Apotheoclypse Now: 9/19/16 - 9/25/16

"I can see you're going to crush them now / I can feel you're gonna win"

(The Turd Crab from Beyond)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

6

* * *

"How is this even !@#$ing possible?" SPYGOD asks, holding his lover for the first time in a long time.

"Thank Raitha," Straffer says, kissing him passionately in his fiance's office -- suddenly no longer as dark: "This is a hard light projection. Same principle that keeps the lightships together."

"That's not the only thing that's hard," the superspy says, kissing him back.

"We could do that, too," the blonde cyborg says: "If only we had time."

"That seems to be a thing, these days."

Straffer nods, and then holds SPYGOD's head in his hands: "We have a plan. We're about to do it. But it won't come cheap or easy. And I'm going to have to do something..."

"What?" SPYGOD asks, not liking what he sees in his lover's eyes.

"Someone's going to have to go into the hole and stop whatever's on the other side," Straffer says: "It might not have to be me."

"But if it is, you'll !@#$ing do it," the superspy says, nodding.

"Tell me you understand," the cyborg pleads: "Tell me you back my play."

"I wouldn't !@#$ing love you if you weren't the one who jumped feet first onto Planet Mother!@#$er with a laser gun between your teeth," SPYGOD says, after a second: "And it wouldn't be !@#$ing fair if I got to jump, and I didn't let you."

"That's why I love you," Straffer says: "You get it. You get me."

"Is that the only reason?" the superspy asks, giving him a kiss that could stop a normal man's heart.

"It's in the top ten," Straffer mumbles around his lips and tongue.

"But please," SPYGOD says, kissing him with each word: "Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please come back to me."

"I'll do my best," Straffer swears: "I will. The caterer will be furious if we !@#$ing cancel."

"Yeah. And I got my tux being specially made in Dubai."

"That guy in Satwa?" 

"Yes." 

"The one with the Thai place across the way?"

"The same."

"Black and gold?"

"!@#$ yes."

"I love you," Straffer says, looking him in the eyes: "I will crawl through hell, fight through heaven, and kick ass all the way through time and space if I have to, just to come back to you."

"Then go and do it," SPYGOD says. 

"And you promise me you won't !@#$ing brood," Straffer insists: "Go jump in your work. Make your stuff happen. Do what you have to."

"You know it," the superspy says, kissing him one last time. 

There's one more look between them. And then Raitha is there, smiling, instead of his lover.

And then she's gone, and there's just the office -- dark and foreboding, as ever.

And SPYGOD sighs, adjusts his sunglasses so no one can see he's crying.

And gets back to the !@#$...

Monday: 9/19/16

"...shock and revulsion nationwide as the interview between outlaw reporter Randolph Scott and the being claiming to be the Great Spirit goes viral..."

*CLICK*

SCOTT: "So what would you say to the people of this nation? What would you want them to know?"

GREAT SPIRIT: "I'd want them to know that the time of silence is over. You think that because you hear nothing, there's nothing out there. That's not true. We've always been out there, listening and watching. We've heard the silent cries of our people. Cries of sadness and anger. Cries for justice and peace.

"The silence is going to stop. You will hear their cries. And you will hear our reply, and see it."

SCOTT: "What form will that reply take?"

GREAT SPIRIT: "Sometimes you hear the thunder after the lightning. This time you'll feel the lightning first."

*CLICK*

"Well, Gretchen, I don't feel comfortable with some self-proclaimed god lecturing white people like myself about what some people did in this nation's past. We need to get past that, just like we need to get past this nonsense about slavery, and interning the Japanese, and profiling Muslims after the Computer Hell virus. We're a post-racist society, whatever the liberals might say, and we need to act like it."

*CLICK*

GREAT SPIRIT: "All I can say about the American Indian Movement is that they shouldn't have stopped fighting. Words are fine, but there's a time to talk and a time to fight. Wounded Knee showed the people what happens when power feels threatened. It should have made them discover their own power, and respond to that threat in the only way power understands."

SCOTT: "What's that?" 

GREAT SPIRIT: "More power."

*CLICK*

"... news coming in from Mars, from Freedom Party Candidate Ted Cruz. They have been fighting for just under a day, now. We hear they are breaking through the enemy's defenses and approaching their objective... whatever that is..."

*CLICK*

 "Well, Fred, the President has considered the situation. And he's decided that, given what's been going in at Standing Rock, it's best to just let this issue lie for a time.  We do not believe that our nation is under any threat from this entity, or his cohorts. In fact we've enjoyed some very fruitful dialogue with them, lately..."

 *CLICK*

SCOTT: "Is there anything you would say to your people, at this point? It's been a while since you've spoken to them."

GREAT SPIRIT: "We speak to them all the time. They just don't listen. They let this world blind them to the light from our fire, and deafen them to the drums from our circle. They can't hear the call to come dancing because they've lost the connection to our world."

SCOTT: "How do they get it back, then? Come sit by your fire? Groove in the mud here?"

GREAT SPIRIT: "Well, a good start would be to deal with their so-called leadership on those sorry reservations they live in. I've seen what passes for tribal elders, there. It makes me sick. They're more interested in using the law to make money. They let their people get sick on poison. And then they blame the white man for their problems."

*CLICK* 

JOE TWO MOONS: "How dare he claim to speak for our people? We don't even know who he is. All I can tell you is that as the leader of my Tribe, and the CEO of a casino that's brought countless jobs to this reservation? We're doing just fine without him."

REPORTER: "Sir, what about the pending investigation into your possible involvement in a heroin trafficking ring...?"

JOE TWO MOONS: "This interview is over."

*CLICK*

"... still unsure why a police officer shot an unarmed man, his hands in the air, who seems to have simply been returning to his stalled vehicle. The Governor of Oklahoma has promised a full investigation..."

* CLICK*

SCOTT:  "So what should they do, then?"

GREAT SPIRIT: "They should remember that they are a proud and worthy people. They should leave those pits the white man gave them and move out into the land beyond them. They should work hard, act well, and contribute to that world. Add to its culture. Create harmony. And bring the songs of our people out into the open."

SCOTT: "Conquer by assimilation?" 

GREAT SPIRIT "Up to a point. But they should also remember that they walk with their ancestors, and we spirits. When they encounter trouble, we will be there. When there is danger, we will aid them.

"And if there is trouble, we will come to stop it."

*CLICK*

"I, Seranu of the Olympians, state now and clearly that we bear no ill will towards our cousins. We find their cause to be just, and their concerns to be correct. 

"We only ask that they be considerate of the very delicate balance we gods find ourselves in, right now. With so many of us coming back to this world, it is only natural that its inhabitants may be afraid, or at least worried. 

"If we say or do too many things at once, that fear may turn to panic.

"And panic is often the author of tragedy..."

*CLICK*

 SCOTT: "You're here in South Dakota, at Standing Rock. You've chosen this place to congregate, and make yourselves known to be here. One might wonder if this conflict is the trouble you speak of."

GREAT SPIRIT: "All troubles are one trouble, now. The trouble is that our people are not taken seriously by the government of this land. They're used to handing off beads and trinkets, and hoping we quiet down and go away. They're also used to pointing a gun at us, and saying go back to your hovel and make no more noise."

SCOTT: "But you're not going to be quiet, are you?"

GREAT SPIRIT: "No, I am not. We are not. We are going to say that this pipeline goes no further. We are going to say that these lands be left alone. We are going to say that all sacred lands be left alone."

SCOTT: "And if they say no?"

*THUNDER BOOMS IN A CLEAR SKY*

GREAT SPIRIT: "That will be our answer. Only on that day, there will be lightning and thunder.

"And they won't like it when the lightning flies up their asses...."

*CLICK*

"... oddly enough, there has been no comment forthcoming from The COMPANY, which has taken the point in maintaining some semblance of order among the various pantheons that are now appearing, or wanting to emigrate, to America.

"Attempts to get a comment from SPYGOD as to the seriousness of this threat resulted in our reporter being tossed out of the Heptagon with his microphone crammed somewhere unsuitable for broadcast..."

 Tuesday: 9/20/1

"... coming through on this channel? Are you receiving us? This is Myron with the Reclamation Force. We're having communications issues, right now...

"... still advancing on the enemy position. We've lost about half of our remaining Lightship fleet to their defenses. It's like they've turned the caverns into crap and weaponized it. Every corner is a mine or a beam emplacement. We're lucky that...

"... Aesir running ahead of us. They're taking the crabs down, the combat troops are finishing them off, and some of the talents are clearing a path. Others are up with the lightships, dealing with the defensive grid.

"... lost some people already. A lot of Aesir are going down. I'm not sure if they're coming back up again..."

"... and... oh crap. Oh God, no. Um... you have to tell SPYGOD we lost-"

(TRANSMISSION ENDS)

* * *

"How do you lost a comatose patient?" Rakim asks, looking over the mounds of data he's been feeding the Brain Computer all morning.

"He was never !@#$ing comatose," SPYGOD says, holding up one of the security tapes: "All the time Martha was there? He was constantly blinking in and out. Sometimes he was an illusion, sometimes he was moving so fast he couldn't be seen to move."

"And no one had any idea of this?"

"Yeah," the superspy grumbles: "Syphon was always missing the !@#$ing obvious."

"Well, I bet she's not missing anything now," the former Brainman smiles, stroking his long beard as the computer digests what it's been given: "I'll let you know as soon as I have a prediction, sir."

"Yeah, that reminds me," SPYGOD says, taking a stroll out of the room and down the hall, and calling someone on one of his many phones...

* * *

"... yeah, he's still here," Frankie sighs, putting her hose on one leg at a time as her on-again, off-again calls up about his 'little favor.'

"Don't worry, I've got Holly looking after him... yes, she'll make sure he's okay. She's flighty, not stupid."

"I hear that!" Holly shouts from the other room, to which Frankie responds by flipping her off.

"I heard that, too," Holly protests.

"Yeah, no problem, handsome," Frankie grins: "So after this, it's Hollywood, huh? That's what you always say.

"Yeah," she sighs: "Love you too, you big ngo. Bye bye."

Then she hangs up, puts the phone down, and does her nails with total precision -- wondering who'll be paying her bar price tonight. 

Wednesday: 9/21/16

Dear Lord, forgive me. I may have forgotten how to pray.

I'm about to go into battle, Lord. I don't know if I will survive.

They say I'm invulnerable, now. They say I have powers that let me reform my body from almost nothing.

They say I should be able to walk through all the living toxic sludge that we are about to battle, and not only survive, but strike the decisive blow.

They're all confident in my abilities, Lord. They think they know how I'll do even better than I do.

But I'm scared, Lord. I was scared when I went up against that giant Antichrist, in Russia. And I'm scared now.

There's something about this place, Lord. This dead, red planet that's full of holes, and crawling with filth given form. This broken world we've come to reclaim.

This hole in time and space that someone's going to have to go through and seal.

They say it'll be Straffer who does it. They won't say why, though. 

All that I know is that when he spoke with SPYGOD, last, the goodbye they had made me cry. 

(Is it wrong that I don't care, anymore, that they're gay? That all I see when I look at them is the love?)

Lord, something tells me the plan is going to change. Something tells me I'm going to be called upon to do more than I bargained for.

Something tells me I won't be coming back from all this.

Lord, I am your instrument. Your servant. If you tell me to fight, I will fight. And if I must die, here and now, then I am ready.

But I am afraid, Lord. I am surrounded by the darkness, here. By shadows come to life.

And in the valley of this Shadow, I need to know that you are with me...

It's starting.The drilltank is coming up into the place where the lightships and the Aesir have been fighting, the last few days. We're about to do this.

And we're all here in this drilltank, surrounded by the light of a woman who says she's a god -- a woman I mocked, not too long ago -- and heading for the most dangerous part of the planet.

Oh Lord, protect me. Protect us. Have mercy on all of us. Let us succeed.

In your name...

* * *

My name is Randolph Scott. I'm an outlaw reporter. 

If you asked me what that means, I'd tell you that it's simple. I get the truth, no matter what, even if I have to become the story in order to report it.

Sometimes it means I just kick in the door instead of knocking on it. Sometimes it means I stick a gun under someone's nose until I get the answers.

Sometimes it means I fire that damn gun, too. I don't do !@#$ by half-measures, anymore.

There's no !@#$ing room for half measures, these days. Either you're in or you're out. 

And damn am I ever in. 

I wasn't always like this, though. I used to be fairly safe reporter, not too long ago.

I worked for Alternet. I stuck to topics that were easy to understand, and held positions it was easy to be self-righteous about.

I wrote whiny, self-indulgent columns about how the Republicans were screwing the country, or the world. I got on TV and gave the business to the talking heads from the other side, and took their business in return. 

It sounded important, at the time. And maybe in some ways, some of the things I talked about, and the views I held, were actually pretty damn important from time to time. Maybe I changed some minds. Maybe I even changed policies, though I !@#$ing doubt that. 

But it was all predictable. All boring. 

All safe. 

And then I managed to get onto a real sweet deal. A press conference with SPYGOD, himself, who'd just kicked major supernazi ass down at the South Pole, and was holding court on what he'd done, and why.

And me? I just had to !@#$ing stick my foot up his ass...

Randolph Scott looks at what he's just written, makes a sour face, and then considers nuking it all.

Too long, he thinks. Too much of him, not enough of the story.

Self-indulgent. Smug, even.

Not the sort of thing you could consider for a eulogy, let alone an obituary.

He takes a deep breath, considers having some more of the scotch he's been nipping at since Helga died, this morning.

Jana is having trouble breathing. He can hear her in the room next door. They call it "respiratory distress" -- when the body's shutting down, but the lungs and heart haven't gotten the message, yet, and are putting all their energy into keeping the brain alive, no matter what.

It sounds awful. It looks even worse.

He sat in the room for exactly and hour, watching. Trying to write. And then he realized he couldn't do it.

(Velma told him to get out. Bless her for that. )

So he's here, next door, trying to write up how they all met. How he started this whole story that led to them becoming not just a story, but his own family.

And how he's losing them -- watching them die because they just weren't built to last.

"So much for German engineering," he mutters, and considers if he should put that in there or not.

(Write though the pain. kid, he tells himself: write through the pain.)

And after a genuine snort of the good stuff, he does. Especially after he realizes that the reason he can't talk so much about his kids is because he can't really accept what's happening to them, now...

Thursday: 9/22/16

"How is this happening?" the Candidate gasps, looking at the latest poll numbers: "I'm losing ground to this Socialist twit across the board?"

"You are, yes," his campaign manager says, shaking his head.

"How can this be happening?"

"Well, there's a number of factors," the kid says, looking around: "But I'd say your son's stupid post about skittles had a hand in it."

The two of them are standing in the man's large hotel room -- an executive suite the size of a small airplane hangar, with a genuine Chihuly chandelier dominating the high roof. It's full of big time donors, fellow travelers, and the like.

All of them trying to put on a brave face, in spite of the weird turn the news has taken for their great, orange hope. 

"This can't be happening," the beefy, big-faced man says, sitting down in a chair worth over $5000 and shaking his head, touching the sigil the late King Whip gave him: "This is supposed to be protecting me..."

"Well, King Whip is..." the campaign manager starts to say, and then doesn't finish the thought.

He really does not want to ever have to think about what they found in that box -- not ever, ever again.

"This is just incredible," the Candidate says, putting the polling data down and reaching for a glass of champagne -- one handed off by a waiter who doesn't even bother to smile at him, anymore: "The fact that a city like Detroit can just get taken over by super criminals. Unbelievable."

"Well, the city's always had a really weird relationship with heroes-"

"That's what happens when a city gets run into the ground by useless people," the beefy man says: "It just gets really bad. Totally bad."

"Well, it's a bit more complex than that-"

"All I need to know is if this thing will keep working even though King Whip isn't around," he interrupts, tapping the sigil: "Just through October. Can we count on it?"

As if to answer him, the sigil crumbles under the weight of his finger -- just enough to send a few crumbs down his suit jacket.

The moment that happens, it's like a switch gets thrown. The mood of the party sours. People stop talking and start grumbling.

Some of them even look across the room at the man they were lauding, just seconds ago, and give him that look. The look he knows too well from countless soirees and parties and get-togethers, from all the years before.

The look that says "who are you to say such things?" and "what have you done for me, lately?"

And all he can say is...

* * *

"...please tell me you're fucking joking about fucking the horse," the Alter-Earth SPYGOD says to his new master as they step through time and space itself.

"I never jest about my romances, my good and faithful servant," the adoptive son of Odin chuckles -- his wide smile taxing the facial muscles of the person he's wearing.

"A horse?"

"The true question is not why I chose to masquerade as such a beast, but rather what was in it for me."

"I'm guessing your life was on the line?"

"Oh, to be certain," Loki chuckles, waving a hand to bring them out of where they are, and back into reality -- emerging in a large, dark cave.

"And then you gave birth to... what?"

"Faithful Sleipnir," the trickster says, looking around the cave: "Currently ridden by the All-Father, himself. Eight legs has this steed, graceful and swift. There are none better."

"And for that you laid with an animal."

"Have you, not, yourself laid with another to gain some advantage?" 

"All the fucking time. I just violate some dumb beast. That's..."

"Wrong?" Loki smiles: "Unseemly? Perverted? This from you, who have done so many delightfully wicked things in your time?" 

"I never raped a thing that couldn't say no," the Alter-Earth SPYGOD insists, disgusted at the idea: "Animals are food or beasts of burden. It's not right to make them suffer."

"Svaðilfari hardly suffered," the trickster says, considering something: "In fact, I think I was the best..."

"What?"

"Can you not feel it?" Loki asks, waving a hand around in the air: "We are not alone, here, friend (DETCADER). The ghost in time watches us, even now."

"Then get what we fucking came here for and get out," his new servant insists: "This time bullshit gives me a fucking headache."

"Very well," the person wearing Thomas Samuel's amazing new body says, and reaches down to take a certain very powerful gun from where the time ghost in question left it for the future to find.

And then...

* * *

"... Odin is down. I repeat, Odin is down..." Shining Guardsman says, doing his best to haul what's left of his friend back behind the lines. 

It was a bad idea, either way. The latest crab to come crashing through the dimensional portal was a lot larger than the rest. A lot meaner, too.

(And something about the sacs on its underside gave the others pause)

But Odin? He had no fear. He hadn't shown so much as a hint of it this entire time.

(Especially after the death of his son, Thor, on the first day of battle...)

No, not Odin. He leaped right at it -- spear in hand, sword at the ready. And those battle-hardened Aesir that remained followed shortly after. 

At which point the beast exploded, showering everyone within close proximity with the kind of poisonous, acidic sludge they've been wading in -- and losing people to -- every inch of the way. 

Odin took the brunt of it. He shielded the others as best as he could, but it wasn't nearly enough. 

And now Mr USA is dying -- his lower half a mess of melted flesh, torn muscle, and weeping organs, all showing under the skirt of Odin's armor.

Which suddenly isn't there...

"My God," the hero says in his own voice, and then gasping in pain.

"(REDACTED)?" the cyborg asks, gently putting him down: "Is that you...?"

"It is," Mr USA says, blinking eyes dilated by what must be extreme pain and shock: "I'm... I'm me. I can feel..."

He looks down at his midsection, and then up at the face of his younger ally: "I guess that's why I can't... feel the cancer..."

"Man, don't move," Shining Guardsman says: "Let me get you to the drill tank. We can stabilize you. We can..."

"No," the older hero dies: "It's okay. This is... this is how it happens. I saw this a long ago. When I was somewhere else. When I was with someone else... I can't explain it... take too long..."

"Please don't die," the hero begs his friend: "Not now. Not after we got you through the cancer, and..."

"The cancer was just delayed..." Mr. USA says, smiling in spite of it all: "Last treatment used up. I would have died in Moscow if Odin hadn't... if we hadn't..."

He closes his eyes again, and then opens them -- panicking.

"Tell Straffer..." he says, taking Shining Guardsman by the arm with such urgency it almost breaks his armor: "Tell Myron... it's not what they think it is."

"What is?" the cyborg asks, unsure if this is warning, delirium, or both.

"The war," he gasps, looking up at the flaming roof of the massive cavern as something explodes nearby: "All this... it's been planned... all plans... everyone..."

"Whose plan?" Shining Guardsman demands of him: "Tell me, man! What's going on? Give me a hint..."

"Naglfar..." the older hero says, pointing weakly to the roof of the cavern, and beyond it: "Look out for..."

And then he smiles, in spite of dying -- or maybe because of it...

Because here comes a large, gorgeous redhead to take him away from all this. 

The woman he's only ever seen tangentally, and then only because of the glowing dragonflies in her wake. 

"Tombo," he says, shaking her hand: "It's good to finally meet you."

"Come on, handsome," she says, going for the hug instead: "Your wife is waiting for you."

"What about... Charles?"

She winks: "Him too. They've hooked up over here, believe or not."

"Oh..." he says, and then chuckles: "Of course they did. I loved them both. Why wouldn't they love each other."

"It doesn't always work like that, silly," she playfully corrects him as she leads him away: "And no looking back, now. That's done."

"I know," he says, smiling: "It's all taken care of, anyway..."

And Shining Guardsman takes the time to weep, having seen America's greatest hero die a second time...

Friday: 9/23/16

"...I can't !@#$ing believe this," Josie mutters, watching the news feed: "I just can't..."

"Oh, I can," Dragonfly says, chuckling: "And I say good for her."

"This isn't funny, Agent," the COMPANY Second insists, pointing at the riot on the screen -- the one with a short, human dynamo in the center, tossing armored cops every which way: "This is a law enforcement situation. Red Wrecker has no business being there, let alone joining in..."

"Unless it's a revolution," the former assassin says, rubbing her hands together: "And then it might be a good idea for us to all know whose side we're on."

"And all of our heavy hitters are on Mars, fighting time crabs," the burly, pink-haired clone goes on: "And God knows how that's going...?"

"Still can't get through, ma'am," the harried communications director sighs.

"And Yanabah's at Standing Rock keeping that from boiling over. Gosheven's on top secret assignment. Swiftfoot's in the wind, again. Hanami's taken personal time at the worst time possible. Mister Freedom isn't answering his phone..."

"Free Fire's still a pile of scrap," some AGENT says, thinking he's being helpful.

"Rakim's sort of available," someone else offers.

"No, he's helping The Owl find her son," yet another AGENT corrects: "Been in with the Brain Computer all week trying to figure that !@#$ out." 

"And our Director is doing... whatever the !@#$ he's doing," Josie finishes the thought: "And now this. This!"

"You want me to bring her in?" Dragonfly asks, smiling as she watches the loop of Red Wrecker decking riot cops left right and center, one more time: "I will, if you make it an order."

"I shouldn't have to," she grumbles, but then nods: "Just do it gently."

"Like a lamb, ma'am," the white-clad, former assassin grins, heading out with absolutely no intention of obeying orders...

* * *

"Yeah, well, no," Slam Bang says, walking away from what's going on -- both armored arms up -- as yet another massive crab comes scuttling through the flowing rift in time, a few cavern entrances away.

"You don't have a damn choice!" The Sound shouts, his voice strange in the light atmosphere of Mars's massive, underground caverns: "You came here do to a job! Do it or-"

"Or what?" Kweekweg asks, his combat suit not slowing him down at all as he points his rather large harpoon gun at the intangible villain-turned-hero: "You'll set us straight, mate? Is that what you think?"

"We agreed to this," The Sound says, waving his hands at the frenzied battle just behind them -- the one Earth's forces are clearly losing: "All of us!"

"That was before this started going to !@#$," the armored bank robber says: "Me, I say we get the !@#$ out while the getting's good."

"What the hell is going on here?" a voice asks, its owner quickly whooshing over to them from the melee. 

"We're having some trouble with our part in things," the harpoon-hunter says to Shining Guardsman - - noting how loosely the cyborg's armor is hanging off his frame.

"All you have to do is hold this position until the crabs come this way," the armored hero insists: "Then you nail them from one side while we get them from the other. How damn hard is that?"

"Not hard at all, provided we forget we're cannon fodder," Kweekweg insists: "Or we forget that these things turn everything to poison when we do kill them."

"And then we forget that we're all supposed to climb over that poison to get to the next objective," SlamBang adds.

"We're all taking the same damn risks, here," Shining Guardsman insists: "All of us."

"We're not all immortal, though, are we?" the harpoon hunter says, gesturing to the fight going on -- especially to all the Aesir who are chopping their way through the enemy: "Some of us have to sell our lives pretty dearly-"

"How dare you say that..." the cyborg hisses: "After what just happened? How dare you say that!"

"I'm a villain, mate," Kweekweg chuckles: "Nice isn't in the description-"

"It sure isn't in mine, either," all the villains hear over their suit intercoms just then.

"Um, yeah," SlamBang says: "Is that you, Myron?"

"It is, yes," the former Underman says: "And I've heard every word, and I have to say I'm really !@#$ing disappointed. I thought we had an agreement."

"Well, it's like this-"

"Save it," Myron says: "You will stick to your part of the plan. You will do exactly as you're supposed to. Or I'll just blow your suits open from here and you can all suffocate for all I care."

There's a moment of silence, and then the villains nods: "Yes, sir" they say in near-unison.

"Stand your ground and aim your damn guns," Shining Guardsman says, rocketing away: "Don't make me come back to tell you that."

The Sound smiles, and then beams it at his two companions, thinking he's won.

But as soon as he's turned away, SlamBang and KweeKweg look at one another, and are clearly thinking the same thing.

There's going to be a reckoning. And soon...

Saturday: 9/24/16

The old man stands on a bluff overlooking the sprawling camp at night, hands on his hips, and studies the motions of those below.

He pretends he doesn't hear the woman as she approaches -- stealthy and sly, and quite unlike the creature she's got inside of her. But as soon as she gets within a few feet the Great Spirit chuckles.

"How long did you know?" Yanabah asks, not bothering to sneak up the rest of the way.

"How long did I know you were there?" he asks, his voice deep and firm: "Or how long did I know you were coming?"

"Both."

"I knew you were there because I heard you before you got to the bluff," he chuckles, adjusting the campy, offensive tie he's wearing today: "You walk pretty loud."

"I thought I was being silent."

"Maybe to most. I really should teach you how to move as I do. Without disturbing so much as a blade of grass."

"I'd love to learn that," she says, with no little amount of reverence: "I still don't know why you're being so nice to me."

"Because I knew you were coming," the Great Spirit answers: "All this has been foretold."

"All of this?" she asks, gesturing to the camp below.

"This great battle we stand on the brink of," he explains further: "The struggle that was. The conflict that is. The things yet to come..."

He looks far away for a moment, as though he's seeing through things, again. When he looks back at her it's as though he's seeing through her skin and into her soul.

"Bad times are coming, granddaughter," he says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "Will you still walk with me?"

"Yes," she swears, putting a hand on his hand: "Forever, if you'll have me."

"Will you fight with me?"

"You have to ask?"

"I do."

"Then yes," she swears as well.

"And will you not fight for me, when the time comes?" he asks: "If I tell you to lay down your gun and your bow and your knife? To let the being inside you rage but not let it out? Will you do that as well?"

"Of course," she says, not sure where this is going: "I swear it."

He nods, and then slowly turns from her to look down at the camp.

"The storm's coming," he explains: "First the wind changes. Then the sky darkens. When the rain comes, some will hide. And when the lightning strikes, more will run.

"It's going to be some sad times, that storm," he promises: "But after the storm, there will be sunshine, again..."

She stands by his side, proud to be there -- thinking she understands what he means.

And he stands there, doing his best to hide his sadness -- knowing she wont' realize what he means until it's too late...

* * *

"... and no one's here, I swear," the weird-acting security guard whispers into a sub-dermal communicator, located between his jaw and his ear: "Well, other than me. And that other guard. But he's on the other side of the building-"

"!@#$ing focus, you goddamn goofball," the person he's talking to growls at him: "If you screw this up I swear I'm tossing your ass into a blender."

"Whatever, boss," Gosheven sighs, looking down yet another long corridor and wondering if the secure room he's looking for is here: "Just don't blow me up, okay?"

"I told you-"

"Yeah, yeah," the shapeshifter (currently disguised as Jose Rodrigo, 34) snorts: "Tell it to poor Swiftfoot, if you can find him."

SPYGOD falls silent at that, and Gosheven doesn't know if he said the right thing at last, or maybe said the last thing he'll ever say.

"Have you heard anything from Mars, yet?" he asks, trying to defuse the tension after a minute too long of stonelike silence.

"If I did, don't you think you'd have !@#$ing heard it?"

"With you? I have no damn idea," the shapeshifter says, shrugging: "For all I know you've heard from Straffer every half hour, you've made it there and back twice, and Elvis called up the other night to complain about where you stashed him."

"He's in no shape to complain about a damn thing," the superspy says: "And I don't have time for your chatter."

"Okay," he sighs, but a second later he realizes he's found what he's looking for.

"Almacenamiento Especial 52," he reads off the door: "No abrir puerta de alarma. Peligro, no entre. Me chinga su esposo."

"You !@#$ing wish," SPYGOD snorts: "You got the way in, right?"

"Got it," he chuckles, using Jose's stolen keycard to gain access to the large storeroom. He's inside in less than a second, and then using everything he learned from the guard -- once he got him into several complicated and compromising positions -- to turn off the security systems made to keep those guards from snooping too much. 

"Do you have it in sight?" SPYGOD demands, not liking the silence.

"Do I !@#$ing ever," Gosheven says, whistling at the sight of what's dominating the room. 

"Well good, then," the superspy says: "Hold the damn fort as long as you have to. I'll have the Roaring Boys there in exactly five minutes, ten seconds."

"And then what?"

"And then, there's someone else I need you to procure for me," SPYGOD says.

"Who's that?" the shapeshifter chuckles, wondering how long it'll take the other guard to get to this point, and what he'll do to him when he does: "The guy who knows how to work this thing?"

And when SPYGOD tells him, Gosheven's only response is "who...?" 

Sunday: 9/25/16

"... Director Straffer of the UN Space Service, you !@#$ing acid-!@#$ing piece of garbage!" the blonde cyborg screams, shooting the latest emissary from the hole to pieces as he does.

"Sir!" Senator Ted Cruz says, clearly aghast: "Language!"

"I don't think that really means a damn thing, right about now," Shining Guardsman says -- his cobbled-together armor barely holding up in the face of what they now stand before.

They've finally done it. They've broken past the final guardians, the last defenses. They've strode past nightmare barriers and spiritually-toxic emplacements.

And now they stand on the shores of the great hole in time that has haunted the Lunar Planum for countless ages.

The enemy can't send any more of those massive crabs through, anymore. The moment they appear, New Man fires down the way and kills it before it even gets started towards them.

All they can do is send these horrible little things -- strange mockeries of the human form, some of them wearing faces both familiar and tragic -- to try and broker some kind of truce.

(The last one was a Lightship pilot they'd lost early in the siege. Seeing her made Straffer furious. Hearing her talk... well, that brought out the guns.)

"So now what shall we do?" Orn of the Vanir asks, patting his borrowed hips as he looks through the bag of tricks his vessel brought along or made here: "Is there a trick or a toy you shall require to travel into that?"

"Yes," Myron communicates from back in the drill tank, some distance away -- his team settling matters with the nasty things the last few batches of crabs gave birth to after they died: "I'm sure we'd all like to know what to do now?"

"There is, yes," Straffer says, grinning: "This has been a long, slow crawl. It ends only one way. We get in there, and we stop it up on the other side."

"And how do we do that?" Myron asks: "You and Odin sort of hashed that out. I only got every other word."

"And what do you mean by we?" Ted Cruz asks, hoping that this cup might yet be lifted from him.

And Straffer smiles, and is about to explain.

Until someone pulls a sword and something really stupid...

* * *

"... like get right on television and talk about us," Karl says, holding Randolph's hand.

"I want to," Randolph says, trying not to squeeze his son's hand too hard. It might snap the brittle bones under that papery, clear skin.

"So you don't lose any of the feeling?"

"So they know," the outlaw reporter says: "They know what happened to you. They know who you are, and what you did. They know all those special things about you, your brothers, your sisters..."

"They're all in here, still," the withered old man smiles, tapping his forehead: "The link between us. When one of us dies, it's like the rest of us get something of them. A little piece of their soul, maybe."

"I wish I could do that," Randolph says, trying so hard not to cry: "Have you in my head."

"You do," Karl says, putting his other hand down so he can hold his father's with both of them: "You always will."

With that he smiles, and closes his eyes. 

And the last piece of the tragic legacy of ABWEHR dies...

* * *

"... if I fucking drop this," the Alter-Earth SPYGOD insists, looking intently at the vial he's just concocted using the Wandering Shadow's rather impressive laboratory. 

"And this poison, you say, can kill a god?" Loki asks, seeming rather incredulous. 

"It doesn't look like much, does it?" the doppelganger chuckles darkly, putting the vial down into a safe container: "Just gooey water. If you rub some of this shit over a non-porous surface it'll dry up in minutes, but still be good for at least a whole week."

"And then?"

"And then, on contact with skin..." the counterworld man grins: "It does two things very fucking quickly. The first is that it binds the soul to its physical container. And the second...?"

He takes a narrow pipette of the stuff from the vial, and heads over to a rat in a small, glass box he's gotten from the dead spymaster's stores. One drop goes splat on the thing's head.

And a second later, the rat drops down -- its skull a hollow, red bowl that's turning to liquid as they watch.

"The second is that it consumes the body, like the venom of a Ridgebacked Wyrm," Loki says, astonished at how quickly it works: "Like a stack of dishes falling to the ground, and crashing to powder."

"I was gonna say a row of dominoes, but I don't know if they fucking have them in Asgard." 

"We have something similar," Loki says: "And you are certain this will work?"

"I've used it a time or two before." 

"On your enemies?" the trickster grins: "Or your friends?"

"A friend is just an enemy waiting for the right fucking moment to stab you in the godsdamned back," the SPYGOD of Alter-Earth proclaims: "I prefer to think of teammates."

"And I prefer to have slaves," Loki smiles: "Especially useful ones."

"So now what do we do," the servant in question asks: "Master?"

"Find the right rat..." Loki muses, holding up the glass cage to watch the red, semi-transparent goo that used to be a lab animal rolling around the bottom...

* * *

... of the cavern floor, Freyja's blade still stuck through his borrowed heart.

"I told you, husband, that I would I lay you low for this insult," she says, her knee on Odr's neck: "And so I have done."

"You crazy..." Straffer gasps, looking around as all the Aesir there -- what few yet remain -- raise their swords and point them in the direction of the strategic talents and combat troops: "What are you doing?"

"Attending to a matter of honor," the Shieldmaiden says, giving him a clear look of 'stay the !@#$ back': "One I feel no need to explain."

"I could well explain it to them, my wife," Odr gasps -- still some life in Xhasm's breast, after all: "But I think they would fail to understand."

"You should have accepted the golden tears, fool," she mutters, stamping on his neck -- breaking it not quite in two, and ending his life.

"You just killed our best chance of going there and coming back!" Straffer shouts: "Xhasm knew-" 

"Nothing of what we know," Freyja announces: "The All-Father is dead. His son has likewise fallen. All that remains for us now is the final war. The Ragnarok.

"And it lies within!" she proclaims, pointing to the hole in time and space they stand before...

* * *

"... we go in," Myron says to the others in the tank: "I'm not letting this get !@#$ing ruined at the last minute by her getting religion."

And he turns to do so, in that moment forgetting who's in the tank with him.

And SlamBang and KweeKweg look to one another, and then to The Sound, who's also not paying attention.

And then...

* * *

... Naglfar -- a ship made from the nails of thousands of dead men -- quickly turns from orbit, and begins to hurtle towards a certain spot on the surface of Mars.

And then...

* * *

... and all the remaining Olympians scream in pain as one of their number vanishes from their presence...

...Martha Samuels decides she's had enough of waiting for an answer about her son's whereabouts, and goes to put on a long-neglected, newly-augmented uniform...

... The Candidate looks at the crumbling thing on his lapel -- afraid to take off his jacket for fear of it falling apart -- and realizes he's on his own...

... and new pilgrims arrive at the protest camp, all wishing to speak to their spirits, and not caring about the National Guard that's currently observing their movements....

... as the Alter-Earth SPYGOD listens to what his so-called master commands of him, and finds it rather fitting...

... and Randolph Scott and Velma Dinkley bury their adopted children side by side, so they will always be together...

... and Hanami bows deeply before the red and silver beings she has just met, truly awed by their power and grace...

... and Red Wrecker and Dragonfly hide out in Charlotte, drinking and laughing as they wonder how long they can stay AWOL and get away with it...

 ... and authorities at Costa Rica's Laboratorias de Ciencias y de Almancenamiento Nacionales cannot explain how their central lockup at Cartago was burgled and then burned down...

... and SPYGOD realizes what a lack of news from Mars must mean, and activates the Roaring Boys to begin Operation Plagiarism...

... at which, ten minutes later, a well-known writer gets abducted between rooms in his house, and scuttled away to an unknown destination...

* * *

... as the surface of Mars buckles and then collapses in a certain spot -- doubtlessly burying everyone and everything that was there under billions of tons of red rubble -- a split second before the ship of the Aesir crashes right into it. 

There isn't so much an explosion as there is an absence of aftermath. No sound of a blast. No bright lights. 

Just a hole in reality that opens and closes, leaving nothing behind to show it was ever there.

Dust clouds churn and settle. The twin moons float on by. The sun rises, then crests, and then sets.

And if Mars itself feels it should stop silently spinning to mark the end of not one war, but two, it makes no sign.

(SPYGOD is listening to Crapage (Front 242) and having a Naglfare) 

TechnOlympos: 2/8/16 - 2/14/16

"Say it To Me / Let's Embrace the Point of No Return"

The Candidate, with Karl, Jana, and Odal Associates

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

29

* * *

Monday: 2/8/16

... and Randolph Scott watches the sniper line up the bridge of his lover's nose in his crosshairs...

* * *

... and Myron presses the red button that's supposed to destroy the whole of the Green Dome..

* * *

... and the Freedom Force's transport is seconds from crashing into Syphon's Detroit Temple...

* * *

... and then...

* * *

... Velma's head moves quickly, just a second before a strong, evening wind knocks her white, knit hat from her head.

(She must have felt it would happen before it did.)

It's too late for the sniper, though. The trigger's just been pulled.

There's the shot, but it misses.

But just not by enough...

* * *

... time has gone by for Myron to realize the bomb is not going off. 

(Did he really want it to, though? Or was this just another dumb attempt to forestall the inevitable?)

He stands there, somewhat stupidly. He looks at his finger, then the woman he just spat upon. 

The woman who's got a gun aimed right at him.  

"I told you," the Chess Master says, a wicked and crooked smile crossing her old face: "Now, let's try this again..."

* * *

"... because the last time I came to one of these places, I beat the stuffing out of everyone there!" Martha Clutch shouts at the red-clad Midwives who've come out to see what's going on: "And I was just mad, before.

"Well, now? You've got me good and angry, folks. Righteously angry, I should add!

"And this time?" the very pregnant woman shouts, gesturing behind her: "I've got friends with me."

"In other words, you might want to just go home," Mr. USA says. Red Wrecker and Blastman both nod.

"Unless you feel like taking some displaced anger right on the damn chin," Blastman growls, punching his fists together...

* * *

... on the fancy, old desk as it becomes apparent his sniper's failed to kill that stupid woman. 

"Feurer wieder, verdammit!" Helvete shouts: "Schnell!" 

Randolph sees Velma lying in the street. Blood coming from her nose.

(Concussion? He hopes so.)

The crosshairs line up again, and...

* * *

... Myron's in motion before she can say another word.

He all but hurls the useless destruct box at her. She puts up her off hand to block it. 

He pivots quickly and brings his other hand down on her gun hand, right at the wrist. 

The gun goes up and out of reach. It clatters across the room. 

Then she puts her foot somewhere she used to put her lips, on him, and...

* * *

... every single Midwife looks at them, and then move to form two, parallel lines

They stand at some kind of attention, staring across the space at each other -- their bodies a human corridor leading into the temple.

All but inviting them in.

"I don't like it," Red Wrecker says: "This is way too easy."

"After the week I've been having, I'll take too easy," Martha says, and quickly moves...

* * *

... to surreptitiously pull something from inside his belt. 

"I'm so sorry," he whispers to Karl and Jana, who clearly aren't in control of themselves right now. 

He presses the screechbomb's button, and closes his jaw as tightly as he can.

The sonic weapon goes off. He is ground zero. 

And the only one with smart earplugs.

His kids scream as their ears betray them, and every bone in their body vibrates painfully...

* * *

... as they both scramble after the gun, each one trying to slap, slam, punch, kick, and gouge the other away from it. 

He never knew she could fight that well. She seems to have known his limits all along. 

But he's not giving up -- not now. No matter how many times she hits him somewhere very tender and sore. 

By some chance, they reach it at the same time. 

And as they wrestle for it, they realize they're no longer alone, here...

* * *

... in my own home, again," the large woman in the blue business suit says, glowering: "This is getting to be an unpleasant habit. One I told you to break."

"That was before you stole my son's body," Martha says, pointing a finger at the Olympian as they march into her office: "And I know you did it, too. So don't-"

"You have no right to be here and demand anything of me!" Syphon says

"Perhaps not, sister," someone says from behind them, and all eyes turn to see Mister Freedom standing there, in the room: "But I think you owe me an explanation. And you will give it to me."

"How dare you, Brother Restriit," she hisses, but it's too late. He waves at a viewscreen, nearby her desk. 

And it...

* * *

... explodes, along with every other glass object in the room. 

Randolph throws his kids off him as gently as he can. He gets to his feet, wondering how he can get them out of here. 

But then Helvete looks at him -- ears bleeding -- and holds up a small, black box.

He presses a button, and something red starts flashing on the belts of both Karl and Jana.

The message is clear, even over the white, painful noise...

* * *

... of the approaching mob, their hands and faces wet with others' blood. 

"We can fight each other, and they'll kill us," the Chess Master says, looking him in the eyes.

"Suits me," he lies, punching her in the damn face. 

She loses her grip. He grabs the gun.

He gets to his feet and holds it up, wondering how many bullets he's got...

* * *

... a little while to go before his body's natural healing turns back on again," Syphon explains, gesturing to the image of Thomas' mutilated body, floating in a tank: "It might be days, or weeks. But he will recover."

"Even after all that?" Martha gasps, astounded: "Even after..."

"An autopsy?" Mr. USA says, even more astounded. 

"Even after that," Syphon answers, a prideful smile on her face: "That's part of why I've been so infuriated by your issues, woman. I've given your son an eternal life in an immortal body.

"Some gratitude would have been nice..."

* * *

"... to see you, again," Helvete says through black, bloody teeth, now that the bomb is done: "But you remember, Herr Scott. Regardless of whether your whore is dead or alive? I have your children. And I know how to hurt you.

"Remember that, before you print what you think you know about my puppet."

Randolph Scott looks at the pale, red-eyed man, and flips him the bird: "The truth will be told, you Nazi !@#$. They'd want it that way."

"Yes, but you don't," Helvete says, grinning. And Scott knows he's right. 

"Now run, little man, or I'll blow up one to break the heart of the other..."

* * *

... wall of the morgue, where she must have stepped out of. 

"Well, !@#$," Myron sighs, realizing he's alone in this, now. 

There's a dozen of them. He doubts there's that many bullets in the gun. 

But as he sees them stalk towards him, their eyes glassy with bloodlust, he thinks. 

He remembers. 

And, putting the gun into the waistband of his pants, raises his fists... 

* * *

... and points to Syphon: "I charge you, sister. You will tell them when he is whole, again. You will deliver him whole to his mother. And you will interfere with their lives no more."

"He is my property," she hisses: "I do not interfere with your doings, brother. How dare you do so with mine?"

"Because he is mine as well," Mister Freedom says: "In the sense that he is part of us. You have made him one of us."

"Wait, what?" Martha gasps.

"Congratulations, Martha," Mister Freedom says, smiling: "You are the mother of a god..."

* * *

"... damn !@#$ mother!@#$," Scott hisses as he retraces his steps, knowing how hard it's going to be to get out of here alive.

He shoots when he has to, dodges when he doesn't. He prays he won't run out of ammo, but knows he eventually will.

He thunders up the steps, tossing another screech bomb ahead of him. It screams and knocks most of his assailants down.

But as soon as he's outside, he hears the telltale click of at least a dozen rifles. 

And he realizes he's surrounded, just as several camouflaged men and women appear from...

* * *

... out of the sick bay, covered with bruises and sporting a black eye and at least one broken finger. 

They couldn't fight, most of them. But what they lacked in skill, they made up in numbers. 

Still, Myron got through them. He even managed to avoid killing any of them. 

But he's broken, and he hurts. And he's certain he's still waiting for just one more shoe to drop.

But he's got his life, now. And a gun. 

And he knows...

* * *

... they've won, even if it feels like they haven't.

(And Martha hasn't said a word this whole time -- stunned, and maybe scared.)

"Should we trust her?" Mr. USA asks Mister Freedom, who's smiling mysteriously -- as always -- as they walk quietly between the line of Midwives.

"No," he says: "My sister has her own agenda. She always has. But she will comply with this, because she knows I can say what I know. 

"And she does not wish to explain to the others what she has done, and why."

"How could the others not know-" Mr. USA asks, but then throws up his hands as bright lights...

* * *

... shine down from the Space Service transport, just after it finishes gunning down his would-be assassins.

"Nicely timed," Randolph says, running up the half-deployed gangplank and buckling himself in.

"I thought there were meant to be two more passengers?" the Indonesian pilot shouts as they fly off.

"They... can't make it," Randolph Scott says, trying to place a call back to San Francisco: "Tell the Director I said thanks for the save."

And then he prays to a God he's not sure is looking out for him, right now, that the worst hasn't happened...

* * *

... as the hallway to his right lights up with explosion after explosion.

!@#$, Myron thinks. The Chess Master has control of the explosives.

And the !@#$ is trying to kill him,.

He runs. It's all he can do. And he hopes he can make it to safety in time. 

Only more explosions come ahead of him, now. It's almost as if...

* * *

"... you're completely surrounded, and outnumbered," the huge leader of the Arrow Security team shouts through his megaphone, walking in front of the pack of heavily armed and armored goons: "And we have orders to detain you for breaking your agreement with the city of Detroit."

"What do you mean?" Mr. USA shouts back, not liking the looks of the security vans pulling up (or the media trucks, for that matter).

"You just had one rule, pal," the guy says: "No costumes inside Detroit."

Everyone turns to look at Blastman, who's wearing his helmet, of course. 

"Hey, come on," he shrugs: "No helmet, no powers. You know how it is."

"So, we can do this easy, or not," the guy says, not caring: "You can let us detain you, and we can get it all settled. Or else we beat you down on live TV, and you look damned stupid..."

* * *

"... jackass, just put me through to the hospital!" the outlaw reporter shouts as the transport reaches NEO, heading for the West coast:  "I don't know what hospital, dammit! Just... yes, I'm her boyfriend, dammit.

"Velma. V-E-L-M-A. I think she was... wait... please, no... you have to...

"Look, she was shot, right? I think she was shot. Just please tell me...

"Damn it, you're the only Toon hospital in town! She had to go there. Please..."

And Randolph Scott feels small, and stupid...

* * *

 ... as Myron realizes the blasts weren't meant to kill him, but to kill other people. 

The mob wasn't alone. Others were on their way. 

Not anymore, though. The nasty !@#$ has seen to that. 

It seems she was telling the truth. She does need him alive. 

He can apparently get them home, or at least she thinks he can. 

And that might be the best weapon he has, right now...

* * *

"... (REDACTED)," Josie says over the communicator as the heroes back into one another: "This won't stand, but it'll take time to get it sorted."

"Look, ma'am, we've got a very pregnant woman here, and these security people aren't well known for their kindness," the older hero sighs, looking at the advancing Arrow Security forces.

(And the cameras -- so damn many of them)

"I can look after myself," Martha says, looking at Mr. USA: "Any one of them lays a bad hand on me..."

"We can all look after each other," Red Wrecker says, putting her fists down: "It'll be okay."

"Alright, then," Mr. USA sighs: "We'll surrender. But you might want to get help here as soon as you can, Josie. I think this could get really damned ugly..."

Tuesday: 2/9/16

"... thing?" the nude, middle-aged woman is screaming, her hands red with the blood that's soaked through the grass beside Rosi's pyramid: "How could this happen? How?"

No one's got an answer for her. All the people who came here with her, intent on making love to celebrate the coming of morning, are just as shocked and speechless.

The pyramid has been defiled. Someone has made a hideous mural of human bodies, up on the side that is just now catching the early rays of dawn. A massive human chain of exsanguinated, partially-eviscerated people, arranged to spell out one phrase.

FUCK YOUR USELESS GODS

She keeps repeating the question. The others take it up. How? Why?

Who?

There's no answer from on high, either. The stern, burning face of the sun goddess, Rahmaa, comes up over the horizon, but seems unable to see the mess someone's made of her sister's part of the White City.

One among them is not shrieking, or crying, or asking questions of the gods they walk with, though. She's looking up at the sticky, red mess, all the way up there, and making some gruesome deductions.

But the Red Queen isn't sharing them with her traumatized neighbors, much less their gods. 

She's finally feeling more at home in her old skin, and with her all-too-human limitations. It's taken her this long to not wake up screaming from an intense sense of loss. Not have to stagger around as though drunk, unable to move through the world with so few senses -- so little input.

She looks once more, and then turns to leave the crowd before it descends into despair. With each step she becomes more certain of at least one fact.

There is no way any one person did all that, in the time it would have taken to arrange it.

That person had to have help.

And she's got a very uncomfortable feeling she knows who...

* * *

"... did it?" the redheaded Toon in the purple clothing asks, stirring her Dynomutt coffee as she sits in the ICU visitors' lounge at St. Joseph's.

"Like, the All Stars got him, but he blew himself up," the Toon sitting with her says. He looks like he just got back from Hawaii, with long, scraggly hair and a chin-beard: "Some suicide commando or something."

"Jesus," remarks a Toon with blonde hair and a red ascot poking out of his white shirt: "I'll have to ask Antonia about that. She might know something."

"Is she even allowed to talk about stuff like that with you?" the woman says, trying not to sound bitter.

"Not always, but in a case like this, totally."

"Like, shouldn't you be back with her, man?" the scraggly Toon asks: "I mean, you got a miracle baby at home-"

"She's fine," Fred insists, really tired of hearing about it: "I'm more worried about Velma, right now..."

They all turn as Randolph Scott comes down the hall from her room, looking like someone stole his guts while he had his back turned.

(Walking between a cordon of American All Star Security agents, in their distinctive armor -- here to make sure whoever tried to kill her doesn't send another assassin.)

"Any news?" Fred asks, getting to his feet.

"She's still out," Randolph says: "They say... well, they think there was no brain damage. It's hard to tell. You know how normal bullets are when you've had the treatment."

"Like, no, thankfully," Shaggy says, shivering: "That's why I didn't do it, man."

"So, best case scenario, she's just got a concussion, she'll be out of it soon, and then... home?" Daphne asks.

"Yeah," Randolph says, plopping down next to Fred: "And then I have to tell her that I almost watched her get shot live on Hitler TV. I bet she'll !@#$ing dig that-"

"Shhhhhhhh!" an old Toon lady hisses at him from the other end of the room. She and some others are watching the news, apparently.

"So, what now?" Fred asks: "Can you get them away?"

"Asshole had them wired to pop," Randolph sighs: "He also made some very clear threats about what would happen if I said anything about what I've discovered."

"So, like, what are you going to do?"

Randolph looks at the beatnik, and then down at his hands. He thinks of the woman he loves, lying in the other room -- the woman who could have been shot dead yesterday if it hadn't been for the wind.

"I don't know, yet," the outlaw reporter says, patting his hands together: "I need a better plan, clearly. This bastard's got something major going on."

"Obviously," Daphne says, sipping her coffee: "He's got that scary rug-head under his thumb."

"Yeah, but it's not just him," Randolph says: "That skel I beat the !@#$ out of to find out where their headquarters was? He told me all kinds of stuff."

"Like what?" Fred asks.

"Well, this group, Odal? It's making alliances with countless racist and fascist organizations throughout Europe, North America, and even Russia.

"I'm not sure if it's the end result of what the Terre Unifee turned into, or if it's the next step in the chain. But it's big. Scary big."

"Well, like, don't you know scary people?" Shaggy asks, shrugging and crossing his legs: "Don't you you pal around with assassins and superheroes? Can't you bring them down, man?"

Randolph sighs: "Yes, Shaggy. I can. But I have no idea who else is being ordered around by their leader. They could have people in the COMPANY, Freedom Force, other governments' supers agencies. All sort of !@#$ing places-"

"SSSHHHHHHHH!" the old lady says again. And when Randolph turns to tell her to shove her shhhhh up her !@#$hole, he realizes what she's intent on watching.

It's the puppet in question, up on a podium in New Hampshire, and he's delivering a speech on America's many ills:

"... I mean, when people say, what's the worst that could happen? Let's let in all those Muslims, those Martians, those Mexicans. We're a prosperous nation. We have good police. Why not let them in? And I'll tell you why, because they'll become just like the Toons."

There's applause, then -- thunderous and frightening.

"I mean, have you been to San Francisco, lately? Ever since they made that place an enclave for Toons? I mean, you can't go anywhere without running into some really weird people. Their economy is wrecked because no one goes there, anymore. Business isn't happening. Jobs aren't being made.

"And as for safety? It's just like the Muslims going into Europe. They bring the violence with them. Why, just yesterday, there was an assassination attempt on one of them. Why them? Why her? Probably because people feel the same way about Toons that people feel about Muslims. And do we need that kind of crazy in our country?"

The crowd shouts "no" so loudly the TV's speakers almost blow out.

"Well, there's your answer," Fred says: "If you do nothing, we'll get that in the White House. And then we'll all be in trouble."

"Oh, he's got no chance of winning," Daphne shrugs: "Rubio will pull ahead."

"But, like, you can't even vote if you live in the enclave," Shaggy says. And before long he and her are back into one of their old, endless arguments, and Fred's just rolling his eyes and feeling useless.

And Randolph's wondering how long he can sit on what he knows, even if saying it will mean the death of one or both of his stolen children.

And what he's willing to risk...

Wednesday: 2/10/16

... to get out of this awful place. 

Martha's been in this holding cell for two whole days, now. And she is not willing to be here for an hour more.

At her peak, she could have been out of here by now. There's several ways out of this place -- concrete walls and steel door or no.

She counts them down, one after the other, when she feels antsy or afraid.

She prays to God and talks to her child the rest of time. One tells her she'll be out of here, soon, and she passes the message along to the other.

(Joseph, if it's a boy, after her father -- The Owl before her. Rachel, if it's a girl, after her cousin -- Kaitlyn's mother.)

Her body feels sore and angry. She's cold and uncomfortable. It's been too long since they brought her anything to eat, and the last time they almost didn't give it to her.

Serves her right for asking 'how much longer,' apparently. How dare she expect to be treated with dignity and rights in a private security lockup?

How dare she, indeed.

She's been in worse situations, of course. She's been captured, before. Beaten. Tortured. Starved. Used as a hostage.

But this time? Somehow it feels worse. And not just because she's pregnant, this time. Not just because of the circumstances.

It's because she knows -- she just knows -- that her allies are in trouble.

She heard the guards chuckling about it when they walked by her room, the first day. Something about the Federal Strategic Talents database. Something about the file marked K.

K for Kryptonite.

She thinks of Red Wrecker, down there, somehow powerless. Blastman without his helmet. Mr. USA, somehow bereft of his strength and stamina and at their mercy.

(And Mister Freedom... is there anything they can do to him, really? She shudders to think.)

Every so often, she thinks she hears a scream. She tells herself it's just her imagination, but she's sure she's wrong.

Very wrong. 

And every so often, she thinks about what Mister Freedom said, back in that temple -- about her son being a god, now. Was that just speaking metaphorically? Or have they actually elevated his body and spirit, somehow?

And when she wonders if it's true, she's even more afraid for him than for her, right now. 

So she closes her eyes and prays to God for help and deliverance. Especially if she has to break out.

God only knows what she'll be forced to do...

* * *

... once Myron's had more than enough time to consider his next moves.

He's holed up in Number Two's office. It was where she seemed to be herding him with her explosions. And, thanks to them, no other mobs have come to bother him since then.

Still, here's stuck here. And while there's enough food and water to hold out for quite some time, it's not very comfortable.

(Especially since he kicked the ball chair off its base to get the destruct box out)

He sits between it and the door, gun in his lap. He thinks of what to do, next.

Well, scratch that. He knows what he has to do next, really. What he's supposed to do, anyway.

What she's kept him alive to do.

It's just that he's not really in any damn hurry to do just that.

So he sits there, carefully weighing over each and every piece of evidence in his mind. He thinks of all that he knows, and all that he doesn't know.

And he hopes, against all hope, that there's some small, weird thing he's overlooked that would allow him to not have to go down the ORBIT tube, into the bowels of the Green Dome, and face what's waiting down there.

The horrible truth he's been avoiding all this time, like a rotten tooth he just won't go to the dentist to have yanked out.

Because he's afraid.

And for a damn good reason...

Thursday: 2/11/16

"... obviously, there was some miscommunication," the Governor of Michigan says, really not wanting to have to talk to this Josie person again: "I didn't expect them to be held this long."

"One of them is pregnant, Mr. Governor," Josie glowers down the viewscreen.

"Well, maybe she should have thought about that before her and her friends invaded private property and threatened physical violence."

"Maybe your prisoners don't lose their rights when they get arrested."

"It's a private security firm, Mrs. Director-"

"Ms. Director, thank you," Josie corrects him: "And that might fly with your citizens, sir. It does not work with Federal Agents. Especially when they're following up on the remit that you agreed to."

"Well, they weren't supposed to be wearing their costumes outside of Flint."

"Mistakes happen."

"Yes, and that's why they've been in lockup."

"For a lot longer than is necessary."

"Well, obviously, there was some miscommunication..."

* * *

... because all of Detroit's police are in hiding, now.

The takeover's been a couple weeks in the making -- ever since Tommi Gun took care of that goth freak with the Crow fixation. Since then, the dozen or so of D-town's new rulers have been slowly moving their forces into town, and their pieces into position.

Deathdealer's been cornering the drug trade, one corner at a time. The General's been making sure the gun-runners are all under his thumb. Mr. Fix-It has City Hall in a bind, and the Camera Eye has put her shiny, new spokespeople on all the TV stations, and gotten the old ones to play ball with 'how things are.'

As for the assassins -- bright young things like Tommi, Pell-Mell, and the Xtrmin8er -- they're all waiting in the wings. Sooner or later the competition will spill out of the back rooms and into the streets, and then their skills will be needed to settle matters.

And then, as they've promised, Arrow Security will have all the crime it can pretend to solve.

Of course, there will be limits, as they've also promised to maintain certain standards of behavior. No menacing or harming of children, to a certain degree. No overly vulgar displays. No grotesque spectacles or gruesome gangland slayings.

In public, anyway.

A more cynical mind might believe they'll break that promise as soon as they can. They'd be wrong, though. This is actually a good deal for all involved, so long as everyone behaves themselves.

And no one is in any hurry to return to the way things would normally be, with a fully-functional police force, steadfast district attorneys, and a Chief of Police willing to do whatever was needed to get the city's crime back under control.

This way, it will be under control -- its own.

And heaven help anyone who screws that up...

Friday: 2/12/16

... at the huge, burly fellow who all but storms through the front door of the lockup. 

"Excuse me, sir," the Arrow guard says, getting up from behind his secured desk, his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol: "I'll need to see some ID-"

"No !@#$ing problem, son," SPYGOD says, pulling a handgun the size of a toaster from seemingly nowhere and aiming it right between the man's eyes: "I'm Mr. 666-caliber. Nice to !@#$ing meet you."

"Sir...?'

"Shut. Up." SPYGOD hisses, and a second later he's no longer alone -- several COMPANY AGENTS are lining up behind him, equally large handguns at the ready: "I'm here on Federal business, son. All your prisoners are belong to us."

"He means the ones from Freedom Force," the AGENT next to him says.

"Yes," SPYGOD says, allowing himself to be corrected: "Unless there's anyone else here being held that the COMPANY ought to !@#$ing know about?"

"Um..." the guard says again, putting his hands up: "I really need to check with my supervisor..."

"Hey, Charlie?" his communicator goes off: "Dude, you're missing out. The short one's taking a shower and we've got the cameras on..."

The guard gulps. Every gun in the room gets cocked.

And SPYGOD picks that moment to go very berserk...

* * *

... in the night, around Aleppo.

The nights are the best time for the beast. When the sky is black, and the Moon looks down, and all the stars are the eyes of the spirits who marvel at its brutality. Its savagery.

Its perfect dance of killing and eating.

As the sky darkens, it slides from its nest of human bones. As the night sky whirls above it stalks and kills anyone it can find, dragging them back to its lair.

And as the hated sun begins to tell, on the Eastern horizon, it retreats -- there to feast and dream.

Was this not what it was meant to do? Was this not what it was created for?

It's been too long shacked inside this woman. Too long trapped behind the painful metal.

The pathetic cunning of its prey.

Still, no prison is perfect. It could get out, but only ever so often, and even then just around the edges.

A nudge, here and there. A suggestion or two. A delicious, toothy decision that might lead to its release...

When its jailer finally died, it thought it might be free, soon. It tried to drive its vessel to despair and anger. Tried to make her doubt and hate.

But she had strength it hadn't counted on. Wisdom hard-won from a near-lifetime of sharing her body with such a creature.

And friends! Only in a horrible world such as this could the damaged vessel for one such as it have those who would stand by her, no matter what she did or said.

No matter how far she fell.

But now the prison is gone. Now it can rage, and fight, and feast.

Now, once again, the night belongs to it -- as it always must.

In the promise of its rage, it finds it's starting to become more like it should be. Vanishing are the strange, alien myths of the girl's people -- the furry, wolf-like form, with its odd fear of silver and turquoise.

Appearing in their stead are the true trappings of the beast. The emaciated, corpse-like flesh. The mighty legs of the stag and long arms of the bear. The grotesque, elongated mouth, filled with mouths within mouths, and teeth upon teeth.

The towering antlers, announcing its coming to those to slow to run, or too foolhardy to fear... 

Djinn, these people scream as it comes upon them. They have no idea.

And as it laps up a perfect line of offal, spilled from a dying man's chest, the Wendigo thanks the Creator for the gift of its life, and its freedom..

Saturday: 2/13/16

... from the pain of whatever wounds brought him low, here on this battlefield.

"Hey," Mr. USA hears someone say to him -- someone familiar.

For a moment he thinks he's back in the War, all those years ago. Maybe in France, waking up after a fierce battle. All those dead German soldiers lying around them, their war machines all smoking wrecks in the morning sun.

Sgt. Shatter looking down, extending a friendly hand to get him up...

The older hero opens his eyes, then. Slowly, at first, then wide open. Blinking.

"So, you gonna !@#$ing lie there all day, old man?" SPYGOD asks, looking down at the hospital bed the man's currently in.

"If I can get away with it," Mr. USA says, closing his eyes again: "I'm tired."

"Yeah," the superspy says, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to the bed: "That's an aftereffect, I hear. That and you might have some damn itching on your skin for a while."

The older hero hears that, and then snaps his eyes back open wide. Remembering. 

"Oh... oh !@#$," he says, trying to get out of bed: "What... where am... where are-"

"Woah," SPYGOD says, holding up his hands: "One !@#$ing thing at a time, (REDACTED). First of all, it's over. You're safe. Everyone's okay."

"Where am I?"

"Back on the Flier. You had it the worst, so we !@#$ing evaced you out. Everyone else is back in the field. Well... Florence is taking some time off. Well !@#$ing deserved."

"What happened?" the older hero demands, clearly angry: "What did they do?"

"They got access to the K File," SPYGOD says, clearly unhappy about that: "Some goddamn bozo somewhere in the structure between here and the !@#$ing White House thought it would be a good idea to hand it over to that podunk security firm."

"Is Martha okay?"

"Yes. She is. She's fine, the baby is fine. She's back in Chicago."

Mr. USA nods, clearly relieved: "Blastman?"

"They just took his damn helmet off. But they did work him over a bit. He's okay, though. Nothing having it back on didn't !@#$ing heal."

"And you said... Florence?"

SPYGOD scowls a bit: "They... well, they didn't touch her, at least. They had that much !@#$ing sense."

"Oh God," Mr. USA says, trying to sit up: "What happened? (REDACTED), what the hell happened?"

"They took pictures of her," the superspy says, looking askance: "Hidden cameras. Apparently all the damn cells had them."

"Pictures," the older hero says, knowing full well what that means.

"Oh the toilet, in the showers," SPYGOD goes on, not realizing he doesn't need to elaborate: "Changing. !@#$ like that."

"Oh God," Mr. USA says: "And the pictures are out there already, aren't they?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, putting his head in his hands: "Jesus Christ, it's like that time with Mrs. Liberty, all over again. Only this time I can't !@#$ing firebomb the !@#$ty little men's mag that got pics of her changing, can I?"

"Well, you could kill the internet," Mr. USA says.

"Can I?"

"You did it before."

SPYGOD coughs into his fist: "Well, I don't !@#$ing remember that. And maybe I shouldn't advertise."

"Maybe not," the older hero says, looking at the window by his bed, which is showing him a lovely view of DC from however many feet up.

They sit in silence for a while.

"So, thanks for the save," Mr. USA says, looking back: "Why didn't you come sooner?"

"Official !@#$ery and misdirection," the superspy explains: "You were only supposed to be in there, overnight. The Governor's office !@#$ing told us you were out and back in Flint. But the Agent who was supposed to be monitoring didn't !@#$ing call to check."

"Oh," the older hero says, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, we had to learn of the mistake from a !@#$ing news broadcast, wondering where America's heroes were when Flint needed them."

"Well, thank God for a free press. What happened then?"

"Well, it turned into three-way arguing with that !@#$er in Lansing, and his scared-stiff lackey Mayor in Detroit, and trying to get the CEO of Arrow Security on the phone. And Josie couldn't make a move because the White House was riding her to do it right."

"What?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. So, you know me..." SPYGOD shrugs: "I decided to cut to the !@#$ing chase."

"Well, thank you," Mr. USA says, smiling: "And... my weakness?"

"Flushed it down the !@#$ing toilet as soon as we got back on board," the super spy says, miming the action: "All in a day's work."

"Can't believe this has happened," the older hero says, stroking his chin and finding his beard is coming back (and wonders if he should grow it back out again).

"Well, I can," SPYGOD says, getting up and walking around the room: "Something is not !@#$ing right, (REDACTED). The President is being a putz. We're being jerked around. And I do not like not knowing who to trust."

"Well, you can trust me," Mr. USA says: "I know that hasn't always been true. And I keep kicking myself for all of that. But..."

SPYGOD lets him trail off into silence, and nods: "I finally !@#$ing caught up with all of that. I figure we owe each other a million damn apologies for being so goddamn stupid, and neither of us got time for that !@#$. Especially now."

Mr. USA nods, wondering how much the man knows: "So, we're good?"

"We always were," the superspy says, walking to his bed and taking his hand.

The older hero smiles at that: "I hated you for so long, after the War. And that was stupid. And then I was afraid of you because of what I thought you were doing to me. And I tried for so long to get you thrown under the bus so I could save my family.

"And if I'd just trusted you... if I'd just said that this man who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me during the war, and then after, couldn't be doing these things? We could have exposed that bastard so long ago."

"Yeah, we could.have," SPYGOD says, squeezing his friend's hand: "But that's not the way it happened. And that's sad, but it's behind us now.

"I love you, (REDACTED). You're an ally, a friend... !@#$, you're my brother. We went shoulder-to-shoulder time and again, during the war. And even after, when the !@#$ hit the fan, I knew that if I needed help saving this world, you would be there beside me.

"Even if you didn't like me. Even if, as it !@#$ing turns out, you didn't trust me. You'd be there, all stars and stripes and that big, white smile."

"What, you've got a problem with my smile?"

"Of course I do, man. It's a !@#$ of a lot better than mine."

"Well, go see the damn dentist once in a while," Mr. USA says. And they both laugh at that -- long and well.

"So," Mr. USA says: "Do you know how long I'm in here before I can go back to work in Flint?"

"Not long, I don't think," SPYGOD says, looking out the window: "But they might be gone by the time you get !@#$ing bounced. I think Flint's about to become a Federal baby, soon."

"Oh?"

"Oh yeah. The Governor !@#$ed himself in the ass, this time. He's having to answer questions about poisoned kids and imprisoned Strategic Talents, now."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer nerd."

"Nope," SPYGOD grins: "I wonder who the downhill-rolling !@#$ is going to land on, this time?"

"Hopefully the deserving," Mr USA smirks, thinking of...

Sunday: 2/14/16

... the sad fact that he can't keep hiding, anymore.

Myron looks at the gun. Then at the door.

Then back at the chair, as best as he's been able to stick it back on the dais in the center of the room.

The mob is outside the door, now -- raging and screaming for his head. His blood. His guts.

Revenge for the crime of failing to lead them back from this madness.

He gets up and walks to Number Two's desk. He puts the gun in the back of his pants, and grabs a few others things.

And then there's just one more thing to do before he can earn his...

* * *

... Freedom, as he shakes SPYGOD's hand in the elevator, accepting his offer to be on his new team.

"I thank you for this opportunity to solve my new mystery," the Olympian says. 

"Think nothing of it," the superspy says: "We need someone who can think outside the !@#$ing box."

"And, I suppose, effective Godhood doesn't hurt?"

"Not at all," SPYGOD says, handing him a rather thick file: "However, the assignment comes with homework. Big !@#$ing pile of it."

"Looks... dense," Mister Freedom says as he takes it in hand.

"Very. And the plot sucks, the pacing is !@#$ing off, and I can't guarantee a happy ending."

"No one truly can," he says, opening it up and running a finger down a page: "We can only do what we can, until the time comes to do even more."

"Did you !@#$ing get that from Chinmoku?" SPYGOD asks, raising an eyebrow as the elevator slows, and then moves over a lane.

"Wisdom is everyone's birthright," the Olympian smiles, closing the file and holding it close to his chest, as though it were a long-anticipated book: "And we all get to share, in our time."

"Yeah, well, that's another thing," SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "And I am !@#$ing, dead-dog serious about this, my friend. No telling your fellow Supergods about this. At all. I need the secret kept."

"Absolutely," he says, nodding with firm sincerity: "You can trust me in this, as you do all things."

"Well, see, that's something I'm worried about," SPYGOD says: "You also promised that Gosheven would be locked up, but there he was, pretending to be a goddamn sex pachyderm."

"I said I would look after him until it was no longer necessary," the Olympian smiles: "And I did. He was there for as long as was necessary for him to be there.

"And then, when it wasn't... he left."

The superspy raises an eyebrow at that, and then nods: "Well, alright then. But for future reference? On my !@#$ing team? No turning my words into a tantric sex pretzel. I say jump, jump. I say duck, duck. I say stick that damn shapeshifter's insubordinate ass into an escape-proof trap...?"

"Consider him trapped, then," Mister Freedom says: "But, as for your concern about my family? I can assure you that won't be an issue."

"Good."

"In fact, this comes at an opportune moment," the Olympian says as the elevator opens up in the secret room, deep inside the Flier, that SPYGOD has gotten for his team: "I'm not really welcome in the White City, right now. They have nothing to say to me, for I have said far too much. And so, anything I could say would go unheeded."

"Well halle-!@#$ing-lujah," SPYGOD says, exiting and waving a hand to the room, and the talents who are there: "And in that case? Welcome to the team...

* * *

 "... players, rabblerousers, malcontents," Myron goes on, thinking it's strange to hear his voice over the speakers throughout the Green Dome: "As well as those who thought they knew better, or knew too much.

"They brought you here, and didn't tell you why. They left you to fight one another, and maybe they thought you'd give up the information, or at least be a good little slave. A cog in the machine, once again.

"So of course, they had your number, right from the start," Myron goes on: "They had all our numbers. They knew how to push our buttons, how to make us jump. When we got out of line, they nudged us back into place.

"And when we became expendable, or more trouble than we were worth... well, they knew how to get rid of us, or make sure we got rid of ourselves.

"So, just so you all know? I don't blame any of you for this," he says, amazed to hear himself say these things -- much less believe them: "None of you. All this blood is on someone else's hands. We've been used, all of us.

"And I think I now know by who.

"I'm going down below, now," he says, getting into the ball chair, and hitting a specific combination of buttons on the controls, causing the dais below to slowly sink into the office floor: "When I get there, I'm going to confront Number One. I'm going to ask questions and get answers.

"And then, when I'm done? I'm talking us home.

"I'm taking us all home..."

 * * *

 "... not everything you wanted?" the strange-looking, grey-robed man asks the lost woman.

She looks up at him. His hair is unkempt, and his eyes are wild in the light of the living Moon, above.

And he seems to be off somehow, beside that.

"What do you mean?" she asks, holding herself in her arms, shuddering on the bench by Restriit's pyramid -- strangely darkened.

"We all came here because we felt unwelcome out there," he says, kneeling down before her: "But even here there are divisions. There are those who serve willingly and blindly, who are given everything. But those of us who came here to find answers, and not orders? We are unwelcome here as well."

She looks at him, and his glittering eyes. She swallows, and nods: "I've felt it, too. There's something !@#$ing wrong with these people. It's like they're rushing to a cliffside and they can't even see it."

"Exactly," he says, taking her hands in his: "But you can see it. And that's why they're pushing you aside."

"Who are you?" she asks, cautious -- especially when she sees there are more of these grey-robed people coming out the gloom around the abandoned pyramid of an exiled god.

"Liberators," he says, raising her to her feet, gently but firmly: "Emancipators. We will no longer serve these gods. We will have the answers they promised us."

"How can we do that?" the woman says, trying to sound more scared than she is -- or maybe less. 

(She's not sure, anymore.)

"Come with us," the man says, gesturing to the gloom they've all come from: "Let her explain it to you, as she explained it to us. It'll all become so clear."

And the Red Queen nods, and lets them take her into the dark...

* * *

... below the main level of the Green Dome, not far from where the ball chair stopped descending.

Myron looks at the tunnel marked ORBIT, realizing that every single choice he made, upon waking up in the Village, has led him here.

Every betrayal, scripted or otherwise. Every manipulation, planned or accidental.

Every coincidence that wasn't, every friend that was a foe.

Everything.

He can hear shouting behind him. The mob has come down here, knowing this is where he went.

(Maybe two wall shifts behind. One change in the scenery and he's done.)

So he makes sure he's got the gun, turns on the headlamp he brought, and steps into the breathing tube.

And lets it take him...

* * *

... and Jana into his new office, in their new building -- a whole country away from where they were before. 

"I am sure we will all be quite comfortable, here," Helvete says, sitting behind his desk before his towering cabinet. If they didn't know any better, they'd swear it was the same office, cut out of the Frankfurt base and moved here whole. 

"I'm sure we will," Karl says, trying to smile: "At least, until our father finds us again."

"You think he will?" the leader of Odal asks, leaning forward.

"I can guarantee it," Jana says, sitting down across from their leader: "You should consider yourself lucky you failed to kill Velma. For now, he's by her side, wondering what to do next..."

"...but if she died, there would be nothing to stop him from looking for us..." Karl picks up, mid-sentence.

"... and then he would be here, killing you..."

"... and this time, he won't be alone."

"Well, then," the pale-skinned Super says, steepling his hands before his face -- red eyes burning behind black lids -- "I think I shall have to give him yet another restraint..."

 * * *

.. vanishes from around the platform below Myron's feet. And then he's only surrounded by the cold, still dark, which reeks of iron and burnt things.

The cavern is hard to see in, even with the headlamp. He looks around as quickly as he can, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. 

The walls are metal, down here. And there are stalagmites, reaching up...

No, wait. Not stalagmites. They're thick conduits -- ones he somehow knows will be warm to the touch. 

He steps off the bouncing platform that brought him here, and looks down. As soon as he does he sees a body. 

It's burned to a black cinder, and stuck in fetal position. 

And it's not alone. The floor is littered with bodies -- so much so that he has to step carefully to get around them. 

(How many bodies? How long has this been going on for...?)

And then, from behind him, there's a whoooosh and a bright light. A horrible warmth.

A bass chuckle, all too familiar...

* * *

... from behind the desk of the leader of El-Hadhih, as he learns from one of his spies that his enemies know who he is, and from whence he came. 

And he can only smile, because that knowledge just makes what must come next so much easier...

* * *

"... way to say this," the Indonesian Minister of Space says, seeming very apologetic on the viewscreen in Director Straffer's office. And he talks of dates, of arrangements, of security.

And surrender...

* * *

... his will to his far-away master, once again, as the head of Odal tells the Candidate what he must do to guarantee victory from here on out.

And what he must say about a certain Outlaw Reporter, and to who...

* * * 

... is standing right behind Myron, breathing like an iron lung.

Myron turns around, and looks at the enemy he thought he was done with so very long ago. 

"Hi, Moloch," he says, regarding the bronze-muscled, hollow minotaur that towers before him: "It's been a while."

And then comes the Hellfire...

(SPYGOD is listening to Magnets (Disclosure) and having a Moloch)