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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

A quizzical look, even through extreme pain.

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

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

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

SPYGOD's eye goes wide at that.

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

It's Shift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SPYGOD coughs some more, twitching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not always..."

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

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

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

He takes off the mask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anything at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

A sour look from SPYGOD.

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

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

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

The presence tapped his obscured peepers for extra effect.

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

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

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

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

And what could he possibly say to that?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?" the woman answered, stepping forward.

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

"Yes-"

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

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

"How old are your children?"

"Seven and... and..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he laughed -- long and black. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being upside-down the only thing saving his life. 

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

And we were always going to have this talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She fell silent, then, looking askance. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For what?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

"!@#$ you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More gurgling, and more blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

12/22/12 - The Owl - The More I See the More I Fall - pt. 1

10/19/12

"Wow," Talon says, looking around the massive room, packed wall-to-wall with people in costumes, uniforms, and outlandish get-ups. She has never seen so many Supers in her life, all milling about and talking.

(And she notes, sadly, that most of the familiar faces are not here, today.)

"I know," her aunt says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "I think most of them are the new ones, sweetie. I don't even know any of them."

"Well, now you know me," an earnest-looking young man in a green and white uniform says, extending a hand: "Green Fury, ma'am. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Big fan."

"Good to meet you," she says, taking it: "And this is Talon."

"Good to meet you, too," he says, not seeming to take it personally when she doesn't offer her hand in turn: "I'm here with the Los Angeles crew... sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Eh, we're not exactly on speaking terms right now," he sighs, waving his hands: "Drama."

"Yeah, you'll get that," she sighs: "Best thing to do is concentrate on the work and try to keep the personal stuff on the back burner."

"Can't agree more," he smiles, and she notices the small, gold cross around his neck, just under his uniform's neckline. She considers whether to advise him about jewelry on the job (never a good idea) but then SPYGOD's up at the podium, and everyone falls silent without him having to say a word.

"First of all, excellent !@#$ing work," he says, hands behind his back and looking everyone in the eye, in turn: "All of you, whether you've been with me since the days of the Liberty Patrol, or just signed on for this fight, you need to know that I am !@#$ proud of all of you.

"It was a hard road out of !@#$, and we walked it, together. That makes us brothers and sisters. That makes us family. And in the days to come, I want you to remember that this was our first real family outing... for some of us, anyway."

A few people get the joke and chuckle.

"However, we won the !@#$ war, and now we have to win the !@#$ peace. Some of you remember what it was like in Europe and Japan, back in the 40's. Well, we've got something like that now, only it's !@#$ing worldwide.

"The !@#$ing Imago did a real number on us, ladies and gentlemen. They got us dependent on them for !@#$ing everything. Transportation of food and supplies, basic survival needs, gas and electricity... you name it, they controlled it. That control is now gone, and as soon as everyone wakes up from the hangover they had after the party, they're going to miss it something fierce. 

"And we all know what that means. Crimes of fear and opportunity. The strong taking from the weak. People trying to carve out territories and declare themselves kings of the new frontier.

"And, of course, all the !@#$ing scumbags in bad costumes you've been fighting all along are going to want to pop up and cause !@#$, because that's what they do.

"Now, other countries are in the same boat as we are, if not worse, but charity begins at home. They have their supers and support mechanisms, they can fix their own !@#$. We are, of course, on call if they need us, but I think we deserve to look inward for a change, don't you?"

There is a great deal of support for this notion.

"So I'm going to have most of you working here in the states. I will have some of the heavy hitters with me, on standby, to deal with anything big that comes up. But the rest of you I will have assigned to cities and areas, there to help with emergencies, supplies, and civil order until we can get local and state authorities back up and running again.

"So, here are your assignments. Please raise your hand when called and come together with your group, so everyone can meet you. And, afterwards, there's ten !@#$ tons of my homemade chicken cacciatore in the next room, so feel free to have some grub while you're getting to know one another. In fact, I !@#$ing insist."

That also gets some cheers, which makes the man chuckle quite a bit. 

"Top of the list: Owl? Talon?"

The Owl smiles and they raise their hands: "Right here, Sir!"

"Have you been back to chi-town since the attack?"

"No we have not," she says, smiling a little.

"Well, you are now the emergency marshal of Chicago, and will be leading a team of people I'm about to call. So you all have some proper deep dish pie for me, alright?"

There's some laughter at that, and The Owl tries not to cry when she thinks of how good it will be to finally get home.

And how good it would be if Thomas was joining them. 

10/24/12

"... hardest part was just getting basic services up and running again," The Owl says, striding through the high-tech halls of the Central Building with Mark Clutch and Talon, who's walking hand-in-hand with her father: "All those things you take for granted. Water, electricity, gas, garbage even. Thankfully, one of my team's a speeder, so we made some quick headway into the trash situation before things got really smelly."

"Yeah, we've been dealing with that, here, too," Mark says, looking more at-ease than maybe he should, under the circumstances: "Do you have any idea how bad Manhattan alone is, when the trash doesn't get picked up for a couple weeks? The rats were the size of dogs."

"Ewwww..." Talon shakes her head, much to the amusement of her father and aunt.

"So... what should we expect?" The Owl asks as they come closer to the doors at the end of the hall.

"Well, when he was... absorbed by the building, we thought he was dead," Mark says: "His body was gone, and we had no idea what was actually happening. Most of the things in here are so far above us that we might as well be cavemen trying to figure out a DVR."

"And Dr. Yesterday was the only one who really had a clue."

"Well, his wife, anyway. And I guess that's a messed-up situation...?"

"Yeah," The Owl says, shaking her head: "Was anyone who they were actually supposed to be?"

"We are," the Talon offers, smiling and squeezing her dad's hand a little harder, and taking her aunt's: "We're family."

"And thank God for that," The Owl says: "So what has this been like for him?"

"An uphill climb," Mark says: "At first, all he could do was scream. He said it was too much, over and over again. He wouldn't listen to us at all. I figure the stress of being uploaded was too much for a human mind to take."

"I'm not surprised," she says, shaking her head: "I just wish I could have been here to help."

"You wouldn't have been any help, hon," he says: "None of us were. All we could do was try and talk him through it. Everything that's happened in there was because of him."

"He's strong," Talon says: "He just had to make himself do it."

"He sure did, hon," Mark says, squeezing her hand: "And yesterday, he finally asked after you. And that's how I knew it was time to bring you here." 

Up ahead of them is a large pair of black, swinging doors. On the other side, there's a large, circular room, filled wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling with screens. The screens are all glowing light green, and provide the only illumination.

"Let me see..." Mark says, letting go of his daughter's hand and walking to the center of the room. A small dais slides up from the floor, its controls unfolding and lighting up as he approaches: "Thomas? Are you out there, son?"

I am, the young man says, his voice strange and modulated, flat and unemotional: Hold on, I'm just looking into something.

"Well, I've got your mom and your cousin here."

I know, the voice says: Give me a moment, please.

The Owl takes off her mask, so he can see her face: "Son...?"

Hello mother, she hears him say: Give me a moment, please. I'm not wearing anything. Let me put something on.

"Oh," she says, trying not to cry: "Well, I don't think that's... I mean, I am your mother."

Yes, you are, he says.

"He sounds funny," Talon says, taking her mask off as well.

"It's the speakers, sweetie," Mark says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "He's in the building's computer. He's going to have to speak through it."

"That's not what I mean," she mumbles, but no one hears her because that's when he appears.

At first, they think there's a spot on one of the screens. Then the spot gets larger, and becomes the form of a young man, striding towards them. It's Thomas, and he's dressed like the Talon, and as he comes closer he fills up an entire screen, and then two screens, and then his face fills up an entire side of the room.

Hello, mother, he says, his face strangely beatific: I am wearing something now.

"Are you..." she asks, stepping forward to the dais: "How do you feel?"

I feel complete, he says, smiling ever so slightly.

"That's good!" she says, holding the edges of the dais for support: "So you're... more yourself, then?"

You misunderstand my meaning, mother, the boy says, the smile dropping, somewhat: My completeness has nothing to do with my continued survival and recovery. It has to do with my consciousness being freed from that weak shell it had been in for my entire life.

"Thomas...?" The Owl asks: "What do you mean?"

I mean that I had no idea how limited I was, before. How small.

"What do you mean, son?" Mark asks, a little alarmed.

Do you remember when I would forget things? How I had to struggle to remember? How I had to study and learn, over and over again, before I could remember. How I had to practice?

"Well, yes," his mother says: "That's not unusual. We all forget-"

I don't, he says: I can now remember everything in my life with complete clarity. I remember every moment of everything. Every day I lived. Every book I ever read. Every dream I ever had. Everything I thought and felt and said and did. I remember it all, perfectly.

"Everything?" Mark asks, more than a little taken aback.

Everything, mother. I remember my earliest moments, when I was a baby in your womb. I remember the moment I became self-aware, inside you. I remember being born and looking into your face.

"Oh my God," Martha says, crying openly: "Oh my God. Thomas, that was... that was the best moment of my life. Looking at you for the first time. I felt like God had blessed me, then and there, to give me such a beautiful little person."

I hated you, Thomas says, his voice as unemotional as it's been all along, the look on his face unchanged: I had been warm and happy and content, in there. And then you squeezed me out into a world that was cold and unfamiliar. They sliced into the cord that tied us together, and tossed the piece of you that kept me alive into the trash.

And then they put me into your arms, and all I wanted to do was scream and crawl back into that warm, loving darkness.

Martha shudders, taking a step back: "Thomas... I... I didn't know."

How could you have known? You didn't ask me, and I couldn't say. All I could do was scream and cry, so I did. And you just held me like I was the cutest thing. 

Your beautiful little gift from God.

Martha closes her mouth, shocked. Mark thinks to reproach the young man but realizes he has nothing he can say.

And Kaitlyn starts crying, quietly, doing her best not to let her father or her aunt in on what she's just realized.

I am alive, mother, Thomas says: I am more alive and complete now than I have ever been, and soon I will be something more.

"What do you mean?" Mark asks: "We want to help you, Thomas. We want to try and get you out of there, if we can-"

No, Thomas says, his face warping into a giant, abominable scowl: You can not interfere with this. You will not. I am becoming something more than I was, and you can not stop it.

"Now see here, young man," Mark says, stepping forward: "You will not speak to your mother that way. She loves you. We all love you. We want what's best for you, and-"

"Thomas, we understand," Martha says, stepping to Mark's side and putting up a hand: "It's just... hard to hear this from you."

I knew it would be, the boy says, stepping back from the screens, and revealing that he no longer has the Talon costume on. Instead, there's nothing but skin, swirling and eddying in the electronic breeze like a raggedy sail in the wind: I am sorry to have to tell you these things in this manner. But I will soon be transforming, and I thought it was best that you knew.

"So... you don't want us to get you out of there?" Mark asks, stepping forward: "You don't want to be... alive?"

I am alive, Uncle Mark, Thomas says: And I will be getting out of here, soon. In fact, I'll be everywhere, soon.

"I don't understand," Martha says.

You will, Thomas says, and when he does they can tell it's being said over the speakers throughout the entire building.

And then, in a rush of pixels and polygons, he floats back the way he came, leaving only empty green screens in the room.

It's a long walk out of the building without saying anything. Longer still to get into the Owl Car to head for Chicago. But Martha doesn't start crying for her dead son until she's well outside of Neo York City.

And Kaitlyn -- who figured it out well before the adults did -- knows there's nothing she can say to help.

11/1/12

"Look, it's really simple," The Owl says, holding into the Owl Line that's got the two burly, well-armed men trussed up to the pipes on the basement's ceiling: "I appreciate wanting to do your own thing and chart your own course. But this country needs to come back together again, if we're going to survive.

"And I am not going to let this city be turned into a one-stop shop for every survivalist nutcase who wants a rocket launcher."

"Yeah, you just keep talking, you dyke !@#$," the larger of the two says, still trying to reach for his holstered pistol: "We were warning you smart, city-slicker types all along. You all went with those Imago !@#$ers and their one-world government, and look what happened. And now the French want to tell us what to do? !@#$ that!"

"First of all, we did not go with those Imago,"  the Owl says, trying to control her temper: "We were fighting them from the start. And second of all, I don't think we're going to be joining that government anytime soon, so spare me the paranoid justification for your personal arsenal."

"And thirdly, you know, I'm only eight years old," Talon says, reaching up and quickly confiscating the man's gun: "Maybe you should watch your language."

"Recruiting child soldiers?" the other one says: "I thought it was only !@#$s in Africa and camel !@#$ers in the Middle East what did that. How deep in their pockets are you?"

The Owl sighs, looks to Talon, and then twangs the Owl Line. The acoustics it creates makes the two men howl and retch.

"'For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,'" The Owl quotes, putting small copies of the Bible in their empty holsters: "'That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

"You dare quote that book to me?" the other one says: "I'm a Christian man, lady!"

"Yeah, I can tell from what you say about black people and Arabs," the Owl snorts, turning to leave: "Repent, sir. And don't let me catch you buying weapons in this town again."

"Oh, and by the way, mister?" the Talon says on her way out: "Jesus was an Arab, technically. Might want to think about that."

The men's response turns the air blue, and chases them up the stairs and into the cold, Chicago night. 

"He was a Jew, honey," the Owl says, once they're out of earshot and heading for the Owl Car.

"You know, I don't think there's much of a difference," the girl says.

"Well, there is to them."

"True. Kind of academic, now."

The Owl sighs and nods, thinking of what they watched on television, last night. The massive piles of human ash in Jerusalem, sitting under the sun and turning into rotten sludge.

"This is Owl 1," Martha says as they get into the car and take off: "Reporting 839 on the corner of Valley Drive and South Roberts, over in Palos Hills. Building 13. Got two men in a basement full of heavy ordinance. Site is secure, will be sending backup to keep an eye on it until police arrive. Over."


"10-4, Owl 1," the car's speakers reply: "Sending specialist unit, now. Two men, you said?"


"Two men. Left their wallets by their weapons. Look like out of state boys."


"That's the third time tonight. Must be something in the water."


"Well, drink carefully, dispatch. Owl 1 out," and then she uses her own communicator: "I need some assistance, Team Chicago. Got a pair of arms dealers in Building 13 of Valley Drive, in the basement. Anyone who could wait there for the cops?"

"I've got it," their speedster replies: "I'm on the other side of town though. Might be a few minutes."

"Well, soon as you can, Yellow Streak," The Owl smiles: "Thanks. Over and out."


Talon smiles and looks out the window, down at the city.


"I feel like we're making a difference," she says, leaning back in her seat: "I really do."


"Well, so do I," the Owl says, cruising along above the buildings and wondering how her son is doing.

* * *

Meanwhile, below, Yellow Streak runs into the basement, and finds the two men trussed up and grumbling.

"Well, it !@#$ing took you long enough," the larger man says: "You going to !@#$ing cut us down before the cops come here, or what?"

"I can't," she says, shaking her head and looking around, judging how best to make this look like what she needs it to look like: "The Owl called it in. The cops are on their way. If I cut you loose, they'll ask questions."

"Then what the !@#$ are you going to do?"

The superhero smiles, and pulls out a knife, quickly figuring out how fast she'll have to run to avoid getting their blood on her uniform, and how fast she'll have to to move to make the place look like their allies got their stuff before she arrived. 

A difficult decision for most, but this isn't her first rodeo -- not by a long shot. In fact, she's figured out what to do before the two idiots can even start screaming. 

And so she does.

11/5/12

"Thomas?" Mark asks, getting up in the middle of the night. He'd been having a strange dream with the boy in it, and then it abruptly stopped, just as he thought he heard footsteps in the room.

He looks over at the woman in bed with him. Skyspear is dead asleep, curled over onto her pillow. He runs a hand along her lovely, brown shoulders, but she's so out of it she doesn't even respond.

He's about to put it down to nerves or stress when he hears it again: the distinct sound of footsteps, echoing around the hallway outside his room.

He gets out of bed, puts on a robe, and leaves his room, looking both ways. He can't see anything, but he can hear the footsteps, down the way.

He quickly and quietly follows them, and soon realizes he's heading down to the large, multi-screened chamber that he normally talks to Thomas in. He soon regrets not having gotten a weapon, or waking Skyspear, but figures he's got the element of surprise on his side.

Around the corner, down the hall, he keeps one turn behind whoever's walking in his home. And then he's turning the corner to the chamber, and seeing that the double doors are swinging shut.

"Well, !@#$," he mutters, and heads that way. The good news is that whoever's there is trapped. The bad news is that Thomas' main interface is in there, and who knows what kind of damage his intruder could do.

Mark sneaks up to the door, and gently pushes it open, just a bit. Just enough to look around the room and see that there's someone at the dais, working on something.

Someone more than a little familiar, though he hasn't seen him upright and whole since March.

"Thomas...?" he says, stepping into the room, and looking at his nephew. The boy looks just like he did, and is wearing a weird, dark uniform that seems to have no depth, and casts no shadows.

Hello, Uncle, the boy says, not turning around: I see you got my message.

"In my dream?" Mark asks, still stunned: "That was you?"

It was. I was able to slip into your electrical field and broadcast to you. I wasn't sure how it would be interpreted, but I think the main part was achieved.

"What did you say?"

I said I am transformed, the boy says, turning around and smiling: I have figured out how to make the city's maker arrays create a form for me. 

"What...?"

Oh uncle, you should have guessed this was coming, Thomas says, looking at him the way a teacher looks at a student who just isn't getting it: The city makes food and water for its citizens. Replication has been hiding in plain sight all along. But I needed to determine how to make it create a living body for me to interact with the world, and now I have.

"So... you're out of the computer now?" he asks, walking forward: "You're alive?"

I have been alive all along, Thomas says, not pleased at the insinuation: I was merely confined to the memory of this city. Now I have physical form, too. 

As if to prove his point, his face appears in the green screens behind him, and speaks in time with what he says next.

The age of the new man is here, Uncle, Thomas says, holding out his arms as another copy of his body appears, and then another, and then another: This city will soon need its heroes. I intend to be those heroes. Today and tomorrow, now and forever, here there and everywhere.

Call me the Nthernaut, Thomas proclaims through a dozen mouths: For I truly am one in a million. 

And Mark can only drop to his knees, scared out of his wits for the first time since they got back to Earth.

(SPYGOD is listening to Deeper and Deeper (The Fixx) and having a Night Owl Pumpkin Ale)