1/14/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 3.5

"Come outside and feel the morning sun..."
The Owl, Bee-Bee
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * * 

"Please, I am appealing to your humanity," the short-haired, white-robed woman says, sandals flopping on the dirt as she hurries after the Terre Unifee guards that have just stomped through the red, mostly-ornamental front gate of the Sonoma County Ashram.

"You have, yes," their leader says, indicating with a bored wave that the twenty highly-armored, heavily-armed men and women should continue forward, down towards the cliff overlooking the ocean -- high-tech stun-guns drawn and ready for use.

"This man is not a criminal. He is a spiritual pilgrim. He is a broken soul in need of healing-"

"He's also wanted for questioning," the man sighs, wondering if he can just taze the salope and be done with it: "If he has nothing to hide he has nothing to fear-"

"Please," she says, getting right in front of him, hoping that the others who live here will join her in this: "This man came to us in a very bad state."

"Hopefully he will not leave in a worse one. Now if you please." 

"What's going on, sister?" one of the others says, getting up from his afternoon tasks, a group of white-robed men and women following him right in front of the guards.

"They're here for him."

They all blanch at that, and the man holds up his hands: "Please, sir. let me appeal to your better judgment. If you know who he is, and what he can do-"

"We do, sir," the leader states, striding right over to the man and staring him right in the eyes: "That is why we have brought so many weapons. And if you do not get out of my way and let me do my job, we will use them on you, first."

He swallows, hard, and gets out of his way. As the leader smiles and stomps away, heading for the garden where -- according to near-constant satellite surveillance -- their target has been meditating since Midnight last night, the other pilgrims all drop their tasks and run for the entrance.

The man the guards are after is sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed in the small, well-maintained garden, watching with his mind as the water meets the land and retreats from it, over and over again. He's wearing a white robe like the others, here, and has shaved his head down so close that it's almost impossible to tell that his hair is blue.

If Mister Chaos is aware of the twenty-odd guards stomping towards him, he makes no sign of it. He sits and breathes in and out, trying to maintain some kind of rhythm with the crash of the surf. Letting its power wash through him, the better to scour everything away...

"Mssr!" the leader says, once his guards have surrounded him in a half-circle, guns ready to deploy: "Your attention please."

"Do you mind?" the man says in a gentle voice, not turning around: "I'm trying to meditate."

"We have some questions for you, Mssr. Chaos."

"That's funny, so do I," Mister Chaos sighs, opening his eyes a little: "I came here to get the answers."

"So have we," the leader says, taking a few steps forward, and indicating that his subordinates should lower their weapons just a bit: "Your former teammates have turned traitor, Mssr. Chaos. They have decided to conspire against the Terre Unifee to free SPYGOD from his incarceration. We have reason to believe that you may know something of this, and even if you do not, you may have some information that will help us to find them."

"Is that all?" the hero says, wishing so dearly he could just sit here and ignore them.

"You will cooperate, yes?"

"It depends," the blue-haired man says: "Did you bring guns to my Ashram?"

"We have, yes."

"Did you threaten my friends?" he asks, feeling the anger coming back to him, like the scent of the water.

"We told them to get out of our way. They seemed very concerned about your welfare."

"We do that, here," Mister Chaos says, sounding indignant as he turns around, ever so slightly: "We're like family."

"Well, you will be happy to know they shielded you as best they could," the leader chuckles: "Now, I am certain we can all be reasonable about this?"

"You come to my retreat, threaten my friends, and assume I'm committing treason," the hero says, getting up ever so slowly and turning to face his accuser: "I think we left reasonable a couple miles back, pal."

"Do not be foolish," the head of the guards says, taking a step back as his soldiers heft their weapons up and lock them into firing position. 

"I could say the same to you," Mister Chaos says: "Leave here, now. Do not come back here. If you want to talk to me, I'll talk, but we'll do it somewhere else."

"You are in no position to be giving us orders, mssr-"

"I am in the perfect position, sir. The morally correct one. Surely you can see that these people are here to receive help and peace? Your presence here is jeopardizing that."

"I could say the same to you," the man sneers: "You are the human weapon, are you not? One song and you turn the world upside down and inside out."

"Is that what you think?" the hero says, smiling just a little: "Is that what they told you?" 

"Well, yes-"

"You see, that's all wrong," the man says, smiling: "I don't need that song to use my powers. I use it to act as a lifeline, so I can find my way back to reality when it's done. Otherwise I might just change the whole world without even thinking about it."

Then he smiles and holds up his hands, revealing he does not have the tapeplayer on him...

A few seconds later, the other pilgrims are both startled and amused to see the guards go running right out the front of the Ashram, and into their troop carrier. Once the carrier is well back down the road, and they carefully return to the garden, they see that their blue-haired brother is back meditating, as if nothing had ever happened. 

And in a few hours, as he loses himself yet again, he begins to wonder if anything actually did. 

* * * 

"Well?" Straffer asks, looking over at the bathroom door as SPYGOD walks out of it, somewhat nonplussed.

"No, not yet," SPYGOD says, groaning and holding his stomach.

"Watched pot?"

"You could !@#$ing say that again."

"I think I did," Straffer chuckles, clicking through channels on the television: "I told you more fiber was a good thing."

"Yeah," he says, patting his stomach and stomping over to the fridge for another beer, or three.

As he does, he looks over at the main window. The usual protesters are down there, but he's not looking at them. He's looking at the boxes that are still stacked by them, awaiting unpacking.

He's also looking at the boxes he's taken from there and put over by the front door over the last few days, trying to figure out where to put what. 

He's also looking at his cat, over on the couch, lazily farting away the afternoon. 

And he's looking at his watch, wondering if they've got the timing right, after all.

He grabs a beer and pounds it down, tossing the can at the recycling bag. That it ricochets off three things before going in flawlessly isn't surprising, anymore. It's just a thing, and he's had a lot of time to get it right.

But in his mind he's already counting down. The last few trips to the john. The last few boxes moved around. The last few cans in the bag. The last meal, the last television, the last !@#$ on the table, or under it.

The last moments spent here, rather than somewhere else.

Something is winding down, so something else can start into motion. And he just can't wait.

Soon, he tells himself, grabbing another beer and going to sit with his lover in front of the idiot box before feigning intestinal distress yet again: Very !@#$ing soon. 

But how soon it will be is all going to depend on someone else.

* * *

'You called, Mssr. President?" Henri asks, coming into the President's office with all the care he can muster.

"Yes, I did," the President says, putting a now-depleted rifle down on his desk -- right next to a number other, fully-loaded ones -- and indicating that the gaggle of male secretaries nearby should run down to the other end of the room to replace the shot-up paper targets of SPYGOD with fresh, new ones from the very large stack in a chair. 

They all have ear-protecting headphones on, and for good reason. The wall across from the desk has been thoroughly shot to !@#$, back, and there again. The wood and plaster that hid the super-steel underneath is almost entirely gone, revealing only the metal beneath. 

And there's hundreds of flattened rounds down there, lying in random piles and pools on the floor. 

"I want you to be ready to go to America," the President tells him as he hefts up another gun and cocks it, making the secretaries work just that more quickly and efficiently. 

"Um... of course, sir," Henri says, taking a respectful step back: "May I ask why?"

"You may," the President says, not smiling: "I've got a feeling I'm going to need someone there to oversee operations, soon."

"I see. What sort of operations?"

"That would be telling," the President replies, chuckling over something: "But I think you can figure it out, given everything?"

"Oh, yes," Henri says, looking at the targets: "Are we adjusting our timetable after all?"

"You get along well with Josie, right?"

"Yes!" he says, brightening up quite a bit at the mention of her name: "Very well, in fact. Just the other day-"

"That's good, because you're going to be working closely with her from here on out," the President interrupts, assuming the proper firing stance and getting ready: "I've already approved your travel orders. You and her need to link up ASAP and talk cooperative measures."

"When, sir?"

"Soon," the President replies, smiling: "Don't worry about the timing. Just be ready to drop it all and go there when I tell you. You can do that, can't you?"

"I can, sir," Henri says, already looking forward to the side benefits of working closely with Josie.

"Good," his leader says, sighting down the line: "You might want to put on some ear protectors and watch this, Henri. It might be instructive."

"What is it?" he asks, getting a pair from one of the secretaries, now that they've all gathered around the back of the desk with him.

He doesn't hear the full explanation through the muffs. Something about a high-tech firm in Austria, a ridiculous rate of RPM, and certain, hard-to-get exotic materials that go into each and every bullet.

All he knows is that, when the gun speaks, he can't help but listen. And then he's amazed to see that the previously-smooth wall -- made to withstand a nuclear blast -- is ever so slightly pocked and pitted by what it's fired.

And then he's imagining what it'll feel like to fire such a thing, should the need arise.

"Magnifique," he whispers, enraptured by the thrill of it all.

* * *

"Well, this is exciting," Gunther says, scrolling through the late President of New Zealand's notes as he sits at the man's desk, naked as the day he tumbled out of the clone tank.

The two secretaries he seduced to get here -- a man and a woman -- are still going at it in the other room. The noise they're making is providing the perfect cover for his espionage, though at this point he's sure he could get away with just about anything and they wouldn't object. 

(He is that good, by all accounts.)

What's exciting, Gunther? Karl asks: I'm just seeing a long list of things done that day. 

What about the proof that Champain Enterprises was a shell corporation? Jana asks: You said you were getting somewhere with that. 

"Forget that, sister. I think I've found two things that are more interesting."

Do tell, Helga snorts.

"Well, for one thing, it turns out that the old fellow had just gotten through writing his notes for the day before he decided to kill himself, if you can believe that."

So he'd be an unusually-orderly suicide, Karl chuckles: Point taken. Go on.

"For another, it looks like the last person he talked to was Guillaume Brilland." 

The Director of the Space Service, Helmut adds: Now why does that sound importantly familiar?

"I don't know, but I know one of you knows. That name stuck out for me-" 

It's me, Helga says, no longer sounding sarcastic: I noticed that some of the other people I've been looking into have spoken with him recently as well. The Prime Minister of Canada, the President of Portugal, the Finance Minister of Uganda..."

And they're all sending things off and sending money to Champlain Enterprises, Karl intuits: So what's their angle with the Space Service?

Does Uganda want a spaceport? Helmut chuckles. 

Do you suppose they're all trying to go somewhere? Jana asks.

And with that they all instinctively look up at the sky, wondering...

* * * 

"Where the !@#$ have you been?" Blastman asks, sitting by the window of their bolthole and hoisting another can from the remnants of the six pack he got this morning. He looks utterly diminished in a flannel shirt and blue jeans, but he's trying to blend in.

"Had an errand to run," Night Phantom -- who's still in costume -- answers as he crosses the dusty, sparsely-decorated room, pulling a new six pack from the paper bag he's brought. 

"Don't tell me you actually went into a store..."

"Well, I couldn't just steal, could I?"

Blastman sighs: "Where did you go this time?"

"Berlin," the floating cloud of a man answers, tapping the Kaufland logo on the paper bag: "I hope you realize Bud Light is a pricey import over there."

"Well, that's the last of the beer money, then," the hero sighs, looking back out the window: "Unless you want to actually act like a !@#$ fugitive or something."

"Well, we don't have to-"

"We do," Blastman insists, popping the tab on the beer he's got in hand. 

The man laughs so hard he almost vanishes, and then realizes the man was being serious. So he sighs and "sits" down, his cloudy tentacles spilling onto the floor, and hands over the new six.

"How long do we have to wait here?" he finally asks, wondering if there's anything good on the old, half-broken television before the cracked mirror, over on the dresser with no shelves.

"You know the score, man," his partner in crime says: "Brainman's got a plan. Until we know what it is, we just sit tight, and wait."

"I wish I got to wait with Red Wrecker," Night Phantom sighs. 

"So do I," Blastman chuckles: "Tough luck for both of us, I think she likes Myron better."

"What, that drip?"

"Hey now," the older hero says: "That drip almost single-handedly won the Reclamation War, down at the South Pole. And he's been through !@#$ you wouldn't believe."

"Try me."

"Well, for starters..." Blastman starts to say, but doesn't get the chance before the entire wall he's sitting next to explodes inward, and he's thrown clear across the room by the man who caused it. 

"Hi there, brother," something wrapped in big, black armor says, his voice deep enough to shake the world. He looks down at Blastman from a helmet that's shaped like a bullet, and there's a broken planet Earth splayed across his chest. 

"Joey...?" Blastman says, shaking the fuzz from his head as he looks up at his older, evil sibling.

"That's right," Cataclysmo says, clanking his armored fists together: "Thanks for visiting me in prison, you sniveling little !@#$. I really appreciated the flowers, too."

"You twisted son of a..." Blastman starts to say, but can't get the words out before the black, human bullet is back on him again. This time he takes them both through the wall, the bathroom, the hallway, and the apartment across from it. 

He didn't even have to plant his feet and start running - he just moved. 

"Well !@#$," Night Phantom says, dropping his six pack and looking for a convenient shadow so he can help his friend. But then there are no shadows at all, and there's only a glaring, bright light within the room.

A light that casts no shadow, and never ever warms. 

I S33 Y0U, the Glimmer announces, shining through the hole in the wall its teammate created and spinning itself into humanoid form: T1M3 T0 3ND. T1M3 T0 D13.

"Yeah," Night Phantom says, putting up as much darkness as he can in the face of a psychotic, thinking star: "How about 'no'?"

The being laughs and shines all the brighter. Everything in the room catches fire. Night Phantom screams as his being is eroded away by the thing he's facing, but he realizes he's got one chance. 

He stumbles over to the mirror, and then turns it back at his attacker. The light can't harm a being made of light, but the strange effects made by its reflection momentarily distract the Glimmer, just enough.

And, with that, the Night Phantom flies over to the massive hole Blastman and his wayward, psycho brother just created on their way to wherever the !@#$ they went, and zooms into the smallest space he can find, hoping he can find some darkness down there.

The second he does, he goes through it, blindly entering the nightzone and seeing all the shadows and darknesses around. It doesn't take long to figure out which of the humanoid shapes out in the street are his teammate and his familial rival, and he comes back out of the dark and into the day nearby. 

He's about to say something witty and engaging, but then he sees that Cataclysmo has just about finished reenacting the Ur-crime with his brother. Blastman's chest is a broken and battered ruin -- ribs poking though his shirt like accusatory fingers.

"You !@#$er!" Night Phantom screams, hurling a line of darkness at the hulking, black-armored giant. It knocks him back just a bit, but that's almost enough time to give his dying brother a little room to breathe. 

"Game over," Blastman says, somehow able to speak with a crushed chest: "Do it."

Night Phantom doesn't want to do this, but he knows he has to. He can see Cataclysmo rallying, and can feel the alien heat of Glimmer approaching. There is no time.

So he slips into the shadow of a large piece of rubble, left from where the two men crashed to the ground. Then he comes up under the shadow below Blastman, gently taking the man's head in his hands.

And then he slips back into the dark, just enough to take his ally's head into the concrete, and leave it there.

Blastman's body jerks and twists, stuck into the ground from the neck-up. Then it lies still. 

"What the !@#$?" Cataclysmo roars, successful in his goal yet cheated of his prize: "What the !@#$ing fuck!"

The Glimmer can add nothing, other than to watch his partner destroy the concrete in vain. That and silently wonder where its foe has disappeared to, and where they might find him, now that he's gone back into the dark.

It would seem that timing is everything.

* * *

"Well, about !@#$ time," SPYGOD says, turning on the bathroom light right at 7:54 in the PM and seeing that something very !@#$ important has finally arrived.

He kneels down and takes it from its case, still slightly cold from the transit. It only takes him only three seconds to extract it, assemble it, load it, and check it to make sure it should work.

"Honey, is Top Gear on tonight?" he asks as he strides through the apartment, heading for where Bee-Bee is snoozing on the couch.

"Why, yes it is," Straffer says, turning the television up as loud as it will go: "I think they're in Barcelona, this week."

"Barcelona," SPYGOD muses, handing what he's got off to the cat, who wakes up, coughs, takes it, and heads for the front door -- growing larger with each step: "The sea, the sand, the sun."

"The amazing food," Straffer replies, heading for the window and the boxes stacked next to it.

"Sagrada Familia," SPYGOD adds, the syllables rolling off his tongue.

"I didn't think you liked churches?"

"I don't. But... !@#$, I told you about the time I-"

Straffer breaks the story with a kiss. He also hands him a pair of very large earplugs.

"Those aren't going to do me any !@#$ing good, hon," SPYGOD sighs, handing them back: "I hear through my eye, remember?"

"Well, just in case," Straffer says, and, just before he stuffs a pair in his own years, adds: "I love you."

"I love you," SPYGOD replies, but it's falling on deaf ears, now.

There's a banging at the door, just then. Clearly the guards outside have been informed as to what SPYGOD carried out of the bathroom. But no one seemed to notice that they've been slowly piling heavy things up in front of it all afternoon, which is going to make their breaking it down just a little difficult. 

And the moment they do, they run right into their worst nightmare: a drunk demon cat the size of a Wookie with a fully-loaded AK47.

"Poshel na khuy i vashikh matery vy pridurki!" Bee-Bee screeches as he opens fire, carefully aiming at nothing above the knees, as ordered. 

The guards scream and fire back. The bullets bounce off the cat. He just laughs and fires more, no longer caring about orders now that the stupid suki have tried to kill him back. 

Seconds later, the alarm goes off. 

Seconds after that, SPYGOD and Straffer step to either side of the window, each cradling a certain box under their arm.

There's a weird whine, just then -- one that builds in pitch and intensity until the whole world seems to shake and scream. 

Without warning, the large window shatters, along with every piece of glassware in the apartment. Flinders of transparent stuff go everywhere. 

And the moment the whine begins to die down, something shifts in the air outside of what once was a window, and a flying Aston Martin Spyder is there, instead.

One with a somewhat-unrecognizable woman behind the wheel, a strange white button glimmering on her shirt. 

"Cut that a bit !@#$ing fine, didn't we?" SPYGOD teases as he leaps from the apartment into the back of the car, indicating his watch. Straffer jumps in beside him just as she flips him the bird -- though not without a smile -- and re-engages the cloak. 

The car vanishes a second later, much to the disappointment and anger of the protesters down below. They throw eggs and tomatoes where they think it might be, but only succeed in getting themselves spattered with rotten food.

And then they're gone, with only impotent alarms, screaming guards, and gunfire to mark their absence. 

* * *

It takes fifty TU personnel and another hour to take Bee-Bee down. In the end, someone just has the good sense to throw bottles of vodka into the apartment and pray he gives up the gun for the booze and drinks himself stupid, yet again. Thankfully, it works.

Sometimes life is kind, even to the undeserving.

* * *

"I don't understand where they could have gone," the TU official in charge of keeping an eye on the five ABWEHR kids is saying, running his hands over the files on his pad: "It's like they just disappeared-"

"They have, obviously," his contact sighs, not in the mood to deal with this: "Any idea what they were looking into?"

"Something to do with the suicides of those two Prime Ministers, I think. Two of them were hassling the Australian's widow, and then there's this thing with the one in the New Zealander's office. I hear they're still cleaning up the stains on the carpet-"

"Get a kill team on it," the shadowed man snaps: "See them? Shoot them. Can make up any story needed after. Don't care."

"Very well," the man says: "It will be done. And what of their mentor, Randolph Scott?"

"Oh, don't worry about him," the man says, watching the footage from The Tokyo Kill Club, just last night: "Got something special planned just for him..."

The rest is darkness.

* * *

Somewhere there's a different door

To open wide

You've got to throw those skeletons out of your closet

and come outside...

 (SPYGOD is listening to Se a vida es (Pet Shop Boys, remix) and having a Champlain Orchards cider )

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 1

7:00 PM

They say that the secret to any good party -- other than having the right mix of people -- is the venue. And they would be right, which is why people are willing to pay a lot of good !@#$ money to have someone find the perfect spot, book it, and get everything ready for them so they don't have to do it themselves.

Does that seem like an extravagance? Then consider three things:

1) Finding the right venue is sort of like Goldilocks legendary home invasion -- a question of too much, not enough, or just right. Too much space and the party seems sparsely-attended, and people think they're bored and go home, but too little space and the party seems overcrowded,  and then people get claustrophobic and angry and -- you guessed it -- go home. And while no one wants to party in a dump (unless they're hipsters, or something), if the place is too nice, everyone will be afraid to let loose for fear of breaking something irreplaceable.

2) This is Neo York City. Everything's expensive as !@#$ -- even the cramped dumps some people call party halls. If you want to get something decent for a lot of people, you either need an "in" or a lot of money. Sometimes both.

3) As this is Neo York City, everything is booked quite some time in advance, sometimes even years in advance, in fact. So if you decide to throw something impromptu for a few hundred people on a whim, you really need someone who can grease the palms and get a space in something other than an Elks Lodge.

So when Straffer told SPYGOD that he'd thrown together a New Years Eve party for a couple hundred people, out of seemingly nowhere, that is no small thing to have done. Especially since the amount of site-shopping, palm-greasing, and threats of bodily violence that must have occurred to make it happen had to have happened over the phone, while SPYGOD was either asleep or drunk in another room.

Having said that, one must also say that Lombardi's, out on 5th, isn't exactly what you'd call a great venue. Once upon a time it was a gymnasium, but then it fell on worse days and they had to sell. Whoever they sold it to had the idea to try and turn it into a restaurant, but that didn't work out too well, either, so it became -- in short succession -- a small concert hall, a large bar, and a large gay bar.

Finally, it was purchased by a trendy  guy who bought it got it at a really good price to try and turn it into a dance hall. This sort of worked, though it's more of a multipurpose sort of place, these days. Banquets and Bar Mitzvahs, mostly.

So tonight, when the staff throws the doors open, there's muted orange and yellow lights shining down from the sagging, cracked ceiling, along with silver paper stars and disco balls. The walls are covered up with white curtains so no one can see what they look like, underneath, or hear the traffic from 5th Avenue. The bar to the side of the raised, "wooden" dance floor has been draped in white linens, and the upholstery on the seats and couches on the other side of the floor is also white.

(It's meant to dazzle and hide the reality of things from the guests, obviously. Given the professions of most of them, this is highly appropriate.)

But all cover-ups and cosmetic treatments aside, the venue is perfect. It's neither too small nor too large, too fancy or too foul. And while it might have been a bit pricier than one would have liked, given the state of the actual hall itself, the fact that it was open on New Years Eve is nothing less than a miracle.

(That the miracle was obtained by mentioning the organizer's ongoing relationship with the Space Service -- a group of people who can and will atomize things from orbit -- needs no mention, here.)

7:25 PM

Randolph Scott stands over by the bar by the dance floor, looking like an advertisement for sobriety. There's circles under the circles under his eyes, and the cybernetic jacks and ports in the back of his skull are looking a little ragged. Almost conversely, he's dressed as impeccable as he's been in weeks: black suit, white shirt, shimmering silk tie.

And clearly, horribly alone.

As he finishes his third mimosa and goes to call for another from the clearly-bored bartender, he realizes someone's walking towards him from across the otherwise-empty hall. He turns to look, not immediately recognizing the tall, scowling woman who's approaching.

(Long black hair, Native American features, turquoise and silver jewelry in her hair, muscles like a horse, a small purse that clearly has at least one handgun in it.)

"You know, there's always one !@#$hole who shows up early," she snorts, clearly uncomfortable in her off-color party dress: "Usually it's me."

"It's gotta be someone," he says, gesturing to the seat next to his: "I've got an excuse, though."

"What's yours?" she asks, pointedly taking the seat next to that, but not without scowling just a little less.

"You get there on time, sometimes you miss the real story," he says, turning back to take his new drink.

"Reporter?"

"For my sins."

"You look like you've got one !@#$ of a backlog, then."

"You noticed, huh?" he says, trying not to let her rile him: "Yeah, this hasn't exactly been the best time of my life."

"Mine either," she admits, pointing to the bottle of Jack behind the bar, and indicating that the bartender should just bring it and a glass: "I think I liked it better when I was !@#$ing fighting an enemy, you know?"

"Don't you have enough now?" he asks, finally recognizing her out of uniform: "Well, until Christmas, anyway."

"Oh yeah," Yanabah snorts, having a serious, broken-neck pull from the bottle instead of the glass: "And you were there covering that, weren't you?"

"I was, yeah," he says, watching her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand: "I was there when the compound fell."

"And I was there when they started handing .50 caliber retirement packages to those !@#$ing worms that were tied up with them," she says, shaking her head as her sinuses riot: "I handed a few out, myself. Not a nice day."

"You mean the heroes that had gone over to the secessionists' side?"

"You know what I mean," scowling again.

"Well, there's a quite a few people who died that day-"

"I'm not being interviewed, !@#$face," she interrupts him, putting a hand up in his face without looking at him: "You want a statement, you go !@#$ing talk to someone gives a !@#$. I'm here to get drunk and..."

"And?" he asks, looking around the hand.

"And... get drunk," she sighs, putting the hand down: "Maybe get drunk, while I'm at it. And then get drunk when I'm done with that."

"Sounds like a plan," he says: "That's what I was here to do, too. But you know me. I'm still a reporter. Can't turn off the brain."

"Maybe if you pulled one of your !@#$ plugs?"

Okay. That did it. He scowls, gets up from his seat, and hands the bartender a bill for his own drinks.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, but he's already gone. She knows she should go after him, maybe give a better !@#$ apology, but she knows it wouldn't do any good at this point, if ever.

"Oh, Grandfather," Yanabah sighs, putting her hand on the top of the bottle, as if to convince herself to stop drinking from it: "Why was it you and not me?"

The bottle doesn't have any answers. It never does.

8:00 PM

It's exactly one hour after the party started, and -- as if by magic -- everyone starts to appear.

The Shadow People are here, in singles and pairs and the odd half-dozen. The remnants of the Freedom Force, some in party clothes and some in costume. The new kids, all dressed in their smart dress uniforms, and wondering if they should try and mingle with their elders or keep to themselves. The heroes from overseas, trying to find people they actually know in this mess, or else sticking to themselves in small knots and whirls at various points on the floor.

(The brightest lights from the new Space Service -- just arrived in their gold-brocaded dress whites and looking as smart as possible.)

Ambassadors from Atlantis, resplendent and moist in their weird pressure suits made from lesser creatures, wondering who they should talk to. Visitors from the Toon Nation, glowing under the lights and oh-so-happy to be here, tonight. Strange beings that no one seems to know the provenance of, but somehow got an invite, and don't seem to be acting out of turn, yet. The occasional Gay Republican, most of whom don't know what to make of the strange fellow who claims to be Benjamin Franklin, himself. 

(Superspies from a dozen or more countries, mostly keeping their own counsel.)

But no sign of the host, just yet.

Yes, he's under house arrest. He's under orders not to set foot from the apartment the Terre Unifee set up for him, until his trial. But since when does SPYGOD follow orders?

He'll be here, somehow. And they can hardly wait.

(Most of them, anyway.)

But in the meantime, there's the bar, the dance floor, and the DJ, who seems to know exactly what they need to hear right now. There's the lights and the bodies, the conversation and connections, and the thrumming and beat of the music that's become the soundtrack of their lives right now.

Now and forever, there is only the party. 

8:35 PM

"So how are you liking the new deal, so far?" the original New Man asks Skyspear as they lounge over in the chair pile, watching people dance like mad.

"I am not certain," she says, looking resplendent in her new uniform: "I like the sense of belonging, but it's very... I don't know the word in English."

"I never do, either, honey," Gosheven says, wincing as a very drunken Yanabah stumbles through the dancers, almost stepping on the tail of an upright, cartoon dog in a tuxedo. 

"Well, what's a time when you feel strange about it?" New Man asks, trying to not watch the resulting scuffle.

"Like when we need to go and do one thing, but then someone calls and tells us not to because someone else is going to deal with it," she says: "Or we should be dealing with something, but then we are called and told to go somewhere else. It is very confusing."

"I was going to say 'annoying,'" Mark Clutch says, returning with another drink for her: "But I guess that's life in the new reality for you."

"Well, it's not like we didn't have that before," New Man says, finishing his drink: "SPYGOD was infamous for telling us to do one thing and then changing course and telling us to do the exact opposite. It was like he was flipping coins, sometimes."

"It usually worked out, though," Gosheven offers: "From what I heard, anyway."

"Sometimes," Mark says, sitting down next to Skyspear and reflexively taking her hand in his: "Sometimes it was a big mess, too. I remember this one time-"

"Is it perhaps that the control is no longer coming from one of your own?" Skyspear asks, interrupting her lover: "That this is being done by a world government?"

"A French world government at that," Night Phantom says, suddenly appearing close to them. It's perhaps to their credit that his tendency to do this no longer startles them as much as it used to.

"Well, more people speak French than English," Skyspear says, winking at him.

"I think it's the nationality and not the language," Mark says, still a little stung at being run over in conversation (again).

"Yeah," New Man agrees: "SPYGOD may have been an insane bastard when he was in charge of our strategic talents, but he was our insane bastard. We knew what he was about-"

"Sometimes," Gosheven interrupts, snickering.

"And we knew where his loyalties lay," New Man continues: "Right smack under our feet. Flag, country, apple pie. No question. Now the Terre Unifee..."

He stops talking and looks askance. No one else needs to say anything more.

A young man in a green and white dress uniform (with a horrendous, still-healing scar on his left cheek) comes up to them, zeroing in on Mark: "Sir? Are you Mark Clutch?"

"I am, son," he says, getting up to shake his hand: "What can I do for you?"

"Green Fury, sir," he says, smiling a little: "Sorry to interrupt-"

"Oh, it's no interruption," New Man says: "Us old-timers were just grousing."

"At a party, no less," Gosheven chuckles.

"Well, that's what happens at your parties," Skyspear says, getting up and putting down her drink: "Pardon me? I think I will go and dance."

"Anyway, sir," Green Fury says, noticing how wistfully Mark looks after the woman walking away: "I was wondering... do you know if your sister will be here tonight?"

"My sister?" he asks, puzzled: "Oh, you mean Martha?"

"The Owl, yes," the young man smiles: "I had a few things I needed to thank her for."

"I'm not sure if she's coming or not," he says, his heart still hoping he's wrong: "Her and SPYGOD... well... there's been some friction. But you didn't hear that from me."

"I heard nothing," the young man says, putting a hand on his heart: "No, it's just that she really helped me out when some bad things went down, recently."

"Christmas?"

"Yes," he says, nodding sadly: "I guess we're all healing up from that."

"We are," Mark sighs, shaking the young man's hand again: "If I see her, I will send her straight to you, son."

"Thanks," he says, and leaves the old timers to their grousing.

"What happened to him?" Gosheven asks.

"Oh, he was from LA," New Man says, whistling: "Only honest guy in the bunch, apparently. It's a great day when your friends and teammates show up at your house to try and kill you."

"Is that what we've become?" Mark asks, sitting down and watching his lover dance to whatever weird disco-techno mashup the DJ's playing now (and looking oh-so-happy to be out there, alone).

"I think so," Gosheven answers, realizing the question wasn't necessarily about that young hero's predicament.

"I really prefer the original," the Night Phantom admits, not getting the subtext at all.

(SPYGOD is listening to Open (The Cure) and having a Sawtooth Ale )

12/22/12 - The Owl - The More I See the More I Fall - pt. 3

12/8/12

"So what do we do, then?" The Owl asks, looking around an overly-opulent conference hall full of American Supers.

The resulting silence is deafening, and disheartening -- especially since they just spent the last couple hours complaining about how things seemed to be happening too quickly, and outside of their control. The Imago being tried, sentenced, and punished. The massive geo-political shakeups that have just occurred. The hideous slaughter that just happened in Israel.

And what just happened to Doctor Power.

And while they could have claimed to have some hand in those things, given that the person who ordered them all here -- SPYGOD -- was somewhat directly involved with them, he was now nowhere to be seen.

(Though, given everything that's happened over the last few days, that might not be so strange after all.)

"Well," the new New Man coughs, raising a hand and addressing the group: "If you don't mind one of the new guys saying something...?"

"I don't mind at all," Gold Standard says, shrugging her shoulders: "I think we're all pretty much new, here."

"Some of us, anyway," an old man with a long beard says: "Some of us are old as dirt."

"Speak for yourself, Brainman," the old New Man says, winking.

"Please, just call me Rakim..."

"Well, you know we've got some new folks, here,," Blastman adds, looking around the room: "But I see that we don't have any of the really new folks. I'm not the only one who noticed that, right?"

He isn't. For some reason, the new wave of American heroes -- the ones who escaped the chemicals in the water, and lived quiet lives under COMPANY scrutiny -- are not here, today, in this quaint St. Louis hotel. The meeting is only what's left of the old hands, their namesakes and descendants, and the occasional reformed villain.

"You know, I think you're right," the old New Man says, leaning back in his chair: "Son, I think you have the floor."

"Well, let's put it on the table, here," the man says, adjusting his sunglasses: "The Owl's got the right verb going. We need to do something. And I'd say that something is form a new group."

"What sort of group are you talking about?" the Shining Guardsman asks: "You mean like the Freedom Force?"

"Not like the Freedom Force, please," Yanabah snorts, crossing her well-muscled arms: "All I ever heard from great-grandfather was how much they argued whether they should do things or not."

"Well, after Korea, you can understand our reluctance," the old New Man says.

"After Korea, you got neutered," Gosheven chuckles, turning his hand into a pair of scissors and making 'snip-snip' motions.

"Now that's not fair," old New Man says, but, having been in Gosheven's head for so long, after the war, he realizes it for the joke it is and leaves it be. 

"Well, it's a whole new ballgame, isn't it?" the new New Man says, gesturing to The Owl: "We were actually making some headway talking with other Supers from other countries at The Z, when the Imago were being dealt with. And one of the things that's changed is the relationship between supers and their government. No one wants to go back to being told what to do by their elected officials, anymore. They want more autonomy, and less of a feeling of being a weapon, or a puppet on a string."

"Which is probably why SPYGOD had us meet here," The Owl adds, looking around: "I bet he's hoping we make something independent and keep it American."

"I bet you're right," Rakim says: "In fact, that's part of why I'm here."

"Other than being invited?" Gold Standard asks, still not quite willing to trust a former supervillain.

"Well, I could have opted out, same as everyone else. But I had the brain computer look at some long-range prognostications, based on current trends. And I think one thing that's pretty clear is that we're going to need some kind of large, national group of supers."

"Why not just go international from here on out?" Blastman asks.

"Well, we may need one of those, too. But if the largest, most powerful group winds up being international, then it's going to fall under the wing of the Terre Unifee. And that's going to mean that any countries that don't join it are going to have their heroes denied membership, or else be used as salespersons to persuade their governments to join up."

"Plus they could always be a little slow responding to emergencies of non-members," Yanabah points out: "Just to be !@#$ers."

There's a little chuckling at her frank assessment.

"America has now joined the TU," Rakim goes on, pulling out a printed report: "Which means that their supergroup is going to include American supers. And since the biggest profile super is going to be really busy for the next four years or so, they're going to pick someone in this room."

"And who knows who that will be," Gold Standard says.

"New Man, actually," the new New Man says, pointing to his father.

The old man blinks: "What do you mean, son?"

"I came to same conclusion," Rakim says, gesturing to the page: "You're a known quantity. You're a former member of both the Liberty Patrol and the Freedom Force, and you were in charge of the COMPANY for a while there."

"Oh please, let's not bring that up," he says, shaking his head: "Worst couple months of my life."

"You're also not too hyperpatriotic or flamboyant," his son continues: "You're well-meaning, humble, and dependable. You won't try to be in charge of the show, you won't undermine or undercut anyone, and you won't go shoving your smart American ways all over the agenda."

"In short, you're perfect for the job," Rakim finishes, folding up the paper and putting it away.

"I don't know whether to be insulted or complemented."

"I'd be pretty darn proud to be in a group like that," Blastman says, straightening his pointy helmet: "You don't want it, I got dibs."

There's some laughter, there, and then The Owl brings it back to earth: "So, excluding the old New Man, and boy do we need to get this name thing straight-"

"Still working on a new one," the new New Man says, smiling: "Your son totally took one I was working on."

"Should we invite him, by the way?" Shining Guardsman asks, pointing a gilded finger at The Owl: "I don't know why he's not here, come to think of it-"

"He's busy," The Owl lies, too quickly for her own liking: "That and travel outside Neo York City's a little difficult at this time."

"Too bad," the gold-suited man says: "I kind of like the idea of having someone along for the ride who can be in a million places at once."

"Well, I can try, but I think I'm too fabulous to split up," Gosheven announces.

"No one asked you," Yanabah snorts.

"No one cares-"

"Children, please," the new New Man says, holding up a hand: "Play nice."

"How about this, then?" The Owl says, gesturing to Rakim: "If we go by what's being predicted by Rakim's machine, and believe me, that thing was frighteningly accurate back in the day-"

"Oh, I remember," Blastman says, giving the old villain a squirrely look.

"Then we do need an American group. And we should do our best to keep it as disconnected with the government as possible. Let the new kids have their orders and see how they handle themselves, and maybe, after time, they can be let in. But in the meantime, we handle the things they're not meant to be tackling."

"Like what?" the old New Man asks: "Getting involved internationally?"

"I mean like the people we used to fight, once," she says, standing up beside the man's son: "What happened in Palestine was a wake-up call for me. I've been so busy dealing with fire trucks and petty theft that I'd forgotten that there's reasons why we exist. Science terrorists, global conquerors, threats too big for an army to handle, even one that's supposedly that of a world government."

"And if we band together, as American heroes, we can do what needs doing independent of that world government," the new New Man continues, nodding at what she says: "Because you know they're going to try and stick their !@#$ fingers into our business at some point."

"What about the COMPANY?" Night Phantom asks: "It really sounds like we'd just be duplicating their effort."

"I don't see the COMPANY lasting for too much longer," Rakim says, sadly: "I don't think we need a brain computer to figure out why, either."

No one wants to comment on that. 

"It'd mean being outlaws, of a sort," Gold Standard says, looking around: "We'd go from being licensed heroes to being vigilantes, again. Some might even call us outlaws."

"Well, some of us started out that way," The Owl points out.

"And some of us used to be that way," Rakim says, nodding to Blastman.

"And some of us don't give a !@#$," Yanahbah says, leaning forward: "There's good and there's evil. If we sit down and do nothing in the face of evil, we become evil. And if doesn't matter why we do nothing, either. If it's fear or laziness or letting some French bureaucrat tell us what to do, it's all the same."

There's some silence, then, and nodding.

"Then we are a team," the young New Man says, taking The Owl's hand in his and extending a hand out to another hero, nearby: "Are you in?"

They all are.

12/13/12

"... I mean, it's unbelievable,"  Martha says over the phone, watching the television in her apartment as a number of internationally-renowned Supers -- including the old New Man -- are addressing the press, right outside the Parisian headquarters of the TU: "Brainman had it right. He even predicted the name-"

"Never mind that," Mark Clutch responds: "Check out what's going down on FOX, right now."

"Oh, you know I refuse to watch that network," The Owl sighs.

"Well, so do I, but Farashuu actually likes it. So we're watching it, and-"

"Is that Skyspear's real name?"

"Um, yes," Mark says, not knowing how much he should say about that: "But we're watching that, and... oh, just flip it over, Martha. Trust me."

"You know I do, Mark. But someone had better be slugging Sean Hannity right in the jaw, or I'm going to be a little upset-"

But she closes her mouth as soon as she sees what's happening.

The camera is outside of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. in Neo York City, looking at the front steps. A massive group of overdressed TU soldiers are moving out of the front doors, their hands on their holsters.

And right behind them are SPYGOD -- who's holding Bee-Bee in his arms -- and Director Straffer, obviously being evicted from their home.

"Yes, this is it," the cameraman says over the loud jeering and boos coming from off-camera protesters: "This is history happening, folks. This man has lived like a king in this city for decades, and now, at last, he's being marched out of his throne room and being called to account."

"Oh my God," Martha says, sitting down: "They're doing it."

"Well, he got charged yesterday," Mark says: "You didn't think they'd leave him there, did you?"

"Well, maybe not," she says: "But wow, that takes some chutzpah. They're putting him out on the street at the same time they're announcing that they're making a new strategic talents organization..."

She thinks for a moment and clicks back to CNN, not exactly surprised at what she sees.

"In these times of trouble, Le Compagnie shall be there," the tall, imposing Frenchman with red and blonde hair says: "We shall salve the wounds and bind the breaks. We shall turn night into day and lost into found. Where there is strife, we shall bring peace, and where there is war or injustice, we shall be the ones to say 'no.'"

There's a great deal of cheering at that, and he smiles -- white and perfect as falling snow -- and raises his hands to them. 

"Men and women of the world, we are your saviors," he says: "Let us help you, and may we all help each other in the days to come."

More cheering, almost enough to make the world shake -- especially when the heroes all step up alongside the man and, in unison, bow or nod to the world.

"And that is the leader of this new group, France's own national hero, Tempete Bleu, speaking," the announcer says: "And we've just received word that, almost coincidentally, SPYGOD has been forcibly removed from his home in Neo York City and is being transported to special holding facilities, there to await trial for his role in-"

The Owl turns the television off. The phone continues to talk. She loves Mark -- maybe more than he knows -- but right now she can't listen to him.

She can only think of what this means for their own group, now, and what it means for the man she's still upset with, but has never stopped respecting.

Or loving like a father, at times.

"Oh please, God," she prays, clasping her hands around the phone: "Please help me to do the right thing, here."

12/22/12

It's three days before Christmas, and Martha is only just now getting her tree up.

She kept putting it off, much to Kaitlyn's chagrin. One night she said she had no energy, and another she said she had no time. The truth was that she really wasn't in the mood, as she'd begun to feel the sadness of a nearly-empty house, bereft of her father, her cousin, their butler.

Her son. 

But then Kaitlyn left a copy of The House Without a Christmas Tree out, right on the coffee table, and Martha realized that her sadness was causing collateral damage. So she sucked it up, and one night they took off for themselves, and they went and bought a tree.

And now she's decorating it herself, looping newly-bought strands of garland over it, along with festive, red and green balls, small tin angels, and the like. She hadn't gotten an angel for the top because Kaitlyn had insisted on making one, herself, but then she didn't think she could have gotten a new one, anyway.

The Samuels family had always topped the tree one of her great-grandfather's angels, cast in brass and lovingly cared for. And it had been destroyed along with the mansion, that terrible night, all those months ago.

She's about to start tearing up at the thought, but she banishes the sadness and goes back to work. She doesn't want Kaitlyn to come home, a bright angel in her hands, only to find her aunt weeping at the base of the tree.

"It's a beautiful tree," a strange voice tells her -- warbling and uncertain.

She spins around 180 dgrees, arms up and ready to strike. And then she puts her hands down, agog at what she's seeing.

It's her son, Thomas, standing before her. Only it isn't exactly him: his form is hazy and indistinct -- more of a hologram than the full physical projections he's been creating for himself.

"How are you?" he asks, his expression somewhat quizzical.

"I'm fine," she says, trying to get her heart rate under control: "I'm sorry. You scared me. I didn't know you could... come here?"

"So for once, I finally snuck up on you," he says, smiling wider than he should be able to: "That means I win the bet."

"I guess it does..." she laughs, weakly: "But that's totally cheating."

"Maybe," he says, and eases himself down on the sofa: "I remember grandfather saying that the only difference between cheating and being sneaky is whether you're the good guy or the bad guy."

"Yeah, I think Grandpa said that, once," she agrees, carefully sitting down next to him.

"He did," Thomas says: "I was three and a half, roughly. I don't think you knew I was in the room. I was sneaking around."

"I may have known you were there," Martha laughs: "Mothers have eyes in the back of their head about that kind of thing."

Not anymore, he says. Something about how she says it frightens her, just a little.

"How are you here?" She asks, hoping to change the subject.

"I'm borrowing a trio of defense communication satellites," he explains: "They're new ones. If I was playing by its rules I'd be appearing behind enemy lines to tell you to surrender, and that we can get at you anywhere. As it is, I'm here telling my mother I love her, and merry Christmas."

"I love you too," she says, smiling: "And Merry Christmas to you, too. But you're a little early."

"Yes. On Christmas I expect to be very busy," he explains: "Things are coming to a head. I need to be ready for them.

"On Christmas? How do you know?"

How many of your heroes are working with the secessionists?

She blinks: "How... did SPYGOD tell you?"

I told SPYGOD, remember?

"Yes, you did. Were you listening in when I talked to him?"

I listen in to everything, Thomas says, his eyes growing wider and darker: I hear people when they talk. I hear them kissing, planning, !@#$ing.

"Thomas, please."

Mark is in love with you, Thomas says: He's sleeping with the African hero, Skyspear, but he loves you.

Martha gasps and sits up, trying to get off the couch without panicking: "Thomas, how dare you tell me this! This is..."

"It's all my business, now," he says, sadly: "Too much. Too many things. I see everything, now. More than I should. More than I need to. But yet I have to be the one to do it. Do you understand?"

She shakes her head: "Thomas, I don't understand. I love you, I want to help you, but I don't understand."

Understand this, Thomas says, and he crackles and vanishes, only to re-appear standing up, by the tree: The darkness is coming. All must stand together against it. But not all that stand together will be together. There will be confusion and chaos. Someone must stand above it to lead. 

"Are you talking about that thing that's coming for us?" she asks, standing up: "Are you?"

Someone must stand above it to lead, he repeats: Be ready. 

And then he's gone, leaving her with an empty apartment, a million questions, and the terrible fear that her son is not acting on his own accord.

A car drives by, playing Christmas music at full blast. She wipes away a tear, takes a deep breath, and starts working on the tree again.

For Kaitlyn. For Mark. For the woman he's sleeping with, but not in love with. For Thomas.

And for herself. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Deeper and Deeper (The FIXX) and having a White Christmas)