10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 8

A half-century ago, when things were a lot crazier than they are now, Japan had the honor of hosting a trio of ambassadors from another plane of existence.

They first arrived in the 1960s, when the island nation was under extra-planar attack, yet again -- some strange hybrid jelly-monster from a dying, nightmare dimension, come to breed. When the best and brightest of Japan's Self Defense Force was destroyed or too damaged to fight on, hope arrived in the form of a massive, shape-shifting machine of unquestionable power. It utterly annihilated the otherworldly threat, and sent what remained of its slimy carcass back into the hole between worlds from whence it came.

When the battle was done, and there was nothing left to do but tend to the wounded and tally the dead, the immense thing underwent an amazing transformation. It shrunk down to human size, and split into three distinct persons: a man, a woman, and a child.

Their language skills were halting, but their intentions were clear. They called themselves The Dignitary, and sought to create and maintain diplomatic relations with Japan. They claimed to want nothing more than friendship, and could offer little more than that. But after seeing firsthand what it meant to have such a friend, the Japanese Government was very pleased to open relations with the odd trio.

For the next couple decades, the trio joined with the many extranormal and hyper-developed guardians of Japan in its defense. They came to learn much of their new world, and fit in quite well with the spirit and people of their adopted nation. They didn't enter hostilities all that often, given their colossal levels of power -- and diplomatic ties -- but when they did, the outcome of the fight was never in question.

All was well, and would have remained so, except for what happened in America in 1980.

For some strange reason, as soon as the contract with the Backers was signed by the White House, The Dignitary found it impossible to live as three distinct beings. They had to permanently form into the larger, gestalt creature to survive, necessitating their move from the cities out into the Ocean. And, after a short time, their hosts discovered that the massive thing The Dignitary became could only remain active for so long before running out of power, and having to shut down for long periods of time to recharge.

Worse, when the creature did rouse from slumber to help defend Japan, it seemed different in temperament. Before, the being shared the kindness, intelligence, and humanitarian credo of the three beings that comprised it, but now, it acted like an uncaring thug -- smashing through buildings full of people to charge at otherworldly invaders, and using its mighty weapons without any care as to the civilian or collateral damage.

After one repelled invasion led to the death of hundreds of innocents, a team of powerful beings confronted The Dignitary in their underwater shrine, and tried to shame it into answering what had happened. The answer was terrible: when the shift happened, back in 1980, The Dignitary had been cut off from their own dimension. Without that link, they were not only deprived of their primary source of power, but also of the true mental impulses that had been controlling their actions, all along.

The real trio that made up The Dignitary were back in their home dimension, cut off from the machine they'd been operating. And while their mental imprints remained within the group mind of the machine, they had degraded over time, leaving only a single, stunted mind, with only the most basic of its many, complex impulses intact -- to defend its host, no matter the cost.

It was hypothesized that, without aid, The Dignitary would eventually be nothing more than a mindless, uncaring machine, and might one day destroy Japan while trying to save it. Faced with that nightmare scenario, a number of extranormal talents came together to come up with a solution to the problem, along with a few other concerns that had come about since America had begun being cagey with its strategic talents.

From that crucible of crisis came a body that would safeguard Japan's many strange and unusual hyperpowered people and items: The Organization. And one of the first things they did was to convince The Dignitary that it would be better off if it went to sleep until the group could find a way to either re-open the portal to its home dimension, or send it back there.

Thankfully. The Dignitary agreed. And one night, when no one saw, it walked ashore, settled down onto a large, vacant lot in Tokyo, and changed its shape one last time.

Since then, a massive glass and steel building with white exteriors has been the headquarters of The Organization. None have dared attack "Heaven House Tokyo" for fear of what it might do, or what horrors they might unleash if they damage it too much. Even the Imago have given it a wide berth, perhaps hoping that the group that meets there is smart enough to stay within, and not attack them.

And they did, for a time.

But today, that understanding is dust.

The people of Tokyo look out their windows, and up into the heights of their massive cityscape, as a strange sound that has not been heard in decades roars between the buildings. The ground shakes, and the towers vibrate, and the power flickers on and off, as though something were playing havoc with the power grid.

Those closest to the epicenter of the event see something they will never forget. The great, white building they had come to associate with that part of the city shudders, vibrates, and then begins to shift its geometry like a child's toy robot. It forms massive arms and powerful shoulders from its highest floors, its first levels split apart to become huge legs, and as they lengthen its entrance climbs to its chest.

Glass and steel are absorbed back into the building, leaving only a white and silver creature some 100 stories tall. It arches its back as it forms large, silver plates over its body -- like armor covering the important, major muscles and numerous weak spots.

And then, at last, a cyclopean head appears above a thick neck: a noble, white face with glowing, yellow eyes and a massive, flowing mane of silver hair.

As its eyes burn, so do the areas between its armor patches. Weird lights play in the air before it, like free-floating holographic read-outs and controls. It leans forward, holding up its hands for silent inspection, and watching as energy crackles between its fingers.

Inside its chest, in what used to be his office, Mister Ten sits in his chair and watches. It's all he can do. He's not in control of this, by any stretch of the imagination -- all he can do is ask the Dignitary to do what's needed, and hope the immense machine complies.

Hanami stands by his side as he talks to the robot, her gentle hand placed upon his shoulder. He tries not to show how much he needs to have it there, but it's obvious to anyone that without it he would be terrified.

Query: the machine asks, the massive voice -- a sound Mister Ten has never actually heard, before -- booming from the head, itself: Is host country in danger?

"It is, yes," Mister Ten says, awed by the sound: "It is in terrible danger. And so is the entire world. We must destroy the Imago. We must help our allies."

There's nothing, for a moment. And then, ever so carefully, the Dignitary strides towards the Pacific -- awake after these many years, and prepared to do its part in this war.

"I feel like a child, again," Mister Ten says, leaning back in the chair and putting his hand atop Hanami's.

"So do I," she says, but not quite for the same reason. 

* * *

When Moloch was young, and still learning of the ways of the meat that it had to call its family, it learned of American superheroes, and was not impressed. 

Moloch learned of the group of beings known as the Liberty Patrol, and how they had once sought to impress their will on the planet, after the Second World War. Moloch learned how they made terrible mistakes, in that next war, and how those errors led to America changing how it handled its superheroes. Moloch learned of the Freedom Force, and Strategic Talents, and the COMPANY that oversaw them all.

(And, of course, Moloch learned of SPYGOD, whom it vowed to one day destroy for his blasphemy.)

While learning of these things, Moloch learned of a man called Mr. USA: a powerful brute wrapped in an American flag, whose actions seemed to be hand-in-hand with the will and ideals of whomever was in charge of his country at any given time. He was a soldier in times of war, an idealist in times of peace, and, in the times of the Cold War, a walking deterrent whose very presence could stop the two major powers from rattling their swords so loudly.

The meat world got older, but he never seemed to. He remained an eternal reminder of a better, simpler time, when there was good and evil in the world, and America was on the good side. He smiled and the world smiled with him. And when he frowned, they got out of his way.

Moloch does not know who this ancient-seeming man in front of it is. He is wearing the costume that Mr. USA once wore, even though it doesn't fit him as well as it should. His hair is white and falling out. His eyes are rheumy and his teeth are missing. 

But the look in those eyes is unmistakable -- the same look that Moloch saw many times, as the meat news told stories of how the Israeli-loving Americans had employed their signature superhero to some battleground, somewhere, to fight crime or evil or terrorism, or whatever his Jewish masters were saying this week. 

Moloch saw that look in the man's eyes, back then, and recognized it as steel. 

And now that steel was coming for Moloch -- fists raised and crackling, mouth open in a battle roar, and eyes ready for the fight to come. 

The brass beast raises its sword-arms and attempts to block what's coming, but it is too late to do anything but shout. And, in the space of the next three seconds -- as its body is punched, kicked, crushed, electrocuted, shattered, and melted -- Moloch begins to understand a great many things. 

Too late, of course. 

After that rush of explosive force and pain, as the pieces of its body fall to the cracked, wooden floor of the great hall, Moloch does its best to regain its composure. But no sooner can it try and reassemble the twitching, brass flinders of its body than the old man is melting them into slag.

"Trying to find more metal?" Mr. USA says, following the pieces as they rattle back down the hall, scurrying away like cockroaches: "Or do you have another body, hiding somewhere?" 

"... destroy you..." Moloch hisses through a temporary mouth, seconds before the old man stamps it flat.

"Good luck with that," he says, standing still and watching the parts clatter away: "I'm going to give you some time to remake yourself, and then I'm coming after you. And you'd better be ready."

With that, the old man turns around and floats back towards the room, keeping an ear out for any loud, metallic bangs or scrapes.

"It's good to see you, sir," Mark Clutch says, extending a weak hand. Mr. USA grabs it with one hand and claps him on the shoulder with the other, and then gives him a gentle but powerful hug.

"It's good to be seen, Mark," he says: "It's so good to be here, again."

"What happened to you?" Myron asks, stepping closer: "I mean, I'm sorry to be blunt, but the last time I saw you, you were... well, you weren't..."

"This old?" Mr. USA replies, smiling, as he disengages from the hug and walks over to Myron: "Let's just say I've had a long time to plan my next moves, Myron. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of time, now."

"What is happening over there?" Skyspear asks, too weak to get up off the floor.

"When I came here, they had just destroyed all the satellites we sent up," the old man says, looking at her with sadness: "They were also about to train their particle cannons on the Toon colony, which means anything that wasn't turned into a cartoon was also destroyed."

"Which means we're stuck here," Winifred sighs, plopping down and letting her empty gun clatter to the floor: "Great. !@#$ing great."

"No need for that kind of talk, young lady," Mr. USA says, extending a hand out to her: "I think we can get home from here. But we're going to have to act fast."

"What do we need to do?" Mark asks.

"Well, a little-known fact about Moloch is that he's a human being," the old man replies, lifting Winifred off the floor without any effort at all: "He's capable of putting his mind into metal and controlling it like a second body. But he needs to be inside that metal in order to control it, and he also needs a clear connection back to his body in case things go wrong."

"Then how is he controlling that body?" Myron asks: "Does he have his real body here, somewhere?"

"He must have an amplifier of some kind," Winifred conjectures: "Maybe one powerful enough to punch through the dimensional barrier?"

"You got it!" Mr. USA says, giving her two-thumbs up: "Now, that lets him go from there to here. Do you think you might be able to use it to get us back?"

"I could..." Mark says, looking at the machine: "It might take some doing, but-"

"I'm on it," Myron says, going to get tools.

"Where would he have it, though?" Winifred asks: "I mean, it'd probably be pretty !@... er, pretty darn big."

"When we packed up to come here, he did have a large case with him," Skyspear offers: "It was large and square. He said it was spare parts, and I did not wish to pray any further than that."

"Probably full of brass, as well as the device," Mr. USA says: "So, you all keep Thomas alive and get that machine ready to be jury-rigged, and I'll go find where that monster hid itself, and bring it down here."

"That sounds like the best plan I've heard all day," Mark says, nodding and clapping the old man on the back. Something about how he almost steps forward unnerves Mark, but he doesn't say anything about it.

He has a hard time believing he just knocked America's most powerful superhero off-balance, even for a split-second. The implications of that are too scary to consider -- especially if he's all they've got to rely on to get them back to where they need to be, right now.

And God only knows what's happening there. 

* * *

 "Are we... are we dead?" the Talon asks the Owl, as they stand in a bright, blinding sea of white energy and are not harmed (nor blinded, for that matter).

"I don't know, honey," Martha replies, walking over to her niece and putting her hands on her shoulders: "One second we were fighting and then.... this. I don't know what's going on."

"It's like that time in LA, only we're inside it..."

Martha shudders, remembering that fiasco all too well: "We can't be alive and inside that beam, Kaitlyn. There's got to be another explanation-"

"Energy dispersal packs," the new New Man says, walking up behind them: "Those boxes I gave you before we started punching Specials, the last cube? They're keeping us from being incinerated by a particle beam."

"What, these little things?" the Talon says, suddenly afraid to touch the white thing clipped to her belt.

"Yes, those little things," he says, smiling and adjusting his sunglasses: "They're gaining their energy from the beam, itself."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it's a nice system, once you've got it going. But I'm not sure if they'll last through a second blast."

"Did you know they'd do this?" the Owl asks.

"Given what they've done before, and what happened to you, I figured it was a sensible precaution."

"You really know how to impress people, don't you?" Martha says, laughing.

"I try," New Man says, sadly. Not for them, but for all the others who may not be as lucky, right now.

He can only hope their sacrifices are not in vain.

* * *

"You have to be joking, my friend," Mikhail says, resting his weary head in his hands: "I could not order these soldiers into a bakery for fresh bread, right now. Not while death is raining down from the skies-"

"We need those !@#$ing cubes !@#$ing taken out!" SPYGOD shouts at him, along with all the other foreign contacts and commanders he's been berating for the last few minutes: "If they don't !@#$ing have them, they don't have any !@#$ing power. They will !@#$ing starve to death and drop like !@#$ing flies when they don't get enough !@#$. We just need-"

"I will not order my soldiers into a suicide run," the head of the Pakistani Army in exile announces: "It is that simple. You must change the game board, SPYGOD. You must knock out those cannons."

"We don't have anything !@#$ing ready for that."

"Then I'm sorry, but it is just not on-"

"You !@#$ing coward!" SPYGOD shouts, pointing his finger at the screen: "We're out here risking our !@#$ lives, right now. My allies are !@#$ing dying. My friends are dying. And you're wanting to hide until you're assured of victory?"

There's silence in reply -- sharp and stone-like. 

"You said you wanted an equal piece of things," he says: "Well, this is how you !@#$ing get it. You go out and you fight for it. And maybe you die. And maybe you lose. But if you sit back and do nothing, today of all days, because you're !@#$ing terrified of dying, then you will spend the rest of your days regretting it-"

"You dare to threaten us?" a cybernetic Samurai chastises him: "You spoke to us of leadership! Where is your leadership, now?"

"You're !@#$ing looking at it," SPYGOD hisses: "And I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you. Because what do you think the Imago are going to do when they !@#$ing win this battle? Say 'O people of the Earth, we love you, we forgive you, all is good?' Oh !@#$ no. They're going to !@#$ing burn us out like rats and leave us baking in the Sun for that !@#$ing thing that's on its way to find. 

"It's now or never, ladies and gentlemen. Get out there and hit those !@#$ cubes. Because if you don't, there is nothing else left."

The screens turn off, one by one. SPYGOD glowers, and then sighs.

"I think we !@#$ed up, Bee-Bee," he says to his cat. He's not quite sure what the fuzzball says in return, though, as he can hear something else happening, up above them.

"Oh !@#$," he says, looking behind at the towering, white robot that's following them into the Ocean. And he knows what's about to happen.

And that there's nothing he can do to stop it, or warn them.

* * *

"Well, there's something you don't see every day," the ersatz Director Straffer -- now calling himself The Fist -- says as he sips his martini and looks down at Tokyo.

How dangerous a development is this? Their leader asks, sounding very concerned.

Very dangerous, the Dragon says: That robot's defensive and offensive capabilities are legendary. It can throw islands into space and smash cities flat with a wave of its arms. 

"Not good,"  The Fist says: "If it gets to the city..."

Well, what are we going to do about it? The Motion asks: I'm stretched too thin with teleporting our Specials out of your field of fire to attack it directly-

"Relax," The Fist says, gesturing to one of his servitor robots: "I've got it covered. I'm adjusting the firing program now."

You're not going to destroy Tokyo just to get to it, are you? 

"No," The Fist says: "I'm going to destroy Tokyo because I want to destroy Tokyo. The fact that it's going to annihilate that robot before it gets to our leader is just the icing on the cake."

You can't be serious- the Motion says.

Do it, the leader commands: They will suffer the consequences for becoming involved. This will further break the morale of the armies that are massed against us. With one city's death, our plan will live. 

"Amen to that," The Fist says, and gives the signal to fire.

(SPYGOD is listening to Never Let Me Down Again (Depeche Mode) and having a really nasty feeling)

10/14/12 - Something Could Change - Pt. 2

"One of the Overlanders tried to teach me the concept of 'irony,' once," Emperor Thurl says as he scuttles the room of Seven Jaws, occasionally looking from its central parapet to hear if something's started yet: "Tell me truly, Blue and Yellow -- are you familiar with the concept?"

Blue and Yellow tries to say something, but really can't. She's discovered why the room bears its name, and is pinned between three of the seven sets, gasping in pain.

"Oh, I do truly apologize," the boy-Emperor says, scuttling closer to her and extending his hands in what might be a warm gesture: "You must be in too much distress to talk. I imagine the field that keeps you from being crushed by the waterweight is close to breaking, much as even the hardiest shell must break when firm and steady pressure is applied."

"Kill you..." Blue and Yellow hisses, trying to fire her eyebeams. They will not come, but make her eyes glow menacingly for a second.

"But we were speaking of this 'irony,'" Thurl continues, bending his eyestalks down to look her in the face: "The fellow who spoke to me, one of the Germans, spent a long time trying to teach me the meaning of this idea. But we do not recognize this concept, here in the Kingdom. We had enough of a problem understanding a 'desert,' I think you call them?"

The Imago ceases her struggles as the Emperor gets closer. He thinks he knows what she intends to do, but that is fine, as he knows his own intentions.

"However, we do have a story that we tell our strongspawn, so they might grow in both mind and form. It is the story of the small and the large. Would you like to hear it?"

The Imago tries once more to break free, just as he expected. Thurl sighs and gestures, his crown jewels trailing behind his hand, and yet another set of jaws clamps down on his captive.

The blow doesn't cut so much as pulverize, and droplets of blood spurt from her lips, somehow escaping from her force field and leaking out into the water. The smelltaste makes Thurl want to end this conversation and do something much more final and toothy to her, but he denies himself the pleasure.

For the moment, anyway.

"Well, perhaps you have no time for such a lesson, Blue and Yellow," the Emperor says, sitting down before her as the seatmollusks form him a throne: "But I must thank you. In all my lives, I had never been able to understand what this 'Irony' meant. And then you came amongst us, and we learned.

"You see, if you had not come here, after you took control of the Overland, we would have left you alone. If you had simply stayed up there, and tended to the Overland, we would not have come looking for you. We would have been grateful that the Overobligation was ended, and the Great Mistake forgiven by default. But you would have heard nothing from us.

"And even when you rose the City of Darkness from the Wet of the Other Kingdom, and took it above the Barrier and called it your home? Even then, I tell you truly, we would have stayed far from you. Farther still, I think I speak truly, for there are reasons that we fear it.

"But you came to us, Blue and Yellow. You and your Green and Orange friend, missing all these darks. You came to us and pretended friendship. You came to us and spoke of partnership. You came to us.

"And as soon as we learned what you were going to do, you threatened me."

Blue and Yellow gasps, her eyes starting from her skull. Not too long, now.

"If you had stayed where you were, we would have sought nothing more with the Overland. We would have left you to it. What use have we for it?

"But you had to come here and try to control us. You had to become our enemy. You had to threaten the life of my father -- my life.

"And in doing so, I tell you truly that you taught us the lesson that we have been too slow to learn for too long. That I, in all my formlives, have been too stupid to learn.

"I have learned that ours is one planet, Blue and Yellow. The Wet and the Dry are two sides of the same rock. One cannot exist without the other. And those who live in one must be allies with the other.

"And so, we will be allies with the Overlanders, once more. And I tell you truly, Blue and Yellow, that makes you our enemy. But we would never have learned this, or known that, unless you had come to us.

"So now, I truly understand irony."

The Emperor gently reaches towards the Imago's head with his claws. She tries to struggle and get away, but each movement is agony, and makes the collapse of her personal shielding more pronounced. Already the metal on her chest and arms is beginning to buckle.

"And now, I would know what you know, Blue and Yellow," the Emperor says, preparing to crack her skull open: "Do not worry. This will not be like the Deathlifedreamsleep. You will not be conscious, and I will not take you inside myself, as I did my father, as he did his father before him.

"I simply want to know what you have planned, so that I might tell my new Overlander ally, when next we speak on the new communicator he has given us."

And as the Emperor feasts, and learns, there is a deep, booming noise, far away from the citadel. It is a sound that has not been heard for many formlives, given the nature of the Overobligation. But all of the Kingdom know what it is, and what it means, and they instantly drop what they are doing and either prepare to go to into battle, or to take cover from it.

The Warspawn are hatching. The Kingdom will strike.

And woe be unto their enemies.

* * *

Mikhail: So, where do we now stand, my friends?

Dosha: I haven't been able to talk to my government, unfortunately. However, I have been able to talk to the provisional government in exile in Pakistan and the people claiming to be in charge of Bangladesh. And they are in agreement, and willing to contribute.

Jose: Where the !@#$ is your government, Dosha?

Dosha: Where they've always been in times like this, Jose. In hiding. Just like you. 

Mikhail: Can we please be dispensing with the insults? Jose comes to us with good news. 

Khalil: He does? So far all we have heard are words from someone I have never met. 

Jose: There is a reason for that, pendejo.

Dr. Krwi: There is? SPYGOD always told me that you prided yourself on showing up to these things late, just for a joke 

Jose: And who is this? 

Dr. Krwi: The man who just got most of Eastern Europe to sign in with our efforts, sir.

Mikhail: Jose, this is Dr. Krwi, a man of many talents and much experience with insurgencies. 

Jose: I'll believe it when I see it. 

Khalil: Please! We have no time for this. 

Dosha: Agreed. Jose, please accept my apologies. If your organization can help, I will gladly shake your hand and call you an ally. 

Jose: Oh, I can do more than that. I have managed to talk our government into allying with a number of other governments in Central and South America. We have not gotten everyone, yet, but the people there are furious at what has happened. 

Khalil: As are several African nations. But the partnership is very tenuous. A number of the new governments aren't keen to work with their old allies, and some of the countries have more than one party claiming leadership. This is going to be a logistical nightmare. 

Mikhail: And if you think that's a nightmare, you should see the state that Russia is in! But I have played the right cards, I think. I spoke to the military, rather than the government. And they are quite prepared to come to our side. 

Dr Krwi: What about Japan? Do we know what bargain SPYGOD struck with Ju Kikan? 

Dosha: He told me he got a giant favor, but wouldn't go into specifics. Just like the bhen chod. 

Dr. Krwi: That sounds like him. And of course Mister 10 will not speak to us directly. 

Dosha: Of course not. I take it you've had some experience with him? 

Dr. Krwi: When I would hunt in Japan I needed to get permission from that group's predecessors. It was never easily given, or arranged. And all the time I felt as though they might try and kill me.

Mikhail: Very well. then we seem to have as much as we can have. So now it is merely a matter of waiting.

Khalil: I'm not very comfortable with that. Did SPYGOD say when we should tell our people to move? 

Dosha: No, but he said we'd know it when we saw it.  

Dr. Krwi: And, knowing him, that is as much of a warning as we are going to get. 

Dosha: Agreed. Speaking of warnings, Doctor, I couldn't help but notice you crossing yourself at the meeting, the other day. What is the contingency plan you are so afraid of? 

Dr. Krwi: I do not wish to speak of it. With any luck, you will never know. It is bad enough that I know. 

Mikhail: Now, Doctor, we promised each other no secrets. 

Dr. Krwi: Yes, we did, didn't we? Then I hope you'll eventually forgive me for having said nothing.  

(Dr. Krwi Leaves)

Dosha: That could not have been good.  

Mikhail: No, it could not. Khalil, do you have any idea what he could be talking about? 

Khalil: None, but I am not certain of that. I keep thinking there is something I am forgetting. Something about SPYGOD I either know or need to let him know. But what it could be? I have no idea. 

Dosha: Do you feel as though someone has tampered with your memory? 

Khalil: It is just possible. I suggest for the sake of security we do not talk again, like this, until this war is over and done with.  

Mikhail: I think it the wisest course of action, my friend. And good luck to us all. We who are normally men of the shadows are going to have to step out into the light, for a time. I can only hope we can withstand that scrutiny.

* * *

 "So how do I look?" the President asks for the fifth time in as many minutes, adjusting his tie and running a hand through his hair.

"I think you look like a man who could use a drink," Ben says, handing the man a very large glass of beer: "I insist. If you fret any more, you will look worse than Richard Nixon did that one time he debated Jack Kennedy on television."

"Well, I could use some makeup," the President says, but takes the beer all the same, giving it an appreciative sip: "!@#$, that... that is some good stuff, Ben."

"Glad you like it. Old recipe of mine. I brewed it in anticipation of victory, and there's ten kegs downstairs, so you better deliver."

The old man smiles and looks at him over his glasses. The President just smiles back, uncertain whether to trust this man or not. He walks and talks just like he always imagined Ben Franklin would, but his conversation topics and ribald anecdotes are so disturbing that he's having a hard time believing this man was ever a Founding Father.

But he's the one with the camera, and the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., and a few other things besides, so he figures he should give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Where did that cat go, anyway?" The President asks, hoping to change the topic.

"Probably !@#$ed off to the penthouse to check on his vodka stores," Ben replies, checking the camera again, and then turning back to the multitude of screens behind him: "Poor pussy's been having to drink poor man's potatoes for the last year, since he took it on the lam."

"So he can fly a spaceship, shoot a gun, and drink SPYGOD under the table?"

"Oh, that's nothing. That !@#$able creature can drink me under the table. And that is saying something, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Where did he get that cat?"

"Oh, now there's a story," Ben says, and then gets distracted by something he sees: "Randolph, this is Ben. You need to get more televisions over to the North part of the island. There's not enough coverage over there."

In a second, Randolph Scott's face appears on the screen, with one of his conspirators behind him: "I'm working on it, Ben. I'm trying to get some last-minute interviews with the post-bridge refugees, first."

"Well, get someone on it, !@#$ it. The Third American revolution is about to take place and I'm not going to miss my moment in the sun because you were too busy asking them who their favorite musical group is!"

"That's not what I'm asking them, Ben-"

"Just a second," the President asks, getting up and looking at the screen: "That man behind him. Excuse me? Aren't you...?"

The man behind Randolph looks at him, and then dominates the screen. It's been some time since they've seen each other, but the recognition is instantaneous.

"Hello, Mr. President" Jess Friend says, nodding and smiling: "I'm very glad to see you, again."

"I'm glad to see you, too," the President says.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have saved you, sir. I tried, but..."

"Hey, son?" the President says, tearing up a little: "I don't know if you know this, but I saw you kick in the door and try to stop what was happening, just before they transported me away. That gave me hope that someone might come to rescue me. And that hope's what kept me alive over there. 

"So yes, Agent Friend. You did save me. And thank you for that."

"Well, not an Agent anymore," Jess says, holding up the hand they had to reconstruct: "They kind of blamed me for the whole thing."

"Really?" the President says: "Well, when this is all over? You come and find me, and we'll set the record straight. It's time your talents were recognized, don't you think?"

"I can't disagree," Randolph says: "And when this is all done and over with? You and me need to have a talk, too, sir. Your Vice President made me swear to pass along a few things, the night before he died. I'd like to keep that promise."

"Then we'll do that," the President says: "Go make us proud, guys."

With that the screen goes blank, and Ben Franklin nods and claps the President on the shoulder: "Spoken like a true leader."

"Third American Revolution, huh?" the President says, looking at the older fellow.

"Ah, well," Ben says, going back to his screens: "Nice thing about our country, my good President. We may never fully agree on the lyrics, but the song always remains the same."

A while -- and a few beers -- later, the President realizes that his host just skillfully forestalled an argument, which was probably for the best. Right now wasn't the time for people for fall apart.

Not when the whole world was about to come back together. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Words (Missing Persons) and having some of Ben Franklin's own)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 4

When Khalil was a young boy, growing up in the mega-slums of Addis Ababa, his mother would keep her children in their beds with terrible stories of the monsters that lurked in the night.

She knew them all, that woman: the millions of horrifying creatures that Allah had created for reasons of his own; the scrabbling, ravenous things that lurked just outside of His purview; the beasts of a hundred different lands and religions, all eager to clamber into a young child's bed at night and slurp up their sweetmeats -- or worse.

Khalil loved a good scare, of course -- all children do, in their own way. But one of the stories really bothered him.

It was the legend of the most gruesome of the many, terrifying hungry ghosts of Malaysia. A terrifying being that had a different name in every country, but was essentially the same. A disgusting she-vampire that detached her head at night and flew, pulling her guts behind her as she went, and lapped the blood of pregnant women and young children who didn't mind their parents.

And while it had many names in many lands, the one that always stuck with him was Penanggalan.

Such was the fearful power of this thing that it not only made him nervous to go out at night, but also had him jumpy during the day. It even made him wet his pants at loud, sudden noises in the dark, and continued to disturb him all the way into manhood. In fact, every time he met a new young woman who seemed just a little "off" he would keep tabs on her, just to make sure her nighttime activities were legitimate, and that her head was always on her neck at the right angle from day to day.

One could say that this heightened sense of awareness served him well when he went into the NGUVU. And one could only imagine his reaction when he learned from its strategic talents handlers that the !@#$ things were actually real.

And one can only imagine his reaction, now, as one of those creatures is less than five feet away from him, floating in the air and drinking the life from his MI-6 contact.

It's nothing like what he imagined, though. He'd imagined something like what he'd seen in the movies or supernatural television shows, but this is much more terrifying. And as Mikhail bellows and throws his bottle of vodka at her, and Dosha pulls out a gun that he's not supposed to have in this bar,  Khalil leaps back to ready some kind of defense and get a better look.

The woman's head is at least three times the size of a normal head, all puffed up like an obscene basketball. Her black and red eyes seem about to burst from her blood-filled sockets, and her mouth is a roiling playground of teeth the size and random shapes of jagged, broken dinner plates. A long, red, and barbed tongue anchors her to Sir George, who's about as pale as a sheet after just five seconds of being drained.

As for the train of guts, the legends do not do this creature justice. They're not being pulled behind her like the manacles on a stately English ghost, but are actually part of her overall motion. The lungs have dissipated into millions of fibers and webs, forming sinister, batlike wings that keep her aloft. Her distended stomach and liver seem able to reach out and clutch objects, perhaps the better to perch with.

And her long, looped intestines purl and curl behind her as she goes, coiling and roiling like the tail of some magnificently long dragon. As Mikhail's vodka bottle arcs towards her, a quick, meaty flick of that tail sends it bouncing away -- off to land on the deaf waiter, who tried his best to run past the evil and down the stairs along with the rest of the guests.

(Crash goes the bottle. Thump goes the waiter. Stomp stomp go the frightened patrons' feet on the waiter.)

Khalil's mind reels with possibilities, and fear. He tries to remember what his mother told him to do if he saw one, and what defenses NGUVU's supernatural handlers advised him to take, but nothing that either of these wise fonts of information ever gave him is making itself evident, today.

"!@#$ me," Dosha spits, finally just shooting at the thing. Of course, the bullets just go through the ghostly head; it seems that she can hurt them, but they cannot hurt her -- not without magic, which he doesn't have on him, right now.

But then, there is something else...

"I can protect us, I think," Khalil offers, and crosses his arms just before his chest, willing there to be something between the monster and the rest of them. The effort makes his nose bleed, and his eyes turn red with burst vessels, but in seconds there is a strange opacity in the air between the creature -- and its victim -- and the other three.

But how long it can last is unknown.

"I am thinking strategic withdrawal, my comrades!" Mikhail says: "The window! Quickly!"

"It's no good!" Dosha shouts: "Internal Security's got snipers outside, by now."

"Who?" Mikhail shouts.

"Internal Security! ISOC! They know we're here!"

"How in the !@#$ are they !@#$ing knowing this? And how in the !@#$ are you knowing this?"

"I just do! And I know the only reason they haven't shot in is-"

A window blows out. The floor rips up and splinters. The sharp, echoing crack of a rifle comes a split second later. 

"You were saying?" Mikhail says, trying to find someplace that isn't accessible by a window.

"!@#$!" Dosha spits, looking at his watch scowling: "They should have been here by now..."

"Who should have?" Khalil asks, but then another bullet takes out another window, and he's showered with flying glass. A cut springs up on his cheek and he loses concentration, and the sudden, angry migraine that comes with using his new power smacks his brains into the back of his skull.

He winces and falls down, holding his head. St. George falls through the now-absent shield and hits the floor, pale and whispering. The Penanggalan laughs, twirls in the air, and lashes out with her tongue, ready to take on the next victim...

... and then recoils violently from something that's just entered the room, and hisses like a snake run over by a wagon wheel.

That something is an eight-sided medallion, made from strange, dark metal, and embossed with gold writing that looks like ancient Thai script.

It's being held up at eye-level by an old man, clearly not dressed for this climate. He wears a thick, heavy coat, a dignified European hat, and old-style "horse blinder" sunglasses. He also carries a silver-chased cane that seems heavier than it should be.

And on his tanned face is a commanding scowl -- the sort of look that says "you came here to die."

The black-clad, young Indian man who brought Dosha here, earlier, stands beside him, holding onto his shoulder. He steps back and takes a few deep breaths, and then assumes a place by Dosha, who's covering the old man with his gun.

"What took you so long, old man?" Dosha asks.

"I took a wrong turn in Turkey," the younger Indian says: "He squirms too much-"

"Be quiet, both of you," the old man commands, his voice thick and Polish: "And you, creature. These men are under my protection. You will leave, now. And consider yourself lucky I didn't have time to find your body."

"You will not leave here alive," she hisses, flapping away and becoming insubstantial: "The streets are lined with my people. You will be killed."

"Oh, do be quiet, you stupid !@#$," Sir George mutters from the floor: "At least let me die with an absence of bad dialogue. I'm owed that much, surely..."

"Away with you!" the old man shouts, and the metal suddenly seems more there, somehow. More solid. More real.

The Penanggalan shrieks and ripples, as though they were seeing her on the surface of a pond that's just had stones thrown into it. She turns even more ghostly, and within seconds she's vanished.

"Well, that was being anticlimactic, yes?" Mikhail asks from his spot between windows.

"We need to leave," Dosha says, extending a hand to the Russian: "Now."

And by the time the ISOC kill team runs up Poke's staircase to finish the job their pet vampire obviously bungled, they have.

* * *

"So, please to be explaining all this, again?" Mikhail asks, having another bottle of Dosha's emergency vodka as the old man tends to Sir George's wounds, over on the ratty couch. Every so often the fellow looks up and scowls, but he hasn't ventured a prognosis, yet. 

"We were bait, were we not?" Khalil asks from where he sits, up against the wall, holding a cold glass of water up to his left temple and checking to see if his nose really has stopped bleeding.

"Yes," Dosha admits, standing close to where Anil sits -- tired and dejected: "We were."

The apartment's small, with just a few pieces of furniture and minimal supplies. It used to belong to the Central Intelligence Agency, but the DIA took it over a few years back, when Thailand's most recent junta shifted numerous intelligence "understandings" around the board. So far as the DIA knows, it's been abandoned and decommissioned, but ISOC would probably think it to be the first place a former Indian Intelligence agency would go, which means it'll be the last place they search.

(A trick Dosha's used before, with some success.)

"A risky game, Dosha," Khalil accuses.

"Not really, no," Dosha explains: "We needed to know if we could trust what's left of Thailand's intelligence, right now, given their access to certain unique assets. We made an overture, and in reply they decided to turn on us, no doubt to curry favor with the Imago. I suppose they like having the illusion that they're still in charge of something."

"What about your sister, Anil?" Khalil asks, looking at the young man, who's still out of breath.

"I don't know," he says: "They say they have her, and they'd hand her over when this was all done, and you were all dead. But I think..."

He doesn't say it. He wipes away a tear, instead, and ventures nothing more. Dosha puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but the young man brushes it away.

That's the last thing he needs right now.

"So you see why I couldn't tip you all off," Dosha says, trying to recover.

"No, comrade, I am not seeing that," Mikhail says: "Do you think they had me under surveillance? You could have told us we were walking into trap."

"That would have been nice to know, yes," Khalil says.

"I don't even know how they found Anil's sister," Dosha protests: "For all I know they have us all under some kind of observation. The best I could do was bring in Dr. Krwi to deal with their Penanggalan, and even that required me to be a lot more subtle than usual-"

"Krasue," the old man corrects him, standing up from his patient: "That was unmistakably a Krasue. The Penanggalan lives further south, and rarely ventures this far up the Malay Peninsula. It is an issue of territory and feeding styles, but nothing to be so concerned about... unless you wish to banish or kill them."

"Or be bitten by one," Sir George says, opening his eyes as much as he can: "How bad is it?"

"I can do nothing more," Krwi says, sadly: "I advise you to pray. It is all that is left."

"Well, then that's that," the Englishman says.

"George, I'm so sorry-" Dosha tries to apologize, but the dying man holds up a hand.

"Someone get me a brandy. If I'm going to die, I will have a brandy."

"I don't think we have any, here?" Dosha says, looking at his liquor cabinet. 

"There is being liquor store outside, and down the stairs," Mikhail says: "I will go and get you best brandy yankee dollar can buy-"

"You're not to leave this apartment until we're clear to teleport out," Dosha insists: "We've lost too much to risk more over a !@#$ing glass of alcohol-"

He doesn't see the Russian's fist flying for his face until it's knocked him across the room. Then Anil's up and at Mikhail's throat with a knife faster than the burly man can react, but there's a sword at his own before he can drive the blade home.

"Killing each other will not fix things," the old man says, adjusting his grip on his swordcane ever so slightly.

"You do not hit him, ever," Anil hisses.

"This man's stupid sister and idiot handler got good man killed!" Mikhail shouts at Krwi. 

"Neither will recriminations," Krwi insists, calm as winter snow: "Mistakes have been made. War is full of such things. Either we pull together and learn from them, or we lose."

"I am not going to war with a !@#$ing idiot who uses us like toys to save his boyfriend's family," the Russian spits, walking away from the knife: "Drop me where you like, but I am being done with this."

"Is that how we are to honor the dead?" Khalil asks, getting to his feet: "All those people in Israel and Palestine? Do they die for nothing, then?"

"Look at us, my friend," the Russian says: "We are nothing. Whole point of us was to get together and share information. To tell truth between lies and help each other.

"And now, what do we have, eh? Dosha uses us as bait for trap, and brings in outsider we know nothing of. Khalil, you do not tell us about your power. And God !@#$ only knows what Sir George is !@#$ing hiding-"

"That I know that Khalil wasn't... wasn't just hiding the fact that he's recently developed a strategic talent," the Englishman says, trying to avoid sounding as weak as he actually is: "In fact, I was going to bring that up before... we were so rudely interrupted."

"What do you mean?" Khalil sighs.

"The Object, Khalil. They should... know about the Object. They should know what a bad thing NGUVU did... handing it over to GORGON."

"We did not hand it over to them," Khalil protests: "If you think we would hand it over to anyone-"

"Then you don't know, do you?" the Englishman says: "Well, I guess that's that, then. I wasn't sure whether you were dangerous or clueless, Khalil. I suppose.... I suppose..."

"Oh, do be quiet, both of you," the old man sighs, putting his swordcane down, and reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a flask. He kneels down to the dying man and hands it to him. 

"Is this...?" Sir George asks, taking a good whiff of it.

"It is," Dr. Krwi says: "Honey vodka. It is the best thing in the world."

The Englishman smiles, takes a good swig, and hands over the flask: "Then I die content."

"Is there anything else we can do?" Dosha asks, finally getting up off the floor.

"Other than make sure my dead letter gets sent?" George asks: "Don't let my death be for nothing. I hated you all, each and every one of you. But we did good in our time. Do more good, gentlemen. Be better than this."

He takes a last breath, exhales, and is gone. 

Mikhail's face gets so red it's a wonder blood doesn't explode from his pores, and punches the nearest wall. His fist goes through the plaster right to the wood.

"NGUVU gave the Object to GORGON?" Dosha asks, looking at Khalil. 

"We didn't..." Khalil sighs, putting his head in his hands and wondering whether the others in the room are going to listen to what he has to say, or kill him.

"Will someone please tell me what this Object is?" Anil asks, finally putting his knife away, but still keeping himself between Dosha and the Russian. 

"This can wait for another time, surely," Dr. Krwi offers, having a slug of his own drink: "This room is burned. You must leave it. You must leave this country now and not look back.

"But as soon as we can reconvene, gentlemen, I think a number of things need to be said?"

Dosha nods, looking to Mikhail and then Khalil: "We'll leave here as soon as we can. Then-"

"I am being done with you," Mikhail says: "We have many supers left. I have rolodex full of names. I will !@#$ing go door-to-door if I have to."

"It would be quicker if I teleported you," Anil says, holding out a hand.

"I don't think-" Dosha starts to say, but one look from Anil shuts him up.

"I may not know everything there is to know about this world I've been brought into," the young man says: "And I may not have been 100% honest about certain things with you. But I do know that if we don't work together, we are !@#$ed. And we know who's going to be wearing the condom, don't we?" 

Dosha takes a moment, and then nods. Mikhail takes Anil's hand, and also nods. Khalil doesn't feel like moving, but nods as well.

"No more !@#$ing secrets, then?" Mikhail asks, looking around the room: "Not from each other?"

"No more secrets," Dosha says.

"No more secrets," Khalil adds. 

"No more secrets," Dr. Krwi says.

"And who are you being, anyway?" Mikhail asks.

"Doctor Krwi, of occupied Poland," the fellow says, passing around the Barenjager: "I kill vampires, primarily. But I also worked with the Polish resistance during the War, became far too familiar with Soviet Bloc intelligence after it, and have recently been moonlighting for several people. Most notably SPYGOD."

"I didn't think you wanted to be a party to that, old man?" Dosha asks: "I believe the phrase was 'one favor, since you know him, but that's it'?"

"Well, what can I say? I fear I may have gotten a reluctant taste for it, recently. And we are all that stands against whatever the Imago have planned."

"Oh, very well," Mikhail mutters, nearly downing the rest of the flask with one gulp: "But if any of you play me again, I will be !@#$ing you with my leg."

And on that -- and the need to toast their dead ally one more time before they all leave -- they can all agree.

(SPYGOD is listening to At Night (The Cure) and having a Barenjager)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 3

"How bad is bad?" Khalil asks, getting more and more pale as Mikhail's story goes on.

"Let me put it to you, my friend," the Russian says, downing the rest of his bottle of vodka in two gargantuan swigs: "If you are not drunk now, you had best be soon. Or we will have to carry you out of here, after the story is done."

"You may have to carry him out, anyway," Sir George says, his tone rather archy. 

"It will not be from total destruction of his soul," Mikhail says: "In war, there comes time when every man sees a thing that puts his mind into that war, once and for all. For some, it is the first dead man you see. For others, the first man they make dead. And some must wait for the most horrible of things. Death camps, gulags, torture, slavery, the worthless slaughter of innocents.

"In this war, we have all these things. I would spare him full horror. I would offer him chance to make an anesthesia in his veins, first. I think it is most kind thing I can do."

"Ignorance would be the kindest thing," Dosha opines: "But in its absence, I suppose a good drink would be just the thing."

Khalil takes his point, and, buzzing for the waiter, orders a bottle for everyone -- even Sir George.

* * *

Warsaw is cold and wet, this morning. It's raining like mad, and that's making it hard for the people of the city to go about their business with no electricity. 

In the city, every Monday is a "no" day: no power, no telephone, no internet, and no work. The Imago need the power in the nearest work center, in Pultusk, at least for now. When winter comes, they plan to ease back, and say that only a few hours -- maybe between Midnight and Sunrise -- will be "no." But for now, the people are being asked to do without for the good of all.

Left without work or power, the people tend to take to the streets. They go for walks, read out of doors, play chess in the parks, and barter for goods in the open spaces. The Imago watch these "free markets" with a strange interest -- maybe because they're curious as to how they work, and maybe because they fear them.

They know what can happen when too many people gather in too small a place, after all.

So the Imago aren't really looking as a large, black-clad Indian fellow appears out of nowhere, in the heart of Zoliborz. 

He looks around him and takes a few deep breaths, as though he'd been running to get here. Then he pulls a large stack of photographs out of a deep pocket, and takes the top one to the bottom. He then proceeds to look at the new top one for a full minute, as though whatever he was seeing was the most important thing in the world. 

"Not too far, now," he says. His voice is ragged from crying and exertion. 

He huffs and puffs, and closes his eyes. Then he's gone, again. 

And when he comes back, a few minutes later, he is no longer alone. 

* * *

"The entire leadership?" Khalil asks.

"All of them?" Dosha tries to clarify.

"Yes, my friends," Mikhail says: "All of them, in one go. They knew the general shape of what was to come. Their precognitives, yes? They all woke up screaming, that morning, knowing that the end of the Palestinian Authority was at hand. So they chose to go out with defiant bang."

"Self fulfilling prophecy, eh?" Sir George snorts: "I expected better, quite frankly."

"!@#$ you," Dosha says: "They chose defiance over subservience. That's a !@#$ sight better than either of our governments have done."

"Your former government, you mean," he says, giving Dosha a gimlet eye: "I seem to remember they tried to burn you after your special friend shot his President."

"Is irrelevant, now," Mikhail insists: "All we hang together, or else they hang us separately, yes?"

"You're drunk," Sir George quips, having a sip of his own brew.

"And you're a goat!@#$er," Dosha says: "But at least in the morning he'll be sober."

"Well, if you have to mangle Churchill-"

"I heard they had been genetically farming certain powers in their children, but I had no idea the program was that advanced," Khalil interjects, hoping to change the conversation from an argument to a discussion, again.

"Advanced? Feh!" Mikhail says, having another drink: "Is not too hard to give a power to a person, so long as you do not !@#$ing care about their survival. In fact, is easiest thing in the world, it seems. Soviets, HONEYCOMB, Nazis, they do it all the time, back in the days. They create human equivalent of missiles. You fire them, they do their super thing, and if they die or melt or explode, well, they can not be interrogated if they are pile of ashes, yes?"

"And the Palestinians had a lot of contact with the Soviets, by way of Egypt, back in the 70's," Sir George adds.

"Which would have been when these children were altered?" Dosha asks.

"Their parents," Mikhail corrects: "Parents are altered, but do not show power. Their children show the power. And the power is sloppy, brutal thing, only really good for one use. You can guess which use that is, yes?"

"And how many children did it take to wipe that part of Ramallah off the map?" Dosha asks.

"That I do not know, my friend. I have heard maybe twenty. It was enough to destroy their administrative center, a few blocks outwards."

"And the Imago who came to see them?" Khalil asks.

"Not even !@#$ing scratched."

Khalil sighs, and downs a slug of his drink: "!@#$ me in prison like a white tourist. This is truly terrible."

"Still, it gets worse," Mikhail says, having another slug: "Because this is the moment, my friends. This is the moment in which Imago realize that they cannot rule this land. Not the way that they want.

"They prefer to tell no one nothing. They want the leaders there to tell them, and only speak once in a while. But there are no leaders left to tell the people what to do.

"And no one they approach to become new leaders will do or say these things. In all these lands, they only find people who will say 'no.' No one to say 'yes.' No one to suck their metal butts and tell them how much they love the chocolate, there.

"No one."

He sighs, and pulls out a blown up photograph. He puts it on the table, so the other three men can look at it.

"I'm... I'm not sure what this is," Sir George admits: "It's a little grainy."

"Gavril, he sends me this after he takes it," Mikhail says: "He is high up on building, shooting camera down. He cannot get very good shot, but you can see enough."

"Is that a crowd of people, running away?" Khalil asks: "Some of them falling down and dying when they're hit by... what is that?"

"Bright orange lines," Dosha says, tracing the course of one as it snakes from the top of the photo down to the face of one of the people who is running away: "I've seen them use that weapon. They fire twin beams from their eyes, and the beams follow you, no matter where you hide."

"And they strike you in the eyes," Khalil adds: "Your eyes turn to steam. Your brain becomes ashes in your skull."

"Once they fire these beams, there is being no escape," Mikhail adds: "You are dead man."

"And that's what this is?" Sir George says, pointing to the couple of Imago as they float above the crowd: "They just started firing at this crowd?"

"Firing at every crowd, everywhere," Mikhail says, sadly: "They float above gatherings for one hour, waiting for signal. People who do not know what has happened, they come out to look, wondering if is some announcement. They laugh and play. They have no idea.

"And then, when signal is given, the execution begins..."

Mikhail takes in a deep breath: "It takes them only two hours. They move throughout country, top to bottom, left to right. They fire beam after beam. Each one finds a target and kills. Men, women, children, babes in cradles. Everyone living is dead, and there is no escape.

"Gavril, he takes this picture. He maybe takes more, but they do not come to me. He sends me message, and says 'Remember us. Remember that we lived and died for right to say no.'

"Then he jumps from building, rather than be shot."

The Russian tears up, and puts a hand over his eyes: "My grandfather's brother, he left Russia many years ago. Went to Israel with other Jews. Said we were crazy to stay behind, but my grandfather, he was true believer. He said there was nothing in Israel but capitalists trying to !@#$ you and Arabs trying to kill you. In USSR, there was safety. In Israel, only danger.

"And look! He was right. He was right."

Mikhail sobs. Khalil tries to not be sick. Dosha closes his eyes.

Sir George stiffens and gasps, feeling a long, wet thing impale him through the back of his neck.

"Hello," Amporn says, her head floating up from behind the Englishman as he starts to die, and her tongue sucking the life from him: "I hope I'm not disturbing you gentlemen?"

(SPYGOD is listening to Three (The Cure) and having a Smirnoff, straight up)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 2

"You know how it was on 3/15," Mikhail begins, making sure everyone has at least two shots of his obscenely strong vodka in them, first: "The revolutionaries struck the leadership of every country, supposedly on behalf of the United States of America. They had the leaders at their mercy, and then called in for further instructions. This is part one.

"And then the Imago came, and saved our leaders, which is part two. And then they tell us that they'd also come to save us from ourselves. That they would be watching us for a time. Protecting us. This is part three. You know all this, already."

"We do, yes," Sir George says, running a finger along the lip of his shotglass: "Just as we know that the Imago were lying, and clearly had their own agenda."

"And just as we know that they've been quite ruthless about enforcing that agenda," Khalil adds: "Many who were leaders in Africa on that day are not leaders now. And their families..."

"Dead, or worse," Dosha finishes his sentence, pushing his glass over towards Mikhail in hopes of a refill.

"Yes, my friends," Mikhail says, filling up Dosha's glass and offering the same to others: "And worse, well... you have seen how keen they are to separate parents from children, especially in the places where they have given work to the people. They have made it clear that they can take anything they want from you. Take anyone. It is not hard to convince people to say what they want said, and do what they want done, when your children will pay the price if you do not.

"But Israel? Ah, they are nothing but trouble, right from the start.

"Part one does not happen in Israel. The revolutionary fools who try to take Israeli government are smashed to pieces. The idiots who try to take down Palestinian Authority? Also smashed."

"Why them?" Dosha asks: "What is so special about them?"

"It seems that both sides have many precognitives, who are screaming that something terrible is to happen on 3/15, but do not know !@#$ing what it is. Naturally they suspect one another, and remain on quiet high alert. So when revolutionaries strike, everyone's Supers are there. And they smash them."

"Smashing," Sir George smiles, downing his new shot: "So what went wrong?"

"The Imago come down, and you can tell they are not happy," Mikhail continues: "They are expecting things to be one way, and they are other way. So they do their best to go to part three without there being part one or part two. But no one is having this !@#$. Both sides, they are saying 'Who are you?' And 'Who do you think you are to tell us these things?'

"This does not go over very well. The Imago want Israel and Palestinian Authority to broadcast to their peoples the things they wish them to say. Again, both sides, they are saying 'Who are you?'"

"What did the Imago do?" Khalil asks, looking very pale.

"At first? Nothing," Mikhail continues, taking a swig of vodka straight from the bottle: "They say 'fine, be !@#$holes.' They !@#$ off to the sky, or thin air. They leave the Israelis and Palestinians to fend for themselves, no imports or exports, no emergency supplies.

"But, you know these peoples. Both are used to eating !@#$ and !@#$ing gold. They are little shaky at first, but soon they are fine. No problem, yes?

"And then, at last, Imago come back again. This is months later, after Presidential trials are all over, and last American President is man who fell to Earth. And now they say they need Israel and Palestinian Authority to tell their people things. They need to organize people to work, to prepare the Earth from this danger that is coming. They want to take their mentally incompetent away to be healed, and their children away to be educated. Same thing they do in some places."

"Again, why Israel?" Dosha asks: "It seems that most places where the populations were taken from major metropolitan areas and set up in tent cities are less developed places, in less developed countries. Most of India has been resettled, with only places like New Delhi still as it was."

"And Africa," Khalil adds, agreeing: "Major cities like Nairobi and Addis Ababa were left alone, but everything outside of them was uprooted."

"Maybe to punish them for being so !@#$ stubborn," Sir George offers: "Maybe they really hate Jews and Palis. Who can say? World conquerors don't always have rational reasons."

"Is good point," Mikhail says, pouring him some more vodka: "Who can say? But what happens next, we can say. Because we have seen."

He shudders, and takes another swig.

* * *

In a darkened room with one, shuttered window, not too far away from Poke's, two Thai men -- one young, one middle-aged -- are standing by a large, metal crate. They smoke bad cigarettes and wait, occasionally thumbing their very large, loosely-holstered pistols, and shooting nervous looks at the crate.

Especially when they hear what's inside of it move.

"Why haven't they called, yet?" the younger man asks, looking at the cellphone over on a table with no chairs. It's sitting next to a small, wooden box that's quite old, but has a very new lock on it. 

"Because they haven't called, yet," the older man sighs, wishing the kid they'd stuck him with would learn to relax.

"They really should have !@#$ing called by now-"

"Shut up," the older one says, slicking back his hair and wishing this safehouse had a !@#$ air conditioner that worked.

"You know I'm right. They should have called by now."

"And I'm telling you to shut up," the other man says, walking to the window and looking out for no real reason: "You know how this is. We'll be called when we're called. Until then, we are patient."

The younger man sighs. He joined Internal Security to have more control over his own situation, but since those Imago bastards showed up, it's been less about having control, and more about people having control over him.

(Of course, upon reflection, he realizes ISOC's always been that way. It was just a better illusion before 3/15.)

Finally, the slim, black cellphone rings. They both look at it, and then at each other, and realize no one wants to actually answer it. But after the third ring, the older man sighs, walks over, and bites the bullet.

"Yeah," he says, listening: "Pokes? ... Okay, that makes sense. ... You want them all dead? ... Okay, no problem. We'll tell her."

He hangs up, puts the phone down, and pulls out his pistol. He nods to the younger man, who gulps, and then, very slowly, goes over to one side of the crate. There's a hidden keypad, there, and he types in the combination that opens it up.

The well-oiled metal slides open like a flower greeting the sun, and then there's a woman in the room with them. She's wearing a simple shirt over a flowing skirt, like what a country girl might. Her skin is as pale as the Moon, and her eyes are blood red with black, nickel-sized pupils.

And her jet-black lips are curdled into a very nasty frown, looking at the two men.

"Hello, Amporn," the older man says: "You remember me from last time, right? You know what this gun does, and what we have."

"When do I get it back?" she demands, her voice deeper than it should be for one so seemingly frail and light.

"We're not sure, yet," he says, and this is the truth: "Things have changed. But soon, I think."

"That's what they said twenty years ago," she accuses: "You have no truth to you. I will enjoy taking you, when they tell me."

"You be quiet!" the younger man shouts, pointing his gun at the box at the table: "I will !@#$ing shoot it, you !@#$. Don't think I won't."

"And I won't stop him," the older man says, trying to mask his annoyance at the younger agent's outburst: "We can always find another thing like you. Maybe Cambodia, this time. I hear the ones up there have better manners."

The girl smiles. Her teeth are white, long, and jagged, like the shards of a broken plate: "I will have your wife, before I have you. I'll wait until she's with your child, and suck it out of her in the night. And then I'll slop its broken, little body into your mouth as I'm having you, just to hear the sounds you make..."

The younger agent picks that moment to be horribly, violently sick. The girl laughs at his nausea and embarrassment as he scuttles away from her, trying to regain control and point his gun at the box.

"You nasty little !@#$!" the older man shouts: "If we didn't need you..."

"Oh, but that's just it," she smiles: "You do need me. And that's why you won't hurt what's in the box, and you won't even breathe on my body, when I leave. Now will you?"

She has them there, and they know it. 

"Now, what are my orders... master?"

"The bar, Pokes, over on Silom Soi 4. On the second floor there's a table. There are four farang there: a Russian, an Indian, an African, and an Englishman. You will go there and kill them all, and then return here."

"Are they special?"

"We suspect one or more of them may be, but we're not sure how. The Indian has a special man, but he's gone and won't be disturbing you."

"He'd better not," she says, stretching her back and arms: "I'm hungry enough to eat ten men, today."

"Well, go have your meal, woman," the older man says: "You have an hour. After that, we burn your body. Same as always."

"Same as always," she repeats, looking at them with luscious contempt. 

And then, with the wet rushing of unspeakable things, she's gone.  

* * *

"It starts in Jerusalem," Mikhail continues, after a moment: "In house of government. There is cabinet meeting, and it is being taped for posterity. They are deciding something important and want record of it.

"Halfway through meeting, Imago show up, and tell Prime Minister to get all his people there. And he does this, but who knows why. He gets other Party heads, the President, some ambassadors. Maybe he is wanting an audience. Maybe he wants strength in numbers.

"And then, once they are all there, these Imago start to tell him what he will be doing, and saying. Like old Soviets, they make it sound like good things, and important things, and how could he possibly resist such sensible commands?

"And there, in front of his people, and the heads of the other parties, and the President of Israel, he says 'No.'

"And they are shocked, and ask him to repeat himself. To explain himself. 

"But he says 'No, I will not do these things. I am not your puppet. I am the leader, here, and we do not do things because metal men from the past come and tell us America has gone insane and a space monster is coming to Earth. If America had attacked us, we would have known. And if there is such a monster, we will fight it off, with others if we can, by ourselves if need be. 

"'But this is Israel. It was purchased in blood. It was won through combat. It has been secured, time and again, by the sacrifice of its people. We will not do what you tell us to do, because you do not have the right.'"

Sir George blinks: "Bravo. I would have never thought he had that in him."

"Maybe he did not know, either. But this speech, it made them very angry. So one of them teleports away, and when it comes back it has his wife."

"Oh no," Khalil says, knowing what's coming next.

"This does not deter him," Mikhail continues: "Not even when her head is on his desk and her body is out in the street, having been thrown through the window. He is screaming, and so is everyone there, but still he is saying 'no.'

"So they find his children, and ask him one more time. And, again, he says 'no.'"

Mikhail stops, picks up the bottle, and is about to have another swig, but then puts it down. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them they are very wet. 

"I forget who succeeds the Prime Minister in case of sudden death," he continues: "So I do not know who they ask once the Prime Minister is sent out of window to join his wife and children in street below. But I know that person also says no. And the President says no. And next person after that says no. And no and no and no, all the way down.

"Eventually, is just down to one cabinet minister. And she stands there, covered in blood of her colleagues and friends and rivals, and people did she did not truly know until this day, and looking at her husband's frightened eyes as some metal man has his hands around his neck, like chicken for the pot. And she says to them 'You are tiny. You are nothing. You have nothing on your side but lies and tricks. And you will find no one here who will say yes to you, because this is Israel, and whatever reason God put us here, it was not to say yes to the likes of you.'"

The Russian finally has that swig.

"So they went to the Palestinians next?" Dosha asks.

"Oh yes," Mikhail says: "And that is when things get really bad."

(SPYGOD is listening to A Reflection (The Cure) and having a Phuket)