Apotheoclypse Now: 10/17/16 - 10/23/16

"I'm Looking For a Man / Who Knows the Rules of the Game"

(Anubis, who is not taking your !@#$, anymore)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

1

* * *

So... that's him? one Watcher asks the others with her as they observe and participate in the Fiction they have written for the six people they've plucked from Bastogne, on Christmas of 1944: The uncouth one?

Yes, the one who brought them here says, pointing to the one who can make swords come from his hands: That is (REDACTED), as he was then.

He seems rather... unimpressive, one of the others says, observing a bit closer as he shoves a very large mouthful of the fine food they've created for this meal into his mouth.

His speech is tiresome, another opines, clearing the plates from the table: He seems capable only of annoyance and self-satisfaction.

And his attempts at humor are... lacking, yet another chuckles.

True, their guide says: But consider how far he came. How he grew and changed. Also what he did, when it was truly important to have one clear, far-seeing person to usher in the changes of the 21st century.

So what is the purpose of this lesson? the least shy of the Watchers asks: Are we to glean the future from his excessive profanity?

No, Shift says to his five apprentices: You are, under my direction, going to decide how the future is to be shaped, and why.

They look at him with some confusion, so he elaborates: This meeting we have constructed is not so much a contrivance as an intervention. If we had not acted, they would have killed one another, and the world would be without six of its most influential men.

But they cannot all survive, one of the Watchers says: They cannot all prosper. That one there, the one known as Heimdall? He dies in a Soviet camp, not many years from now.

Yes, but why does he have to? Shift asks: Why does he not live? Why does that other one? What is the purpose of their survival, or death?

The Watchers look to their silvery leader, and slowly begin to comprehend.

We must not see the weave of history, the least shy one says: We must understand the pattern itself.

Yes, Shift says, pleased to see his words are likewise understood: You must be with them, now. Examine their lives from all angles. See what was, what is, and what could be. Collaborate, compete.

And when you have learned what you need to see... well, I will be here to answer any questions you may still have.

With that, they all take their places behind the men they have each chosen to explore. They wear the faces of people from their past.

And then -- as (REDACTED) gets up to relieve himself -- they make contact, and the lesson truly begins.

But as Shift's most fearless student begins to explore the life, potential, and possibilities of her chosen subject -- the one called Major Force -- she happens to come across another life that has crossed his, and becomes much more interested in that one.

The shining, nighttime crusader of Chicago. The man who gives rise to an entire line of heroes -- stretching all the way into their present, and beyond.

The Owl, eternal.

And as she looks at him and his life -- public and private, recorded and redacted -- she realizes that she, somehow, has become a part of it...

She looks up to her teacher in alarm, only to see him looking back at her. His eyes are as sad as ever, clearly knowing what she has learned this day.

And in that white-hot instant of total understanding, she knows that this is not merely a lesson for her, but prophecy -- both beautiful and terrible...

* * *

It's Sunday morning, in Washington DC -- oddly still and quiet after the tumultuous week it's had to endure -- and the Interim President really, really needs a !@#$ing drink.

He looks at the man sitting across the Oval Office desk from him, as if he just heard the most incredible and outrageous thing ever. And in a way he has. 

"I..." he starts to say, shaking his head. 

"I know," SPYGOD says, leaning back in the chair he's parked his butt in, and adjusting his new eyepatch: "It's some !@#$ing crazy !@#$."

"Well..."

"I mean, I'm having a damn hard time believing this crap. And I was there. Hell, I even knew it was gonna !@#$ing happen before it did, and I still can't take it all in."

"And you're telling me that... this whole thing was all part of the plan?"

"Sort of..." the superspy defers, looking this way and that: "It's more like I was following a !@#$ing flowchart. This !@#$ing thing happens, then that thing !@#$ing happens, then this other thing is gonna happen, except that something else happens inbetween..."

"Uh-huh," the Interim President says, tapping the report the Director of the COMPANY handed him, a rather confusing half hour ago: "But you wrote the flowchart?"

"I think so," SPYGOD says, shrugging.

"Well, either you did or you didn't!" the man shouts, pounding his fist on the report and causing everything on the heavy desk to wobble, just a little: "Were you... were you drinking? Or worse?"

"Mr. President, let me tell you something," (REDACTED) says, leaning forward and pointing to the poor, abused report: "When you !@#$ing meet yourself from a couple months in the future? And the bastard hands you the keys to the damn future, and then tells you not to ask any !@#$ing questions, or tell anyone else exactly what the !@#$ is to go down? Especially since they might be about to die?"

"Or not die, as the case may be," the Interim President says, shaking his head: "You know how much a state burial at Arlington costs?"

"Well, look on the bright side," SPYGOD says: "Now you don't have to !@#$ing dig them a grave when they die. It's already waiting for them. Just slide them on in."

"I'm not sure I understand that either."

"What, burying them later?"

"No," the former Speaker of the House sighs, tapping the report: "The bit where the Mars force didn't die when we were told they did. And how they've been hiding all this time. And where those crabs were actually coming from...?"

"Well, it's like I was trying to tell you, sir," the superspy says, staring the man in both eyes with the last one he's got, and then leaning back: "All this past and future and present and !@#$ing flowcharts? If that isn't enough to make a man drink on the damn job, I don't know what will..."

"Yeah," his audience nods.

"Speaking of which...?"

"I had that bust taken out of here after the Apocalypse," the Interim President admits: "I guess I can't be trusted around emergency booze."

"Well, good damn thing I can," SPYGOD says, pulling a pair of flasks out of his coat, and handing one over: "Because I have the !@#$ing feeling you're going to want me to go over it all again-"

"Oh, absolutely," his Commander in Chief sighs, taking the flask with something akin to resignation -- and yet relief -- on his long face.

"And if so?" his guest says, popping the top of his with a well-practiced thumb: "Then we're both gonna need to knock back a few."

They take a snort in a weird kind of unison, which causes them both to chuckle a little -- something they clearly both need as much as the booze. 

And then, after a few more rips to loosen the mind and tongue, the Interim President takes a deep breath, drums the desk with his fingers, and says the fateful words: "From the top, then?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, taking another snort before he gets into it: "So, the Great Mystery was shot and killed with the whole damn world watching, which is when the !@#$ well and truly hit the goddamn fan..."

Monday: 10/17/16

"Okay, this is officially !@#$ing disgusting, now," Black Freedom says, wiping gobs of Gosheven off of her boots as she stomps through the crime scene: "What the hell is wrong with him?"

"He just saw his god die, Florence," Randolph says, trying to take pictures of the aftermath with a broken arm -- careful not to step too close to the dead: "If he needs to fall the !@#$ apart, I think he's allowed."

"How can this happen?" she asks, looking at the red puddle that was the Great Mystery, and the leather-clad woman who's been kneeling beside it since it happened: "What the hell kind of gun can kill a god?"

"Probably the same one that picked off those riot cops after the panic started," the Outlaw Reporter says, looking at the beheaded, over-armored police in question: "Which made them freak the !@#$ out and start shooting."

"Which made everything go the !@#$ downhill," Black Freedom grumbles, kicking a handy abandoned helmet: "God dammit! Why did I have to be so !@#$ing late to this? Why?"

Randolph could tell her that it didn't matter, really. Because once the Great Mystery was shot -- right in the heart, from the looks of things -- and began to melt into a horrifying, human-shaped pile of red goo in Yanabah's arms? 

Well, there wasn't anything one more hero on either side could have done. 

* * *

To Gold Standard's credit, she realized where the gunshot hadn't come from, and tried to stop things from getting out of hand. But the protesters, already on edge from the back-and-forth with the police, diggers, and Freedom Force, panicked and ran, assuming the worst. 

And as soon as the police were killed, well, the blue line did what it always did in a case like that -- assume everyone that was not them was involved, somehow. 

At which point they went from contain and control to cripple and confine, with terrible results. 

The shame of it was that, if it'd been just the police, Gold Standard could have turned things around. She could have literally pulled Gosheven back together and gotten him to spawn extra copies to do crowd control. She could have gotten Free Fire or Black Falcon to investigate where the shots came from, or done it herself. 

But Free Fire had his orders, and carried it out on the side of their fellow law enforcement. Before she could call him back he'd turned into a one-android rampage -- knocking protesters this way and that using his fists, feet, and the dull ends of his signature flame wheel. 

Thankfully he was aiming to subdue his targets, and just going for broken bones and serious sprains. But Black Falcon wasn't holding back. Something in his dark eyes lit up as soon as he saw that he had a clear reason to cut loose.

And that is exactly what he did. 

Randolph was so caught up in the melee -- a whirling dervish of camera and commentary, along with the occasional kick to a rampaging cop or protester -- that he didn't even see what was happening until the Toon hero came at him, fists and feet wet with the blood of others. 

"Worthless flesh !@#$!" the caped crusader shouted, bearing down on him. Randolph instinctively went for his handgun, only to realize that he didn't have it on him. 

(He'd left it at the tent with the rest of his weapons, just as Yanabah did...)

The gesture got him grabbed by the maddened Toon hero, who managed to break his arm and fling him over his head with the same fluid maneuver before going on to the next victim.

And the next. And the next...

And all Randolph could do, other than try and secure his busted arm as best as he could, was sit on his ass and continue to film, knowing that the whole world was watching this craziness unfold. 

And hoping, somehow, that their seeing it would cause things to calm down elsewhere, rather than getting worse...

* * *

"Unfortunately, it didn't  !@#$ing help," SPYGOD goes on: "The whole world saw that !@#$ go down. And what really stuck the !@#$ out was that someone actually managed to kill a god."

"Which is why our country exploded on Sunday," the Interim President sighs.

"And burned on Monday," the superspy agrees: "All these gods, thinking that the police had a !@#$ing way to kill them? Of course they panicked. Of course they flipped the !@#$ out."

"And you knew this was coming?" 

"I did, yes," SPYGOD says: "But here's the thing. I couldn't change it."

"Now that's... that I can't accept-"

"Sir, you !@#$ing watch television, don't you?" the superspy asks.

"Well, not as much as I'd like..."

"What' the one thing every show that deals with time travel !@#$ing teaches us?"

"That you shouldn't go back in time and try to change things," the Interim President says, nodding.

"Yes," SPYGOD says: "And by !@#$ing extension? If, by some weird damn miracle, someone from the future comes along and says 'hey, here's what's about to happen?' Then you don't change a damn thing.

"Even if it's gonna be !@#$ing painful."

"Well," the Interim President says: "A good thing we had people to help with that."

"Yes it was," the super spy says: "And people you all didn't even !@#$ing know about, at least until they all showed back up again..."

Tuesday: 10/18/16

"You will not continue this rampage," the glowing purple man says, pointing his finger at the five Egyptian mortuary deities he's addressing at the other end of the burning street: "This has gone on long enough. You will cease your actions, return to your homes, and think of how to make amends."

"Amends?" the Jackal-headed god sneers -- looking somewhat ridiculous dressed like some kind of gangster, complete with a ball cap and baggy pants: "Do you hear him, my brothers? He thinks to scold us like naughty children!"

"Well, that is much better than putting a god-killer bullet in our buttocks," one of the other four says, pulling out a golden gun that's festooned with Egyptian hieroglyphs: "What say we anticipate his actions?"

They all grin and pull out their guns. New Man looks at them, and allows them their moment of seeming triumph.

And then, as soon as they start firing, he sends Anubis and his posse of visceral protectors sprawling down the road, and tumbling into the nearby river.

This is St. Louis. The Arch has been turned into an ankh.

And the dead are walking...

* * *

"So tell me how they didn't die, again?" the Interim President asks.

"Well, that is !@#$ing complicated," SPYGOD admits, knocking back some more hooch: "But it has to do with what was !@#$ing sending those turd crabs to us, down that long damn hole in time."

"Which was the future?"

"Right. Where some small pieces of the Decreator had !@#$ed off to, after the pounding they took when Mars got liberated the first damn time. And there, in the future, they hunkered the !@#$ down, spawned, mutated, all that !@#$..."

"And then started coming back to us, here in the present."

"Right again," the superspy says, noticing he's drinking too fast and slowing down a bit: "Well, while our people were blowing the !@#$ out of them, and planning to go into that hole to close it the !@#$ down? There were other people on the other side, working on pushing those things into the hole, and trying to close it up from their end."

"What sort of people?"

SPYGOD smiles, somewhat ruefully: "Believe it or not? We have no !@#$ing idea."

"Really?" the Interim President asks, raising an eyebrow: "How is that even possible?"

"Well, my fiance tells me he could !@#$ing tell me..."

"Oh?"

"... but then he'd have to !@#$ing kill me," the superspy grins.

"Well then," the Interim President says, frowning somewhat: "I fear for our country's safety if you can't completely share intel."

"You're a married man, aren't you, Mr. President?" SPYGOD asks: "Isn't the key to a good marriage knowing when not to !@#$ing tell the damn truth?"

"Fair enough," the former Speaker says after a moment, nodding: "So, all other considerations side, there was a hole in time. And our people went in?"

"Not like they had much of a damn choice," SPYGOD chuckles, deciding that was worth a slug of the good stuff after all: "Not after how things went down..."

* * *

"How does it feel?" Winifred finally asks from her co-pilot's chair in the new and improved Drill Tank, looking at the weird, new arm that Myron's sporting.

"I don't know, yet," he says, looking at how strangely the skeletal fingers and thumb move as he fans them, this way and that: "It's like... I can feel them, and I can feel with them. But they're distant, somehow."

"Not as good as what they gave you there, huh?"

"No," Myron smiles, remembering that nice prosthetic their hosts set him up with -- and then, sadly, took back before they all returned to their regularly-scheduled lives: "Not at all."

"Hey Myron, this is Dragonfly," the white-clad, former assassin communicates with the drill tank: "You there?"

"Yeah, we're here," the former Underman says, wondering why she's talking with them directly: "What's up?"

"We're being asked to keep eyes out for Black Falcon," she says: "He took off after what happened at Standing Rock, and no one's seen him since."

"Good," Winifred frowns: "Hopefully he just crawls under a !@#$ing rock and stays there."

"Well, if you do see him? Keep it on this channel," Dragonfly requests: "He doesn't need to know we're after him."

"Any word on Yanabah?" Myron asks: "Randolph hasn't broadcast since Monday, and he didn't mention her."

"I think she's at the camp," Dragonfly says: "I don't really know. I... well, I was hoping you knew...?"

"Because we were in the future?" he sighs: "Look, Gayle, our guests had us housed in some seaside village and didn't let us see where or when we were. We were told some things then, and learned more when we got back to this time. But we didn't get told every little thing about what's going to happen, or what happens to everyone involved. Frankly, I don't want to even know."

"Yeah... I'm sorry for asking. It's just..."

"I know," he says, smiling: "It's okay. If we see that sorry suicidal son of a !@#$ we'll let you know, okay?"

The white-clad former assassin nods, and disconnects.

"You two... right?" Winifred asks, holding his hand.

"Just once," he admits, squeezing hers: "It was more stress relief than anything else. Our clones were both about to get taken off the board. Or we thought so, anyway..."

"Oh yeah," she smiles: "That's some crazy !@#$, man. You'll have to tell me all about it, someday."

"Why not?" he asks, leaning over to kiss her: "We got time-"

"What have we got, folks?" Josie interrupts, doing her best to coordinate the chaos according to the rather long flowchart she's working from: "We're supposed to be getting past Chicago by now."

"Chicago's taken care of," Myron radios in: "Slambang and The Sound got the south side under control."

"Excellent," she says: "Once they're back, you need to rendezvous with Transport 112. You're needed in Green Bay."

"Don't tell me," the former Underman sighs: "More restless native spirits?"

"Actually, Sumerian agricultural gods trying to barricade the city," the pink-haired clone replies.

"Why Green Bay?" Winifred asks.

"Maybe they thought it was green?" the clone offers: "Maybe they're Packers fans? Who the !@#$ knows?"

"My money's on the latter," Myron says, seeing that his two teammates are coming back: "Speaking of teams you hate to love, when are we going to !@#$ing calm everyone down by telling them we didn't shoot the Great Mystery?"

And Josie looks to SPYGOD, who looks back at her with that look. 

The one that says...

* * *

"You couldn't," the Interim President says, looking over the report. 

"No," the super spy admits: "And before you ask? Yes. I !@#$ing hated doing that. But there were other considerations."

"Such as...?"

"Well, the only reason the whole damn country didn't burn the !@#$ down in those couple of days?" SPYGOD says, taking another hit from his flask and leaning back in his chair: "It's because a number of the Gods were scared as !@#$ of official reprisal. They thought that we could kill them."

"So when the stupid ones got all violent and crazy...?"

"They did the smart !@#$ing thing and stayed the !@#$ inside and down,"  the Director of the COMPANY says, nodding as he taps the President's desk with his free finger: "So the only ones we had to put down were the ones who were going to be a !@#$ing problem, anyway."

"Yes, I'm looking over that," the Interim President says, marveling at the arrests made: "That's a lot of them."

"Well, good thing we've got someone on the team who can !@#$ing handle arresting a god," SPYGOD grins...

Wednesday: 10/19/16

"I cannot believe this indignity!" a very battered Anubis grumbles, being marched off to a hole in time and space -- his hands and ankles shackled by high-tech manacles.

"The irony is quite inescapable," Mister Freedom says, overseeing the prisoner transfer: "As are those chains. Please do not strain yourself?"

The Egyptian mortuary god grumbles, but shuffles off to his waiting cell.

"One down, a whole lot more to go," Gold Standard sighs, looking at the long line that her drones are herding towards the hole -- all overseen by one of the Revolutionary Men.

"There is always room for one more in Hell," the manacled Olympian says, smiling at her.

* * *

"How long are they going to be kept there?" the Interim President asks, looking at the rather long list yet again.

"Well, some of them need to !@#$ing stay there," SPYGOD says: "Especially that one !@#$ing freak from Baltimore. The one who was eating kids and !@#$ing out food for street people?"

The President picks that moment to turn very, very green.

"Easy does it, now," the superspy says, holding up a hand: "Deep breath. Slow deep breath."

"I... I didn't see that," the man says, shaking his head: "Did we... did he...?"

"We most certainly did not allow him into the !@#$ing country," SPYGOD insists: "He came in illegally before the Haitians showed up during that last damn hurricane. We were going to deal with his !@#$, eventually. We just didn't have time."

"But all that's taken care of, now?" the Interim President asks, somewhat weakly: "All those gods are locked up, and going to stand trial for what they've done?"

"Yes," SPYGOD lies, deciding not to get into the really deep details of the whole damn thing.

Especially seeing as how it might color his perceptions of certain individuals...

* * *

"You dare to stand against me!" the slithering snake-diety hisses at his assailant, deep within the darkest recesses of the Void -- a place so far from the light of the all-consuming maw that one can only see in shades of darkest black. 

"I do, yes," Senator Ted Cruz says, raising his fists -- bloodied with the ichor and entrails of several, now-dead entities, all sprawled out about his feet: "You're a monster that has no place in this world. And I'm the !@#$ing cure."

"How dare you speak to me in this fashion!" Yig-Damballah screams, rearing back to strike with its many, sharp fangs: "I will devour your soul!"

"As if," the man says, allowing the thing to think it's got the upper hand -- right until all its teeth strike his skin, and break into small, white pieces upon it. 

The toothless beast howls and skitters away, looking rather pathetic with its face broken and teeth missing. One eye stares off into the wrong spot as the other rolls about loose in its socket. 

And Ted Cruz says one more prayer for forgiveness, and then administers a two-fisted coup de grace -- beating the brains out of the proto-human snake god before it has a chance to heal. He punches with fists blessed by the God he used to pray to, every day, until the head of the thing is nothing but bloody pulp and pulverized bone.

Then he kicks its neck-stump for good measure, just to make sure it doesn't come back to life.

"Mr. Senator," he hears SPYGOD in his ear about ten seconds later: "I need you topside, fast."

"A moment, here, (REDACTED)?" the man scowls: "I just killed 34 gods with my bare hands."

"Which you've !@#$ing known you were going to do for, what, five years now?"

"Yes, but I'm not exactly ready for primetime," the Senator says, wiping venomous slop onto his pants: "I need a shower. Fifty goddamn showers."

"Yeah, well, make 'em !@#$ing quick," the superspy insists: "Our mutual opponent's about to get on the !@#$ing TV to make his case. We need you ready to give the other side."

"Right," Cruz says, looking at his messy hands: "Maybe just one shower?"

"Don't !@#$ing blow dry."

"I never do," the Senator chuckles, and turns to find Shift standing there, waiting to take him to where he's fated to go...

 * * *

"... which is why we don't have the internet, right now," the Interim President says: "Right?"

"I'm !@#$ing getting to that," SPYGOD says, downing his own flask for the hell of it: "Hang on, sir. Hang on..."

* * *

"Good evening, America," the Candidate says to the camera he's sitting in front of, in the rather opulent living room of his three-story Manhattan penthouse: "I really must apologize for intruding upon your normally-scheduled television and webcasts. But, seeing as how our historic, first ten-person Presidential debate has been called off due to a national emergency, I find this is the only way to get my message across, one last time before the election."

Loki smiles through the beefy-faced man he's riding, thinking of all the technological wizardry his servant's press-ganged into existence, here tonight, just to make this possible. Most of them look rather scared.

(The others are rather changed -- most likely by the magic eye his servant keeps locked away for safety...)

"Speaking of that national emergency, I am being told, as are you, that this is currently under control. We are told that the gods who were raging through our city streets have been dealt with. We are told they are being locked away, or otherwise punished, and that this will never, ever happen again. 

"We are being told that. 

"But I see the fires and I am not comforted. I hear the screams and I am dismayed. I see a dark world growing darker with each day, each hour, and I am not satisfied with their progress.

"And so I am certain you do not need to be a reader of minds to know that this truth they peddle is not something I choose to believe. 

"One thing you can say about my forthcoming Administration. You will always know what is foremost on my mind. And that is because I will tell you, without reservation or hesitation. 

"And I tell you now that this problem will not go away," Loki says, preparing the glamour to end them all -- borrowed eyes glowing a poisonous, bright green: "That you should be afraid. That you should listen to what I have to say on this matter, and with rapt attention, for mine is the only plan that will stave off this danger. Mine the only voice you should listen to, for comfort and direction. 

"Mine the only-"

"Sir?" the person behind the camera says, looking rather afraid.

The Candidate looks up at him, furious to have been interrupted in mid-spell, but soon realizing the fear on the man's face has a purpose: "Well?" he demands.

"The camera... it's working, but," he says, pointing to the television feed from the other room.

It's blank. There's nothing but a black screen on every channel they flip to -- eventually replaced by the ubiquitous NO SIGNAL indication.

"I think they've... they have, yes," one of the more willing participants in this says: "They fucking pulled the plug, sir. They killed all the broadcast mediums."

"And the internet!" someone else shouts: "Oh my god..."

"Hey," yet another one of his helpers says, pointing to the window: "Is it just me... or is it getting lighter outside?"

And before the Candidate can call to them to come back and attend him, they're all at the windows -- basking in the first proper sunset they've seen in weeks.

"Looks like something fucking shifted, sir," the SPYGOD of Alter Earth says, coming up behind his master and leaning down to speak into his ear: "What's the plan, now?"

And the Candidate glowers at him, but then looks askance.

He has no plan. None at all.

* * *

The sun's light flares, at least so much as the people of the world can see.

For the first time since the debacle on Mars, everything is bright and shiny again. No lack of light. No growing false shadows. Just the sun, burning and beautiful.

As the light shines, it begins to coalesce in various places -- in front of every television and computer screen in America, every iphone and communications device.

And it takes the form of the face of Senator Ted Cruz, long since thought to be dead and gone in the fighting to retake the red planet, all those weeks ago.

He smiles, looking out at the nation he loves, and speaks to it -- his words somehow traveling from the hard light projections that the reborn Raitha is creating.

"My fellow Americans," he says, raising his hands to them: "I'm sure you know who I am. I'm also sure you thought I was dead, which is something I'm probably never going to get tired of hearing.

"But I apologize for the confusion and distress. It was not my intention to deceive you, or cause you to worry. I was simply unable to tell you that I was alive, due to the nature of what happened to us, and where we were for all that time.."

He smiles again, and the world smiles with him: "But I have returned, now. And I do so in the proverbial nick of time, in several senses of the word.

"I return in time to help stave off this current crisis which has embroiled our nation. As I speak to you, the last vestiges of rebellion and strife are being dealt with. But I want to say to all Americans at this time to be understanding, as what has taken place is an understandable reaction to what happened at Standing Rock.

"When a movement attracts a leader, and that leader is killed, several things can happen. Sometimes the movement embraces peace, and turns the other cheek. And sometimes it turns to violence, and forgets itself.

"And none of us can say that we would raise a hand in friendship rather than a fist, unless we, too, faced this awful thing.

"And so I ask for understanding and forgiveness, in spite of the damage done. The guilty will be called to account, and put to work righting the wrongs they have done. I hope that, when they have made restitution, you will join me in offering them another chance.

"The same chance we would all want in their place..."

He pauses for a moment, and then looks humble: "Speaking of other chances, I would like to ask for one of my own. In the past I have said some very awful and untrue things about a group of those gods. I picked a fight with the Olympians, out of fear and ignorance, and also to try and gain an upper hand politically.

"I humbly and deeply apologize for this. I now know how good these people are, even though they seem strange and unusual to us. I have seen the good they do with my own eyes. I have witnessed what they can be when they work alongside us, as allies and friends.

"And I promise, from here on out, to be an ally and a friend to them, whether or not I am elected President.

"Speaking of which," he smiles again, a little less humbly: "I want it said now, and clearly, that I wish to still be the Candidate of the Freedom Party. But the party I left here on Earth, before my apparent death, is not the party I have returned to. Neither is it something that currently embraces my feelings, as they have changed in many other respects.

"As soon as the internet resumes service, in 24 hours or so, please go to our new website. There you will find a new platform, a new ethos, a new vision for America. I hope you will join me in embracing free markets and free destinies, and help us all to usher in an America where we can all join in.

"There are some things that are about to happen that will not be very pleasant. All will be revealed in time. But for now, please go about your day secure in the knowledge that this nightmare is passing, and soon a better, stronger dream will unfold for us all.

"Thank you for your time, and may the Gods bless our country..."

With that, the image fades. All over America people put their hands to their hearts, thinking that they have never been so uniquely touched by such a message. So uplifted, so ennobled.

So filled with hope...

* * *

"Which was, of course, when things really started to get !@#$ing ugly," SPYGOD explains to the Interim President, pointing to the report.

"Right," the man says, almost afraid to turn the page...

(SPYGOD is listening to Headhunter - Beefcake Remix (Front 242) and having a Freedom Lager)

And All the Friends of President Reagan - Pt. 2: 1977

"He said 'we haven't had that spirit here since 1969'"

(Back) Mr. USA, ex-Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan, Ariel
(Front) Syphon, Aegio, Shift, Pontus. Seranu
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Freedom is something that cannot be passed on in the blood stream, or genetically. 

And it's never more than one generation away from extinction.

Ronald Reagan - "Whatever Happened to Free Enterprise"

June 10th, 1994

The Reagans' living room seems a fragile thing -- liable to break with so much as a cross word.

Dozens of collector's plates are on display, on special shelves mounted on the wall. Its tabletops are filled with with small, plaster statuettes and figurines. The bulky, square easychairs are a festive red and white floral design.

Chairs a number of important people sit in or stand around as the storm rages outside, all waiting for a certain something to be done.

Something necessary, but terrible. 

"Have another tissue, honey," Barbara Bush says, handing a very red-eyed Nancy Reagan the box again. Once upon a time, Nancy wouldn't have heard of someone else telling her when and how to cry, but tonight she's gratified to have someone with her.

Someone other than all these men, none of whom seem to know what to say to her, just now.

"How long is this supposed to take, anyway?" James Baker asks from where he sits, clearly unnerved.

"As long as it takes," George Bush replies from his own chair, clearly irritated.

"That's not an answer, George-"

"It's done," someone else says -- someone who's standing as far from everyone else in the room as he can get.

A beautiful man in a suit, wearing sunglasses they haven't made in over twenty years.

"How do you know, Aaron?" Dan Quayle asks, getting up from his chair, hands on his legs.

"I felt the connection sever, a few minutes ago," the man says, turning from the window to look at the others: "He is no longer anchored."

"And what does that mean, exactly?" Nancy asks, trying to be strong as the lightning flashes, nearby.

"It means he's not in pain, anymore," SPYGOD announces, appearing from seemingly nowhere, seconds before the boom.

"Oh my God," Nancy says, almost about to cry again: "Oh my God. Thank you, God. Thank you."

"I'm not sure we should be doing that," George mutters, getting up, himself: "Thanking God. After all-"

"Put a !@#$ing sock in it, Herbie," SPYGOD snorts as he walks over to the former first ladies, and gets on one knee before Nancy.

"Is he... I mean, is he...?" she tries to say the word. She can't.

"He is," SPYGOD replies, softly: "You should go see him. It'll help."

"I don't know if I'm ready for that, yet," she stammers.

"I'm so sorry, hon," he says, taking her hand in his: "You know we had to do this."

"I do, yes," she says, taking one last, hard honk on a tissue. And then she takes a deep breath, clears her head, and gets up to go to her husband's room.

"Do you need someone with you?" Barbara asks.

"Should we all go in together, maybe?" Baker asks, looking around the room. 

"No," Nancy insists, putting her face back together: "Thank you all, but no. I have to do this myself, alone, or I'll never be able to do it. You should all know that by now."

No one knows what to say to that. SPYGOD stays where he is on the floor, admiring the woman all the more for this simple act of strength. Knowing that this is the longest walk she's going to take in her life.

The moment she's gone, the room goes back to being silent, again. In that silence, SPYGOD finds a way to slip out a nearby door and stand in the rain of the storm.

And then, at long last, he allows himself to cry.

* * *

June 10th, 1977

"Is it really a good idea for me to go to this party?" Reagan asks Ariel as their limousine slows down, just within sight of a big, floating door to nowhere -- all lit up in the darkness.

A door that literally appeared overnight in the deserts outside LA.

"Yes," Ariel says, still reading his newspaper.

"I mean, the last time I went to one... well, you know what happened."

"I do, yes," the Backer says, putting the paper down and away, and then adjusting his sunglasses so his client can't see his eyes: "Not that you do, Mr. Governor. But that's neither here nor there."

"You really shouldn't call me that, anymore," he bristles: "I'm not the Governor, anymore."

"This is true."

"And I'm not President, either," Reagan says, pursing his lips: "You made sure of that."

"We did, yes," Ariel nods: "And we've been over this before, Mr. Reagan."

"I know, we have," the man sighs: "I'm better off as a voice from the wilderness, right now. I know that."

"A very loud voice, sir,"  Aaron pipes up from the front seat, where he's sitting behind the wheel of a car that's driving itself through the long, rolling line of vehicles -- some much more fancy and/or official than others: "That radio commentary show is a powerful thing."

"And it will pay off, in time,  Mr. Reagan," Ariel reassures him: "Trust me, between that show, and letting things take their natural course with Carter? You'll be in the Oval Office in 1980."

"I do trust you, yes," Reagan says: "You know that. I've handed my future over to you, and I have faith. I just feel so helpless, watching on the sidelines. I need to be out there handling the ball, you know?"

"I understand perfectly," Ariel says, looking out the window as they get closer to the destination, taking in the very long line of people going through the large, glowing red pillars: "When we started this, we told you that you would be the man for your time. I know waiting to take the ball, as you put it, is galling. But the time is not right just yet."

"Why not?" Reagan asks, feeling he's earned the right to ask, by now: "What are we really waiting for?"

"Well," Ariel says, coughing into his fist: "I really shouldn't be telling you too much. Especially as you're about to walk into enemy territory, as it were. But to be blunt? Things need to get just a little bit worse before we bring you into things. And four years of having that silly fellow in the White House will do nicely."

"And then we'll have you in there for a very important eight-year block of time," Aaron says, smiling.

"But that's not what you should be thinking about," Ariel scowls. The smile very quickly disappears from Aaron's face, and he realizes he's talked out of turn.

"I see," Ronald Reagan says, and then the car comes to a halt.

"Remember your training," Ariel says, taking the man's hand to shake it: "Remember the Lock of the Mind and the Cross of the Heart. So long as they are within you, the Kingdom is within you. And so long as you have faith in them, nothing can harm you."

"And for all other things, well, I've got help," Reagan winks, looking out the window at the crowds milling into the pavilion. 

SPYGOD stands there -- wearing a black leather leisure suit, leaning against a pillar and smoking a cigarette like he invented the !@#$ thing.

And the way he tosses it aside when he sees Reagan get out of the car makes the old man smile.

* * *

They call it The Gathering. The Olympians have one at the same time, every year, but never the same place twice, oddly enough. Some make jokes about lightning striking. 

And some know better than that.

In one sense, the Gathering is a massive, upscale party, where the world's best and brightest mingle with the most intelligent and interesting -- something between Davos and Woodstock. In another, it's a celebration of another year gone by, and life continuing on. 

A massive and mighty celebration with one primary understanding: what happens inside must go outside, but what is happening outside must not infringe too highly upon the inside.

Strange games are played for charity, there on the floor. Odd ideas are formed and floated, and then expressed to the masses while still in their raw and heaving state. Strangers become intimate, enemies become friends, allies are torn asunder. 

And the one rule is that, if you are invited, you must attend, or else send someone as worthy in your stead. 

Ronald Reagan has been invited to three of these Gatherings. Each time before now he's politely declined, and sent one of his conservative allies. All of them have come back telling of a strange time that never failed to enchant and disturb in equal measure. 

All of them have come back changed, and not necessarily in a bad way...

But this year, it was decided that Reagan has to go. This is in spite of what happened the last time he went to one of their parties -- the first Gathering, they now say -- back in 1968.

Something he still can't fully remember, try as he might. 

However, the Backers would not be dissuaded. Something has told them that their client has to see this -- he has to know. 

He just won't be coming back changed, if they have anything to say about it. 

So, unlike the last time, he's going in clear of mind and eye. Like last time, however, SPYGOD is going to accompany him, if only to make certain he doesn't get compromised again.

It's just that he can't know why he's going, any more than he should know anything about the Backers at all...

* * *

"So what do you find is the best thing to do at these kinds of parties, (REDACTED)?" Reagan asks as they approach the end of the long line of thick, floating pillars, leading up to a massive portal, just hanging in the air.

"Honestly, sir?" SPYGOD shrugs: "Mingle."

"Just mingle?"

"Pretty much," he says, gesturing around them: "Everyone who's here is someone you might want to know. And if you already !@#$ing know them, seeing them when they're in a situation like this? Well, it can be a big !@#$ eye-opener."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," the man says, casting an eye around as they start to approach the floating stairs "It's too bad they won't !@#$ing let me bring any of my COMPANY people in here with me. I think the Intel department would have a !@#$ing field day."

"That's one way to put it," the politician says, already seeing someone he knows from outside of here: "I think I should pretend he's not with his wife."

"Oh, that's okay. Wait until he meets his husband."

"What?"

SPYGOD laughs, and Reagan has no idea if the man's being serious or not. So he just sighs and keeps walking, knowing this is only going to get stranger from here on out.

* * *

Over the years the two men had struck up a solid political alliance that had turned into a very weird friendship.

It had started with SPYGOD rescuing Reagan, of course. But then, over the years, Reagan had actually managed to rescue SPYGOD a time or two -- politically speaking, anyway.

The most recent incident was something of a double play. 

When their new do-gooder President, Jimmy Carter, took office, one of his to-dos was to revamp the COMPANY. He'd decided that maybe America didn't need it, anymore, and even if it did it didn't need someone like SPYGOD at the helm.

Reagan was livid. He immediately took to the airwaves to mobilize middle America against any move of the sort, giving a speech about the unsung American hero that so galvanized people against the move that the phrase "unknown soldiers"became all but ingrained in the American psyche. By the end of a week, Carter had become something of a laughing stock in a town already growing leery of his well-meaning but foolhardy ideas. 

The farce came to an ignominious end a few days later, when the President called a press conference to publicly reaffirm his support for the COMPANY, with SPYGOD as its indisputable leader. To his credit, SPYGOD was actually quite gracious about the whole thing, in his own outspokenly profane way.

But watching Carter visibly squirm just outside the spotlight was its own reward. 

Reagan had also rescued SPYGOD behind the scenes as well. A number of his more socially conservative allies -- especially leftovers from Nixon's disgraced administration -- were rather upset by his now-open homosexuality. And they were ready and willing to throw some bipartisan support behind the President, so long as he appointed Mr. USA to head up whatever replaced the COMPANY.

While Reagan had to talk tough on gays for obvious reasons, and had purposefully dragged his feet on repealing anti-sodomy laws in his last years as Governor of California, he'd known and befriended a lot of gay conservatives in his time. In fact, he knew a lot of very prominent gay conservatives, without whom the movement would suffer greatly.

Keeping that in mind, he quietly rallied conservative support behind SPYGOD before anyone could try and link up Carter's boneheaded maneuver to their own agenda. He let it be known that anyone who had a problem with SPYGOD had a problem with him, which all but silenced the attempted maneuver.

(He was surprised at Mr. USA's reaction when he told him, though. Not so much disappointment as despair, which seemed unlike him.)

Reagan hadn't told SPYGOD any of this. Part of him wanted to just keep it a secret -- one he might one day need to use as leverage if they ever parted ideological company. But a larger part of him thought that maybe the man already knew, and was keeping mum about knowing as a mark of respect, and a silent thank you. 

SPYGOD was a weird one, alright. But he was anti-communist as all get out, conservative as anything, and as fine a patriot as he'd ever met. What he did in privacy, or alluded to in public, could never detract from all he'd done for his country, much less distract from his current duties. 

That and Nancy found him to be a gentleman, oddly enough. He didn't swear so much in her presence -- actually acting with some degree of manners. He even let her scold him a time or two about one thing or another, which he took with good-natured humor.

Why? Reagan wasn't sure. SPYGOD once joked with him that she reminded him a lot of his own mother, but only in a good way.

(He refused to elaborate on the bad ways, even while mind-splittingly drunk.)

Thus was maintained a very odd but effective political alliance -- one that Reagan was counting on continuing all the way to the White House. And possibly beyond, depending on what the Backers actually had in mind.

As for what that might be, who knew?

* * *

The stairs lead to a large portal -- easily larger than most cathedrals -- floating some ten feet in the air. Beyond it is a white, shimmering field that people are going into, mostly without fear.

And every time they enter, a bell rings -- deep and portentous. 

"Don't worry, sir," SPYGOD says: "I know it looks !@#$ weird, but it's just a warp corridor. It'll take us to wherever the party actually is."

"Don't you know?" Reagan asks, a little nervous as he watches someone from some band walk in with his entourage, and just disappear: "You can see, can't you?"

"Normally, yes. This time... no," the spy admits, tapping his eyepatch: "Always nice to be pleasantly surprised for a !@#$ing change, eh?"

"Says you. I like to know where I'm putting my feet."

"Point taken," SPYGOD says, holding up a hand to indicate his guest should stay put. Reagan does, and watches SPYGOD walk into the field. There's a sound like someone putting a hand into a body of water, and then nothing.

Several nerve-wracking seconds of nothing.

And then he's back, and his eye is wide with wonder.

"Oh man... !@#$, wow. Sir, you have to come in and see this. It's... wow. I don't !@#$ing have words."

"Well, alright then," Reagan says, allowing himself to be led into the shimmer.

It's a weird feeling. His hairs stand on end, and he feels like the world is breathing on him, ever so gently. He smells honey and milk, and gets the sense that all is well, and all will be well, forever and ever-

And then he's through, on the other side, and he gasps in amazement.

They're underwater. He realizes that much. They're in a massive bubble, underwater, and they must be somewhere where the sun is still shining because he can see it, overhead.

They're walking on an extremely large, raised, white marble platform over the sea floor. It must be ten football fields wide and long. And there are more steps, floating in the air. More platforms, floating atop one another.

Music. People. Lights floating in space...

Oh, they're that light woman. Rachel, or whatever her name is. Curled up into a ball, singing along with the music.

"How can she be all those places at once?" Reagan asks, watching as a shoal of brightly-colored fish fly by the edge of the bubble. Of all the questions he could ask, that one seems most pertinent.

"He still doesn't get it, huh?" a familiar rumbling asks. Reagan turns around and sees the tall black lady with the Sun for hair, clearly standing guard at the door. She's clearly looking down her large sunglasses at him, just like last time-

(-thought it a good idea to have this man here?" she demands of the others, now that the conflict is clear: "Do we allow in thieves as well as beggars, now-)

"-Rahmaa, honey, remember," SPYGOD says: "Some people just don't !@#$ing get it until they do."

"Some never do," the person she's guarding the door with intones. He's a man with skin like onyx, dressed in what appear to be jet-black Asian robes of some kind. His eyes are also hidden behind large sunglasses, and his hair a glowing, white ball with what looks like... craters?

"Always a pleasure, Noyx," SPYGOD lies, quickly ushering Reagan past the two of them before he gets utterly weirded out: "You'll have to !@#$ing excuse them, sir. They tend to look down on people."

"Was that man wearing the Moon for a hat?"

"Yeah, that's one way to put it. I think it's supposed to be his hair."

"And it is the Moon," Reagan clarifies: "Just like she's the Sun?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright then," the former Governor says, taking a deep breath and doing his best to remember his Lock and his Cross: "I think we're good."

Just then one of the platforms lowers, and a large, tall man with a full beard takes a step to its edge to address them. His deep blue suit is festooned with coral and buttoned with seashells, and water seems to shake off of him with each loud and booming syllable.

"Good evening and good morning, gentles! I am Pontus, Lord of the Oceans! And with the arrival of a long-awaited guest, I call this Gathering into motion!"

There's a cheer raised -- one that echoes around the bubble and almost deafens him.

"You are welcome, one and all! Welcome to laugh! Welcome to love! Welcome to speak and be heard! Here, all are equal! None are excluded!

"Here, let your hearts be your guide! Here, let your minds be freed, your bodies untethered! Here, let wisdom prevail, but foolishness be divine!

"And with these words, we embrace the mystery of the future! Lead on!"

Another cheer, and Reagan feels as though the world were dissolving around him. A spell of some kind, obviously. But he remembers his training -- the locked steel box around his brain, and the cross implanted into his heart and soul.

The spell washes over and past him, and once more he can see clearly. Hear clearly.

God be praised, he can think. 

SPYGOD smiles, perhaps not aware of what's just happened on either level: "And just in case there was any question, sir? That was Pontus, and he is the Ocean."

"I could tell from the booming," Reagan says, winking: "Well, sounds like we were invited. Shall we attend?"

SPYGOD smiles and gestures ahead of them, where the mingling is at its height: "After you, sir. If you need me, I'll be nearby."

* * *

Things get downright weird after that.

Reagan meets a number of people he already knows, many of whom are happy to see him there. He also meets a number of people he knows only by reputation, or their headlines. And he is introduced to people he's never heard of before, or at least sees them in action for the first time.

As SPYGOD promised, it's quite an eye-opener. 

He hears John from the Beatles have a very animated argument over free will and human rights with the newly-elected Prime Minister of Israel. They almost come to blows, at least until one of the ladies with Lennon steers the conversation into more neutral territory, at which point they find out they share a love of Marlon Brando's films.

He watches as Jacques Cousteau speaks to a warm, large woman who seems to be made entirely of water. His attitude is approaching stammering reverence, and he clearly has to restrain himself from reaching in to touch the small, colorful fishes that dart about her transparent anatomy. 

He joins in a discussion with two older gentlemen and a full-figured woman in a short dress whose fabric is a moving print of oceans and islands, and who is surrounded by many, colorful birds. They're talking about massive spheres, and how one could put the world in a protective bubble, safe from harm. 

At some point Reagan asks if the bubble could be fitted with weapons to make sure less civilized countries didn't try and attack others. It's an idea that horrifies one older man, but amuses the other, perhaps the same way a child's silliness might amuse adults having a serious conversation.

(Just don't ever point them at me, dear, the lady chuckles at him: Remember me kindly, when you enter your kingdom.)

And he listens to weird electronic music played by some fellow from Italy, featuring a song that won't be released for another few weeks: Donna Summer's the voice making it happen, but she's nowhere to be seen, here. 

At some point he has to stand in a corner -- a curve, really -- and take a breather.  The music, the fumes, the ideas... it's all become too much.

"It's an interesting thing," a small, gentle voice says. He turns in surprise, not realizing there'd been someone there at all. 

"What is?" he asks the person --  a somber shade of a man with a mop of white hair and big glasses.

"It's like we're seeing the future, but it doesn't know what it wants to be, yet," the man says, patting his chest as if he were in discomfort: "Like a giant puzzle, in pieces all over the floor. Or a blank canvas, just waiting for the paint. Do you ever see things like that?"

"Sometimes," Reagan says, remembering some of his experiences at the Bohemian Grove. Seeing the light bulbs go off or on in people's heads as they hear the talks, or make friends with the right people.

"But then, I look out there, and I think it's being assembled," the man says: "It's just that we can't see the hands."

Suddenly, Reagan remembers who this man is: "You know, you look different without your entourage."

"I am different without them," Andy Warhol says, smiling wistfully. Then he nods and moves down the curve, clearly wanting privacy. 

"Sir!" SPYGOD says, coming over: "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to leave you alone that long. I just... did you see Shift, over here?"

"Who?" Reagan asks.

"Shift? Silver guy? Blank mask? Looks like he's an echo?" 

"Um, no..." Reagan says, suddenly remembering-

(this man is the answer," the blurred, silver man announces, pulling a very bewildered Ben Franklin from seemingly nowhere: "An understanding will be made, here and now. A promise made to be broken. We will reign and then decline, suffer and then shine. This is the way of it, now and-)

"-forever. Well, at least since that weird !@#$ thing with the King of Time, back after you and I met," SPYGOD explains, still looking around: "He went to go fight his stupid !@#$ and then we never saw him again. But every once in a while he just !@#$ing pops up, out of nowhere."

"How can he do that if he's gone?"

"Sir, he travels in time," SPYGOD explains: "And if you die now, but you were in the future a bunch of !@#$ing times, well, you're still there. You're just... !@#$, this is confusing."

"You're telling me," Reagan says, looking around: "I think I need a drink, (REDACTED). Preferably a !@#$ stiff one."

"I think I'll join you," SPYGOD says, glaring across the room at someone who's been observing them from a very frank-faced delegation of Chinese diplomats. 

Someone well-dressed and lithe, who seems both pleased and annoyed to see him there. 

* * *

They call it ambrosia. Reagan's had a number of drinks that claim to be it. This, however, is the genuine article.

"Amazing stuff," he says, feeling a little younger, up at the bar with everyone else.

(Except SPYGOD. He had to go have a word with someone.)

"It bloody well is indeed," a clearly drunk English rock star with huge lips says, swirling one down and handing his empty glass to the woman made of water, behind the bar: "I'm always !@#$ing saying that, mate. But then, when I leave this place? I can't !@#$ing remember what it tastes like. Funny, innit?"

"!@#$ strange," Reagan admits, already forgetting the taste that was just on his tongue: "They ought to bottle it."

"Doesn't work that way," a frankly disheveled man says, rubbing his stubble: "Won't keep longer than a day."

"Well, if you bottle it-"

"It vanishes," the man says, winking: "Only good for so long. Just like so many other things."

"I hear you there," Reagan says, extending a hand: "Ronald Reagan. Nice to meet you...?"

"Oh, you know me, sir," the man says, trying to seem a little less disheveled as he shakes it "I'm Edward Crisp. I don't think you've ever seen me out of uniform, is all."

"Oh? Are you a strategic talent, sir?"

"I am, yes," the man whispers, trying to smile: "But, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather remain incognito, tonight. That's why I'm at the bar and not over there on the floor."

"I understand," Reagan says: "I don't like talking shop when I'm at parties, either. Except that this party is apparently all about talking shop, even if it isn't supposed to be."

"That and making deals," the man says, looking over at someone he's clearly been waiting for: "Speaking of which, my ride's here. It was good meeting you, sir. We'll talk again soon, I'm sure."

With that, the man downs his glass of ambrosia, puts it on the bar, and walks over to a large woman in a stunning, extremely sexy dress that accentuates each and every bounteous curve. He walks up to her and takes her hand. Then she kisses him, suddenly and passionately, and nods, as if in agreement.

For a moment, Reagan thinks he knows her, but that's impossible. That large, profane woman he danced with at that first Gathering, she died three years ago, didn't she? 

She looks over at him for a second, and then winks right at him. His heart stops for a second. 

It is her. But how...?

("Please, father-brother. I am so sorry for this," she weeps, kneeling at the feet of someone there -- someone to whom they all pay fealty: "I'll pay any price. I'll do anything. Please just let me suffer instead of us all.")

"-Glenn, you can't !@#$ing remember it any more than I can," the rocker's insisting to some long-haired man in a cowboy hat at the bar, standing right where Gold Standard used to be. 

"Some dance to remember, some dance to forget," the man sings in a sweet, sad voice. 

"Ah, I've got your hotel right here, you yank wanker," the man says, getting another drink from the water woman as Reagan watches the dead woman walk away with the superhero.

"You're drunk, Mick."

"I am. And I'm single. And my band's !@#$in' done for."

"Oh, come on. You're the Rolling Stones, man. You'll be around forever."

"Ah, you'll think that, Glenn. You would. But don't get too far ahead of yourself. It's all downhill from here."

"You can say that again," Reagan says, getting a bad feeling about those memories. 

* * *

 It's been a half an hour, and SPYGOD still hasn't returned. Reagan's gone from the bar to the highest platform, and back down again, looking for him, but he can't find him anywhere. 

"I'll be right here, Ron," the ex-governor mutters, shaking his head: "Just mingle. It'll all be okay."

He looks down at the floor once more. Some weird game is pitting that bald-headed freak from the devil church in San Francisco against the half-Asian assistant of that Borges writer, from Argentina. They seem to be playing poker, but with each raise the cards all shift their numeric value, making it impossible to play from a knowing position of strength or weakness. 

He thinks he should know that writer. Somehow he should go down there and talk to him, after this is over. Maybe he should go down and throw in a hundred for charity...?

"But then, that would be obvious," someone tells him: "And you are anything but obvious, Mr. Reagan."

That voice. He's heard it before. 

He turns and looks at the man before him. He's very tall, this one: long hair, a well-groomed beard, wise and gentle eyes. And his suit... well, it's very colorful and exaggerated, and so tight against him he can read his muscles and anatomy like a book. 

"Lord Seranu," he says, extending a hand: "It's been a few years since we spoke, sir. I don't think I really extended my full thanks for helping my state, that day."

"You tried, I think," the man says, his hand warm and strong: "Your thanks are appreciated, but not necessary. We are here to help you, in all things, and in all ways."

"Yes, you've said as much," Reagan says, looking down as a cheer goes up from the game, below. Apparently the bald man won, and he seems as surprised as any at that. 

"Some reciprocity would be nice, I will admit," the man says, putting a firm hand on Reagan's shoulder: "But I know that children do not always appreciate their parents."

"Are we your children, then?"

"In some ways, yes," the man says, stepping beside Reagan and looking down: "In other ways, we are your children. Dead worlds have no gods, after all."

"What would happen if a world's gods all died?"

"Died?" the man laughs -- long and deep: "Oh, my friend. You would have to extinguish all life first to do that. So long as you are here, we will be here, beside you. Eternal and forever, and always near and dear."

"But haven't you died, before?" Reagan asks, unsure: "We've been without you for a long time. And then, well, that one lady from that rock group. Mother Cass, or-"

"Syphon," the man corrects him, his eyes flashing a bit: "Yes, she died. A heart attack, or so they say."

"That's not what happened?"

"You mean you don't know?" the man says, somewhat sadly: "Oh, but I suppose they don't tell you everything, the ones who put the things inside of you."

"Sir, I-" Reagan tries to say, something rising inside of him.

Something furious.

"Oh no," Seranu says, putting a hand on Reagan's chest: "Do not apologize, Mr. Reagan. Yours is not to apologize. You are blameless in this. The sword, and not the hand that cuts. I love you and forgive you as I love and forgive all things."

"Well, that's good to know, but..." Reagan says, just barely holding the fury at bay, and not really sure what he's thinking right now.

"You're thinking of that day, all those years ago," the King-Father of the Supergods says: "The party you can't remember. The way you and Syphon danced. The things she whispered in your ear as she learned of you, through that dance. The future you represent, and the problem she created when she tried to tie that future into our own."

That did it. The memories come flooding back. The nightmare seduction by that woman. The way she'd... done things to him.

The reasons she whispered in his ear as it was happening. 

"My God, get out of my head," Reagan shouts, holding his hands up to his temples: "What are you? Who are you to call yourselves Gods? Who are you to forgive us? Who are you to call us your children?"

"Just that," the man says, taking a respectful step back, and looking at him with much sadness: "Your parents and your children. Your rulers and your ruled. We are you, and you are we. Now and forever, even unto the end of time."

"I won't accept that," Reagan says, looking at the man: "There is only one God, buddy. And you're not him."

"That is also true," Seranu says, nodding: "But we are done speaking, you and I. The next time we see each other, well, you'll have something to say to me. And I know I won't like it."

"Enough!" Reagan shouts: "Enough of this !@#$. Enough magic. Enough predestination. Humanity lives on its own, succeeds on its own! We don't need you!"

Seranu just smiles and nods, turning to go: "By the way, tell your Backers one thing for me?"

"What's that?" Reagan asks, wondering where all that anger just came from. 

"Tobacco is an excellent way to stop a heart, but not an undetectable one," he says, winking: "Next time, they'll just have to hire someone... smarter."

With that, he's gone, leaving Reagan to slump down, holding his head in his hands, and wonder what the !@#$ he meant by that.

"Are you alright, my friend?" a large man in a simple, black robe asks, kneeling down next to him. He's got short, snow-white hair curled over a balding pate, a huge, bushy beard, a thick accent he can't quite place.

And two of the most commanding eyes Reagan has ever seen. 

"I think so," Reagan says to the man, who looks oddly familiar: "I was just... I think I just won an argument with a god, but I'm not sure."

"Oh, they're not gods, my friend," the man says, helping the ex-governor up: "Just super people, same as any other. They've let this get to their heads. It's made them insane, clearly."

"Really?"

"Really," the man says, smiling: "I appreciate what you said to him, and you are right. There is only one god, high above us all. Allah, praise be unto him. And they are not him."

Reagan smiles, taking the man's hand: "Maybe we should go and talk, friend?"

"I agree."

* * *

"So, you talked to him for how long?" SPYGOD asks, hoisting another glass of ambrosia by the bar as the floor begins to clear out, at long last. 

"Hours, I think," Reagan says, having one last one for the road, if only to try and remember: "It was amazing how much we had in common, in spite of everything else."

"And you didn't catch his name?"

"Well, he didn't exactly throw it," the man says, trying to chase the last bits of the taste down: "But no. And he's gone, now, so no looking around for him."

"I did enough of that, earlier," SPYGOD sighs: "ABWEHR got wind of where we were, and sent attack subs, and I didn't realize it until they almost exploded a !@#$ing bomb right on top of the new Israeli Prime Minister. I think that's what Shift was trying to draw my attention to, earlier. He always did like the mystery tour."

"I guess he did," Reagan says: "Is that where you were? Dealing with super-nazis?"

"Oh yeah," SPYGOD says: "Me and Pontus, we went out there on giant !@#$ing sharks. Chewed those nazis the !@#$ up. You should have seen it."

The superspy grins, and Reagan can't help but not be angry at him, anymore. So he puts the glass down and gestures to the door: "(REDACTED), I think I'm good to go home."

"Well, I'm happy to take you," SPYGOD says, escorting him to the door: "So, did the guy say anything else?"

"Yeah, he said that someone here had told him that he and I should meet each other," the ex-governor laughs.

"Really?" SPYGOD asks: "Who said that?"

"Oh, some lady doing knitting. That's why he found me. He said that she said we were destined to be enemies. So he wanted to find a way to prove her wrong. And he did! Isn't that hilarious?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD lies: "Did they make any other predictions about you two?"

"Only that he's going to come into his kingdom in nine days," Reagan shrugs: "God only knows what that means. He said he wasn't taking it seriously..."

On their way out SPYGOD catches sight of a figure he hadn't seen so far, tonight. It's a woman dressed in a blood-red cowl -- one that seems to burn with anger.

The woman scowls, and points an accusing finger in their direction, but he doesn't think it's at him.

"Quite a party," Reagan says as they enter the doorway: "But you know, (REDACTED), I think once is enough."

"I have to agree, sir," SPYGOD says, looking up at Lord Seranu, on his platform. The man gives him a sad wave goodbye.

Sad and knowing, like so much he does.

But then they're through the doorway. The bell tolls twice.

And the Gathering is over. 

* * *

 There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"

 (SPYGOD is listening to Hotel California (The Eagles) and having an Ambrosia Lager)