12/30/12 - Just Looking, Watching Your Love Action

If you asked me, years ago, what I !@#$ing thought about love, I'd say I didn't really have the time for that !@#$.

I mean, !@#$, I was busy. I had my !@#$ing duty, my guns, my booze, and my !@#$ country. And if I wasn't using one to perform another for yet another, I was using the last one of them to !@#$ing forget the nastier details, or get ready for yet another !@#$ round of it.

But it's not that I was really too !@#$ busy for love, son. It was just that I didn't have the !@#$ time for what it did to me. Because love will !@#$ you up, as I'm sure you know.

And love in the capes and tights set? Oh, son, the things I could !@#$ing tell you. The !@#$ crazy hookups and drama. The !@#$ing complications and plot twists. The big, weird !@#$ moment when you !@#$ing realize you're in love with the person who's been trying to kill you for decades.

(!@#$, you've heard me go on, right? Right.)

So I !@#$ing avoided it, son. I kept it the !@#$ away. If I needed to get !@#$ed, I could find all the !@#$ sex I wanted, anytime. But love, itself, was just some weird !@#$ing concept I didn't want invading my world and turning it inside !@#$ing out like a noggin-punched octopus.

And then Straffer came along, and as hard as I !@#$ing tried, I realized I couldn't shut him out.

Why do I love my boyfriend? Oh, son, if you let me !@#$ing count the ways we'd be here for more years than you have left, on average. I could go on about his better attributes. His sense of command and power of presence. That amazing body of his and that cute pageboy blonde haircut. The way he takes no !@#$ from anyone and never lets me get away with any. His "ask no questions of the one you love and trust" policy when it comes to extracurricular activities..

!@#$, son. He orders Ladyboys up for me when he knows I need some strange. How !@#$ awesome is that?

So yeah, it's love. But love alone is kind of !@#$ empty. You have to wake it up, every so often. Go out of your way to do something and !@#$ing remind the other person, and yourself, that the love is !@#$ real, and matters. You have to !@#$ing do things to show you care, and not just the ones that are expected.

You have to be ready to !@#$ing drop everything else and give, just because.

And that's part of why I !@#$ing avoided love for so !@#$ing long, son. I was afraid I'd have to choose between love and duty, and, back then, I was sure which side would !@#$ing lose.

Now? Well, obviously I haven't had much of a !@#$ chance to show him that I can handle the love, what with him being presumed !@#$ing dead and replaced by a !@#$ alien piece of !@#$, and then being a head on a bed for a while. But he stuck by me through !@#$, and there's no way that will go unrewarded.

But today? Oh, son, today he just upped the !@#$ing ante so high, I don't know how I'm going to respond.

See, tomorrow's New Years Eve, as you well !@#$ing know. And, knowing SPYGOD, you know that, any other year, I'd be !@#$ing partying down with all my Agents, somewhere. Because it's my COMPANY and that's how we !@#$ing roll, right?

Well, last year, I didn't really get a !@#$ chance to do it. The Flier was gone, and we were having to !@#$ing clean up Costa Rica after OPERATION: BUGSMASH was good and done. So it was something of a !@#$ing working vacation, and it didn't really turn out all that !@#$ good, as you may well remember.

No, son. Last year, New Years Eve was spent at the !@#$ing White House, !@#$ing sitting there with the President who, at the time, wasn't entirely !@#$ing sure what to make of me. And then all sorts of bad !@#$ happened, and he was firing me, and then he was dead, and then the world was !@#$ing taken over.

And since then? !@#$ son, haven't had a time to catch a breath. And after everything that just happened, well... since I got tossed out of my own !@#$ COMPANY and put under !@#$ing house arrest by the French !@#$holes that run the world, now, a New Years party was the last !@#$ thing on my mind. Especially since there's no !@#$ way I can leave, and there's no !@#$ing way we could fit everyone in here.

I mean, !@#$, even if they let them in, Bee-Bee would probably !@#$ing shoot them all for disturbing his sleep. !@#$ing cat.

So what does my boyfriend do?

Oh son, that man I love? He !@#$ing arranges for a party to be held in my !@#$ honor, here in the city.

No !@#$, son. You heard that right. While I wasn't !@#$ing looking or hearing, he snuck around, made a few deals, and got the mother of all !@#$ing New Years parties organized. He handled the invites, the catering, the music, the security. He !@#$ing handled everything.

And, thanks to a few tricks he cobbled up? I'm even going to get to !@#$ing be there. Sort of. But I can't say too much about that, now can I?

(I just hope it'll go better than this last Christmas. Jesus !@#$ was that a disaster)

So I am going to get my !@#$ New Years party this year, son. I will have to do it by !@#$ing remote, and I will miss actually being with people. But !@#$ it, it's going to happen, no matter what.

Of course, this means I don't have a !@#$ thing to wear, but he swears he's got that !@#$ing covered, too. And just for that, I am going to pick him up, carry him into our bedroom, and !@#$ him up one side of the room and down the other until we're both sloppy, salty, and as broken as the bed slats are going to be. Because I love him and he's !@#$ing awesome, and awesome !@#$ing.

And if a rocket ride to and from Pluto is all I can give him right now, then he's gonna get it. Good and hard.

See you at the party, son. Come as you are, leave as something else.

And if you hear screaming for the next few hours? That's me shouting I LOVE YOU at the top of my !@#$ lungs.

Because I do. Oh !@#$ing God do I ever.

(SPYGOD is listening to Love Action (Human League) and having... well, figure it out)

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 3.2

At last, the body has taken full shape, minus its skin and its head.

It looks surreal, under those lights. An unearthly sculpture commissioned by some strange lover of the arts, and brought into being by the sort of person who envisions things best left unspoken. A headless nightmare in red, white, and silver.

A figment of a dream, real and gleaming outside of the sweaty fantasy that birthed it.

The screens around it seem to indicate that all its functions are working. The doctors seem confident that all is well. This means the second phase can begin, and it is the most dangerous.

For, up until now, the patient has merely watched from his table as his new body is created before him, piece by piece. Now, he must make the leap of faith from what he was into what he could be. What he must be, in order to survive.

And that leap requires sacrifice.

The holographic head that floats beside him is a perfect representation of what he looked like, before. Not the battered, beaten remnant that they salvaged when he was brought back to Earth, but a healthy, proud thing. It almost smiles, there, as though enjoying a pleasant thought with its eyes closed.

The doctors ask one more time if he's ready, and certain. He has to be both, or this stops now. They will need him fully active in what takes place next, and there is no room for uncertainty or hesitation.

We can't hear him from up here, or at least I can't. But when SPYGOD leans forward and smiles (and is that a tear in his eye) I know that he has heard what I clearly cannot.

The answer is yes. And so they obey.

* * *

There's prep, and then after-prep, and then one last check. And then it's just Straffer and the Chief of Surgery, alone in the room, looking at one another -- doctor to head.

"Ready?" the man asks, going down on his haunches to look his patient in the eye.

"More than you know, Harvey," Straffer says.

"Nervous?"

"Yeah. But it's the waiting more than anything else."

"Hear you there," he says, smiling a little: "Reminds me of the Service."

"'Go and then wait, wait and then go,'" Straffer quotes, and they both chuckle over that.

"You ever miss it?" Straffer asks.

"Sometimes," the surgeon admits, looking up at the ceiling: "Miss the rush. Going to 12 Gs in five seconds. The whole world shaking apart for three minutes that feel like three hours. Sky turning from blue to black..."

"And then that moment when you level out, and you're weightless," Straffer says, closing his eyes: "It's like being lost for days, and then finding your way home."

The surgeon smiles and nods: "Had other ways to describe it."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Straffer chuckles, looking at him: "You always were a dirty-mouthed !@#$."

"That's Major !@#$ to you, Lt," the man says, putting a finger in his patient's face.

"Not anymore. You quit, and I got promoted."

"Really want to argue with the man who's fixing you?"

"My boyfriend's going to be watching you, you know."

"I know," the man says, grinning and getting back up: "Does he know the theater's glass is bullet proof?"

"I guess he's going to find out if you !@#$ up."

"Won't !@#$ up," the surgeon says, looking at his watch: "Not here. Promised him that."

"I know," Straffer says: "I heard. And I know the risks, but I want this. And you know why."

"Then it's done," the man replies, and then there's silence between them -- a long period where neither of them know exactly what to say, or why.

Straffer finally breaks that silence: "Why did you resign, Harvey?"

"Told you when I did it, didn't I?"

"You did, but I never believed it."

"Your problem, Lt-"

"Come on, man. 'Needed new challenges'? Every day in the Service is a challenge. You told me that when I signed up, green out of the Academy, and you were more right than you knew-"

"Don't throw my words back at me-"

"Don't avoid the truth, Major. It isn't !@#$ing worth it. I know."

There more silence between them, and harsh stares. And them the surgeon's stare softens, and he sighs and nods, thinking of how to put this.

"Didn't feel dangerous, anymore," the surgeon finally says: "After the accident, the reconstruction, I felt removed. Not real, somehow. Like it was all happening to someone else. No more excitement..."

"No more rush," Straffer says, understanding at last: "I think I knew that, somehow. I could see it in your eyes when you came back from a mission. The thrill wasn't there, anymore."

The man nods: "Felt dead inside, like someone flipped a switch. Needed a change."

"I'm glad," his patient says: "This place needs someone like you, here. They need someone who knows what it's like to lose your own skin and need a new one."

"No need to brown-nose, Lt," the surgeon says: "Can't reach from there, anyway."

"That's Director to you, Major," Straffer says.

"Not anymore,"  the man says, and they laugh about it, warmly, allowing the chuckles to trail off into silence.

"Good?" the surgeon asks, extending a hand for a zen shake.

"We've always been good, Harvey," Straffer says, smiling at the hand: "I've always trusted you. I just figured... if this is it, let's get that out of the way."

"Not going to be it," he says, heading for the door: "Going to be something new."

And as the man leaves -- and Straffer remembers what it was like having him as a C.O. -- he feels as though he couldn't be in safer hands.

But still, he wants this over with. Now.

* * *

The next step is gruesome, but necessary.

A team of doctors crowd around their patient, and reach forward. As they do, holographic hands nearby echo their own movements, allowing them to touch him by remote.

The skin is peeled from the back of his skull, allowing access to the metal beneath. And then, with a series of movements (pressing sensitive spots, unlocking certain things) the skull is opened up at the back, and swung open horizontally. 

The face is distorted and misshapen as they do this. The eyes remain conscious and alert, but soon he closes them, perhaps at their direction.

The force hands move in, and then out. As they do, the patient's brain comes with them -- its folds full of wires and other structures. Some are new and glistening, some are old and sagging, cracked from the stress and strain he's put them under, recently. The old ones are gingerly removed, revealing new ones, growing right underneath, like fresh skin under peeling scabs.

The invisible hands take the brain from the now-empty head, and move it over to the hologram, over the smaller white square. Another set of force fields cradles it, just so, and moves it to the exact spot it needs to be in. For a moment there is a strange illusion of a half-transparent head, with its brain showing underneath like a 50's movie monster.

And then the white square comes alive and begins moving up and down, building a new skull around the brain, itself. One slow pass, and the cranium is whole, save for the front area. Another, faster pass, and it's mostly sealed up.

Then begins a series of quick cycles, creating the recognizable front of the skull: eye sockets, cheekbones, nasal cavities, the upper and lower jaw. Muscles are made and attached, creating the underlying face, and nerves and blood vessels stitched between the layers.

And finally an underlayer of raw, red skin -- fresh and new and beautiful. 

The head is still for a moment, and then it shudders. Its newly-made eyes open, and its mouth opens and closes. The doctors ask it questions, and seem to approve of its answers.

With that approval, the next step can begin.

* * *

"Yeah, I !@#$ing know," SPYGOD says, talking on his phone down a deserted hallway, just outside of the operating theater: "I !@#$ing saw what was !@#$ing left of Krwi. I still can't !@#$ing believe it...

...

"Yeah, I'm okay. Sort of. Me and that !@#$ing Pole, we've been through some !@#$ together, right? Who would have !@#$ing thought there were so many !@#$ commie vampires out there, eh?

...

"No, this doesn't !@#$ing change a !@#$ thing we talked about," he says, looking around to be sure they're not being eavesdropped on: "You keep a !@#$ing eye on things at the White House. Things get worse, you tell me. Things get better... aw, !@#$, who am I kidding. They never do.

...

"Yeah, tell me about it. I sympathize. You got a foot in each side of the !@#$ road, now. Not gonna be !@#$ing easy.

...

"I know. I do. But you hold strong, (REDACTED). I know we've been at the wrong !@#$ing end of each other's business since the !@#$ War, but I know you're a good man under all that. You do the right thing and I'll figure out what we !@#$ing do about that... thing. Okay?

...

"Okay. Knock 'em !@#$ing dead, Mr. Veep."

Then he hangs up, sighs, and leans up against the side of the hall, thinking of the vampire hunter he'd hated to love. He remembers the many times they'd fought side-by-side as allies. He reflects on the times they'd fought each other, which were all too frequent, lately. That horrible way that he'd died.

And the mocking message his killer left, there amongst the mess that was once a man.

"I get a moment, you're !@#$ing mine," he says, wondering if the other him can hear him, somehow: "I don't care where you are, or what you're doing. I will find you. I will kill you.

"And then I'm going to drink Krupnik until I !@#$ yellow for a month." 

And with that, he turns his phone off, puts it away, and stomps into the operating theater, trying to think of nothing but the man he loves.

* * *

There's some double- and triple-checking, and consultation with the screens, and then the doctors pick up the head with their force hands, gently cradling it by remote like a strange baby. 

When nothing changes on their screens, they tip the head back, so that it stares at the ceiling. And then they move it -- oh so gently -- towards the red, white, and silver sculpture that lies on the table. It's a long, slow process, as they must make minor corrections in angle and trajectory every step of the way, ensuring that the neck aligns perfectly.

They take it over so far, and then leave it. Then there are a few minutes where the head and body float in space, like a planet and its moon. 

Seconds later, something both miraculous and curious occurs: a long, silver tendril snakes from the head's portion of the spine, like the frond of some skinny, mechanical plant in search of sunlight. 

The frond is soon kept company by another, and then another. Soon there are many silver strings, floating and twisting in the air between the two halves of the neck. 

The doctors and the patient are speaking, and though I cannot hear them, I suspect from what the expression on the patient's face, this is both normal and desirable. 

"Go on," SPYGOD whispers beside me, his voice like crushed glass: "It's your body, now. Take it and don't look back."

And then, not a full second later, the patient does exactly that. The fronds slide into the other end of the neck, one after the other. And when they are all in a straight line, the head and body begin to move closer together, once more.

Two feet, now. One foot. A few scant inches. The two parts become one, and as they do, the body begins to twitch and move, ever so slightly.

There's one last effort, then, and then contact is made. The patient closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, like a man sliding into a relaxing tub full of perfectly-warm water. 

The two have clearly become one. 

Seconds later, the large, white square begins to move, once more. It starts at the toes, and works its way up the body, ever so slowly. It lays down a layer of red underskin, and then another, and yet another. Layer after layer, building up on the body, until one last, white spray almost completes the process.

And there he is, at last -- a whole and perfect being, hairless and new, floating in space.

The doctors and surgeons crowd around him, asking him various questions and manually testing certain things to be certain the screens aren't lying to them. They're so busy, and there's so much going on, that for a few moments I don't see that SPYGOD is crying.

He says something. It might be "ecce homo" -- "here is the man." Or it might be something else. But I do not intrude, and let him have this moment. 

Of course, they won't let this new man walk, just yet. There are more tests to be made. Decontamination. Sterile environments and allergic reactions. Nutritious meals and bowel movements. All sort of final things that must be done and measured after such a great undertaking.

But they let him lift up his arm, towards the windows of the operating theater, where we sit. He looks his lover in the eyes, and smiles, and says, quite clearly, "I love you."

And SPYGOD puts his hands on the glass and says the same -- keeping them there, and continually repeating those words, even after they've wheeled his rebuilt lover from the now-quiet and still operating room.

- Karl Scott, Neo York City

 (SPYGOD is listening to Red Skies at Night (The FIXX, Shock remix) and having Krupnik by the ton)

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 3.1

11/7/12

Mount Sinai Hospital has an amazing secret, hidden behind an ordinary-looking pair of swinging doors.

To get to that secret, you must be clean. You must walk down a hallway that has been specially built to detect any pollutants, toxins, or dangerous substances. If your scan comes up "red," the hallway shuts down, and a force wall pushes you back to its start, like an angry wind that will not take "no" for an answer.

The things on the other side of those doors are delicate, fragile. They require constant maintenance and upgrading. And the men and women who tend to those things have no time for dirt or dust, or anything that might cause a problem for their patients.

Their patients are very grateful for this, or so I am told. I was only allowed to see one of them, today. But then, this man is the star attraction on this day.

Director Straffer, formerly of Deep-Ten: the massive, trans-lunar weapons platform that ringed our Earth and Moon, and protected both from invasion for decades. For all that time, he watched out for us, up until the Imago attempted to kill him and take his place, and then used that platform for their own evil and destructive ends.

But then -- after surviving a fall from there to the Moon -- this man came back to return the favor, and destroyed Deep-Ten.

Some say this may have won our war against the Imago. If so, today I speak to a war hero, about to be given the best honor any such man could be given.

For today, the doctors and scientists of  this place will be wheeling what's left of him from his room, and taking him into a surgical suite so advanced it makes terms like "state of the art" trite and useless. There, over the course of a day, they will labor to make a true miracle.

Over the door of that surgery are the words Melior, Ocior, Fortifor. "Better, Faster, Stronger" -- the motto of Mt. Sinai's Cybernetic Prosthesis Surgery.

Words that will be at the forefront of their minds as they rebuild this man.

* * *

"So let me explain what's going to happen, today," the barrel-chested chief of Surgery says to his patient and his lover, pointing to a high-tech diagram he's printed out: "Before we do anything, we're going to go directly into your cranium, and replace the existing conduits in your neural matter-"

"You can do that?" Straffer asks, cocking an eyebrow. SPYGOD -- ever nearby, today -- gets the feeling that if his lover still had hands, they'd be squeezing his for all they were worth.

The chief smiles: "Been able to do that for about a decade, now. Advances in medical nanotech have been nothing short of astounding. Thought you'd have kept up with that?"

"Well, not really," Straffer admits: "After the last surgery I had, in the early 90's, I was told this was really as good as it was going to get."

"Well, that's the Space Service for you," the man winks, getting up and walking over to put the diagrams on a lit panel, up on the wall: "Think we both know how that goes. We can do better for you. We're going to."

"And if they don't, I'll put lead in his !@#$ing noggin so quick he'll be in Hell before the !@#$ Devil knows he's there," SPYGOD whispers into Straffer's ear.

"Heard that..." the man says, not turning around.

"You'll have to pardon my boyfriend," Straffer chuckles, rolling his eyes: "He wants me up and out of here as soon as possible."

"So do I, frankly," he says, coming back with some new diagrams: "You're a great patient, but I'm kind of tired of having my staff threatened and shot at."

"Sorry," SPYGOD lies, shrugging.

The man smiles, somewhat weakly, and then goes back to explaining the wonder they're going to perform, today.

* * *

Up in the observational theater, I look down at a bare room. No banks of machinery, no life support systems, no pallets of surgical tools. Just a plain white room with a plain white floor, seeming grey and misty under the dim lights.

Then the doctors and technicians come in, and everything changes.

The room is washed in brightness as lights glare, and then dim. Things begin to appear around them: cabinets and tables push up from the floor, light fixtures slide out from the walls, and 3-D screens float in the air. 

Finally, a table appears: a table with a white, metal square looped around it. One of the technicians tests to make certain it has free movement -- sliding it from one end of the table to the other, smooth as glass. Someone else tests the various tanks that sit under that table: reservoirs of mineral and biological material, all hooked up to the metal square. 

There's a bustle of movement from the doors, and a small tray is wheeled in. On top of that tray is the patient -- a head, still plugged into his batteries and nutrient tanks. 

And still wide awake, because they will need him to be fully conscious for what happens next. 

There will be two things going on, here, today. They will happen at the same time. If everything goes well, they will also be ready for each other at the same time. 

And in this case, they cannot do any less than well. They cannot mess this up. They cannot do this over. If it does not work the first time, when they get into the more delicate (and dangerous) part of the operation, there will be no going back.

So they check everything one more time, and then yet another. The equipment, the patient, their screens, themselves. Everything and everyone is double-checked, just to be sure, and then checked one more time to be absolutely certain. 

And then, when they are as sure as they're ever going to be, they all nod to one another, and start building an enhanced human.

* * *

"Wow," Straffer says as they sit in the waiting room, waiting for the doctors to finish conferring in the next room over: "Just... wow."

"!@#$ing tell me about it," SPYGOD says, tousling his lover's hair: "I thought your old body was something amazing, but this... I had no idea they'd come this !@#$ far."

"And that's you saying it."

"Right, so that's saying something."

They both laugh at the joke, weak as it is, and then go back to snuggling, such as they can.

"Like comparing an edsel to a formula 1 racer," Straffer says.

"A cannon to a minigun," SPYGOD continues: "You're going to be the prettiest !@#$ing man this side of the Atlantic."

"And the most enhanced. I mean... !@#$."

"Are you worried, at all?" SPYGOD asks: "I mean, about the operation."

"Not at all," Straffer says: "I really just wish they'd get on with it. The waiting's what's driving me crazy."

"Well, it's going to be a long haul in there."

"I know, believe me. I think they've got it all timed out and planned, even the cigarette breaks."

"Never a bad idea," SPYGOD winks, revealing that he brought a flask of whiskey: "Speaking of which, want a hit?"

"Is that Wild Turkey?"

"You know it. Your favorite."

"Oh !@#$ yes," Straffer replies, and greedily laps down a few drops as his lover drops them on his tongue. He closes his eyes as he does this, eager for the sensations that will quickly come, and leave just as swiftly -- filtered out with mechanical precision by the machine acting as his liver.

"Not too !@#$ much," SPYGOD says, hiding the flask: "They need you running on all four !@#$ing cylinders, I think."

"I'm good," Straffer says: "This blood scrubber's pretty fast. Too fast, really."

"Makes you !@#$ing wonder what the new one's going to be like, eh?"

"Oh, they better let me get drunk," Straffer says, looking up at him: "I want to be drunk with you. I want to feel like my belly's about to explode after a good meal."

"And after a good !@#$?" SPYGOD asks, grinning

"Like I'm about to explode," Straffer says, shuddering just a little: "Pity it's gone so quickly. I could use a good drunk right about now."

SPYGOD smiles and, tipping the flask back, swallow mightily and then leans down to kiss his lover. As their tongues slide over each other, the alcohol travels with them, giving Straffer at least the illusion of the kick he was looking for. 

They look at each other, then -- eyes hazy from the alcohol, yet sharp with desire -- and all that needs to be said between them is contained in that look. Acknowledgement that one went through the fire for the other, and would do so again and again to be with him. And a promise to honor that sacrifice for as long as they both shall love.

When the doctors come back, a few seconds later, they can't help but feel like they've interrupted something sacred. And maybe they have, too. But it's time to get this show on the road, and if they don't go now, it might not happen at all. 

And so the two men must part, for a time. But neither will be far from the other, during this ordeal, nor far from each other ever again, after it's over.

The whiskey may as well have been a ring.

* * *

"Enhanced human." 

It sounds like a cold and clinical term, but I am told that, despite the name on the hospital wing, they medical profession now likes to think in terms of "enhancements," instead of "bionics" or "cybernetics." So long as even a single piece of a naturally-created being is within the framework, somewhere, all they have done is enhanced its existence, somehow -- made it healthier, stronger, hardier. 

Made it more than it was.

(I am also told that, for a time, they wanted to use the term "enhancile," but it sounded even worse than "cyborg." So "enhanced human" it is.)

I lean over a bit more as they get ready to begin, barely aware that SPYGOD has slipped into the theater, beside me, and taken up watch without saying a word. I wish there was something I could say to him, here and now, but I fear that nothing I could speak would be even adequate at this point.

He watches in silence as they prepare to remake his friend, and I choose to honor it. There will be time for talk, later. Talk, and hopefully many other things. 

But this is a separate matter. Below my vantage point, they have begun creating a skeleton -- one that shines under the bright lights as though made of silver.

The white square goes back and forth, from one end of the table to the other. In its center lies the skeleton, floating in the air as it is built up, layer by layer. The minerals and metals are sprayed out, and then funneled and shaped by force fields, slowly becoming more recognizable with each swift pass of the square.

The skeleton does not have a skull, we notice. That is because it is being holographiclly recreated above a smaller, white square, over on the smaller table, right next to the disembodied head. Scans are being made of the organic remnant, and with each scan the hologram becomes more complete, more detailed.

As the metal skeleton is finished, other things are added onto it -- weird, efficient-looking meshes of red flesh and gleaming metals. We see the webwork of nerves, branching out from the spine, and waving in anticipation of things to plug themselves into. A red carpet of muscle to hold it all in and together.

Then the square stops going all the way up and down, and instead focuses on specific areas, building them up one at a time. We see the genesis of the renal system, with small but powerful kidneys leading to a muscularbladder. A large loop of chunky intestines -- designed to create organic nutrients for the organic remnants, and also manufacture synthetic lubricants for the body's many moving parts -- is spiraled out and curved around. 

A large stomach, bulging and wired, is laid down alongside a slim and efficient liver. Something that may or may not be a pancreas is nestled between them, along with several other structures that seem to have more to do with the mechanical systems than the organic.

Strong, filtered lungs, designed to work in a vacuum, are put down on either side of a heart wrapped around a nuclear battery. Then a webwork of arteries and veins is spun out, connecting all things up and down the line with that strong, central organ. Glands are inserted, lymph nodes positioned, and millions of other things brought into life, and then online. 

Each slide of the white square creates yet another portion of yet another biomechanical wonder, gleaming under the lights. Each pass challenges the work of the gods, who labored with mud and stone and divine breath to shape the rude clay into something that could stand tall and say "I am." 

Each pass says "I am God, here," and no one seems willing to disagree. 

* * *

"So, you wanted to !@#$ing talk?" SPYGOD asks the chief surgeon, not long after his lover is wheeled away for pre-op.

"Yeah," the barrel-chested man says, walking across the waiting room and extending a hand: "Let's start over."

"What do you mean?" SPYGOD asks, looking at the hand as though there was a gun in it.

"You're being an !@#$hole, (REDACTED)," the man says, keeping the hand right there: "An !@#$hole to me, to my staff. From the first day here, all up to now. No one's done or said anything to you, now have they?"

"Well-"

"Answer you're looking for is 'no,'" the man pushes: "Either you are an !@#$hole, or we got off on the wrong foot. Since I'm going to be putting your lover back together...?"

SPYGOD looks at him, and then the hand, and then takes it, sighing.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," he says, puffing his cheeks and exhaling: "It's just... I just got him !@#$ing back, you know? I thought he was dead for months. I mourned him and made my peace. And now he's back, and he's alive, and we're taking the future together-"

"As you should. He's crazy about you."

"Yeah, and I'm !@#$ing crazy about him. But then... well, this surgery. A whole !@#$ton of things could go wrong-"

"They won't," the man says, putting his other hand on SPYGOD's shoulder: "Won't let them. Outside of here, you call the shots. Here? I'm in charge. Pins don't drop without my say so."

"If you say so."

The man smiles: "Control, isn't it? Don't like to not have it."

"!@#$ no."

"Then we got one thing in common," he says, clapping SPYGOD on the shoulder and getting ready to walk away: "Another thing? Not gonna let him die. Not in there, anyway."

"But that is a risk?" SPYGOD asks, taking a half step towards him as he goes: "No bull!@#$, doctor. Could we lose him?"

The man looks back from the door, and nods: "We could, yes. Surgery's always dangerous. This kind's really dangerous. But like I said? Not gonna let him die, here."

"You promise?"

The man smiles a little: "Promise. He dies over my dead body. And I don't plan on dying again."

And with that, and a manly wink, he's gone, leaving SPYGOD somewhat chastened, but no less worried.

(SPYGOD is listening to Sunshine in the Shade (The FIXX) and having a Steelhead Broadway Blonde )

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 2

11/2/12

In a room at the far end of the main hallway of Mt. Sinai's Cybernetic Prosthesis Surgery wing, there's a large private room, playing host to a human head.

The head in question has clearly seen better days. It's battered and bruised, its eyes are red and nearly sightless, and its skin is turning black from frostbite in spots. But then, after spending so long in a vacuum, it's a wonder it's not worse off.

The doctors have managed to pull off a small miracle, just getting him conscious, again. Tubes and hoses snake in and out of the head at its neck, nose, and ears, bringing much-needed warmth, nutrients, and electricity to the human brain within it. In such fashion they could keep him alive indefinitely, thanks to the myriad modifications to his physiology.

But the will to live, itself? Anyone could tell you that must come from within.

And, as far as the hospital's dedicated staff can tell, this guy's a fighter. 

* * *

Straffer cocks an ear and looks to the door as he hears SPYGOD coming down the hall. It's getting to the point that he can tell when he's on his way, if only because he can hear the doctors getting out of his path, not to mention a gunshot or two.

"Afternoon, handsome," SPYGOD says as he walks into the hospital room, a huge, overly-cutesy floral arrangement in his hands.

"More flowers?" Straffer asks, trying to smile as he looks at the table across from his bed, which is practically filled with vases.

"Ah, room needs some !@#$ing color," he says, putting it along with the others and sprucing it up a bit, maybe defensively.

"Or you're not sure what to do, for once in your life."

SPYGOD sighs, and looks over at his lover, trying to smile: "Yeah, I think you !@#$ing got me there. Never !@#$ing liked hospitals. Not since my mother..."

Silence, then. If Straffer could nod, he would, but he looks over at the chair SPYGOD's been parking his !@#$ in, these last few days, and his man gets the message.

His "man"? Is that the best word for it? Would boyfriend be better? Are they boyfriends, now that they've finally said all the right things to each other? Or are they just lovers, even if it's been way too long since they !@#$ed, given all the crazy things that have happened since then?

(Man, this love thing is !@#$ confusing.)

SPYGOD sits down, looks at what's left of Straffer, and gingerly runs his hand through the man's hair, as though he were just lying down, rather than propped up by a couple dozen tubes and cables. And Straffer closes his eyes and smiles, happy for the touch.

"So," he says, after a time: "I caught you on TV, this afternoon."

"Oh, that !@#$ about the TU and their !@#$ing bull!@#$ offer?"

"Yeah. Quite the eloquent speech. I don't think I've heard a better disabusing of international relations since the time I stumbled into a John Birch Society meeting, back in college."

SPYGOD snorts: "Well, that's what they !@#$ing get for ambushing me on my way to a perfectly decent lunch."

"Not at a French restaurant, I take it?" Straffer teases.

"Eh, close enough."

"Vietnamese?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Oh, god," Straffer moans: "Food, (REDACTED). Real food. I floated through space for ages, and all I had to eat at Alpha Base Seven was the !@#$ they'd been able to salvage from their hydroponics section. I kept thinking of real food, all that time. Real meat, cooked on a real stove, with potatoes..."

"What about me?" SPYGOD asks: "Don't I rate above a steak?"

"Meathead," Straffer winks: "Of course. You don't think I want to eat alone, do you?"

"I didn't think so."

"That and I kept thinking of that meal we had, that one night at Per Se. The one you owed me?"

SPYGOD smiles at that: "I remember. That was... we skipped dessert, didn't we?"

"We were dessert."

"Oh yes," SPYGOD says, closing his eyes and remembering: "First rocket ride."

"One of the best ever."

"I bet you say that to all your boyfriends."

"Well, only if they're worth it."

SPYGOD smiles: "Music to my ears. Alright, then -- let it be resolved, as soon as you're out, you and I are going insane with food."

"And !@#$ing?"

"Oh !@#$ yes," SPYGOD says: "Here to Pluto and back, at least."

And for a time, there's happy silence.

* * *

"So what's bothering you?" Straffer asks after what might be an hour, or maybe more. It's hard to tell time in a room with no clocks.

"Eh, lots of !@#$," SPYGOD sighs, cracking his back as he sits up: "Trying to figure out what the !@#$ to do with the !@#$ Imago, other than flushing down the biggest !@#$ing toilet I can find. Worried about poor Myron, after what happened in the Lost City. Wondering if I should be worried about what the !@#$ Thomas Samuels is becoming, for that matter. And really wondering when the !@#$ Dr. Krwi is going to get back with me..."

He lets that slide away for a moment, before starting back up again.

"What's happening that you need his help?" Straffer asks: "Vampire problems?"

"Eh, I don't know," SPYGOD says, shivering a little: "There's... ah, this is going to sound silly-"

"If it's got you spooked, it's not silly. What is it?"

"There's something evil at the White House," he reveals, trying not to sound melodramatic. 

"Evil? How?"

"It's a feeling. I don't know... I mean, you deal with crazy aliens and !@#$ like that, but-"

"Oh, I've dealt with evil up there, before," Straffer says: "Things like what's coming? There are entities out there that might not be as powerful as the Preternaturals, but they're genuinely evil. The sort of things that, when you meet them, you just want to crawl under a rock and hide. And when they talk to you... well, you want to take that rock and beat your !@#$ brains out with it so you can't hear them, anymore."

"That bad?"

"Oh God, love. It's like having !@#$ and honey dribbled into your ear. Some of the beings I've had to confront, up there? I'm still waking up in the night, worried that they might be coming back."

SPYGOD nods. He remembers holding him in the night, once, as a bad memory disguised as simple nightmare came and took him, leaving him shivering and incoherent until morning. 

"So you've got evil down here?" Straffer asks, breaking the new bout of silence. 

"Yeah. I can feel it in my bones. I'm not sure who or how, but there's something bad crawling through the hallways, over there."

"Any idea how it got there?"

SPYGOD nods: "I have an idea. Someone did something for me, not that long ago, as part of the ongoing plan. I'm thinking maybe it did more than I intended."

"Can you undo it?"

"No," he sighs: "Not without !@#$ing up that plan."

"Well, sounds like you better clean up the mess," Straffer says: "So if I were you, I'd get Krwi as soon as possible."

"Preaching to the choir, there," SPYGOD sighs: "But I'll give the old man his due. When he wants to go !@#$ing underground? He's gone. And now Wayfinder's dead, and I don't even think Doctor Power could..."

He thinks about that for a moment.

"You talked yourself into a plan, again?" Straffer smiles.

"I did indeed," he says, leaning over and kissing him: "Thank you. I knew you had uses."

"Wait until I'm up and running."

"I can't wait," SPYGOD says, getting up: "They let me look at the blueprints. I knew you wouldn't mind."

"Six billion dollars, if you can believe that?" Straffer sighs: "It was only one and a half the first time."

"Well, inflation," SPYGOD shrugs: "But you know what they say. 'Better, stronger, faster.'"

"I will kill you if you put me in red tennis shoes."

"I wouldn't dare," he says, and leans over to kiss him once more: "I love you."

"I love you, too. Be careful?"

"Don't I always?" SPYGOD chuckles, and then he's gone, again.

"Better, stronger, faster," Straffer muses, remembering. When he closes his eyes he can remember when he first opened them as a cybernetic organism, all those decades ago. He can remember the look on the doctors' faces -- all breathless with anticipation, worry, and fear.

And he can remember how relieved they were when he cracked a joke, as if that alone guaranteed that they hadn't made a monster.

No. He will be alright. They will remake him, and he will be better for it. He will walk and move, again. Go to dinner at great restaurants. See the world he'd spent all those years protecting. Spend time with the man he fought death tooth and nail to be able to see again.

And then, once that's all straightened out, he will go and get his old job back if it !@#$ing kills him. 

Satisfied, he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep, dreaming of hands, legs, and appetites denied too long. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Read Between the Lines (The FIXX) and having a Homo Erectus)