12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 8.

So, scandals.

I've been involved in enough of them to know how they !@#$ing go, son. And I think the best thing I can !@#$ing liken them to is a bad !@#$ing fart.

Now I know you know what I'm !@#$ing talking about, son. Imagine you've shoveled down half your weight in Indian curry that may have been made from a dead dog they found in the !@#$ing alley behind the restaurant, and drank five bottles of overpriced "imported" beer that may have been bottled next to where they found the pooch for all you !@#$ing know. And, now that you're working on some slimy concoction they jokingly call a dessert, you feel this gassy rumbling and thundering between your stomach and your !@#$hole.

And you  know how !@#$ bad this is going to be.

Now, in a perfect world, you'd get up, wander somewhere semi-deserted, and expel it out of earshot (and, more importantly, immediate noseshot). That way, as long as you don't !@#$ out half of what you ate in the process, you can just flee that !@#$ing stinkcloud of doom like you'd scamper away from some crazy-eyed greenhorn bugchaser at the leather bar.

But then, on your way to the can, you trip over your shoelaces or fail to hold it in for one, crucial second while getting around someone's chair... and then BOOM.

Next thing you know the whole !@#$'s room's filled up with the horror of what you've been eating. Everyone's holding their noses and screaming. Someone !@#$ing throws up, the manager threatens to kill you, and the EPA kicks down the !@#$ door to take you to a containment unit in the name of public safety.

Because's there's no !@#$ question you're the culprit.

Got all that? Well, that's scandal for you, son. One wrong !@#$ word, one wrong !@#$ move, and the stink-lines appear over your !@#$ing head like you're Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon.

And they don't !@#$ing go away for a long !@#$ time.

So, I'd just shoved my big !@#$ foot straight down my big !@#$ mouth and out of my big !@#$ !@#$hole, in court, and it was sticking out so far I could !@#$ing hop to work. The bad !@#$ing vibes were swirling around me like the smell of that bad Indian food doomfart. And I knew there was no !@#$ing getting away from it.

Not this time, anyway.

See, in the past, I could always find a way to !@#$ing deflect it. I could !@#$ing blame it on mind control, finger some third-rate supervillain from the Legion, shoot them full of !@#$ing holes, and call it a day. I could tell the press to shove it and hope some other scandal came along to take me off their mind, or arrange to have another scandal come along.

Now? I ain't got !@#$. The Legion is gone. The COMPANY doesn't really exist, right now. I have no real support structure to get my fine, gay !@#$ out of trouble once I get into it.

And boy, was I ever in it, after that little admission, and that was just a !@#$ing taste of treats to come.

See, I got on the plane for America feeling like a !@#$ing pariah, and wondering when those horse-eating !@#$ers were going to start throwing rotten tomatoes and stale baguettes at me. And I got off the plane to a mob of !@#$ing reporters who wanted to know what the !@#$ was going on, and what did I mean by what I said, and what about Hawaii?

What about Hawaii...

...

And then I went to the White House for Thanksgiving dinner, and wound up having to kill someone after dessert. Which is when everything I'd worked for since the President was !@#$ing kidnapped went right down the !@#$ing toilet, leaving only the bad smell behind.

Which is why I'm in this well-heeled prison apartment, with my boyfriend and my cat, and awaiting trial. Not for having killed that person at the White House, but because of it.

(If that makes any !@#$ing sense? But if it doesn't now, trust me, it !@#$ing will.)

No son, I'm being tried because I couldn't do the impossible in the middle of a war, but someone else did.

* * *

Let's talk about Hawaii. 

There was a cube on Kauai, by Waimea. I sent Mister Chaos, Ironface, and Brightstarsurfergirl there to knock out the Specials around it. And then they were to hold down the fort and nail anything the enemy sent West, towards the Lost City.

At least so far as they knew.

The truth was that I put them there for damage control, as I wasn't a hundred percent sure of any of them. Ironface had a bad !@#$ing habit of losing his !@#$ and attacking his friends, Brightstarsurfergirl gets tied into the whole !@#$ universe and goes flyabout if her meds are just a little off.

And Chaos? Well, his dad, Captain Chaos, was able to cause disruptions in physical laws by looking at something, but he couldn't control exactly what happened. He'd look at a car and want it to stop moving, but instead he'd reverse gravity and next thing you know the !@#$ thing was heading for the !@#$ing stratosphere.

Now, back in the War, when we needed massive amounts of !@#$ing destruction, that was great. But come peacetime, that never !@#$ing worked out too well. I mean, if you needed to catch someone who was in the car, and he went into !@#$ing orbit, well... there you go.

(We solved that problem by partnering him up with someone who could fly, in case you wondered.)

So his son comes along, and his power set is controllable, in an uncontrollable way. He could keep the effects contained within one area, and if anything got outside, they'd be reversed. Which was good because he had a habit of seriously overdoing it, and we'd have to move his victims away to bring them back to normalcy.

So, given their little problems, I figured we were better off keeping the three of them away from anything sensitive. And !@#$, they might learn something while they were !@#$ing cracking heads. Like control, maybe. Or how to !@#$ing pay attention.

But then, after I !@#$ing tell them not to attack the cube, because it's full of kids (not that they !@#$ing know that) they go in there and start blowing !@#$ up, anyway. And that would have been !@#$ing tragic on its face, except that they got disgustingly lucky not too long into the war.

And we owe it all to The Fist trying to !@#$ing kill them from trans-lunar orbit.

* * *

Ironface is crying, now. Black, gritty oil is leaking from his tin and glass eyes, shorting out external circuits as they course down his face and chest, but he doesn't care. He's crying and screaming and smashing things because he can't stop, anymore.

He just can't.

"Come back, sweetie..." Brightstarsurfergirl is saying, flying after him on her ruby board. Broken bodies wash to the sides of the corridors as she goes -- things that were once children, but now only resemble what happens when a small boy or girl is stretched out past the point of skeletal collapse, and then welded back together with metal clamps and bone glue.

Ironface killed a hundred of them before he ripped off one's robes and saw what he'd been killing, all along. Now he's regretting it. 

Now they're all regretting coming here.

"up is !@#$ed this !@#$," Mister Chaos says, looking around, seeing the energies at play, and wondering what it all means.

He reaches out to take hold of the wall, and it gives up its secrets to him. Suddenly, he knows everything, and understands why SPYGOD told them not to come here. 

"off feeding of are kids they...." he stammers, almost in danger of losing his chaostrance, but for the music he's listening to: "kids just. kids..."

There's an explosion nearby, and then another. The whole cube shakes, and it brings him back into the here and now, the then and when. 

"'they shot the pope...'" he sings, letting it all go wrong around him: "'they shot his !@#$... it's over now... that's what I said...'"

The explosions continue. White light falls in from the crack they made in the ceiling when they broke into this place. Chaos knows what it is a split second before it comes down to scour them all clean.

Particle cannon fire. 

And, smiling, he raises his hands to the sky and lets the power wash over him, and then through. Just enough to get a taste of the death he's being denied, today. And just enough to know its shape, and how to bend it.

How to change it. 

And he does. 

* * *

According to the debriefing we had, about a week later, Brightstarsurfergirl comes to a couple minutes later, and finds out that she's alive, somehow. Must be something to do with how she can !@#$ing handle cosmic radiation, I figure.

Ironface wasn't so !@#$ing lucky, poor bastard. She said that there was a robot-shaped shadow up against a wall and a few scorched parts on the ground in front of it. I guess that's the way that goes...

...

So she flies over to where she left Chaos, and finds him !@#$ing sprawled out on the floor, alive and human, again. All around him are children. And they're alive and whole and wondering what the !@#$ happened to them, because they can't !@#$ing remember a thing.

Last thing they can remember, they were coming into the doorway of the box and being told something special was going to happen. And then everything goes mercifully blank. 

What happened? Well, son, somehow, Mister Chaos turned that big !@#$ing wave of destructive energy into something else entirely. He made it heal them all. He made it bring them back to life, in some cases. He made it like nothing had ever happened to them. 

And when he woke up, an hour later, he couldn't stop !@#$ing smiling.

Of course, I ask him how he did that, and he just !@#$ing shrugs. He had no idea. And I don't !@#$ing think he ever will, either.

But that's how the ten thousand kids in that !@#$ing white cube lived while every other kid in every other white cube died, that day. 

And that was somewhere around a billion kids, son.

I mean, can you even !@#$ing conceive that? A billion. People throw big numbers around and no one ever gets any !@#$ing clue as to what they really mean. But a billion?

Hitler killed kids, too, but how many were in that ten million? Not even a !@#$ing drop in the pond compared to what I ordered my people to do, that day.

And you could say, yeah, they were already dead. And yeah, they were. And yeah, maybe there was nothing you could have !@#$ing done about it, either.

But then you look at that, and you wonder if maybe there wasn't something we could have done, if we'd just tried.

If...

...

Yeah.

So, there I am, and I !@#$ing had homicide for dessert at the White House thanksgiving, and the only reason I wasn't in !@#$ing jail, or worse, is because one of !@#$ of an extenuating circumstance. And instead of everyone being grateful and saying "hey, way to go, SPYGOD. Tough choice, tough world, tough man," suddenly people are asking about the White Boxes, and Hawaii, and everything else. 

And that's about when I just know that I ate the !@#$ing dead dog curry and sharted out the mother of all !@#$ scandals into my pants on the way to the can.

Stink lines and all.

* * *

Now, I bet you're wondering what, exactly, I noticed at the trial? That little thing I've been playing close to my chest?

Well, it was just a look between the Prosecutor and the Judge, at some point during my testimony. At the time I really didn't think anything of it, because I was too !@#$ing busy trying to save my fine gay !@#$ from looking like a fool, or a monster. But I did notice, and something made me !@#$ing file it away for later.

So it's a week after what happened at the White House, on Thanksgiving. And me and my man are heading through NYC, and we get set on by some !@#$ paparazzi.  Now, me, I'd just !@#$ing shoot the !@#$holes on sight, but Straffer's a cool cucumber, and figures out some way to get us past them and into where we were going. And he figures out how to tell me by just looking at me, and then where we need to go.

And you know how he looks at me, right?

Well, I remember, at some point, that's how the Prosecutor looked at the Judge. Like they were sharing a secret plan that had another secret behind it. The sort of secret that you really don't want people knowing.

(Not such a secret in my case, of course)

And, a week ago, I got it confirmed thanks to some little birdies in the TU. The Judge and the Prosecutor are carrying on something of a big !@#$ affair, and don't think anyone actually knows.

Now, there's not a lot I can !@#$ing do with that info, now. I can't even !@#$ing bring it up without sounding like a !@#$ing hypocrite, or some kind of wuss. But it means that Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud, whose ancestors did not like me all that !@#$ing much, conspired with his Prosecutor to put the !@#$ing screws into me when he got a chance.

And we've !@#$ing seen what's happened since, haven't we?

Yes we have.

...

Another drink, I think. This story needs a !@#$ing ending, and that's just what you're going to get.

If only everything was that easy.

(SPYGOD is listening to Return of the She King (Dead Can Dance) and having a Taj Mahal)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 7.

Okay, so, in the space of just 24 little !@#$ing hours, the tables have turned, flipped over again, and broken into !@#$ing firewood.

Suddenly, I'm the responsible adult at the party, because half the people I went to Paris with want to !@#$ing kill Mr. USA, and the other half are helping me hold them the !@#$ back. All because America's greatest hero admitted, in court, that he'd been !@#$ing helping the Imago all along.

Not because he wanted to, of course. But the piece of !@#$ wrapped in human skin that's supposed to be me from Alter Earth was pretending to be me, and making him do and not do things on their behalf, or else he'd kill his wife and kids. And since he thought he was !@#$ing me, and he knew what I could do if I put my !@#$ing mind to it, he was sufficiently scared enough to do !@#$ing nothing to stop it.

But while Mr. USA had no idea what was really !@#$ing going on, he knew he was doing wrong. But he couldn't help it because he was in love, and scared, and worried for their lives.

Yeah, it sounds like a !@#$ing spandex soap-opera plot, son. But it's real. !@#$ing !@#$ real. And yours !@#$ing truly had to !@#$ing drive the bus on it, which meant I had to put myself between people who had been friends less than a day earlier and keep things from !@#$ing degenerating into a !@#$ing Jerry Springer episode.

I think I actually used the phrase "We're !@#$ing doing their work for them" at least three times. And if that doesn't !@#$ing qualify me for a seat in cliche !@#$, I don't know what does. 

Luckily, that was the end of the Imago testifying, right then and there. So no more nasty revelations came out, at least from them.

(I mean, they !@#$ing tried to get the guy that was the former head of the CIA, aka The Sight, up on the platform to talk. But he was plugged into the Internet when we pulled the !@#$ plug on it, and it !@#$ing fried his brains. So we wound up with a wasted !@#$ day of weird answers, word salad, and the occasional scream when it all came together for him, again.)

After that, they got us back on the !@#$ing stand, over the next few days And it was pretty much by the numbers. The Owl talked about what happened to her family, what she saw in LA, and what happened during the Reclamation War. New Man talked about how they !@#$ing infiltrated the COMPANY, and what they did to him afterwards. My man talked about what they'd tried to do to him, and explained exactly what the !@#$er that had been pretending to be him had been using his weapons platform for.

(Nothing about what happened on Alpha Base Seven, though. We'd agreed to keep that quiet.)

Myron telepresenced in and told about what he'd seen, and had to do because of it, but he did it without looking at me. I think he !@#$ing knew that I knew, by then.

And yes, son, Winifred brought the house down with what she had to say, as expected. She actually !@#$ing managed to keep it together for most of it, in spite of her ordeal. I think being massively !@#$ing angry at Mr. USA and me helped.

By the time it got to me, I was looking out at an !@#$ing empty courtroom, friends-wise. The Owl and Talon left after her deposition, and New Man left after Winifred's. So it was just me, Straffer, Mr. USA, and Winifred in that courtroom, and Straffer was having to sit between Mr. USA and Winifred to keep her from having a direct line-of-sight for her patented Death Stare.

So I !@#$ing got up there, smiled, tried not to !@#$ing threaten the !@#$ Prosecution with a gunshot to the !@#$ing face when he asked for my full name, and answered their questions as best as I could. I told them about Unit 731, GORGON, and Imago, and the big !@#$ connection between the three. I told them about the things we knew about, what what we didn't know until just now. And I told them how we'd been fooled, and how we'd fooled them, and a lot of what had been done to !@#$ing save the world from them once I got back and moving.

And throughout it all, the Imago were just !@#$ing looking at me, as if they were waiting for me to say something. I did my best to not !@#$ing look at them, just because I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence any more than I already !@#$ing had.

So this went on for two whole !@#$ing days, them asking questions and me talking and trying to avoid looking at the defendants.  And it's three in the !@#$ing PM on the day before we break so us American witnesses could have Thanksgiving at home (which the TU was !@#$ing nice enough to do for us) and I'm so !@#$ing talked out it's a wonder my !@#$ing jaw hasn't fallen out of my !@#$ mouth.

And that's when I !@#$ it all up.

* * *

Prosecutor: Now, there is one thing I am curious about, and perhaps you could enlighten the court.

SPYGOD: Ask away, Jacques. I got all !@#$ing day.

(Laughter)

Judge: The witness will kindly keep decorum, and a clean tongue. 

SPYGOD: My apologies, your honor. Long day.

Prosecutor: I know, and we do appreciate your willingness to tell us as much as you have, or at least as much as you can. My question is regarding these so-called White Boxes. The ones that the Imago told us were schools, but were actually... harvesting camps.

SPYGOD: Yes. I don't think there's anything I can add to what that piece of... what the defendant known as Dark Star had to say regarding them. She pretty much told you the whole story. 

Prosecutor: So you did know what they were?

SPYGOD: Yes, I did. 

Prosecutor: How long did you know for?

SPYGOD: Well, I had a really nasty idea, right from the beginning. Generally, whenever anyone wants to take a whole group of children away from their parents for what's supposed to be their own good, there's something !@#$ suspicious going on. I think there's any number of indigenous people around the world that could-

Prosecutor: That issue aside, could you tell us how you learned for certain, and when?

SPYGOD: How is going to remain a secret. But as for when, that would have been towards the end of September. Maybe the 23rd. 

Prosecutor: You cannot say or you will not say?

SPYGOD: The date or how?

Prosecutor: How, Msr. SPYGOD.

SPYGOD: The how involves a very long !@#$ story, more than half of which is classified. Let's just say that someone who could get into something you couldn't just walk into went in there, for me, and told her story to someone who was used to dealing with people like that. And then I heard it from him, and adjusted my plans accordingly.

Prosecutor: Are either of these two persons able to testify?

SPYGOD: No. They're both dead. 

Prosecutor: I see. How did they die?

SPYGOD: That's classified. 

Prosecution: I think that, in the interests of the overall search for truth, some redactions can be made to the testimony for public consumption-

SPYGOD: No. No redactions, no black lines. You want the truth? I'll give you as much as I'm able to give you. You want to nail them to the wall with that truth? I'll help as much as I can. But either we clear the courtroom and it's just you, me, the judge, the dancing monkey, and the three pieces of filth sitting down behind him, and I'll tell you the whole !@#$ story, you just accept that I can't tell you certain pieces.

Prosecutor: Well then.

Defense. Dancing monkey?

Judge: The witness will kindly refrain from referring to the defense as a circus attraction.

(Laughter)

Judge: Order! The court will remain in order!

SPYGOD: So are we done asking about that?

Prosecutor: Very well. Let's proceed on the fact that you knew what these things were before you put the plan to retake the world together?

SPYGOD: Sounds good to me.

Prosecutor: I have read the reports of how the fight went that day. The beginning, the changes of the battle, the climax, the end result. It is quite a terrifying thing.

SPYGOD: It is, yes. 

Prosecutor: And all of this went according to plan?

SPYGOD: Well, since we're being honest? We lucked out, to be frank. If it hadn't been for the bravery of quite a few people that I hadn't been counting on, or that I thought were out of the game, we might not be having this conversation right now.

Prosecutor: Yes, I've looked at the movements, especially as regards the White Boxes. At first, you were telling your people to attack some of them, but not all of them. And then, at one point, you tell them all to attack all of them.

SPYGOD: Yes. That is what happened.

Prosecutor: What is the difference between the boxes?

SPYGOD: Well, the ones I had them attacking initially were the junction boxes. They had some that harvested energy from their... prisoners. And then they had ones that collected the energy from other White Boxes and redirected. When... Dark Star was talking about the cars that ran on children, they were getting their energy from those junction boxes. 

Prosecutor: So why did you tell them to attack all of them?

SPYGOD: There was a point where things went badly, and I decided we couldn't take the risk of them being able to draw any power from any of them. 

Prosecutor: Did the people attacking the boxes know what they were attacking?

SPYGOD: No. They did not. 

Prosecutor: Why did you not tell them of this?

SPYGOD: Because I didn't feel it should make any difference. 

(gasps)

* * *

Yeah, son. That's right about when I !@#$ing realized that I'd just said something I shouldn't have. Between the gasps and how the Prosecutor was looking at me the same !@#$ing way he'd looked at Green and Yellow and Dark Star. I also caught the Judge just !@#$ing glaring at me, right about then.

But you know, when you're down on your face and you're getting kicked in the !@#$, you know you have to take a few more kicks to the !@#$ before you can get up and kick back. So I rode it, figuring I could turn the thing back around.

I really shouldn't have done that, though. I really should have !@#$ing put my foot down and said no more questions. But I didn't !@#$ing think...

...

Yeah. So he looked at me like I was Hitler and he'd just caught me at the gay rodeo while wearing a Little Bo Peep costume, stammered a bit, and went on.

* * *

Prosecutor: They should not have known that the structures they were attacking were full of children?

SPYGOD: No. 

Prosecutor: In God's name, monsieur. Why not?

SPYGOD: Because they weren't children, anymore. They were raw material for the enemy to use. I had to deny the enemy that raw material in order to win the war-

(Crosstalk, gasps)

Prosecutor: That is...

SPYGOD: Monstrous. Is that what you're going to say?

Prosecutor: At least.

SPYGOD: What did you do, that day?

Prosecutor: Me?

SPYGOD: Yes, you. We were fighting to free the entire world from an enemy that was willing to put your children in energy removal machines and turn them into walking scarecrows. What did you do that day?

Prosecutor: I hid in our apartment's basement garage. 

SPYGOD: That's right. You hid. All of you !@#$ing hid. And before that, you were obeying orders. And with some of you it was because you didn't know any better. And for some of you, well, maybe you had an idea or two. But--

Judge: The witness will kindly refrain from calling the trial's audience into account-

SPYGOD: Now you let me !@#$ing finish! All of you. You're all sitting there in judgment of what I did. I made terrible decisions. People died. Men and women in the prime of their lives who knew what they were getting into died. People who had no idea what was going on died. Children died. The weak and helpless and totally ignorant died. 

Well, that's war, folks. That's what a world war is. And I have seen enough of them to know that, when you declare total war, and go after an enemy that's taken control of your lands, and your people, you don't worry about who your bombs are going to hit or how many people might get killed when you do this operation or that one. You go forward. You prosecute the war. 

And you can only pray that, when you're done, more of you are left standing than the enemy. And that's what I did. And that's why I did it. 

(silence)

Prosecutor: So... would it be fair to say, in your assessment, that there was no other way to win this war, other than killing all these children?

SPYGOD: Oh no. There was a way. There was a primary plan that, if it had gone according to plan, would have dropped every single one of those tin-plated mother!@#$ers right where they stood. But things didn't work out at the last minute, and that plan fell apart. So we had to go with another plan.

Prosecutor: And I suppose the reasons that fell apart are classified as well?

SPYGOD: No, but I don't feel like entering the personal failures of a number of scared and desperate people into the official record. 

Prosecutor: ... ? 

SPYGOD: That's all I'm saying. And I really shouldn't have even said that.

Prosecutor: So when that plan did not work, you went with the other plan. And this is why these children are dead.

SPYGOD: Yes.

Prosecutor: And you consider those children to have been raw materials, rather than prisoners of war?

SPYGOD: I do, yes. But even if they had been prisoners of war, that would not have deterred me, any more than it deterred the Allies back during the War, or any nation that went after certain groups of religious zealots after the Computer Hell virus. If they put a playground or a mosque in front of the training center, we'll blow it up to get to the training center. That's war.

Prosecutor: Well, that's... an interesting viewpoint.

SPYGOD: It's a sad viewpoint is what it is. And it's sad because it's realistic. It's the total, !@#$ed-up reality of total war, and it takes totally !@#$ed-up people to deal with it. And that's why you have totally !@#$ed-up people like me make those decisions in total war, and people like you hide in their basement garages and !@#$ themselves. 

Prosecutor: Well-

SPYGOD: And I'm sorry for the !@#$ing stream of foul language, your honor. But that's what it comes down to in the end. War is !@#$ing !@#$. And I walked through that !@#$ to save the world because it had to be done. And better me than you to bear those decisions.

Prosecutor: And we do not get a say in how those decisions are made?

SPYGOD: Did you expect me to call you in the middle of the battle and ask for your !@#$ opinion?

Prosecutor: Do we not get a say in how those decisions are made?

SPYGOD: Woah, there, chief. You're not Nathan Hunt and I'm not the Joker. Now, if you don't like the job I do, you can bring that up with your leaders, but-

Prosecutor: How many billions of children are dead right now because you decided they weren't worth saving?

SPYGOD: Too !@$# many. But there was no way they could have been saved. They were dead the moment they walked into those boxes. And if you don't believe me, ask your other witnesses-

Dark Star: Tell them about Hawaii, SPYGOD.

SPYGOD: Excuse me?

Prosecutor: Hawaii? What about Hawaii?

SPYGOD: Now look, that was a !@#$ing fluke. One in a !@#$ing million. 

Prosecutor: I'm waiting to hear an explanation.

SPYGOD: You're not getting one. I'm done.

Judge: You will sit in your seat and-

SPYGOD: I am !@#$ing done!

Defense: Your honor, with all respect, as much as I love seeing the Prosecution treat one of his witnesses as a hostile witness without asking the Court for its permission, first, I should point out that this court was not called to lay charges against this witness. It was called to ascertain my clients' involvement in what took place throughout the world over the last several months. And this line of questioning stopped being about that quite some time ago.

Judge: Very well. Prosecution, do you wish to continue treating this man as a hostile witness?

Prosecution: No, your honor. I do not. I suppose these are matters that could be brought up in a subsequent case.

Judge: Very well. The witness is dismissed, and this court will stand adjourned for the next two days. We will convene on Sunday, the 24th, at 8 in the morning. 

* * *

And the moment I got out of the stand, I saw the Prosecution and the Judge give each other a really !@#$ing interesting look. I didn't make much of it at the time because I was so angry I was shaking, but I just knew something was up.

Winifred wouldn't look at me. And Mr. USA comes over, puts a hand on my shoulder, and says "I've got your back."

Fat lot of !@#$ing good that's been so far, let me tell you...

...

Ah well. Here's to the sweet !@#$ing mystery of life and war. 

Down the hatch.

(SPYGOD is listening to Agape (Dead Can Dance) and having more !@#$ing Brenne)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 14

It takes The Green Man a surprisingly long time to die, considering his horrific wounds. All the while, Mr. USA stands and watches him as he cradles his maimed, unconscious boy and whispers to him, his eyes screwed shut and washed out with tears.

He's not the only one crying, here. The SPYGOD SCOUTS who are huddled around the two of them, making sure Thomas stays alive, are wiping their eyes every so often. One of them is openly weeping, and holding up Green Man's head so he can look at his own son.

The only dry eye in the house is Mr. USA. And that's because he doesn't dare cry; not here and now, and not over this.

As far as he's concerned, he doesn't deserve to shed tears over this, seeing as how he engineered the entire thing. He may not have known how it was going to go down, exactly, and certainly not like this. But he knew that Green Man wasn't going to survive the encounter with whatever monster was awaiting them in the treehouse, and that makes him as good as guilty for murdering him.

Justice will have to wait, though. He can only stand and watch, and occasionally pray to God that he's done the right thing, and made the right choices. Because right now he isn't sure of anything.

At some point Green Man shakes, spasms, and then stares up at the ceiling through wide, wet eyes.

"Father..." he says: "Is that you...?"

He blinks once, then twice, and then stops seeing. His breath leaves him, and a SCOUT does the decent thing and closes his eyes.

Only then does Mr. USA take his leave, feeling all the while like a thief sneaking away from the crime.

He follows the direction the others went, hearing voices up ahead, through an open archway. He can hear familiar voices, but not all of them are the ones he traveled here with. Puzzled, he picks up his pace, stepping into the light and seeing Myron and Doctor Power seemingly about to come to blows about something.

"What is going on here?" he says, loudly, as he enters the room. This disrupts everything, and all heads turn to look at him. 

"Is he...?" Mark asks.

"The Green Man is dead, yes," he says, nodding: "The Scouts are looking after Thomas. Do we know where we're taking him?"

"That's just what we were.... discussing," Mark starts to say, gesturing to the others, who are either standing or sitting around a large table with a map rolled out across it. 

"What's to discuss?" he asks, coming up to Doctor Power, who's taken a step back from the table. Myron has also done the same, though he's still glaring at the superhero.

The arch-magician blinks when he looks at Mr. USA, and then nods: "I was wondering when you were going to drop the disguise, (REDACTED)."

"Yeah, I could never fool you, could I?" he says, extending a hand. When Doctor Power shakes it, he's surprised at how weak the magician's grip is.

"Doctor Power's telling us he can't teleport Thomas to the nearest hospital," Myron says, patting the map: "Apparently, he's only got enough energy left for two more jaunts, and not the three it'd take to get Thomas to a hospital, and then him back here, and then all of us to !@#$ing Antarctica."

Mr. USA looks at the map, and feels his heart skip a beat: "That's the Ice Palace."

"Apparently, while we were fighting Moloch, the First Lady and her two girls were kidnapped by Dr. Yesterday," Mark adds, walking closer and gesturing to Wayfinder, who's sitting at the table with his great-granddaughter, who's well-armed and dressed like she stepped out of a zombie survival movie: "Fred got the order to call Doctor Power and get Wayfinder on the case, and this is what we've got."

"The bastard is here," the old man says, tapping a large laboratory: "I can't read him too well, since he's not who he was, anymore. Not really. But I know her, and this is where she is."

"For now, anyway," Doctor Power says: "He gave the President a half hour to surrender or he was going to start hurting them. And that was about twenty minutes ago-"

"Twenty-five," the great-granddaughter says, tapping her watch: "Which gives us a minute to plan and four minutes to save them. We'd have had longer, if you hadn't started arguing-"

"I can't believe the best magician on the planet can't teleport that kid to a !@#$ing hospital," Myron growls: "Or even heal him-"

"Oh, you better believe it, boy," the man says, pounding his fist onto the table and pointing at Myron's face with the other hand: "I have been jumping all over the !@#$ planet, today. Taking people here and there, doing this and that. I'm lucky I can even put up with your bull!@#$-"

"Enough," Mr. USA says, stepping between them: "Doctor, I know you have your limits, but what can you do for Thomas? I promised his mother I'd do right by him."

"They say there's medical facilities in this building, somewhere," Winifred says: "I'll stay behind with them and help them find it. I'll make sure he lives."

"And I'll help with that," Mark says, stepping next to her: "So maybe the rest of you can go...?"

"I will go," Skyspear says: "I am fully rested and ready."

"I'm staying here," Wayfinder says: "This is enough excitement for one day, but Yanabah can go with you."

The woman looks like she's going to protest, but something about how he looks up at her silences anything she might say.

Mr. USA looks at the group he's got. Doctor Power, Skyspear, this woman he's never seen the full mettle of, and...

"Myron, are you joining us?" he asks, getting the idea he doesn't even need to.

"Oh yes I am," he says, glaring at Doctor Power: "And you, magic man? You said you could do two trips?"

"Yes," the magician says, somewhat wearily.

"Does it matter how much you're carrying on both?"

"No. It's the trip itself that's the drain on my mana, not the mass-"

"Oh good," he says, smiling and putting his broken sunglasses on: "Then I have an idea..."

* * *

"Alright, then," SPYGOD says, just after delivering the coup de grace to the Imago he's been shooting full of holes for the last five seconds, and then aiming at antoher: "Mister Ten, tell the Dignitary to not !@#$ing arm its weapons. Not !@#$ing yet, anyway."

"Why not?' the man says, wincing as he sees how many Imago have just teleported into close proximity: "I could make very short work of these things."

"Because we're getting !@#$ing close enough to the Flier for its !@#$ reflex weapons to be in range," he says, kneeling down as Lady Gilda does a barrel roll, taking two Imago out of the picture by cutting them in half: "If they kick in, every !@#$ gun it's got is going to open the !@#$ up, and then your shields are going to be !@#$ing swiss cheese before you can get a good bead on her."

"I think my shields can handle your Flier's weapons."

"Uh, hate to !@#$ing tell you this, but one of the hard targets we had it designed against was the Dignitary," SPYGOD admits, somewhat sheepishly: "Just in case it fell into the wrong !@#$ing hands, you understand."

"Of course," Mister Ten says, scowling. 

"And that's what we !@#$ing had. !@#$ only knows what the !@#$ they've put into that thing since they !@#$ing took it over. They could have big !@#$ weapons in there that'd make what we had look like !@#$ing pop guns. One good volley and we might be !@#$ing toast."

"And then this battle would be over," he says: "Perhaps I should have had Hanami stay with us."

"Oh, I think she's !@#$ing good where she is," SPYGOD says, noticing how low his ammunition is getting: "You let me handle these tin !@#$ers. You just steer the !@#$ boat and keep those shields up."

"I will do that," the man says, wondering how the android is doing, and worrying more about her than himself. 

"And while we're doing that," SPYGOD says, reaching into his pants pocket to pull out a small box he's been keeping on hand for quite some time: "I think it's time we !@#$ing called in the cavalry."

With that, he opens the box, presses the big red button inside it, and then shoves it back into his pants. And then he goes back to shooting the hordes of Imago, large and small -- laughing all the while.

* * *

Her name is Florence Foster Jenkins. She's 17 years old. And she's just gotten the call that her country needs her. 

A little over a year ago, she was walking to school and saw a little boy toddling into traffic. Then she saw that there was a big, red humvee coming down the road way too fast, and heading right for him. 

And she just knew, from the way the driver was busy changing CDs or something, that he wasn't going to stop the car.

She didn't even stop to think. She ran right out into the street and pushed the toddler out of the way, so he didn't get hit. 

She did, though, and suffered multiple fractures, a concussion, and some severe internal damage. She was in the hospital for a couple months, and when she came back she had casts on her arm and leg, and talked slow, as if she had to really think about whats he was saying.

After the casts came off, she limped for a time. And she still had a few problems talking and walking at the same time. But everyone said she was lucky -- so !@#$ lucky -- because, as smashed as that humvee was, she should have been killed by it. 

And there was some truth to that -- she was really !@#$ lucky. Just not how they thought.

The truth was that she hadn't been so much as bruised by the accident. She was in what the doctors said was a "self-induced reparative coma" for most of the day. And when she woke up -- hungry, thirsty, and confused -- there was a man standing by her bed with a can of soda, a candy bar, and a very serious look in his one eye.

And he told her the truth. 

Since then, she and her parents had been very careful. They had told no one what had really happened. They went to a "doctor" who helped her fake her injuries, and coached her on how to behave, and what to say and do. 

And at night, when she was supposedly at home studying, the "doctor" helped her find out just how lucky she was. He helped her discover her strengths and weaknesses, her powers and limits. He told her how to fight and how to run for cover. He gave her tips on teamwork and how to take orders, and -- maybe more importantly -- when to disobey them.

He told her how to be a hero, for want of a better word. But he also told her not act like one until she heard it was okay. And he gave her a large, metal box, along with a key, but told her not to open it until that day. 

(He also told her that if anyone else opened it early, it would blow up, so she should hide the key well.)

After 3/15, her Doctor left her a strange message, telling her to stay quiet and do nothing, no matter what happened next. She was told to sit tight and play along until she received a message from the man who'd talked to her the day she'd woken up. Her Doctor said she'd know it when she heard it, and not to look for him, or show off her powers in public.

And now, seven months after that day, when the world is coming down around her head, and the only safe place is here in Neo York City, she's picked up her cellphone -- which should not be working, right now -- and gotten that message at last.

 

Three small words: "Open the box."

She's not sure the uniform she found in the box really works for her, but it's just something for now. She doesn't know who else might be out there, fighting in the air and the streets, but she knows somehow that when she uses the belt communicator, they'll find each other. 

And she doesn't know what's going to come next, except that today is the first day of the rest of her real life.

Her name is Florence, but call her the Red Wrecker. She's 17 years old. Today, she is a Superhero.

And she is far from the only one.

* * *

Gosheven's trip into the heart of the restructured Flier has been very educational, to say the least. 

If the journey from the prison cells told him all he needed to know about the Imago's grand and glorious past, the march to the central area, where they've been given their orders, has given him an eyeful about their philosophies. None of them are particularly gentle or kind, and what little he's able to read (courtesy of absorbing some of their language when he took their form) reminds him of the sort of pompous, self-congratulatory !@#$ he read about in ancient history classes at school.

Is this the fate of our world? he wonders as he sidesteps the large groups of Imago, all running to their beamout platforms to enter battle with the world he's trying to save: To be conquered by the same kind of disgusting people we evolved from?

He doesn't know for certain. All he knows is that there's a mystery, here, and he's getting closer to solving it. Some strange conundrum at the heart of the Imago that, if unearthed, could lead to their end.

All he has to do is pull that secret out, and he may yet win back the world...

Except there's a distraction, here, too. 

He can feel him before he sees him, thrumming inside of a containment sphere, somewhere on the deck below. Gosheven smiles and, slipping into a side passage, allows himself to turn to vapor, the better to go into the ventilation system and travel down a floor, unseen to any. 

Once he's there, inside what's either a special prison cell or a he slips back out and up. He assumes his normal form once more, the better to be seen by an ally, however many degrees removed.

"You remember me, paleface?" he asks New Man, who's looking up at him with a look he normally associates with people coming out of a serious drunk.

"You..." the older man mumbles through the glass, twitching just a little. It's all he can do to move his head, given that they stuck him into a glass sphere that's just large enough for him to be wrapped around himself in a human ball.

 

"Yeah, me," he says, looking around for some sort of control station: "I kind of hid out on your ship after I set you up. Hope you don't mind."

"They're using me..."

"I figured as much," he says, reading the panel closest to him, and then looking around a nearby corridor to see if any Imago are stationed nearby. 

(Of course they aren't -- smug !@#$s.)

"What are we... you..."

"Well, SPYGOD told me, and I quote..." he says, changing his voice: "'Find out what they're doing, and then !@#$ up their !@#$ before they can attack us.'"

New Man just looks at him, obviously confused by hearing SPYGOD's voice from his former prisoner's mouth.

"So, since I know what they're up to, how about I let your !@#$ out of that giant snowglobe, and then you and I can go find some !@#$ to !@#$ up? Unless you'd rather sit in there for another seven months or so...?"

"Let. Me. Out." New Man says, no longer even remotely confused. 

And so he is.

(SPYGOD is listening to Any Second Now (Depeche Mode) and having a Newman's Autumn Valley Flower)

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

The particle cannon blasts continue to come, regular as clockwork. One hits Tokyo, then one hits the Dignitary, and another hits the glowing ball between the two, where an android that looks something like a young, Japanese girl floats in mid-air, maintaining a powerful shield over the city, the robot, and herself.

With each strike, the shield glows a little less. With each blast, it becomes clearer that she cannot keep this up for much longer. And while she's smiling widely -- some might say bravely -- it's also clear that her expression is more to do with appearing genki than actually anticipating a victory at this point. 

Something has to break, and soon. 

Just ahead of the giant, white robot that strides away from Tokyo, somehow walking above the waves, a flying saucer stolen from supernazis slowly makes its way out to sea. A large, strange-looking cat that speaks Russian is at its controls, keeping it well-clear of the blasts as they come down from the sky. And in the center of the flight deck, SPYGOD stands, watching as the war he's running comes down around his ears.

Too many of his people are dying. Too many of the supers he called to duty are being annihilated. Too many of the strange armies he bullied, cajoled, and blackmailed into action this day are looking at 75 to 100% losses. The commanders are braying for help he can't give, and suggesting new tactics that are just a pubic hair's breadth away from being surrender. 

And as he watched, and weighs his options, he becomes aware of his cat hissing, just before a sudden barrel roll almost lands him on his !@#$.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$, Bee-Bee?" he shouts, getting up. But then he looks at the main window, and sees why his cat decided to engage in mid-flight acrobatics.

"Well !@#$," he says, looking at what just appeared in firing range of his ship.

He doesn't know what to make of them, at least at first. The Chandra Eye sees them, but he has a hard time actually believing what it's showing him. It isn't until the strange, large, flapping things -- some weird, metal-plated mix of buzzard, wasp, and man -- start firing eyebeams at him that he realizes what's going on.

And, ultimately, what it could mean.

No time for that, now, though. He gets the idea, very quickly, that these newcomers are only firing at his ship because he's in the way of the Dignitary. Which means that they're trying to wear down its shields, so as to get a clear shot at it.

Which means they're fully aware of what the !@#$ is going to happen when the massive, white robot gets to their city and starts attacking it. And that, if nothing else, at least gives him some hope.

Still, it's a long way from Tokyo to there. And if the android's shields cut out, it'll be a !@#$ short trip.

"Well, then," he says, grabbing the big !@#$ gun Ju Kikan got him, and activating the magnets in his pumps: "Guess we're taking the big !@#$ party outside, huh?"

His cat just hisses, barrel-rolling yet again to avoid being hit by the bright-colored barrage of twinned beams. SPYGOD walks to the rear exit calmly, a leaf in the wind.

But, before he does, he realizes it's well past time to do something. He turns and looks off into the distance -- far, far away, where their destination hovers over the lost city they're heading for.

"Sleeper, awaken," he says, sending the signal through his eyesight.

And, that task done, he goes back to heading out of the flying saucer, and gets ready to kick some serious, metal space-!@#$, for America.

* * *

On the day everything went wrong, the Flier's nanites were hijacked, and the ship was reformed and remade from within. 

The traditional shape that had served it so well for so long was converted into something otherworldly and strange. A sleek, strangely-colored, giant metal insect, somewhere between butterfly and dragonfly, has been hovering over the Imago's lost city for the last seven months -- appearing otherworldly during the day, and glowing with strange hues from within at night.

During that time, many COMPANY Agents lost their lives as the ship's decks melted away to nothing, only to reform elsewhere. And those who did not die then and there were hunted down and killed later -- their bodies taken over by Falsefaces.

So, for the last seven months, the Imago have been secure that this ship is now theirs. They believe that they can let their hair down, so to speak, and be themselves amongst themselves, there. They feel that they are safe, and that no one and nothing can harm them, let alone see them.

They would be wrong -- after a fashion, anyway.

In the prisoner cells (the one part of the ship that has seen no use since 3/15) something is stirring. A wave is seen in the air, followed by an ephemeral form, floating well off of the ground. The form slowly but surely gains depth, and then something approaching substance. And then it has arms, legs, a trunk, and a head.

And then clothes befitting someone who's just awoken after a nap lasting several months.

"I'm awake," the slightly pudgy, Native American man says, shaking his head to make sure he's not dreaming this, too: "I'm inside the Flier, I think."

You are, Gosheven, SPYGOD replies, speaking in a voice only the metamorph can hear.

"Well, I sure don't recognize the place. Did they remodel-"

Never !@#$ing mind that, now, you !@#$ing goofball, the voice of SPYGOD growls in his mind's ear: You're in the belly of a real beast, now. The enemy I wanted you there to hide out and deal with is now awake, and they turned my Flier into a !@#$ing modern art sculpture. 

And you !@#$ing know how much I hate modern art.

"Yeah, I remember reading when you threw Warhol through one of his soup can paintings..." 

It was a Marilyn, and we don't have !@#$ing time for that. You are surrounded by otherworldly enemies. Your assignment is to find out what they're doing, and then !@#$ up their !@#$ before they can attack us. You got that?

"Where are you?"

 
Tokyo, and we're going to be heading your way !@#$ quickly as soon as we clear up a problem or two.

"Okay then," the man says, puffing himself up a bit -- quite literally: "But just so we !@#$ing understand? This is it, right? After this, I'm free?" 

That was the agreement, Gosheven. Don't !@#$ this up, though.

"Wouldn't !@#$ing dream of it," the shapeshifter says, smiling. And then, adjusting his molecules to make him all but invisible, he saunters out of the cells and into the ship, looking for some !@#$ to !@#$ up.

And it's been his experience there's always something he can screw up, somewhere.

* * *

"I don't think we have any time for last-minute checks, son," Mr. USA says, watching Myron apply last-last-last minute adjustments to the cobbled-together bank of parts and wires that's going to get them home: "How badly can it go?"

"One wire in the wrong place and we wind up floating behind the Moon, sir," Myron says, hoping the adjustments he made to the great machine -- still warming up under their feet -- will get them to Neo York City like he planned: "Can't be too careful, here..."

"Thomas stopped breathing!" one of the SPYGOD Scouts yells, and there's a moment of well-deserved panic, but then a raggedy, halting exhale comes from the burned stump of a boy, wrapped in a sweaty, soiled blanket, and everyone takes a step back and breathes easier. For now.

"And that's why I'm saying we need to hurry this up, Myron," the old superhero says, taking a step towards him.

"Don't you dare !@#$ing rush him," Winifred says, stepping between Mr. USA, Mark, and the others: "Just let him do what he has to, okay?"

"That's out of line, young lady," Mark starts to say, but he's halted by a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I trust in him," Skyspear says, gently pulling Mark back a step before he can say anything to the contrary: "I also trust in God. We will get home, God willing."

"I just don't feel safe using something that... thing brought with it," Mark sighs, putting his hand on hers.

"It's all we have to work with, Mark," Mr. USA sighs.

"I know it's all we've got, but still."

"Um, excuse me? Who's got the Action Badge for Making It Work?" Myron asks, waving his free hand: "That would be me. So if everyone could please just let me !@#$ing do this? Okay? Thanks."

A few tense seconds later he snaps his fingers, and Winifred knows to hand him a smaller screwdriver. As she does, she whispers to him: "I thought you were in Boy Scouts, not SPYGOD SCOUTS?"

"Details, details," he says, winking. He's very glad to see her smile at it, and for a moment he thinks about other things. 

And then he realizes something is wrong.

"Those circuits just connected themselves," he says, stepping back and leaning away from the small, glowing, brass cube he's been working on: "They just !@#$ing connected themselves."

"What the !@#$ does that mean?" a SPYGOD SCOUT asks, and then finds out when a large, brass arm snakes out from behind the machine, grabs him by the neck, and pulls his head right off at the shoulders.

"It means that Moloch strides amongst you, once more!" the beast says, rising out of the Great Machine like a parasite sliding out of its host -- all sharp, twisting limbs and bull-mouths and horns.

Some panic and try to get off the platform. These ones, it cuts in half and flings to either side of the great hall. Some try to attack the creature their escape route has become. These, it smashes flat or viciously bites.

"You will not escape Moloch," the beast announces to those that survive the initial onslaught, holding a few surviving SCOUTS aloft, with knives held to their frightened throats: "And you, old man. Stand down, or Moloch will punish these for your impudence."

Mr. USA scowls, but steps back: "What do you want, you filthy thing?"

"You will contact SPYGOD, and tell him to come here and face his doom. You will tell him that God wishes to punish him, and if  he cares to see you alive, he will travel here. You will tell him these things."

"How?" Mark shouts, guarding the body of Thomas with his own: "We can't communicate with Earth, you idiot!"

"Moloch has rewired the circuits needed to talk to him," the machine explains, and one of its many heads vomits forth a mass of wires and speakers, along with a small viewscreen: "You will speak to him through Moloch. You will do this now. Each moment you hesitate, another dies..."

Just to prove its resolve, it squeezes its knife-hands around the neck of one of its victims. The girl only has time to gurgle before her body hits the floor well ahead of her skull. As the others scream and curse, Mark realizes that, even after all these weeks together, he didn't even know her name.

"You hesitate, still?" Moloch asks, getting ready to reach for someone else.

"No!" Mark says, holding up his hands: "Please. I'll do it. Just, let me figure out what to say-"

"Moloch will speak. You shall recite." the beast says. 

(And for some weird reason, Mark gets the sense that Moloch thinks that's incredibly funny.)

"Okay," Mark says, looking at Mr. USA, who's clearly at a loss. They can't destroy the beast without destroying the machine. And if they destroy the machine -- render every working piece down to melted alloys and burned circuit boards -- they may never get home at all. 

And Thomas will most likely die.

"Now, Mark," the beast taunts: "Time grows short for you. Only Moloch is eternal, and the wrath of Moloch will know no ceasing-"

"Oh, please just be silent," a raggedy voice commands from on high. And what happens next happens so fast that even the principal players will never be able to process the entire thing. 

A green blur falls down from the broken ceiling, hurling itself at the center of Moloch's heads, long knives in its badly-burned hands.

Moloch howls in surprise as the knives enter the bulbous, metal eyes it created for itself, and lets go of the SCOUTS it grabbed onto in order to brush this painful annoyance away.

"Now!" the Green Man yells, leaping back from the thing's head a split-second before the many, sharp hands of Moloch crash against its face.

And Myron, still unsure of whether this thing will actually work -- especially now -- turns the machine on.

And then...

* * *

 ... yet another viewscreen goes blank, for a moment, and then comes back up on a blasted landscape before a massive, white cube. The unearthly armies that had been attacking it a second before are strewn on the ground, dead or dying. And misshapen, metal-plated limbs and tentacles come in from the sides of the screen to deal with those poor souls as-yet-untouched.

It's the same on all the screens the First Lady is watching, along with her children and their captor. The false Dr. Yesterday -- who's now properly introduced himself as The Motion -- is sipping coffee from a chipped mug that shouts IT'S NOT MAGIC, IT'S SCIENCE! and snickering as the metallic monsters he let loose on the world do what monsters usually do. 

He looks at his watch, somewhat theatrically: "It's been fifteen minutes, Mrs. (REDACTED). Do you think he's going to call?"

"I know he will," she says, holding her children's hands tightly: "I just don't think he's going to say what you want him to."

"What, that he'll end this stupid revolution to save your life?" Yesterday says, turning to look at her: "I hope for your sake he's more humane than that."

"This is about the greater good," she says: "My life for billions. He'd want me to make the same choice."

"And their lives?" he asks, pointing at her youngest, who recoils: "What about his children? His biological seed? Does he not care about that?"

"He does, but this is greater than them," she says, getting up and looking down at her captor: "But I'm curious about something."

"What might that be?" 

"You speak as though you have no feelings for us?"

"Yes, that's true-"

"But you seemed very concerned about that extermination order you were talking about," she says, gesturing the big bank of controls he was working from when he made that message to her husband: "Don't you want to see us all dead?"

He winces, and then looks back at her: "You mistake sentiment for expediency. The Day will go smoother if we put as much effort towards it as we can. We need you to work for us-"

"That didn't sound like concerns for expediency to me," she says, sitting back down to look him in the eye: "That sounded to me like you didn't want to be the man who killed an entire planet just to save his own people."

"I'll do that and more, woman-"

"It sounded to me like there's more of Dr. Yesterday in The Motion than The Motion would like to admit," she presses: "And if there's one thing I remember about him, about you, was that you were a good and humane man."

"Oh, I was nothing of the sort," he says, leaping to the feet and reaching for the hammer: "Do you know why I made those blue things, out there? Do you know why Rockethand went insane, last year? And do you know what I did and tried to do while that was happening? Do you?"

She shrinks back, thinking of what to say next. Before she can, he swings the hammer down, almost hitting her hand. She screams and jumps back, startled by the truly hideous look in his eyes.

"I have always been ambitious," he says, holding the hammer up to her face: "And I have always been stunted in that ambition. I have been second or third to the bat, always and forever. I have been the one they made to fix their weapons and make their machines. I'm the one they forced to marry that Nazi harridan, and be second fiddle to her and her brothers. 

"My God, the things I could tell you about her, about them-"

"Please," she says, but almost gets hit with the hammer, again.

"You listen!" he shouts: "I have always wanted more than this mere wisp of a life can offer. I want to transcend this frame, woman. I want immortality. The stars. Godhood. I have always wanted those things, and while I may not have been so keen on how they gave it to me, I have them now. 

"And I will not be stopped by the likes of your !@#$ing husband!"

He looks at her, and her red-eyed children -- almost too weary and worn out to cry further, and yet they do -- and then sits down, looking at the viewscreens, and then his watch.

"Twelve minutes left," he says, sipping his coffee: "And I think I'm going to definitely start with one of your girls. I want to see what happens to your lawyer's patter when I destroy what means the most to you. And when I do, I'm going to ask if you hold your husband responsible.

"Because he is."

And she grits her teeth and closes her eyes, praying for a miracle. 

* * *

"Okay, then" Director Straffer says, nudging his escape craft just a little bit to starboard, hoping beyond hope that he's just mistaken for space junk by the mighty -- but occasionally farsighted -- detection grids of Deep-Ten. 

He thinks of all the years that they've been smacked by derelicts and debris -- bits and pieces of old Soviet ships, small rocks traveling thousands of miles per second, and the like. Fortunately, the platform had advanced and efficient ways of dealing with the small pricks and large holes such collisions could cause, but it would have been nice if they could have seen them coming.

Today, he's grateful he never could.

At a certain point, just as a number of particle cannons let loose with three rapid volleys -- over Japan, he figures -- he decides this is close enough to work. And, having made that decision, he reaches for the switch. 

Before he throws it, he looks up at the station he's commanded for all these years. He thinks of his first day, and his last day. He thinks of the loneliness of being up on high, and the joys. He thinks of dreaming of space -- listening to it whisper in his mind as he slept in its weightless arms, letting it soothe him to sleep.

He thinks of the day they told him how much he would have to be changed in order to work within such a massive thing, and the final bit of safety protocol they were going to install within him.

Logical, really. They could be as certain as anyone that he wasn't suicidal, given the massive batteries of tests and interviews he'd undergone, before entering the Space Service, and then Icarus, then Alpha Base Seven, and then, finally, Deep-Ten. But they couldn't be certain he wouldn't be bought out by the Earth's enemies, or be overpowered and forced to use the station against them.

So they put the destruct switch for the entire station within his own body, and hooked it up to him in such a way that, should be throw it, he would die not long thereafter. 

After he leaped from Deep-Ten to the Moon, he did so with the hopes that he was dealing with a rational enemy, and that he could come back to his platform in triumph, eventually. But on 3/15, as he still floated down towards the Moon, and realized that they were using his platform to perform the unthinkable -- to attack the planet it was meant to defend -- he knew that he had made a grave error in judgement, and one he would have to make up for.

The signal he'd been constructing at Alpha Base Seven was meant to fix things, but then he was betrayed. And that left him only this one option -- or two, if he was willing to give up on the spirit of the switch in order to actually live through the death of his commission.

And he was. Oh dear God was he ever. Because as he'd fallen through space, aiming for the Moon, and hoping to one day hit it, he thought only of getting back to SPYGOD, and the one thing he'd ever loved more than his job -- more than himself.

So this was him, activating the third way: using the lifeboat's batteries to keep his brain and body alive after throwing the switch that destroyed Deep-Ten, and hoping the blast wave didn't cripple or kill the ship.

"'This rough magic I here abjure...,'" he quotes, wishing he knew the rest, and throws the switch.

And then he closes his eyes, because he simply cannot bear to watch. 

* * *

The first sign that The Fist gets that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong is when the nearest servitor robot fails to hand him a fresh martini.

He extends his hand to his back right, waving it around, and wondering why it's not making contact with a cool glass. Scowling, he turns around to berate the stupid, metal thing, but sees that it's been deactivated in mid-hand-off. Its big, bright eyes are no longer glowing, and its magnetic hold on the floor is starting to slip.

It's not the only one, either. All the servitor robots in the main control room -- who'd been running from post to post just seconds earlier -- are all still and unmoving. They have been switched off in mid-motion, as though time itself had been stopped.

The Fist is about to page for assistance from any currently-operating robots, and then report in to the Leader, when he hears an alarm he's never heard before. It's deep and long, and makes his teeth and eyes rattle in his skull.

"Final remote self-destruct activated," a voice says from all around him: "All hands abandon the platform. This is your first and only warning..."

It says more, but it's lost in the babel of other alarms that accompany it. Each of the platform's ten reactors are critical, and about to lose containment, and catastrophic failure is imminent. The particle cannons are overheating, the heavy lasers are venting coolant, the missiles have armed themselves.

And structural integrity is collapsing in sections 100, 99, 98...

He gasps. He swallows. He searches his brain for what to do, now, but realizes that he did not remember that this could happen.
 
He also realizes he has no idea how to turn it off.

He sees the cannons light up from within and explode outwards. Entire sections ignite as their munitions go critical. The long, curved platforms buckle and implode, and start to fall away from each other, and the ground under his feet starts to shiver and shake.

He doesn't know how many seconds he has left. The machine may or may not have said it, but he certainly didn't hear it over all the other warnings.

So he sighs, and reaches over to take the martini from the robot's hand. As last gestures go, it's pathetic, but he'll at least have the satisfaction of one final, perfectly-mixed drink.

Just his luck, his fingers don't even make contact with the glass before everything goes white, red, and then black.

* * *

There are some sights that one never forgets. Some things that, even decades later, you can always remember where you were and what you were doing when it happened. 

For many people, all around the world, the death of Deep Ten will be one of those days.

All around the globe, be it in the dark of night or the bright light of day, it is witnessed. A bright line of fire stretches across the sky, its magnitude worthy of an exploding star. The line expands, going from the thickness of a piece of string to the width of a hand in seconds, and then quickly decreases in brightness. 

Most people have no idea what has just happened. They had no idea the weapons platform was even up there, given that its existence was a massive secret. So, for them, this just becomes another frightening event on a day that's already proven to be more traumatic than most minds can bear.

But for those who have been fighting and dying on this day -- and suffering heavy losses due to the cannons from that trans-lunar platform -- this is a moment of joy. 

The cheering goes up in Asia, in Africa, all across Europe and North America, down to South America and over to the Pacific islands and Australia. Everywhere that the weird warriors of the world are fighting to save it, they realize what has happened, and act accordingly. 

The broken get back on their feet and charge. The shattered groups reform and redouble their efforts. Hidden backups are brought into the fray, reinforcements are called in at last, and every last trick their generals were holding onto is finally played.

And those armies that have hidden out until now, waiting for the right moment, find they have no excuses left, and fulfill their weighty obligations. 

The tide has finally turned, and there is no time but now to ride to victory. 

* * *

On the roof of Lady Gilda, firing his obscenely large gun at the strange, new Imago that have come out to fight, SPYGOD sees this happen and knows joy for the first time this day.

"Alright!" he shouts over the noise of the gun (and what he's listening to): "Payback time, mother!@#$ers!"

"SPYGOD, is that what I think it is?" Mister Ten asks from inside the Dignitary.

"Yes it !@#$ing is," he says, lighting up his enemies with something approaching orgasmic joy: "Tell Hanami she's clear to turn her !@#$ shield off. She might want to hang back and help Tokyo, though. I think these metal-plated buzzards are gonna !@#$ it up if they can..."

"I think I will try," he says, but SPYGOD realizes, soon enough, that there's no telling that android anything. Before he has enough time to turn his head and watch, she's already flown past him three times, annihilating more and more of the newcomers with each pass. 

Before long, there's nothing but debris twitching in the ocean where he had targets. That and a smiling android, floating above the waves and giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Well done, Hanami," Mister Ten says, smiling: "Now, please go back to Tokyo. You must keep it safe from these things, and other threats. Can you do that?"

"I can," she says, smiling and bowing in his direction: "Please be careful, Ju San."

"I will," he replies, more worried about her.  

"Alright then," SPYGOD says: "If you're heading to the Lost City, it's !@#$ing thataway. Shall we?"

And, now going at top speed, the flying saucer and the giant, white robot do.

(SPYGOD is listening to Puppets (Depeche Mode) and having a Buzzards Bay IPA)