band?" she asks, trying to smile: "Whine all the time?"

"I don't listen to that kind of thing, but I'll take your word for it," he smiles back: "A placebo is something you give to someone instead of real medicine, but you tell them it's real. People who treat children sick with something they won't get better from use them all the time. Usually it's just candy painted to look like a pill."

"That's... that's !@#$ing sick."

"Hey, it doesn't hurt. And besides, the children believe it will work, because a doctor told them. And sometimes, if they believe it hard enough? They do get better. Or maybe just get less sick, or hurt less.

"It's proof that the will can affect the body. That belief can shape the world."

He taps the silver restraint with his free hand: "This silver? The jewelry you wore? Those were placebos, dearie. And they worked because your grandfather told you they worked. And you believed it so hard and so true that they did."

Yanabah blinks. Then the tears come -- sobs, too.

"Now, don't you be angry at him, girl," he says, holding her hand tighter: "He did it protect you. And it worked. It worked for a long time. Long enough for that conjurer to get what he deserved, anyway. And I know that if he'd lived long enough to see that day, well, your grandfather would have come to tell you the truth. Like I am."

"All those people..." she says: "All that... those things I did. Oh god. Oh god."

"None of that, now," the old man commands, and something in his voice makes the sobbing stop: "Pity yourself on your own time, girl. We don't have a lot of it. I don't have a lot of it. Not yet, anyway."

"What... what do you mean?" Yanabah asks.

"I mean that things are changing," the old man says: "I mean that I'm going to be walking a world a lot more, soon. And I won't be the only one. And some of the people who'll be walking this world, well... they won't be truthful about what they want. And they won't think twice to have someone like you on their side."

He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes drill into hers: "So this is my apology to you, dearie. It is the truth, as was hidden from you. And as much as I hate quoting from that book, given how much damage it did to the people, the truth will set you free."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in time," the old man says, letting go of her hand and leaning back -- crossing one knee over the other: "You'll be in here another week or so. They'll let you rest. They figure you need it, and I figure they're right.

"But sooner or later they're going to say it's time to move forward. They're going to bring in some head-doctor who'll want to make sure you're okay. They're going to give you back your guns, put you back to work. And they'll take more steps to make sure that doesn't happen again. Maybe put the silver inside of you, this time."

She shivers at the idea: "!@#$ that."

"Well, here's the thing, dearie," he leans forward again: "It won't work. They could replace your bones with silver and your eyes with turquoise, and it won't work. Because the silver does not work. It never did. It only did because you were told it did, and you believed it."

"Then... if I change..."

"Then you'll change," he says, patting her hand: "But next time? It won't shock you. You'll control it. You'll be in control the entire time."

She shivers again, remembering bits and pieces of what happened: "I don't think I want to. I'm... I don't like how I think when I'm it. I don't like what I do."

He smiles and gets up from the chair: "Just remember. The Wendigo was made for a reason. You exist for a reason. There's nothing wrong or unnatural about what you think or what you do."

"I think it was," Yanabah said: "I was... I became a monster. A disgusting thing that... that..."

She can't even bring herself to say it, and he nods: "It's like anger, dearie. Like sadness, rage, jealousy, envy. We say these things are bad, but they're there for a reason. You wouldn't be you without them. You'd be a star-eyed pushover with no drives and no sense of self, and no ability to get mad and defend yourself when the time came.

"You just have to find the balance, is all. Find the center of your spirit. Find your purpose. And when you do, you'll find that the beast in you is only as much of a monster as you want it to be.

"Or need it to be..." he winks, heading for the door.

She reaches out to say something, but suddenly feels very damn tired. She wants to ask questions, but can't think of a single one.

Finally, one comes, and she opens her mouth. But when she does she looks to the door, and sees the old man is not there. There's just the two guards he sent away, and they don't seem to have changed position from when he came in, all that time ago...

Wait. How long was he here...?

"When did he leave?" she asks them.

"When did who leave, miss?" one of the guards replies.

"The old man," she says: "I... I didn't get his name. He was... old? Long grey hair? Dressed in black?"

They look at her, then at each other. One shrugs, the other laughs.

"Go back to sleep, miss," the other says: "You're dreaming."

She looks at them both, and scowls. Something about how she does it makes them stop laughing and look away.

And then she looks at the silver restraints -- really, really looks at them.

Suddenly very aware that they don't itch the way they should, anymore...

Sunday: 8/7/44 

"... well, we figured in the end, it really doesn't matter who the father is," the AGENT says over his hands-free, walking through the halls of the Heptagon on his way to the Director's office: "We're all married to each other. So, regardless of who was physically responsible, the baby is ours.

"Yeah, yeah, paternity matters in child custody," he chuckles: "Jeez, dad. You're thinking old. We already figured this all out before we opened up the marriage. If something happens, time gets shared 50/50. Or 33 and a third for each of us if it comes to that.

"Hey, can't you all just be happy?" the man laughs, delighting in teasing his more conservative father (as opposed to the less conservative one): "I just told you that you're going to be grandparents. Cheer up.

He winces and then grins in spite of it all: "Dad, come on. Language! You know I hate that kind of macho cursing man stuff...

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, fine. I'll have a cigar with you. Boy or girl. But please not another one of your crazy parties. My husband's afraid you're going to try and have sex with him...

"Yes, I'm off to the past," he admits: "Yes, I'll stay out of both your way. And I love you both. Bye bye."

He hangs up, chuckling: "Those two... how did I wind up with them as parents?"

* * *

TIMEFILE

BGDST20366-A-D-010/X/+2016-EST:08:12-08:13

"I don't care what you !@#$ing know, or what you think  you !@#$ing know, son," a very rough and bloodied SPYGOD says, holding a very large gun up towards the AGENT, who's got an equally-large one aimed at him: "This man is going to be the next goddamn President of the United States of America, and it's my !@#$ing job to protect him!"

"You don't understand!" the AGENT says -- all camouflage dropped, all secrecy in shambles -- "That man destroys everything! If he wins... the future I came from won't exist. The world won't exist! Can't you understand that?"

"You think you're the first mother!@#$er who came here, claiming to be from the future, and telling me I had to !@#$ing bend over and let them kill someone?" the superspy screams, narrowing his new eyes at the silvery intruder.

"No," the AGENT says: "But-"

But SPYGOD's heard enough. More than enough, clearly. 

His gun speaks, just once. And then it all goes black. 

* * *

"Oh..." the AGENT says, sitting down at the Director's desk -- looking like a marionette whose strings have just been sliced clean through. The crystal matrix he'd been looking at stays in his hand, just for a second, and then clatters down onto the floor.

"That's... putting it mildly," Rikki says, putting her burly hands on the desk between them: "I don't know what to say. I don't know how this can even be possible. But..."

"But at some point in October of 2016, at a time and place we're not even sure of, I have to choose between killing SPYGOD, or letting the world end."

The grey-haired clone looks at him, and nods -- very, very slowly.

"How can that be possible?" the AGENT says: "How... how can this even be a thing?"

"I don't know," the Director says: "But it's verified. We had three temporal sensitives check it out, after the first. There are some small differences, but no significant alterations. It's going to happen."

"Then... something must be wrong," the man says, leaping to his feet: "We know that time was... well, totally crazy. That's the only way to describe it. That's the only way anyone can."

"AGENT..."

"Something from back there is screwing up our perception of events. It has to be-"

"AGENT!" Rikki shouts, getting to her feet: "Think about what you're saying. The system is fool-proof. Double-checked and triple-verified. We wouldn't be running the program if we didn't think so."

"Are you so sure?" the AGENT asks, putting his hands on her desk: "I don't remember what happens on these missions. How do I know anything I've done has gone according to plan? How do you?"

"I know that we can trust the Time Chamber. I know we can-" 

"Then how could this have even happened?" the AGENT asks, reaching down to grab the matrix and holding it up to her: "This is... this is the mother of all paradoxes, right here. This is the sort of thing the Time Chamber is supposed to be helping us prevent!"

The Director opens her mouth, and then closes it. She has no real answers. She does not know.

"So... why me?" the man asks, dropping the matrix onto her desk: "If I go back and do this..."

"Then the paradox closes around itself," she admits: "At least, that's what the temporal science division thinks."

He scowls. He looks away, and then back.

"I just found out I'm going to be a father, today," he says: "I just told... I just...."

"I'm sorry," she says: "And if there was any way I could have had anyone else do this, I would. But there is no one else. There's only you."

He looks at her. If looks could kill, she would have dead a million times over.

But then...

* * *

... in his quiet sanctum, all alone, King Whip keeps tabs on his newest tool, and decides how he wants his country to be once he wins...

... SPYGOD watches Ted Cruz's surveillance tapes  -- the Senator crying and alone in his bed -- and wonders if the feeling in his chest is pity, or the thrill of knowing how to use him...

...  Randolph Scott disconnects from telepresence, wondering if he should lie to Velma, yet again, or actually bring her in on what would be the ultimate act of outlaw journalism...

... Yanabah stands by the window, free of her silver restraints, and listens to the music the night makes outside of the glass, and how the creature in her soul reacts to it...

... Straffer looks down at the surface of Mars, once more, and just knows there's something nasty still down there, waiting...

* * *

... and the AGENT walks up to the Time Cylinder -- its metal womb opening itself to him, allowing him to travel to the past -- and can only find one word to express his true feelings at the moment. 

"!@#$..."

* * *

If I don't see tomorrow then it must be black
It's a land of sorrow full of deadened groans
Tomorrow has no colors, it feels like the night
It's a pile of cinders instead of a fire
They did raze tomorrow to the ground

 

* * *

(SPYGOD is listening to Sacrifice (Front 242) and having a Dead Ringer)