12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 4

"Then here are our needs, and our conditions," Doctor Power says to the presence, here with them. Floating outside their bodies. Amulet held high, eyes crackling.

(Strength is gathered. New strategy formed. Confidence is high)

"This body needs to be reanimated. It must be reanimated so as to look like it did in life. It must be reanimated to act as it did in life."

(The terms are spelled out exactly. Nothing left unsaid. No room to wiggle.)

"The deception must be so good that even its own family cannot tell that anything has happened. It must not do anything suspicious. It must not say anything suspicious."

 (Further clarifications are always necessary. The Abyss is full of rules lawyers. That's how most got to Hell in the first place.)

"The body will be reanimated until such time as we say we no longer need it to be. After that, you will retain no further hold upon it. After that, you will seek no further hold upon it."

(Because the Fallen rarely leave well enough alone. Always another deal. Always an attempt to make one.)

"This is what we require of you. In return, you may require of us one thing. It must not be permanent, nor spiritually, mentally, or physically damaging."

(They always start with souls. Then they want your mind, hoping to cause insanity. Then your body, hoping a handicap will force another deal.)

"Those are our needs, and our conditions. They are fair and just. Will you agree to them?"

(A long wait. It seems like hours go by. And then-)

* * *

"Let me explain what's really happened, here," Myron says, looking at each of the tall beings in turn: "You made three big mistakes, throughout your time on this planet. And as a result, you're not in any position to Attend to us."

"You overstep yourselves!" the one with the torch hisses: "We have no time to hear this nonsense-"

"You have all the time in the world," Myron insists: "We heard your story. You will now hear ours."

"And if we do not?" the One Who Attends asks: "We can stop this at any time we choose-"

Myron quickly pulls his gun out of his holster and holds it to his temple: "Then I tell these people, here, to do what I'm doing. We will die, here and now, and you will have failed to Attend to anything. Will your code forgive you for this?"

The trio take a step back, and Myron smiles, and continues:

"You see, your first mistake was coming to this planet. You picked a world where there was no real life, true, but you didn't count on evolution. And you, of all people, should have realized that a planet like this would eventually get life back on it. Maybe you should have picked Venus or something-"

"Um, there are people on Venus," one of the team members says.

"Oh, sorry, forgot," Myron shrugs: "Well, !@#$. You should have !@#$ing picked Mercury or something. It'd get a little hot but hey, nothing you people can't fix, right?"

He smiles, but the smile is not returned.

"Please continue," the One Who Stands Between insists: "I would hear more of this."

"I will, but first I want to hear you say that you agree with my reasoning," Myron says: "I want you to understand and recognize that I have a point, or this means nothing."

From the expression on their faces, he can tell the trio realizes he's turned the tables on them.

"I agree with your reasoning," the one with the Torch says.

"As do I," says the One Who Attends.

"And I," the One Who Stands Between says: "Please continue."

"Alright. Now, your second mistake you've already admitted to. You underestimated the Imago and how hard they'd fight to get out of here. They sacrificed themselves to create enough energy to help one of them escape, and it did. And everything that's gone wrong on our world over the last year is because of that."

"We have admitted to this, true," the one with the torch says: "But what is our third mistake, then? Being powerless to help you in your time of need? Confronting you for your crime, here and now? If so, we will reject these so-called mistakes out of hand-"

"Neither of them," Myron interrupts, the handle of the gun slick with his sweat: "Your third mistake was the worst of all. You had the perfect opportunity to make up for those two mistakes by doing one simple thing. And while I think we all know you could have done it, you didn't do it.

"You didn't tell us what had happened."

* * *

I have considered your request, the Fallen responds. Her voice is like a foghorn in their souls. It promises doom.

(Vibrating painfully. Eardrums breaking. A speaker full of glass shards.)

Before I say yes, I would know why she is so important. What is she to you, this person? Why would you risk so much to deal with us?

(A sensible question. But a hint of menace, there. A beehive in the treehouse.)

"If you can look into our hearts, you know the answer," Doctor Power insists: "We came here to save her. We failed, and so we are desperate."

(The truth, yes. But not the whole truth. And he knows she knows this.)

But you fear failure, in this case, the demon says. You know that, should this battle be lost, the war would end. You know that all depends on total success, for all of you.

(And there's the truth. Failure would have many consequences. Many of them for him.)

"That is true," Doctor Power says: "Many things hinge on her returning to the world, safe and alive. But you will have your payment, either way, so why is that important to you?"

(The wrong question, at the wrong time. The Knight leaps off the board. Failure.)

Because it means that I may now ask whatever I want, the demon coos, growing large enough to envelop the four of them: Should you refuse me, you fail everyone. And no one else will deal with you, now. 

(A slap in the face that shatters bones. The feeling of falling. And when she speaks again, it's like ice in the brain.)

 

* * *

"What do you mean?" the one with the torch asks: "We had no way to contact you-"

"Bull!@#$," Myron spits: "You could have found a way to talk to us at any time. All you would have had to do was get one of your guards to initiate contact."

"Guards?" the One Who Stands Between asks.

"Yes. The things you have prowling the inside of this place. The things you have outside, keeping people from getting too close. We called them DEROS, and we've known about them since World War II. But they were out there earlier, weren't they? Looking for your escaped prisoner?"

The trio are silent, and then the One Who Stands Between nods, solemnly: "This is true. We sent our servitors out to find our charge, and bring it back. We searched until we could search no more, and then, thirty or so of your years after the breakout, our charge took control of our servants, and came back to free the others."

Myron nodded, tightening his grip on his gun: "And everything that happened from there... well, you were all powerless, and I can't begrudge you that. But if that !@#$ got out of here in the 30's, and you got taken over in the !@#$ing 60's? Well, that was thirty years you could have found a way to contact us. You could have told us what was coming, and what we were up against-"

"And what would you have said?" the one with the torch snorts: "You forget, we know how you are, as a species. The best you would have done would have been to ignore us. But you would have wanted our technology, and when we offered you friendship you would have betrayed us-"

"Maybe," Myron admits: "But you should have tried. !@#$ you, you should have tried! And now... Jesus Christ, how many are they saying now...?"

"Maybe two billion," the team leader says, seeing where he's going with this: "Between who they killed before, all the people who died on 3/15, everyone they got rid of during their rule and all the people who died when we took the planet back. Israel. Yeah, two billion. At least."

"That's one person in three, dead," Myron says, shaking: "Parents who won't see their kids anymore. Kids who are orphans, now. Whole cities and towns wiped the !@#$ out. 

"And... you know? I'm a smart guy. I'll admit it, no shame in it. But even I can't visualize a billion. A hundred? Sure. A thousand? Okay. And maybe even a million I can figure. A million dollars buys an artificial island the !@#$ Gulf off the coast of Dubai if you talk to the right guy. 

"But a billion?" he says, shaking his head: "I can't conceive of a billion anything, much less a billion people. But now there's two billion dead.

"And all that?" he asks, pointing at them with his free hand: "That's on you. All of you. Because you could have told us what was loose in our world, and you didn't even try.

"And now? Now here we are, trying to salvage something... anything from this !@#$ing place, just so we can have some kind of a silver lining from all this? Just so we can understand more about our enemy? And you're !@#$ed off at us because we had no idea you were down here? 

"I mean, you let us go, right now? I make a phone call, and we leave, and no one comes back. No one. We can do that. I can !@#$ing guarantee it. Look in my mind if you don't believe I can, or will-"

"I know that you would," the one with the torch says: "But there is still the issue of-"

"The Lesson of the Lost Money. Yeah yeah. !@#$ you. How about the Lesson of the Three !@#$ Big !@#$ing Mistakes You Made That Cost Us A Third of Our !@#$ing Population?"

He shuts his mouth at that point, and just looks at the One Who Stands Between. The barrel's at his temple. His finger's on the trigger. 

And then, without him having to say anything, every other member of the team does the exact same thing. In solidarity, they show that they would rather die, here and now, than be administered "Attending" by such a hypocritical bunch of teachers. 

Together, they stand as one.

Waiting.

* * *

"So... what happened?" the psychologist asks. He's leaned up against a wall, on the other side of the room from Myron. 

"Well, I'm here..." he says, shaking his head as the fuzz finally leaves it. 

"I know that, but-"

"We reached an understanding," Myron says, looking up at him and smiling: "I think that's the best way to say it. The !@#$ put something into the body. In return, she took something from us, and then we went back into ours."

"What did she take from you?"

"I don't know," Myron sighs: "None of us did. I got the sense she wanted the most precious thing we had, but... !@#$ if I know what that was."

The man nods: "And then what happened?"

"Well, while we were all lying there, writhing and puking like we were coming down from a !@#$ fever, Doctor Power whammied our heads so we wouldn't !@#$ing remember any of this."

"But that didn't last."

"No. I don't think it was meant to, so if something went wrong we'd remember in time to fix it. Or maybe it was supposed to last, but he didn't have the power to make it permanent. He was running on !@#$ing empty by that point, to hear him tell it."

The psychologist nods: "And, of course, we can't ask him, now."

"No. We can't."

There's some silence, then. Myron coughs and tries to lean back, and then winces as he cuts his !@#$ on a fresh patch of broken bottle.

"So you know," the psychologist says, steeping his hands in front of his face: "I've been thinking. You said you think she wanted what was most precious to you? There's a lot of things that could be, and I'm not discounting your soul-"

"Gee, make me feel better, why don't you," Myron sighs.

"But if I had to guess? I think she took your personality away."

Myron blinks and sits up a little: "What do you mean?"

"Well, all your files? Everything I've ever read about you? I can see that you've been down, before. And with good reason, from time to time."

"Oh Jesus, I've been down before," Myron says: "You should have seen me after Zalea Zathros escaped, down in Costa Rica. I was a !@#$ing mess for days."

"And what happened?"

"SPYGOD kicked my !@#$. What else?"

"Did that help?"

"Well, maybe a little. But I think..."

The psychologist smiles: "Go on, Myron. You think."

"I think... I know. I got given something to do. Something important. And as soon as I was doing it, I was back on my feet again."

"Right, exactly," the man says, pointing to him: "And from what I've read of you, since then? When things go bad, you dive into some major project, and then you're good again. You feel good about yourself again. Having a challenge makes you feel like you have a purpose, a place in things."

"Yeah..." Myron says, blinking: "You know, that's right."

"But this time? This time, you haven't challenged yourself. You've just fallen down. And when people have tried to give you something to do? You just tell them to !@#$ off and leave you alone.

"And now..." the man gestures around the room: "Here you are."

Myron nods, some vestige of himself coming back into his eyes: "So what did everyone else lose?"

"Well, that's a !@#$ good question," the psychologist answers: "Maybe you should find out?

"How do I do that?"

"Well, maybe you could start by getting up off the floor?" the psychologist asks, taking his own advice: "Take a shower, have some coffee? When's the last time you got something to eat?"

Myron blinks and looks around: "You know, I don't... what day is it?"

"Tuesday. The day before Christmas?"

"Oh, !@#$," Myron says, and starts laughing. The laughing turns to tears, and then laughter again. And then nothing but deep sighs and shaking his head.

"You know, after all that !@#$?" he says, looking down at his hands: "After all that, I told myself this was going to be one !@#$ of a Christmas. I was going to have turkey and all the trimmings. Go see my mom, invite over Winifred and her family, get Randolph and his kids. !@#$, get SPYGOD there, too, if we could. Just have a big !@#$ blowout.

"And instead, here I am," he snorts: "Drunk in broken glass."

"Well, sounds like you got your work cut out for you," the man says, grabbing his briefcase: "I'm heading for my family, Myron. I suggest you find what remains of yours and see what you can do. After that shower, of course.

"And then? I suggest you meet up with everyone you were with, that day in the Ice Palace, and see if you can't figure out what you lost."

"Yeah," Myron says, knowing all too well what remains of his family, real and otherwise, and having a bad suspicion of what his comrades have lost.

"And thank you," the man says, looking back before he leaves the apartment: "For finally telling me."

"And to all a good night," Myron replies, waving goodbye. As soon as the man's out the door, he turns the wave into the bird.

"!@#$er," he sighs, wondering where the !@#$ is phone is, and who's left to call, and who would listen. 

Outside his window, it's started to snow. He looks outside at it, and remembers the last thing the One Who Stands Between told him, just before the one with the torch (whose proper name he never even learned) let them go.

"I think you, too, stand between," he'd said. But before Myron could ask if that was good or bad, they were all up in the chamber, where they'd began. All the other teams were back up there, dazed and confused for their ordeal.

And the hole in the floor was gone, as though it had never been.

"Never been..." Myron says, thinking of what he'd had with Winifred. Thinking he knows where the phone might be. Where she is. If he should call.

The snow keeps falling, even after he makes his decision. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Reach the Beach (The FIXX, dub remix) and having an Anchor Steam Christmas Ale)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 3

There's silence from the trio of tall aliens, for a time, as they look intently upon them. Every so often, Myron gets the feeling like something's rooting around in his head -- moving mental furniture about to look at the carpet, perhaps -- and then nothing. 

"If you've got a plan, now's the !@#$ing time," the team leader whispers to him.

"I do have a plan, yes," Myron says, looking up at the one with the staff's face as he looks back at him: "But let's hold on for a second-"

"Very well, then," the One Who Stand Between says, looking at them: "Let us be clear. You, like those who have come here before you, have transgressed against us." 

"You have come to this place to take what is ours," the one with the torch hisses.

"We realize you did not know that we were here," the one with nothing in her hands explains.

"But that means nothing," the one with the torch cuts in: "The Lesson of the Lost Money."

"So you should reflect upon that, in your time here with us," the One Who Stands Between says: "That is what will decide how long you must be attended to."

"By attended to, you mean imprisoned," the team leader insists.

"No," the One Who Stands Between says, putting his head at a weird angle: "Your concept of prison is a cruel thing, meant to keep those who do wrong to others from doing more wrong to others. It does not teach that those things were wrong, except through punishment. It does not redeem, except by accident. You would be ill-served by prison."

"You will be taught," the one with nothing in its hands says, holding them up in a welcoming gesture: "Please come to us. Come to me. Let us begin your attending to."

"And then I will decide if you have learned enough to leave," the one with the torch states.

"How long will that take?" one of the other team members asks.

"Time is meaningless inside of the Attending," the one with nothing in its hands explains.

"But if you need to know how long you will be here, with us... that depends on how well you learn what the One Who Attends has to teach. It may be only five of your years. It may be fifty. Five Hundred."

"Um... we don't live to be 500 years old, sir," Myron points out.

"You will not age with us," the One Who Attends explains: "We will be patient. We will be kind."

"But you will learn," the one with the torch insists: "And until you do, here you must remain."

* * *

"I don't know you..." Doctor Power says. Holds spirit image of amulet up, between his face and hers. "Where is Niginaza of the Basalt Bed?"

(Figure of red light. Dark markings on eyes, eyebrows, cheek, chin, lips. Foulness.)

What will you give me to know? The voice mocking, hissing. Laughter just below it, like heavy coins dropping into a terrible, slimy pool.

(The feeling of being roped into a bad transaction. Evil salesmen. Dirty uncles.)

"You will tell me what I wish to know," the magician insists, his eyes crackling with energy: "I speak with the authority of the planes, and the angles, and the words which must not be ignored. Answer me!"

(Thoughts like fire. Images in the mind. Power and will and perfect authority...)

Very well, though you will not like it, the red-litten woman says. Leans forward, as if to kiss the amulet: The social structure has changed, O mortal man. Those who led now serve, and those who served now lead. 

(... which shatter like ice on the hard, frozen ground. A drop into the chasm. The abyss licks its lips)

"And where is she?" Doctor Power insists, seemingly not phased by this news: "When the structure changes back she won't forgive your rudeness towards me."

(One more step in this direction, then a jump to the right. Strategy change. Chess in Hell)

She is nowhere you will find on a map, and in no shape to answer your calls. A black grin hangs in space. You will deal with me, now. And I desire much from you.

(Four minds are as one, floating in Hell. "We're !@#$ed, aren't we?" "Yes, I think we are.")

* * *

"Myron," the team leader hisses as other members of his team starrt to panic: "A plan would be !@#$ing nice, right about now!"

"Wait," Myron says, talking a step forward and holding up his hand: "So let me get this straight. We're guilty of having trespassed against you by coming here, even if we didn't know you were here."

"Yes," the One Who Stands Between says, patiently: "The Lesson of the Lost Money."

"Alright then. Who are you, and how have you come to be here?"

The three beings look down at him: "Do you truly not know this?" the one with the torch asks.

"You were in our heads. You tell me."

There's the sensation of mental chairs being tossed around the room, again, and then nothing.

"You do not know," the one with the torch says: "Not fully. And we see this."

"But, again, the Lesson of the Lost Money," the One Who Stands Between insists.

"!@#$ the lost money," Myron says: "You owe all of us an explanation for this bull!@#$, and you are not going to pass any kind of judgment on us until we have it."

"The choice is not yours to make!" the one with the torch hisses.

"Don't you have a parable saying that a fool can't judge a wise person?" Myron asks

"Yes, but I do not think that you think we are fools," the One Who Stands Between says.

"Maybe not, but you haven't proven it to us. And until we know for sure that you aren't some vindictive !@#$ers who'd rather be angry at us for exploring your empty place, instead of being angry at yourselves for letting it get empty in the first place, your Attending isn't going to mean a !@#$ thing to us. And then we'll be upset and unwilling to learn, and this whole thing's going to take longer. Won't it?"

There is silence amongst the three tall beings, and after a few seconds Myron repeats his question: "Won't it?"

"There is wisdom in what you say," the One Who Attends says.

"He's playing for time," the one with the torch insists.

"But we have already told him that time is meaningless, here," the One Who Stands Between admits, holding his head at a different, but also strange angle: "Very well. We will prove ourselves to you. We will tell you our story."

And so they do.

* * *

Doctor Power nods, doing his best to not show his fear. The others are not fooled, though. They know this is not what he was expecting.

(School friend's house full of unfriendly strangers. Grandma after a month in the rest home. End of security. One less possibility.)

As he prepares to speak, their minds all touch. They see him as a young man, ambitious and driven. They see his willingness to do anything to command the powers of the past.

(Late nights in dark, hidden libraries. Forbidden books read by the light of ill-made candles. Each one a step on the stairway to Heaven, or Hell.)

They see him as a hero, starting out. He makes a name for himself, with what little power he has. Power attracts power like moths to the torch, and soon he gets offers.

(Questionable suitors and strange deals. One bad idea leads to another, each one paying for the last. Digging a hole.)

In the end, too many hands ask for too many things. He cannot be a hero and do what they ask of him. He pours over his books, looking for a solution.

(One final deal, superseding all others. One entity to belong to for all time. Scanning the want ads, stomach sour and falling.)

And then, he finds her. Old book of forgotten names and misunderstood beings. Niginaza of the Basalt Bed, queen of all sorcerers. 

(!@#$-queen of magic, known to the proto-Sumerians. Buried all traces of her out of fear. Best left alone.)

He gathers noxious and mewling components. He learns a dead and blasphemous language. And at the black of the moon on the last of the year he brings her forth to make one final deal.

(Terrible deeds done in secret. Too much blood to wash away. Almost a relief when he thinks it doesn't work.)

Of course she listens to her story. Of course she agrees to what he wants. Of course he agrees to hers, terrible as they are.

(And now he is !@#$ed, completely and irrevocably. His soul bound to hers by magic. A chain on the heart.)

And so he has served man for decades while secretly serving her. Dark deeds, here and there, where no one saw. Sacrificed supervillains, cast live into the abyss. 

(No one would miss them, anyway. Better treatment than in prison. Had it coming, all of them.)

And SPYGOD? He knew. All along, he knew. He let this happen because he needed that power. 

But made it clear that it was to be kept under control, or else.

(And now, here in this moment, a chance to show him. To thank him. To prove himself.)

And it's all gone terribly wrong.

* * *

The story takes some time to relate, given its length and intricacy. Each one of the three beings tells it in equal measure, picking up in the middle of a sentence from the previous speaker, in wave after wave of tranquil, beautiful prose. 

They tell of how they lived, and the things their civilization had done, and observed, and endured. They tell of how the Imago came as conquerors, not understanding how poorly-outmatched they were. They tell of what happened, then, and the steps they took to ensure that their Attending would be safe for all parties involved. 

They explain how the Imago were to be observed, over the ages, and eventually considered rehabilitated. They admit that their charges were able to break one of their number free, after a time, and that this one eventually came back to free the others. They acknowledge that, once this happened, they were powerless to do anything but sit here, in the dark, as their former charges used their facilities powers (and external guards) for their own uses.

And they explain that theirs is the last outpost of their kind, now that their own civilization has ended. Only the three of them remain, and their duty -- a sacred thing in their culture -- is all they have left.

Not long after that is said, the story is done. The three are silent for a time, as if meditating on the weight and gravity of what they have said. 

And then, the One Who Stands Between strikes the ground with his staff. Once, twice, three times. 

"Our tale is told," the One Who Attends says.

"Our truth is proclaimed," the one with the torch declares.

"You have heard our ways, our past, and our reasoning," the One Who Stands Between says.

"Thank you for that," Myron says, nodding: "I speak for all of us when I say that we appreciate knowing this."

"It is what the situation demanded," the One Who Stands Between says, holding his head at the first weird angle: "We could do no less if we desired to be open and honest. But now, you must also be open and honest. Tell us, can you honestly wonder if we are fit to decide what happens next?"

"No," Myron says, standing up: "I think you are fit-"

"Myron!" the team leader shouts, getting in the man's face.

"But I don't think you have a legitimate claim to Attend to us," Myron continues, staring the man down and then looking up at the tall beings: "If anything, I think we should be Attending to you."

"What do you mean?" the one with the torch says, stepping back as if gravely offended. 

"Do you have a lesson for leaving an exploded bomb in a field?" Myron asks.

And, before the One Who Stands Between can respond, Myron steps forward and saves everyone.

(SPYGOD is listening to Parabol/Parabola (Tool) and having a Final Absolution)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 2

10/22/12

"What the !@#$ are we looking at, sir?" the leader of team 11 asks as their rocket sleds descend into the hole, marveling at the sides of the tunnel they've entered.

"I don't know, but it's beautiful," Myron says, resisting the temptation to reach out and touch what he sees.

The sides of the rock tunnel were smooth and featureless, to begin with. And then, all at once, carvings blossomed out: an endless, spiraling procession of giant, epic figures with interlocking hands, looking out at them. Tall humanoids dressed in simple, hooded robes, all shining under the lights from the damp and the wet.

"Are they supposed to be the Imago?" one of the other team members asks: "I heard the inside of the Flier was one big museum piece."

"I don't think so," one of the others says: "From what I heard, those were all nasty looking. Kind of like if the Nazis had been around back in ancient Rome, and made temples and gardens proclaiming how !@#$ cool they were. This seems... kinder?

"Yeah," Myron says, looking at the smiling eyes on the figures: "Definitely. Gentler, too. Almost welcoming."

"Which doesn't reflect the fact that we're in a prison," someone points out.

"No, it doesn't," Myron says, looking at his scanners. The tunnel continues down as far as the probes can see. Still no sign of the other teams.

And that worries the !@#$ out of him.

"Can we slow down a little?" one of the people on one of the other sleds asks: "I'd like to get a better look at these statues."

"No, the clock's ticking," Myron says, looking up from the scanner: "When we find the others, we'll send up probes and have them do a visual map, okay?"

The other person's about to protest, but then shouts an alarm. Myron blinks and looks back at the scanner.

And then he realizes what happened to the other teams.

* * *

The first clue Myron has that She's coming is when something licks him, right behind the ear.

It's nothing, of course. Just a trickle of sweat, making its way from his scalp down to his neck. Only to be expected, given how hot and stiffling this room's become, all of a sudden. 

And cramped, too. Now that the lights are getting dim, and all he can hear is the sound of Doctor Power muttering prayers over the amulet, it seems that the four people standing over the dead body are the entirety of the world. 

He's never heard prayers like this, before. He's never done anything like this, before. He's trying to concentrate and not think of anything other than his "Intent." 

And trying not to think of the fear and hopelessness he saw in Doctor Power's eyes when he told them what they were going to do...

He looks up for just a second, wondering if that man's face is still contorted with the weight of what they're embarking upon. When he does, he sees that the room has gone completely dark, except for the four of them. He cannot see the walls, he cannot see the light from the adjoining room, where the others are. 

And in the darkness between, he can see things moving...

* * *

When he wakes up, Myron is disorientated and wracked by a nasty headache -- the sort you get from hanging out with SPYGOD for the evening, and trying to keep up.

He slowly opens his eyes, and looks up at an expansive, domed ceiling. It's easily a hundred feet above him, and dimly lit. He can just make out movement, up there, but the details are unclear. 

He rolls over, wincing at the brain behind his eyes, and sees that the other members of his team are nearby, dealing with the same discomfort.

"Everyone okay?" he asks, and gets a staggered series of grunts and moans in return. Someone vomits by way of an answer.

"Everyone here?" he asks, trying to get to his feet.

"I think Smith tried to jump out of the sled when he saw what was coming for us," the team leader says, holding his head with both hands: "I don't know if that thing got him or not."

"What the !@#$ was that thing?" someone asks, getting to her feet: "It looked like a giant ball of Jello."

"It was," Myron says, shuddering at the memory. He looks around the large room they're in, and sees no trace of the massive creature that rushed up to catch them on the way down -- its bulk large enough to cover the diameter of the tunnel, itself.

He also sees no trace of their sleds, or the equipment that was on them, which worries him. But they still have their personal belongings, which include their transponders, recorders, and weapons. And he'll take that as a positive development.

Especially when he hears something coming towards them.

Three somethings, actually: tall, robed beings that look exactly like the statues they saw in the tunnel. One carries a staff, one a tall, burning torch, and the third appears to have nothing at all.

And as they come closer, they seem to get larger -- much, much larger.

"Everyone up," Myron says, putting a hand on his pistol -- but not drawing it -- "We've got company."

* * *

There's a trickle of sweat, again, right behind the ear. Only this time there's pressure behind it. Rasping. Flicking.

A terrible smell, like the breath of a sick tiger at the zoo.

Myron gasps but keeps thinking of his Intent. Doctor Power was very insistent that they keep that at the front of their minds. If they didn't, this might not work.

If they didn't, what was coming might enter the wrong body.

The rasping continues. It's at his other ear, now. Then the back of his neck, his knees. Alternating, then all at once, as if he was being molested by tongues, or a cruel octopus.

I know you, a voice whispers in his ear, slimy and wet: You thought no one saw you, that time in the shed. You were eight. How old was she? Five?

Myron closes his eyes, trying not to think of that. One of those things that happen as a child that no one wants to admit to, but everyone knows everyone does.

Oh yes, just harmless fun, the voice goes on: Just kids' stuff. That's what you told yourself. But you never talk about it to anyone, do you? You don't tell your friends about the times you played doctor when they ask what you did as a child, do you?

Every really wonder why?

His intent. He keeps saying it to himself. Over and over and over-

She's dead now, Myron, The voice accuses: Prostitution. Heroin. That afternoon in the shed changed everything. She's dead, now, and it's your fault.

And she'd like to thank you.

And then-

* * *

The one with the staff strides well ahead of the other two. Its yellow, slitted eyes are large in a vaguely-reptilian, blue head, and its hands have opposable claws. As it comes closer, they see that it's at least fifty feet tall. 

"Holy !@#$," one of the group whispers. Someone else starts crying. A few of the team are clearly afraid, but hold their ground as best they can.

"I mean you no harm," a voice sounds out -- its measured tones interspersed with a strange, sibilant hissing that starts before it, and ends some time after it. 

The being gets within a few feet of them, and then stops, resting its staff on the ground. The other two beings halt where they are, and wait.

"I am the One Who Stands Between," it says, the movements of its mouth not matching the sounds that they hear: "It is important that we understand one another, so that what happens is understood, and accepted."

"What's going to happen?" the team leader asks, stepping to the front of the group.

"That has yet to be determined," the alien says, looking at him: "The others who preceded you are being attended to. You may be attended to, as well. But first I would know you."

"What do you need to know?" Myron asks, stepping beside the team leader: "We come in peace, if that means something."

"That we understand, my pouchling," one of the other two aliens -- the one with nothing -- says.

"But we would know why you have come at all," the one with the torch says, the flames making its face appear stretched and grotesque.

"Please let me ask them," the One Who Stands Between insists: "Remember your place."

The other two say nothing in reply.

"I apologize for their rudeness," it says, softly: "But please understand our position. We have not performed our duties for millions of your years. And now, here you are."

"We apologize if we've trespassed," Myron says, cutting off the team leader before can respond: "We expected this to be a deserted place. The beings that came from here have committed an act of war against us. We were seeking to understand where they came from."

"You also sought to steal what we have,' the one with the torch announces: "Admit this, and we can begin."

"Can it really be stealing if they expected this to be a deserted place?" the One Who Stands Between asks: "The Parable of the Shuttered House."

"Yes, it can," the one with the torch replies: "The Lesson of the Found Money."

Myron looks between the two of them: "Are we... we're on trial, here, aren't we?"

"No," the one with nothing in its hands says, holding them up towards the group: "You are being attended to."

"But first, we would know why," the one with the torch says, holding it up higher and angling it towards them: "Attending means nothing if all parties do not understand why it is being done."

"Yeah, we're on trial," the team leader says, taking a step back.

"Actually, I think we already lost," Myron sighs.

* * *

-there is a horrible pulling sensation. The egg that drops from the broken shell. The eye that's eased from its socket. 

The drawing forth of the soul from the body, entire and complete. 

(Roughly, oh cruel octopus.)

Myron sees himself from outside himself for the first time. Like a video of him sleeping an old girlfriend took for her art project.

Him but not him, somehow.

(Haven't talked to her in years. Bad breakup. Weirdness.)

Swimming in the tide of the air. Trying to get back to himself, if he can.

A silver cord, leading from his soul to his navel. 

(Must protect it. Read that issue of Adventure Comics.)

The others are also outside themselves. Myron sees Doctor Power, Mr. USA, Yanabah. 

Sees their true selves, recoils without knowing why. 

(Protection. Things we're not meant to know. Masks have power for a reason.)

Things beyond the four of them are clear now. Great black things, like lizards with too many legs, but no beginning or end. 

Spiraling endless, over and over, slithering and wet.

(Trapping them. Keeping them from leaving. The plan all along.)

Sees the body, between the four of them. There is nothing inside of it, and nothing outside. 

Dead and dark, on the floor.

(A light patch floats by it. The phantom footprint left when her soul leaped away.)

 
Something is coming. The smell of tiger breath. The onrush of foul thoughts. Red, hazy light from all angles.

(Heady, chittering laughter. A flock of insane birds. Cockatoos.)

You have called, the voice he heard announces, as something forms in the red. I have come.

State your desire, and I will name my price.

(SPYGOD is listening to Reflection (TOOL) and having a Hell Hath No Fury)

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)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 14

It takes The Green Man a surprisingly long time to die, considering his horrific wounds. All the while, Mr. USA stands and watches him as he cradles his maimed, unconscious boy and whispers to him, his eyes screwed shut and washed out with tears.

He's not the only one crying, here. The SPYGOD SCOUTS who are huddled around the two of them, making sure Thomas stays alive, are wiping their eyes every so often. One of them is openly weeping, and holding up Green Man's head so he can look at his own son.

The only dry eye in the house is Mr. USA. And that's because he doesn't dare cry; not here and now, and not over this.

As far as he's concerned, he doesn't deserve to shed tears over this, seeing as how he engineered the entire thing. He may not have known how it was going to go down, exactly, and certainly not like this. But he knew that Green Man wasn't going to survive the encounter with whatever monster was awaiting them in the treehouse, and that makes him as good as guilty for murdering him.

Justice will have to wait, though. He can only stand and watch, and occasionally pray to God that he's done the right thing, and made the right choices. Because right now he isn't sure of anything.

At some point Green Man shakes, spasms, and then stares up at the ceiling through wide, wet eyes.

"Father..." he says: "Is that you...?"

He blinks once, then twice, and then stops seeing. His breath leaves him, and a SCOUT does the decent thing and closes his eyes.

Only then does Mr. USA take his leave, feeling all the while like a thief sneaking away from the crime.

He follows the direction the others went, hearing voices up ahead, through an open archway. He can hear familiar voices, but not all of them are the ones he traveled here with. Puzzled, he picks up his pace, stepping into the light and seeing Myron and Doctor Power seemingly about to come to blows about something.

"What is going on here?" he says, loudly, as he enters the room. This disrupts everything, and all heads turn to look at him. 

"Is he...?" Mark asks.

"The Green Man is dead, yes," he says, nodding: "The Scouts are looking after Thomas. Do we know where we're taking him?"

"That's just what we were.... discussing," Mark starts to say, gesturing to the others, who are either standing or sitting around a large table with a map rolled out across it. 

"What's to discuss?" he asks, coming up to Doctor Power, who's taken a step back from the table. Myron has also done the same, though he's still glaring at the superhero.

The arch-magician blinks when he looks at Mr. USA, and then nods: "I was wondering when you were going to drop the disguise, (REDACTED)."

"Yeah, I could never fool you, could I?" he says, extending a hand. When Doctor Power shakes it, he's surprised at how weak the magician's grip is.

"Doctor Power's telling us he can't teleport Thomas to the nearest hospital," Myron says, patting the map: "Apparently, he's only got enough energy left for two more jaunts, and not the three it'd take to get Thomas to a hospital, and then him back here, and then all of us to !@#$ing Antarctica."

Mr. USA looks at the map, and feels his heart skip a beat: "That's the Ice Palace."

"Apparently, while we were fighting Moloch, the First Lady and her two girls were kidnapped by Dr. Yesterday," Mark adds, walking closer and gesturing to Wayfinder, who's sitting at the table with his great-granddaughter, who's well-armed and dressed like she stepped out of a zombie survival movie: "Fred got the order to call Doctor Power and get Wayfinder on the case, and this is what we've got."

"The bastard is here," the old man says, tapping a large laboratory: "I can't read him too well, since he's not who he was, anymore. Not really. But I know her, and this is where she is."

"For now, anyway," Doctor Power says: "He gave the President a half hour to surrender or he was going to start hurting them. And that was about twenty minutes ago-"

"Twenty-five," the great-granddaughter says, tapping her watch: "Which gives us a minute to plan and four minutes to save them. We'd have had longer, if you hadn't started arguing-"

"I can't believe the best magician on the planet can't teleport that kid to a !@#$ing hospital," Myron growls: "Or even heal him-"

"Oh, you better believe it, boy," the man says, pounding his fist onto the table and pointing at Myron's face with the other hand: "I have been jumping all over the !@#$ planet, today. Taking people here and there, doing this and that. I'm lucky I can even put up with your bull!@#$-"

"Enough," Mr. USA says, stepping between them: "Doctor, I know you have your limits, but what can you do for Thomas? I promised his mother I'd do right by him."

"They say there's medical facilities in this building, somewhere," Winifred says: "I'll stay behind with them and help them find it. I'll make sure he lives."

"And I'll help with that," Mark says, stepping next to her: "So maybe the rest of you can go...?"

"I will go," Skyspear says: "I am fully rested and ready."

"I'm staying here," Wayfinder says: "This is enough excitement for one day, but Yanabah can go with you."

The woman looks like she's going to protest, but something about how he looks up at her silences anything she might say.

Mr. USA looks at the group he's got. Doctor Power, Skyspear, this woman he's never seen the full mettle of, and...

"Myron, are you joining us?" he asks, getting the idea he doesn't even need to.

"Oh yes I am," he says, glaring at Doctor Power: "And you, magic man? You said you could do two trips?"

"Yes," the magician says, somewhat wearily.

"Does it matter how much you're carrying on both?"

"No. It's the trip itself that's the drain on my mana, not the mass-"

"Oh good," he says, smiling and putting his broken sunglasses on: "Then I have an idea..."

* * *

"Alright, then," SPYGOD says, just after delivering the coup de grace to the Imago he's been shooting full of holes for the last five seconds, and then aiming at antoher: "Mister Ten, tell the Dignitary to not !@#$ing arm its weapons. Not !@#$ing yet, anyway."

"Why not?' the man says, wincing as he sees how many Imago have just teleported into close proximity: "I could make very short work of these things."

"Because we're getting !@#$ing close enough to the Flier for its !@#$ reflex weapons to be in range," he says, kneeling down as Lady Gilda does a barrel roll, taking two Imago out of the picture by cutting them in half: "If they kick in, every !@#$ gun it's got is going to open the !@#$ up, and then your shields are going to be !@#$ing swiss cheese before you can get a good bead on her."

"I think my shields can handle your Flier's weapons."

"Uh, hate to !@#$ing tell you this, but one of the hard targets we had it designed against was the Dignitary," SPYGOD admits, somewhat sheepishly: "Just in case it fell into the wrong !@#$ing hands, you understand."

"Of course," Mister Ten says, scowling. 

"And that's what we !@#$ing had. !@#$ only knows what the !@#$ they've put into that thing since they !@#$ing took it over. They could have big !@#$ weapons in there that'd make what we had look like !@#$ing pop guns. One good volley and we might be !@#$ing toast."

"And then this battle would be over," he says: "Perhaps I should have had Hanami stay with us."

"Oh, I think she's !@#$ing good where she is," SPYGOD says, noticing how low his ammunition is getting: "You let me handle these tin !@#$ers. You just steer the !@#$ boat and keep those shields up."

"I will do that," the man says, wondering how the android is doing, and worrying more about her than himself. 

"And while we're doing that," SPYGOD says, reaching into his pants pocket to pull out a small box he's been keeping on hand for quite some time: "I think it's time we !@#$ing called in the cavalry."

With that, he opens the box, presses the big red button inside it, and then shoves it back into his pants. And then he goes back to shooting the hordes of Imago, large and small -- laughing all the while.

* * *

Her name is Florence Foster Jenkins. She's 17 years old. And she's just gotten the call that her country needs her. 

A little over a year ago, she was walking to school and saw a little boy toddling into traffic. Then she saw that there was a big, red humvee coming down the road way too fast, and heading right for him. 

And she just knew, from the way the driver was busy changing CDs or something, that he wasn't going to stop the car.

She didn't even stop to think. She ran right out into the street and pushed the toddler out of the way, so he didn't get hit. 

She did, though, and suffered multiple fractures, a concussion, and some severe internal damage. She was in the hospital for a couple months, and when she came back she had casts on her arm and leg, and talked slow, as if she had to really think about whats he was saying.

After the casts came off, she limped for a time. And she still had a few problems talking and walking at the same time. But everyone said she was lucky -- so !@#$ lucky -- because, as smashed as that humvee was, she should have been killed by it. 

And there was some truth to that -- she was really !@#$ lucky. Just not how they thought.

The truth was that she hadn't been so much as bruised by the accident. She was in what the doctors said was a "self-induced reparative coma" for most of the day. And when she woke up -- hungry, thirsty, and confused -- there was a man standing by her bed with a can of soda, a candy bar, and a very serious look in his one eye.

And he told her the truth. 

Since then, she and her parents had been very careful. They had told no one what had really happened. They went to a "doctor" who helped her fake her injuries, and coached her on how to behave, and what to say and do. 

And at night, when she was supposedly at home studying, the "doctor" helped her find out just how lucky she was. He helped her discover her strengths and weaknesses, her powers and limits. He told her how to fight and how to run for cover. He gave her tips on teamwork and how to take orders, and -- maybe more importantly -- when to disobey them.

He told her how to be a hero, for want of a better word. But he also told her not act like one until she heard it was okay. And he gave her a large, metal box, along with a key, but told her not to open it until that day. 

(He also told her that if anyone else opened it early, it would blow up, so she should hide the key well.)

After 3/15, her Doctor left her a strange message, telling her to stay quiet and do nothing, no matter what happened next. She was told to sit tight and play along until she received a message from the man who'd talked to her the day she'd woken up. Her Doctor said she'd know it when she heard it, and not to look for him, or show off her powers in public.

And now, seven months after that day, when the world is coming down around her head, and the only safe place is here in Neo York City, she's picked up her cellphone -- which should not be working, right now -- and gotten that message at last.

 

Three small words: "Open the box."

She's not sure the uniform she found in the box really works for her, but it's just something for now. She doesn't know who else might be out there, fighting in the air and the streets, but she knows somehow that when she uses the belt communicator, they'll find each other. 

And she doesn't know what's going to come next, except that today is the first day of the rest of her real life.

Her name is Florence, but call her the Red Wrecker. She's 17 years old. Today, she is a Superhero.

And she is far from the only one.

* * *

Gosheven's trip into the heart of the restructured Flier has been very educational, to say the least. 

If the journey from the prison cells told him all he needed to know about the Imago's grand and glorious past, the march to the central area, where they've been given their orders, has given him an eyeful about their philosophies. None of them are particularly gentle or kind, and what little he's able to read (courtesy of absorbing some of their language when he took their form) reminds him of the sort of pompous, self-congratulatory !@#$ he read about in ancient history classes at school.

Is this the fate of our world? he wonders as he sidesteps the large groups of Imago, all running to their beamout platforms to enter battle with the world he's trying to save: To be conquered by the same kind of disgusting people we evolved from?

He doesn't know for certain. All he knows is that there's a mystery, here, and he's getting closer to solving it. Some strange conundrum at the heart of the Imago that, if unearthed, could lead to their end.

All he has to do is pull that secret out, and he may yet win back the world...

Except there's a distraction, here, too. 

He can feel him before he sees him, thrumming inside of a containment sphere, somewhere on the deck below. Gosheven smiles and, slipping into a side passage, allows himself to turn to vapor, the better to go into the ventilation system and travel down a floor, unseen to any. 

Once he's there, inside what's either a special prison cell or a he slips back out and up. He assumes his normal form once more, the better to be seen by an ally, however many degrees removed.

"You remember me, paleface?" he asks New Man, who's looking up at him with a look he normally associates with people coming out of a serious drunk.

"You..." the older man mumbles through the glass, twitching just a little. It's all he can do to move his head, given that they stuck him into a glass sphere that's just large enough for him to be wrapped around himself in a human ball.

 

"Yeah, me," he says, looking around for some sort of control station: "I kind of hid out on your ship after I set you up. Hope you don't mind."

"They're using me..."

"I figured as much," he says, reading the panel closest to him, and then looking around a nearby corridor to see if any Imago are stationed nearby. 

(Of course they aren't -- smug !@#$s.)

"What are we... you..."

"Well, SPYGOD told me, and I quote..." he says, changing his voice: "'Find out what they're doing, and then !@#$ up their !@#$ before they can attack us.'"

New Man just looks at him, obviously confused by hearing SPYGOD's voice from his former prisoner's mouth.

"So, since I know what they're up to, how about I let your !@#$ out of that giant snowglobe, and then you and I can go find some !@#$ to !@#$ up? Unless you'd rather sit in there for another seven months or so...?"

"Let. Me. Out." New Man says, no longer even remotely confused. 

And so he is.

(SPYGOD is listening to Any Second Now (Depeche Mode) and having a Newman's Autumn Valley Flower)