Apotheoclypse Now: 9/5/16 - 9/11/16

"Punishes disclosure / And never gets rattled..."

(The Time AGENT)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

8

* * *

So, you want to know why we're still here, on this line, standing for our land, our people, our water?

I could just bull!@#$ you. I could just say we're too proud to bend. Too tough to fold.

Too strong to be scared by private guards and angry dogs.

But the truth is that, today, we know we are not alone.

Today, we were expecting more fighting, more guards. We were committed to non-violence, but we were ready to defend ourselves.

Things could have gotten ugly. 

But we remembered to pray, today. We prayed to our spirits. Our ancestors. The ones who walked the land before us, and the ones who will walk it forever and ever.

We prayed, and this time they didn't just send us their strength. 

This time? They came.

So if you're wondering why the feds are allowing an injunction, and why the private guards are gone, and why their dogs are whimpering like they got whipped?

Well, you just look up at that cloud, there, in the sky. The one that doesn't move. 

The one that looks like the face of an old man. The one with lightning in its eyes, and its mouth.

You hear the boom of thunder in an otherwise clear sky, and know that our spirits walk with us, today. 

So you let us have our water, our land, our rights. You stay away from our sacred land, and do not dig under it.

And you take your oil pipeline, and you shove it.

Because the thunder comes from lightning, sir. And you don't want to be standing there when it hits...

Monday: 9/5/16

Labor Day. Supposed to be the day we all !@#$ing put up our feet, crack a beer, cook a couple dogs, and do a whole lot of nothing to celebrate our tradition of American working practices, right?

Well, not here, son. Not anywhere !@#$ing near here, frankly. I got the whole !@#$ing COMPANY on high alert, after the last couple weeks, which means every available AGENT is doing double shifts, and two-timing duty stations on top of it...

Why? Jesus !@#$ing Christ in a go-kart going over goddamn Niagara Falls backwards in a barrel full of horse!@#$ and dead monkeys, son, have you been paying attention?

 First off, I got a ton of Gods all coming back to the world and wanting to !@#$ing set up shop like nothing's changed over the last couple centuries or so.  And for some !@#$ing reason, known only to those Gods, they all want to !@#$ing come to America. It's like some lousy modern fantasy novel coming to life or something...

And then I got a dead Japanese Prime Minister, blown away at the !@#$ing Olympics. Which wouldn't normally be my !@#$ing business, except I thought it was done by my evil twin from Alter Earth. Not that the Japanese, the Brazilians, or the !@#$ing Olympics people wanted to hear what I had to say.

Of course, it's just as well they didn't !@#$ing listen to me, as it was actually done by the !@#$ing Wandering Shadow, himself. I hear he hates me now, and actually tried to have me !@#$ing killed while I was still brainsmashed, a while back. 

But now he's got that damned alien supergun the Nazis used to have, and then the Soviets, and that I stole from them for safekeeping, only I gave it to one of our people and she got snatched by my evil twin, so he had it, only now he !@#$ing doesn't...

Confusing? !@#$, son, just wait. It turns out that assassination by !@#$ing proxy was just his funny way of saying 'hi,' and 'oh boy do I have a deal for you.'

That's right, son. Turns out my doppelganger's rightly freaked the !@#$ out about the god thing. Except that he's !@#$ing telling me he's got a way to kill them. And he wants to do a deal with me where he tells me how to !@#$ing kill them.

And in return I let him have Africa. Like this was !@#$ing Risk, or something. 

Got all that?

Now, on a more personal note? I got an outlaw reporter minus one eye because of that
!@#$ing bastard. And he's got some real !@#$ at home, waiting for him...

...

And I've sent a bunch of my heroes and turned villains off to !@#$ing Mars so my fiancee can turn what should have been an aerial bombardment into a full on ground war... underground, at that. 

And Myron decided to take !@#$ing Ted Cruz with them, since they're up against bits and pieces of the goddamn Decreator, which means one of the people who might be President is on what might be a one way trip to the red planet, with a bunch of supervillains along for the !@#$ing ride. 

And then, as if I didn't need any more !@#$ing !@#$ on my goddamn plate? I just !@#$ing found out that the daughter of the last President? The one my evil !@#$ing twin turned into a goddamn monster, just like him? 

Well, she's on the lam, now. Got the !@#$ out of the Habitrail that Mister Freedom's supposedly got locked up tighter than a drum. Somehow managed to talk her FAUST case officer into stepping into her cage, and she skinned him and wore him out like a !@#$ing human suit.

Big damn fun, son. I gotta tell you. 

So no, son. No sleep over !@#$ing Brooklyn, tonight. I'm pulling a triple shift watching everyone's double, so there's no rest to be had on the Flier until I got this god !@#$ settled, I know where my evil twin is, and Mars is back under !@#$ing control again. 

So if anyone wants to know if I got a comment about Phyllis Schlafly finally popping her clogs at 92? You tell them I said that I'd shake the hands of any good Anti-commie, but that as one of the people she wanted to deny marriage rights to? She can so take a big old suck off the Devil's pecker, as they say down in Texas. And choke on the load.
 
Now, if you'll excuse me, I got some !@#$ to do and less than zero time to !@#$ing do it.

Tuesday: 9/6/16
 
(From the Personal Log of Myron "Underman" Volaar)

Day two of a week long voyage and I just had to toss someone out the damn airlock. Not exactly my finest moment, but it was necessary.

That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. I figure if I stick to that story I'll eventually believe it, and not second guess myself into a perfect circle of blame and remorse.

The reason's pretty damn clear, though. I made a bad mistake while I was playing Suicide Squad with the Heptagon's prisoners, and brought along someone that had no damn business being on the team.

Someone who turned out to be more stupid than I realized. 

I thought I could work with Xhasm. I really did. I thought the time she'd spent down in the basement prisons had made her more cooperative, and more open to rehabilitation.

I really did, but I guess you don't know which way someone's gonna jump until they're just over 24 million miles away from the pale, blue dot we all call home, and deciding it's the right time to try and pull off a hijacking, or whatever the !@#$ she was doing.

I mean, in some ways, I can't blame her. We are heading into what well be a goddamn suicide mission. We are preparing to go down below the surface of Mars and attack things that eat conventional weaponry for !@#$ing breakfast.

We are going up against a steady stream of the last remnants of the Decreator, on turf that it's had the run of for quite some time now.

And while you can say we've brought along a great deal of firepower, and we'll be allying with the Aesir once we can get there... well, for some that's not enough.

It's not like I didn't tell her this. I told them all what they were up for, and what they'd be going into. I told them they could volunteer to take time off their sentence, or say no and continue to rot down there, in the concrete. Like I might have if a certain one-eyed maniac decided not to take pity on me.

(To this day I don't know why. I doubt it was my impassioned speech about freedom and exploration. He probably just thought I was a damn loser because I was an Eagle Scout.)

So I told them, and some of them volunteered. And, to their credit, most of those volunteers did not get involved with Xhasm's crazy scheme to try and take over the ship.

She had to know it wasn't going to go anywhere. Not with over 100 COMPANY AGENTS on board, all wearing ground combat armor and ready to throw down. Not with a number of heroes here, too, just waiting for an excuse to kick some ass. Not with a Presidential Candidate who can punch the Devil into near Earth orbit, either.

And to top it all off, we're heading to Mars in a massive lightship, with Raitha, herself on the prow. Did she really expect to convince an Olympian to heave to and let her commandeer the ship?

Like I said, stupid.

Of course, she had a plan. It involved the interesting, mostly explosive devices I brought her along for, and a few other things she thought of on the fly. I have to give her credit for ingenuity, really.

But I can't have a saboteur on board for something like this. I can't have someone encouraging the others to riot and try another go. I've seen enough bad Sci-fi TV to know what happens when you let someone live after an escape attempt.

So I told Rahine to form a hole under her feet, and drop her out into the black.

And then Xhasm was gone, flying behind us at half a million miles an hour. Normally bodies in space tend to orbit the ship, but we were going too damn fast for that, which was just fine by me because I really didn't need to see her lifeless, vacuum-pressed body bouncing along with us like some kind of grotesque pool toy...

...

Yes, I'm !@#$ing angry. I didn't want to have to do this. I thought we could all act like goddamn adults, here, for once.

But the last time something like this happened, I sort of let my guard down. I blinked when I shouldn't have. I trusted when I shouldn't have.

As a result, things got really damn bad. Zalea Zathros, one of the most dangerous evil geniuses in the world, got loose. It took SPYGOD forever to put her ass back in the damn box.

And I remember, after Israel, he found me, and made me buy him enough damn drinks to put a herd of elephants down under the table. Because what he had to do to stop her almost killed him, and he...

...

Well, he said some things. Things I'm not allowed to repeat, even to myself, on pain of death.

But one thing's for sure. The look in his eyes as he drank himself sober? The way he looked at me as I tried to apologize, and explain, over and over?

I never want to be looked at like that by anyone, ever again.

And I would space everyone on the damn villain team to keep that from happening. Even the ones I kind of like, in spite of it all.

Besides, now they know they can't !@#$ with me. So maybe all further attempts to get stupid will be nipped in the bud, which might save time and trouble later. So maybe it's a good thing the dumb !@#$ decided to get herself killed now.

Maybe.

In the meantime, I'm going to sit here, in my hard light cabin, have a few sips of this very potent !@#$ I brought from home for just such an emergency, and hope the rest of the trip goes a hell of a lot smoother.

And I don't have to become a worse monster than I appear to be, right now. 

Wednesday: 9/7/16

I'll say one thing about this backwards and broken world. It never fails to fucking amaze me.

Because just when I think I have it all figured out? That I have all variables accounted for, all slaves lined up, all helping hands at the ready, and all situations in hand? 

Well, that's when it all goes wrong. 

And the more certain my understanding was? The more it goes wrong. 

It's like this world was created just to fuck with me. I swear to the Gods.  

Case in point. No sooner do I deliver my offer to my wayward other, by way of that reporter he decided to adopt a few years ago, than the best thing I have going seemingly self-destructs on me. 

That would be the nigger, of course. The Wandering Shadow I turned into a madness junkie, thanks to the Eye of Horus, and gave the alien weapon to. 

Everything was fine when I left his mountain. But now, when I try to get back in? The fucking thing won't open for me. 

Which means one of three things, none of them any damn good.

One is that he's dead, which I fucking refuse to believe. Either that or incapacitated, which is more possible, but also not very likely.

Two is that he's cured himself, somehow, which I find even harder to believe. 

Three is that he's just gone out and not told me, contrary to my orders.

As the days have gone by, I think it's more likely the first option is correct. If he'd cured himself, he would have come to kill me. If he'd gone out, he'd be back by now, with the shivers coming on. 

So I have no Wandering Shadow in my arsenal, any longer. Which is not essential to my cause, now, but still would have made handling Africa once it was handed over to me a lot fucking easier. 

Meanwhile, I can't lean on the reporter and his squalid brood. They've left Prague, and are on a constant move. By the time I can scry them, they're already gone, which is highly sensible of them. 

Maybe I shouldn't have fucking told him that I knew where he was. Maybe I should have kept quiet, and paid them a visit when he failed to do what I asked, instead. 

I think coming home to find one of his children unencumbered by the iron rules of this sorry, sordid world, and putting their new freedom into practice on the others, would have gotten the point across very well...

But then, I do sometimes overdo it. I probably didn't need to eat his eye, after I took it out of his skull. I really should have just fucking stepped on it, or maybe shoved it up his ass and then made him eat it.

But I was hungry, still. And it was so juicy, and so sweet, just like so many things in this world...

How good a feeling it is to stand proud and tall, above it. To see it kneel before me and do my bidding.

Me, the son of a slave. A nameless, stationless lesser! Who could have guessed my face alone would mark me for greatness? 

Who could have said this nameless child, otherwise fated for a life of servitude, would one day hold the fate of two worlds in his hands?

I must always remember that. I must always have in my mind that I went from being someone's fucking property to being the most important person in those two worlds, almost overnight.

And no matter how bad things seem, I must remember that I planned for this. Even if I didn't know what was coming, I still have one more trick I can pull out of nowhere.

One more plan I can execute, as surely as any of my servants...    

Speaking of juicy and sweet things, and of servants, that cunt I set free a few months ago has freed herself, and now wants to rekindle our previous relationship. And that complicates matters even worse than not having the Wandering Shadow on my side, any longer. 

Not that I didn't enjoy her company, and what it provided. She was quite instrumental in making her sorry shithead of a father lose his mind, and play into my hands. And very useful in dealing with my wayward other, though she completely fucked up the job, as it turns out. 

(How hard can it be to do a simple cascading neuron failure? I showed her a dozen times on those prostitutes we failed to turn. Apparently she wasn't paying fucking attention, or else my other is made of sterner stuff than I credit him for.)

At any rate, the cunt is back. She sent me a note by way of the emergency channel we established before she let herself be taken. And now she wants to meet somewhere and talk strategy, and what to do from here, and how she can help me in whatever I'm planning now. 

To her credit, she'd guessed some of it. Not all of it, of course. No one has any idea what I really want, or they would never have sent me over here from my world in the first place. Not without some severe mental alterations, first. 

I think I will let this play out for a time. She may prove useful to me. And if she does not, she will provide quite the distraction as I get away. 

Meanwhile, I need to think about what to do now. I have not heard from my other, which means he has not taken my offer seriously. 

Which means I will have to up the ante, as they say here.

A good thing, then, that I fucking planned ahead. Because he is nothing if not slow and stupid. 

And I am nothing if not prepared for all eventualities...

Thursday: 9/8/16

(Notes of Randolph Scott, Outlaw Reporter)

The first thing I noticed, when I got to Standing Rock -- and got through their impressive guerilla security -- was the dining facility.

I know it sounds like a weird thing to fixate on, but there it was, dominating my attention. A kitchen some people set up, going all day and into the night, to make sure everyone who's there gets fed and taken care of.

I've been to mass protests before where there wasn't so much as a !@#$ing thought put into things like that. Everyone got wrapped up in the idea of sticking it to the man, or whoever, and before you knew it there was a sprawling mob with no coordination, no facilities, no nothing.

(The Bundy Ranch people's lack of snacks being an amusing example)

Not here, though. Not at all.

Not perfect, of course. Nothing is. It's hard to keep a crowd like this going without housekeeping issues. But they're sincere about keeping drugs, guns, and alcohol out, and keeping a cool head, in spite of what's going on.

Case in point -- they didn't just let me waltz in here and set up shop. They made sure I was who I said I was, and not some outside agitator sent in to cause trouble. I'm currently wearing two badges and a yellow wrist band, and they wrote on my rental car so no one messes with it.

I'm impressed. Very !@#$ing impressed.

Also more that a little unnerved, but that might be because there's a !@#$ing god over at the campfire, telling stories like it was another family campfire, or something.

Yeah, you heard that right. The gods are here, walking among their people, again. And considering how many tribes have a representative here, that's a lot of gods.

I can't really tell who's who, at least by sight. It's taking some practice just to see through the prosthetic, by itself. But I'm discovering that they shine at the edges, more than normal people do.

And sometimes, if you look at them long enough? They shift, just so. Like they were made of water.

Yeah, it's quite a thing. Which is one way to say this is !@#$ing amazing. And another say this is !@#$ing scary.

What's really scary? How these folks are just so accepting of all this !@#$. Like they're used to having this happen, which I know they were in theory, but not to this extent.

This? It's like someone took a Leslie Marmon Silko novel and turned it into magical realism. It's like something out of American Gods by way of N. Scott Momaday.

And I don't know whether to be amused or insulted that, in a campground full of activists, seekers, and gods, no one -- and I mean no one -- wants to talk to me.

Yes, I flew my flag. I'm the guy from THIS IS BULL!@#$. I am here to cover this situation, and help expose what's going on here, at a time when the national media would rather focus on a football player not doing the national anthem, or the latest load of !@#$ that imbecile who's running for President is saying.

But they don't want to talk to me, for some reason.

Not that I can really blame them for that. The bad side of having the press suddenly give a damn about their situation is having the usual establishment vultures show up, cameras in hand, and wait for someone to bleed so they can !@#$ing lead with it. It's almost like they want something to go wrong so they'll have a headline, a byline, and a chance for an award or two.

(And no, they don't want to talk to me, either. I'm something of a pariah, right now. The guy from Alternet's flipped me off twice.)

But the real people, here? The ones I've come to watch, and support? I want to scream at them. I want to jump on top of someone's shoulders and say "hey! I just tried to have that orange-skinned mother!@#$er assassinated! And do you know why? Because he !@#$ing kidnapped and brainwashed my kids! He had my girlfriend shot! Killed dozens of my friends in Toon Town, just to !@#$ with me!"

And I would, too. Except that we're not !@#$ing talking about that.

No, I'm not. SPYGOD's !@#$ing orders. And Velma...

...

I wanted to be honest with her. I did. He lied on my behalf, and I was going to tell her the truth. I was.

But then Karl and Jana and Helmut and Helga came into the room, looking like utter !@#$. And they told me something that Velma had begun to fear, and I hadn't even had !@#$ing time to suspect because it happened while I was away, in Kenya, trying to do that thing.

They're dying. My kids are !@#$ing dying, and there's nothing I can !@#$ing do about it.

* * *

It's ABWEHR's fault, of course. It always !@#$ing is.

My kids are clones, all descended from Martha and Joseph Goebbels. At some point she turned into some obscene baby-making shoggoth, and they'd get together and make supernazi love, there in the Ice Palace, and she'd !@#$ out dozens of fully-formed kids for the master race at regular intervals.

Which was fine for ABWEHR, seeing as how they were never going to use them as shock troops for the Fourth Reich. They were too busy researching ways to end the world that they never really put into action, and trying to get back at one another for dozens of years' worth of slights and insults.

So these poor kids got used as toys. They were screwed, beaten, and eaten, and not always in that order.

When the Ice Palace was liberated, there was one last group in the tank. They decanted while we were there. And SPYGOD, in something approaching wisdom and compassion, wanted me to be the one to look after them.

Why me? Why not. I thought it would make a good story to take these poor kids around the world and show them what they'd been missing. What they would have never seen.

And I did. And somewhere along the line they became more than a damn story. They became my family. My soldiers. My helpers.

My family.

 But the whole time, I knew something horrible. And that was that these kids came with a !@#$ing time limit.

The ABWEHR folks didn't really breed them for longevity, you see. It's like that NIN song, you know, you have a copy of a copy of a copy, and sooner or later it all breaks down.

So they had only years to live, really. And one day they'd start growing old, and begin to fail.

And what's what's happening, right now, while I'm in !@#$ing South Dakota.

* * *

Not that I had much choice in the matter. I literally got !@#$ing marching orders.

Velma handed me the camera and the ticket. It was her way of welcoming me back. It was also her way of telling me I was going to have to work to get back into this thing we made.

Not even a damn kiss. Just told me to go get the !@#$ing story, even if it killed me.

And yeah, it just !@#$ing might. Especially if what I hear is true.

They've activated the National Guard. Supposedly it's just to have people police the highways, but some fear it'll be to turn people away from coming at all. Which means supplies won't come, and the camp might falter.

And there's a good chance they'll come here to kick some ass if the Governor decides private guards with angry dogs can't stop the people. 

They're also talking about drones flying over, and as this state is one of the few where it's !@#$ing legal to let police fly armed drones into lawkeeping operations...?

Yeah. That sound you hear is the sound of things possibly circling the toilet on their way down.

But tomorrow's make it or break it. Tomorrow the Federal Judge might call a halt to this whole !@#$show, and halt all further work.

But then again, the Judge may not. And then it'll be protests and citizen action until it's stopped from higher up, or something ugly happens to force their hand.

And if that happens? I have a hard time imagining these American gods will stand idly by as their people are beaten and brutalized, or told that their ancestors' bones are just clay to be shaped, and dirt to be bulldozed.

Which means I might be standing here, camera in hand, as the cloud face in the sky brings down the lightning.

Me, I could use a good rain. It'd make me feel clean, again. It might even make me feel whole.

I just don't want anyone else to suffer because of my needs. I've had enough of that, lately.

I've had enough.

Friday: 9/9/16

(Yanabah's Private Journal)

Not every day I get to tell the Interim President to shut the !@#$ up and listen to me, but that is exactly what happened, early this afternoon.

Why me? Why the !@#$ not. But I guess there was a practical reason. The boss man always !@#$ing has one.

He drags my ass off Freedom Force duty this morning. I tell him we're already shorthanded, what with our heavy hitter on their damn way to Mars and all. He says shut up and get in the car, we're going to DC.

Now, when he says we're going to DC? That means the White House. And he never !@#$ing takes any heroes to the White House unless he needs us, either as an example or a peace offering. So of course I'm !@#$ing wondering if this is the moment I pay for what went down the other week, in Taos.

But no. He's actually got me along because I'm the only one who can really tell the asshole in the Oval Office what Taos meant. Because I'm the only one who's actually talked with Grandfather Thunder long enough to get more answers than questions.

So we drive there. It's his new flying car, which he says he got from one of the Olympians. It was their way of making amends for Moscow, and everything. Or maybe he's full of !@#$ and it's just something else. He's always lying.

He has no idea I know this, now, and I find this !@#$ing hilarious. The monster in me can tell when people aren't being honest. I can actually smell it on them, somehow. Big lies, little lies, half truths, they all have their own smell. And I know them all.

(Which is how I know he's also lying about his new eyes. He tells people they just grew back, but I know there's more to it than that. I just don't know what it is, yet. But I will.)

He talks !@#$  for fifteen minutes, and then we're over the White House. He spirals the thing down and parks on the front lawn and just gets out. He even has the nerve to toss the keys to one of the Secret Service Agents and tell him not to scuff up the paint.

Then we're in the White House, and I think it's the first time I've been in here since they used Grandfather Wayfinder to try and find SPYGOD, all that time ago. They were scared of me, then. Now they're not sure why I'm there, but that's okay. They let us keep all our guns, and in we go.

Of course, the President knows why we're there. He's got word the Federal Judge is going to tell the Lakota that the pipeline isn't going to stop. He just doesn't know what will happen next, what with all those Gods there in the camp.

Can SPYGOD do to them what he did to those Voodoo gods, last week? That's what he wants to know.

And that's when SPYGOD just chuckles, that way he does. He takes a step back and lets me have the floor. Calls me the expert in these things.

And I am, so I talk to the Interim President. I tell him exactly what he's facing, there. I tell him it would be a very, very bad !@#$ing thing if the gods that take their power from the people of this land, and from that land, were angered.

SPYGOD? He tells them there's nothing the Olympians can do in this case. The Voodoo people were coming here. The Spirits? They're already here.

(And that's a lie, too. I think he's playing a larger game, same as !@#$ing always. But it's what I want so I go along with it.)

What to do, then? Well, the Interim President doesn't want to call that judge and interfere. But lucky for us all I remember the Army Corps of Engineers didn't really get what you'd call timely permits from those pipeline people.

So the Interim President makes a call. By the time he's done, the Corps and a few other Federal things are ready to issue a joint statement telling the pipeline people to stop !@#$ing working for a while, until it all gets sorted out.

Of course, this means it won't get sorted anytime soon. The Feds are nothing if not wrapped in bureaucratic bull!@#$ when they want to be.

Which means we haven't won or lost, right now. It just means we're in a damn holding pattern.

But we can at least call it progress.

On the way out of the White House, SPYGOD leans in and delivers the !@#$ing punchline. He tells me to tell the Great Spirit that he just came through for him.

"Now it's his !@#$ing turn," he explains. And he tells me exactly what he wants in exchange.

I can't argue. It seems pretty !@#$ing sensible. But I do tell him that, from now on? If he wants to me to be a go-between, he's got to tell me the whole plan, well in advance.

He doesn't !@#$ing like that. I don't expect him to. But he agrees, however reluctantly.

And for once, when he opens his damn mouth? I don't smell a lie.

I'm calling that progress, too.

Saturday: 9/10/16

"Hey love, this is your fiancee, just checking in with you from Mars. If the picture gets a little weird, it's because we're having to veer around a lot, just to avoid getting hit by giant frozen balls of acid poop crab spit.

"I don't know if I mentioned this the last time, but the giant bastards have learned how to shoot their crap into orbit, now. There's giant frozen balls of acidic goop floating around up here, which means the pilots have to be careful not to fly too close, or the flakes around the balls unfreeze and start to eat the ships.

"So we parked in a higher orbit, just to make sure we have room to maneuver. We're also trying out various ways to nudge the balls out of orbit without unfreezing them, but so far that's been too dangerous.

"Since the crabs broke through our bottleneck, down below the surface, they've developed a definite pattern. They come up to the surface in groups of three to five, and start trying to hammer us. Then we send down lightships to strafe them, just to cover the Aesir's approach. And then, while they're shooting at Naglfar and the lightships, the gods smash their legs and deal with what's left.

"It's a good strategy, at least for now. So far they haven't caught on. I worry what will happen when they do, but I'm hoping our ground forces get here and break through before that becomes an issue.

"Anyway, what I really wanted to talk to you about was my communication with the Martians. Thank you very much for facilitating it for me. From what they said you had to yell down the phone for a while, so I hope you didn't have to burn too many bridges to make that happen.

"I spoke to their eldest, and he confirmed what I suspected. That area under the Lunar Planum has been known to be a temporally unstable location for quite some time. They say that, in ancient times, the elders would go there to talk to their ancestors, and receive visions of the past and future.

"And when they depicted it? They made it look like a ring.

"So I think we've found our culprit. There's a hole in time, down there, and it appears to be stable. Which means, to me at least, that it was artificially created.

"The real question is what's on the other end of that hole, and how strong of a grip the remnant of the Decreator's got on that side of things. That'll be one of the things the ground forces are going to find out. But when the moment comes? I'm going to be down there, with them, finding out.

"I know you're not going to talk me out of this, love. This is what I do. I'm the one who goes into the crashed spaceship, shakes the alien hand, and shoots it if needed. I'm also the one who pokes his hand into the anomaly to find out what's going on.

"And I can afford to lose a hand, as you know.

"So let's have none of you asking me if this is a good !@#$ing idea? Because you know all I can say is 'no,' followed by 'I'm doing it, anyway.' And you know why.

"And hopefully you love me for it. Because I love you for having to be the one to grab your gun, strap yourself to something fast and explosive, and fly it right down the throat of whatever giant threat to America's on the horizon, today.

"As for me, I was worried about you after our last communication. I know you can handle that backwards Earth asshole. But what you told me about the kids... well, that's got to be hard. Even if we knew it was coming, that's not something I think anyone can really be ready to face.

"I love you. I'm here for you. Hopefully we'll be able to do something about this. Hopefully I'll be home soon, and we can face this together, as we should.

"In the meantime, keep your fingers crossed that the ground forces do a fast job down below, and I manage to make it back to our time zone in a timely manner. Now that we actually have a wedding date booked in, and the deposit paid, I'd hate to have to miss it because of some weird Doctor Who bull!@#$, right?

"I love you. Be strong. Be amazing. Be you.

"And when you catch that other you? If you happen to blow his balls off? You step on one of them, just for me, and tell him I said hello.

"See? I made you smile, in spite of it all. That's love. And I love you.

"Bye bye from Mars, for now."

Sunday: 9/11/16

... punching punching kicking flailing end over end over head over barrel over and over and over again the two combatants struggle up and down the time stream over and under the water here and there then and now everywhere and everything the moment of birth the second of death and all points between...

* * *

"... the giant balls of what look like frozen sewage," Straffer says over the com system: "If you hit one, well, Raitha might be able to soak the damage. But I'd hate you to suffer an explosive decompression this close to the goal."

"I hear you there," Myron says, nodding to the Olympian in question -- spread-eagled on the prow of the massive lightship she's been maintaining since they left Earth -- who must have heard it, because she veers well clear of the crud in question.

"It'd be best if you just rendezvoused with Naglfar," Straffer says: "I'm sure you all want to get your boots on the ground, but-"

"I think getting out of here is all they really want, right about now," the former Underman says: "The ship, the planet, hell I think they'd take a long spacewalk right about now."

"Is everything alright?" the Director of the Space Service asks.

"Long story short? No," Myron admits, looking back along the length of the ship -- at one person in particular: "I'll tell you more when we meet. Quietly. In private..."

* * *

 ... moments and public encounters facts on record and unknown secret things the whole of a life the whole of two lives laid bare for each of them to attack and defend as they fall and rise trying to get purchase to gain advantage to feint to strike to dodge to cripple to end one another before they can even begin...

* * *

"...?" she asks, sitting next to the Outlaw Reporter, just outside the light of the largest fire, here.

"What do you mean?" Randolph Scott asks Yanabah, who's looking rather at home here, in spite of having no guns on her person.

"Last time I saw you, I was !@#$faced drunk and mean, and you told me off," she says, smirking at him over her dark glasses -- worn even at night, like something out of an 80's music video: "So here I am, and here you are..."

"I'm not drunk," the Outlaw Reporter says: "I wish I was, but you all didn't want any of that here."

"Yeah," she nods: "Looks like you could use some."

"I've had enough," he insists: "Enough wasted time, enough stupid !@#$. I need to do something worthwhile, here."

"Need to find the story, huh?" she says, looking over her glasses at him. Something about the hunger in those alien eyes gives him pause.

"Always," he says, steeling his resolve.

"Okay, then," she says, getting up and extending a hand: "Come with me, paleface. Let native guide show you the real !@#$."

He looks up at her, somewhat puzzled, but does as she says...

* * *

.. many things to his opponent and none of them are good they are hateful slithering things obscenities and threats and promises of ruin and degradation and decay the leering broken grin of the other Earth the eyes of death and pain he speaks of the rape of fathers the death of children the ruin of lovers and husbands and wives all done in the last seconds of his life as he lays broken and hopeless on the hard floor of time itself...

* * *

"... has been altered, in there," the UNSS scientist says to SPYGOD -- his face pale as he wipes sweat from his brow: "I don't understand what happened, sir. All we did was start disassembling her flying saucer, and as soon as we took the engine apart..."

"Everything went !@#$ing forwards, backwards, and blooey?" the superspy says, lighting up another one of the black cigarettes he doesn't even like as he sits behind his desk, and considers this.

"That's one way to say it. I was lucky to get out before the field enveloped the area. Anyone who goes in there gets torn apart by temporal forces. It's horrific-"

"Then stop !@#$ing sending people in there, moron," SPYGOD barks at him: "Seal the area off. Let no one go in."

"What do we do, then?" the scientist asks, too traumatized by what's happened to react to being yelled at by his Director's overbearing fiancee.

"Let me !@#$ing worry about that," the superspy says: "You got your orders, son. Do them. Yesterday."

He hangs up at that, sighs, and realizes he knows what this is, and what it means. 

He's known since he got his new eyes. Since he walked into that lake and found the time ship sitting there. 

Since he saw the weathered face of his mentor's old love, and had to cry with those new eyes...

He gets the White Phone out of his desk. He doesn't even have to dial it before the right person picks it up.

"It's time," he says to the God on the other end...

* * *

...over end over head over barrel over and over and over again the two combatants struggle up and down the time stream over and under the water here and there then and now everywhere and everything the moment of birth the second of death and all points between trying to get the advantage however slight in order to kill the other and while the Wandering Shadow won't hesitate the Time Agent wonders if there's some way this can be avoided some way to stop the inevitable some way to pull back from killing a man he's learned to respect while fighting now that he's seen his life and walked in his shoes and seen all he's done and learned even if he has become a powerful and mad dog on two legs and that's all the hesitation that dog needs to rear back and...

* * *

"... fuck..." the SPYGOD of Alter Earth says, sitting straight up in the bed he's stolen for the evening, looking at the wall with the sweat of a man who's just seen his own death.

"What is it?" the person he forced -- at least at first -- to have sex with him asks, not daring to open her eyes until he tells her he can look, again. 

He can't say, just yet. He closes and opens his eyes. Shakes his head to drive the vision out. 

But he can't unsee what he just saw. He can't remove the stray thread of what may have been dream or god-sent prophecy from his brain.

And for the first time in a long time, (DETCADER) feels something he does his best to engender in everyone he meets, friend or foe. 

Fear.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Untold (Front 242) and having a Devil Dancer)

Valhallopolis: 5/9/16 - 5/15/16

"Breezy Shoots with Semi-Famous Freaks / You Say You're Only Taking 5"

(The Mahdi, SPYGOD, and "friends")

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *

20

* * *

"Are you sure you can't stay?" Mr. USA says, following his oddly-dressed ally through the war-torn streets of Berlin. From where they are they can hear the Russian Army celebrating as they destroy the last vestiges of the Third Reich's command.

"I fear that I cannot, my friend," Thor says, turning to regard the destruction, and then the hero who's come to bid him goodbye: "The war is over, now. My time on Midgard is done. From here on out, the race of men must protect themselves." 

"Well, I don't pretend to understand your reasons, but I respect them," the hero says, extending a hand: "And I thank you for fighting alongside us. If it hadn't been for you, I don't know if we'd have gotten off the beach at Omaha, much less made it through parts of France."

"I think that you would, in time," the bearded god says, taking the hand to shake -- his grip is hard and sparkling: "But I am glad to have helped you through this dark time. And should a similar darkness cross the skin of your world? Know that I will return, my ally. On that promise you may depend."

"Thank you," Mr. USA says, taking a respectful step back as the hero indicates he should, and then shielding his eyes as a bolt of lightning takes Thor away from the War -- and the world.

And then there's nothing but the smell of ozone, a burned circle on the ground, and the sense that something amazing and magical has left the world. 

Maybe never to return... 

Monday: 5/9/16

On the edge of the Syrian desert, in the smoking, corpse-strewn ruins of a once-palatial tent, two men stand three feet apart -- each aiming a handgun at the head of the other.

One is tall and scraggly -- black hair swept up and to the side, eyes covered by silvery, small, round sunglasses. He wears a long, black coat stuffed with guns, ammunition, grenades, knives, and dozens of strange gadgets no one can identify except for himself.

(Also a Frankie Goes to Hollywood RELAX t-shirt, tight desert camouflage pants, and black combat boots heavy enough to kick holes in a brick wall.)

The other is a thin, middle-aged man wearing an immaculate black business suit, with a crisp white shirt and black tie underneath. His skin is sallow, as though he'd lost half his blood, the left side of his face is covered with old, rather substantial burn scars.

And his eyes are filled with a terrible understanding. 

"At this range, neither of us can miss," the Mahdi says.

"It'll be !@#$ing worth it to be rid of your sorry ass, you mother!@#$ering bastard," SPYGOD hisses: "How many lives have you ruined?"

"Perhaps as many as you?"

"How many people have you !@#$ed up?"

"Enough to ensure that, when I am dead, even more harm shall befall the world," the leader of Al-Hadhih chuckles: "Even now, my powerful, high-placed servants find themselves wondering why I have not given them fresh instructions."

"You mean like Quayle? We've got him taken care of, you pale !@#$-"

"No, not that fool," the man laughs: "He was merely a means to an end, my friend. Useful, but only up to a point."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the doer of things," the Mahdi goes on, stepping a foot closer: "Not Presidents, Prime Ministers, or other heads of state, but their many doers of things and makers of policy. The ones who handle the machineries of nations, the armed forces, the weapons too dangerous to be left unattended.

"They are the ones who know where the bodies are buried, and how to add to the pile. They are the ones who know which keys turn which locks, and what lies behind them. They are the ones who know who to call to make the trains run on time, or else crash into embankments and crowded stations. 

"And should too much time go by without my checking in with them? Well... shaytan finds work for idle hands..."

SPYGOD looks at the man he came to this desert to kill. The man who somehow commanded his android ally to self-destruct. The man he then fought wave after wave of god-sent undead viking hordes side-by-side with for a day and a night, until there were no more of them to kill.

And the man who, the second SPYGOD pulled the gun off one of his dead underlings, produced a hidden revolver of his own -- the better to have a proper stand-off in the sand.

And as he looks at him -- and realizes the Mahdi is not !@#$ing lying about this -- he slowly lowers his stolen pistol, and drops it into the sand.

"That is much better," the Mahdi says, lowering his own gun, and then throwing it away: "We need each other, my friend. I need you to watch my back as we cross this desert, to my other hideaway. And you need me alive so I can keep this world from coming apart in my absence."

"When this is over?" SPYGOD promises, pointing a finger: "You are so !@#$ing dead."

"When this is over, we will all be dead, my friend," the Mahdi says, smiling, and turns to point to the west: "In the meantime, I have a supply cache just over that dune. It should have enough food, water, and weapons to get us to where we need to go."

"Which is where?"

"That would be telling," the Mahdi grins, clearly aware of the reference he's making -- and that SPYGOD knows it too well.

"Great," the superspy sighs as he turns away to scrounge what he can from the dead: "He's stealing my damn lines, too..."

As he takes a mostly-unfired AK-74 from one of the Mahdi's men -- cleaved in twain by the sword of an armored zombie -- he looks down at the twitching, orange face of Free Fire.

And...

* * *

"... this is how it !@#$ing goes, you pale !@#$," SPYGOD says, stepping out from behind one of the tent's many, voluminous curtains with a long sword extended towards his prey: "You put that damn phone down. You put your !@#$ing hands up. And you don't move or speak until I tell you to."

"Or what?" the Mahdi says, putting the satellite phone down. He seems to have a lot of them, all spread across the ornate, antique desk of heavy wood he's sitting at. Cell phones, satellite phones, landlines. 

(Even a Mickey Mouse phone for some weird damn reason...)

SPYGOD whips the sword up and down, cutting the desk into two even halves which shudder, and then fall down into one another. 

"Or I do that to your damn head, you mother!@#$ing impostor," the superspy says: "And before you get !@#$ing smart with me? Your people are !@#$ing dead. Your guards are bleeding into the damn sand. There's just Free Fire and me, and you."

"I wondered what all the non-noises were," the Mahdi says, regarding the ruin about him: "I suppose they sold their lives as dearly as possible to protect the hand of Allah on Earth?"

"They did, yes," the orange android says, aiming his guns at the man, there in the shadows: "It did them no good. And it will profit you nothing."

"Perhaps," the Mahdi says: "But I must say-"

"Nothing else," SPYGOD says: "I've come to do what I should have done all those damn years ago, before we tried to turn you into a !@#$ing weapon."

"Yes," the sallow-skinned man says, steeling his thin, grimy fingers before his strangely-nondescript face: "I remember, my friend. They sent you to the camp. You recruited me. Spoke of higher ideals and the need to work for my country, rather than what the people who'd raised me had believed in."

"Yeah," SPYGOD says: "And !@#$ me for doing what they told me. And !@#$ them for turning you into a weapon."

"As if you would not have done the same, (REDACTED)" the Mahdi says, smirking at the knowledge of SPYGOD's true name. 

"And !@#$ you for going so far off the damn reservation you can't even see the !@#$ing horses, anymore," the superspy goes on.

"And you keep hesitating to kill me," the Mahdi says: "Why is that, I wonder?"

"What?"

"You could have just destroyed me from afar, using your friend."

"You know damn well why that won't work, you little !@#$," SPYGOD says, generating another sword from his off hand: "But now that you mention it? Free Fire? I cut, you burn."

"Yes," the android says: "I think it best if we wrap this up-"

"Free Fire," the Mahdi says, getting up from the ruins of his desk as though he has all the time in the world: "My good and faithful servant. It is time to do as we discussed before, in the name of God, most beneficent, most merciful..."

"What the !@#$ are you talking about...?" SPYGOD starts to say, but turns just in time to see his android companion give him the saddest, sorriest look -- and then push him so hard that he almost flies out of the tent. 

And then explode with enough force to blow the roof off the sucker....

* * *

"... punch, as you put it?" the Mahdi says, tapping the side of his head: "Remember. The more time we spend here, out of communication, the more likely the people I have given instructions to will do something rather unfortunate."

"Yeah, you !@#$ing said that, already," SPYGOD says, grabbing his bag of rations and fashioning some rude headgear so he doesn't burn to a damn crisp: "And here's what I !@#$ing say to that. Stop !@#$ing talking, start !@#$ing leading."

"As you wish," the Mahdi grins, strapping his scimitars to his waist for the journey: "I appreciate that you appreciate the situation."

"Got that damn right," the superspy goes on, looking around: "Because whoever !@#$ing sent those zombies that interrupted our dance, yesterday? They'll be sending more."

"How do you know?"

"We're still alive, dumbass," SPYGOD spits: "And if they found you, how long before they find you again?"

"I assumed they found you," the Mahdi says, and then shrugs his shoulders: "But, I accept your hypothesis."

"Well, thank you," the superspy mutters, looking around once more: "Let's get this damn show on the road, Star-Son. Standing still's gonna get us !@#$ing killed."

"As Allah wills it, so shall it be," the sallow-skinned man says, not giving any sign of annoyance at the use of his old name.

Tuesday: 5/10/16

"Excuse me?" Hoosk says, looking up from his work at Straffer, who's too woozy to really notice -- at least not right away.

"I'm sorry," the cyborg says, drinking his water and looking away: "I sort of forgot that's over and done with."

"As well you should be," the short Olympian mutters, going back to the boxy helmet he's repairing -- the one that caught fire on someone's head, causing fatal fourth-degree burns in seconds: "That was not me. That was the diminished role someone created for me, after what happened."

"Yeah," Straffer says: "Again, I'm sorry-"

"That's like reminding you that you used to !@#$ your pants and needed to be fed from a teat," Hoosk goes on, his shock of white hair seeming to become as angry as he is: "Needlessly embarrassing. Also very impolite."

"Yes," the Campaign Director says, looking across the room at the six Specialists who still have working helmets. Three of them are on, the other three are resting -- watching to see if the others flag, or if their helmets start doing something strange.

And praying that nothing comes anywhere near the planet anytime soon.

* * *

The problem, as Hoosk was only too happy to explain once the rain of Eight Balls finally ended, late Sunday night, was that he'd never intended the grid to be run for that long.

He imagined they'd be doing it in shifts of five, or so. And for only a few hours at a time. They shouldn't be operated more than four hours at a go, really.

Not if the operator wanted to remain healthy, anyway.

But no. We stupid, foolish mortal children and our love of cool, god-made toys had once again messed up everything. 

So of course the helmet-platform connection would malfunction after being used for 12 hours at a time. Of course they would shut down the helmet rather than risk the platform, itself.

Of course the helmet would collapse down to its much smaller, resting state when it shut down, even if someone was wearing it at the time...

Didn't Straffer read the manual Hoosk left? Oh, of course he didn't. Not the whole thing, anyway. Just the bits about what the platforms could do and how to operate them.

Not the safety chapters. Not the maintenance. No one reads that, do they?

No, they don't. And no one made it available to Straffer to read, either.

And that's why there's three dead Specialists with their heads baked or crushed. That's why there's a room full of scared, young folks who would rather play leapfrog with a rabid tiger than put the helmet back on again.

That's why Straffer is so damn glad the bombardment ended when it did, and that it looks like they've caught a breather while whatever monstrous intelligence is running Mars, these days, decides what to do next.

And why Hoosk hasn't stopped !@#$ing complaining since he got here, took one look at the mess that was left for him, and began to fix it -- one helmet at a time.

And why it's doubly bad that Straffer just had to bring up the fact that the pint-sized Olympian was once known as the Maker...

* * *

"Thank you for this," Straffer says at some point: "It's very appreciated."

"It would be more genuine a thank you if you actually took care of it," Hoosk mutters: "Really."

"Again, I apologize," the Campaign Director says, doing his best to swallow the anger he's feeling right now.

"Apologies are meaningless," the Olympian says, looking over his handiwork: "The real thing is to do better."

"Well, that's what we're going to do-"

"Good," Hoosk says, putting the helmet down with a smug look on his face: "Because I'm going to tell you this once, mortal man. You screw these up this badly, again? You get to fix them."

And Straffer's about to say something to that when the Director of the Space Service stomps into the room, and stares daggers at Hoosk.

"You!" he shouts at the Olympian: "Mon Dieu! What have you done?"

"I beg your pardon?" Hoosk says, rising up as high as his short stature will allow him to do so: "Is it not obvious what I have done?"

"Director, please," Straffer says, holding up a hand and trying to intercede: "This isn't the time-"

"Like hell it is not!" the skinny, imperious-looking man shouts: "Three deaths on your watch, sir! And a scared crew! You're lucky I don't have you clapped back in irons!"

"Whatever for?" Hoosk snickers: "Failing to read the manual?"

"The world is safe, Director," Straffer goes on, undaunted: "We repelled an invasion that lasted almost an entire week. You didn't even have to use your attack ships. Billions are alive tonight because of what we did."

"Yes, but what of the next time?" Broussard asks, waving to the nearly-empty room: "What of the time after that?"

"We do the same damn thing we've always done, sir," Straffer says, looking his superior right in the eyes: "We pick ourselves back up, go on, and win again and again. It's what we do."

"Save your speech for your subordinates, Campaign Director. I think they need it more than I do," the man says, and then looks down at Hoosk -- who's been calmly putting his tools away: "And as for you, sir! The fault may be his, but I expected better from a so-called God! How can you make such a dangerous thing? How can we protect the world with-"

"What did you say...?" Hoosk asks, looking around at the Director -- very, very slowly.

(And Straffer says "oh, no," very quietly, and takes a full step back and away.)

"I said, how can you protect the world with such shoddy equipment," Broussard continues, not getting the point: "For God's sakes, man. The entire world is depending on you."

"So. Called. God." the tiny Olympian says, looking right up at the tall human haranguing him: "Is that what you think we are, mortal man?"

"Well... frankly..."

"Well then," Hoosk says, smiling and slamming his toolbox shut: "If our help is not wanted...?"

"It is!" Straffer says, stepping back up: "Please, give me a moment to explain things to the Director-"

"You forget your place, sir!" Broussard says, pointing his finger in Straffer's face: "You explain nothing to me. I explain it to you!"

"Well, explain this to him, then," the short god says, smiling: "We so-called Gods are bound by certain rules. We can only make so much for you mortals at one time, lest you become indolent and lazy, and cease to be worthy of the reason and industry we granted you at the dawn of your race."

"I... you...." Broussard says, shocked by Hoosk's claims.

"Now, under normal circumstances, should the things we make for you break, we may deign to fix them," the Olympian goes on: "We may also not. This too teaches an important lesson. Responsibility."

"I think we know how to be responsible, sir," the Director says, crossing his arms.

"I can tell," Hoosk snorts, waving to the room: "So, if you will not take the steps needed to not break your tools? And you will show no gratitude towards us when we fix them? Then consider this my one and only maintenance call, and this gift your one and only boon from me."

"Sir, please," Straffer says, wondering if he should kneel or not: "Please. The fate of the planet is at stake-"

"Then for the sake of the planet, the judgment of my King Brother Seranu, and my dark Brother Soubre, regarding you had best be correct," Hoosk says.

And then, with a last nod, he's gone -- vanished from space and time.

"Well, then," Director Broussard says, adjusting his lapels and looking askance: "That is that, I suppose..."

"Sir," Straffer says, barely containing his rage: "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

"I told them exactly what they needed to hear, Campaign Director Straffer," the man says: "That their help does not entitle them to come in here and berate us. And that their pride will not be used to insult us." 

"Is that what you think you just did?" Straffer says: "Really? Because I just need you to know, with all due respect, that your fat mouth may have just doomed the entire human race."

"Then we die proudly and on our feet, sir," he says, heading for the door without looking back around: "And not on our knees to creatures who see us as children who wrecked a gift bicycle."

Straffer looks at the man as he leaves. He looks at the door that goes empty and dark.

He looks around the room at 20 repaired helmets, and a second chance that will not be repeated.

And he takes a deep breath, nods, and goes out to give the mother of all halftime locker room speeches to the men and women he's hoping he can still command. 

Wednesday: 5/11/16

The residence of the Mayor of Moscow shakes and rattles with the cheer that goes up in front of it, keeping time with the descent of the limp, butchered body of its former occupant.

"Do you see, my warriors?" the pale Man-God who killed him says, holding up his hands as he addresses them from the rude balcony he's made of the second story window overlooking the front door -- flames pouring from them as he shouts: "No one can stand against us! No one can hope to overcome us!

"This city...is ours!"

The street toughs and warriors of Odal howl their assent, making the salute so hard and long that it's a wonder their right arms don't leap from their sockets -- animated by their hate, fury, and love for the man who's brought them this far.

Helvete, they called him once. Now he is Ve, brother to Odin and Vili.

Now he is their leader, calling them unto war and conquest.

As their mortal allies scream their allegiance, and beg to be sent forth to make war and kill again, the other Aesir lurk nearby. Some stand among their servants -- raising their weapons and voices in obedient fury. Others lurk within the building, planning and scheming, or else just enjoying the many pleasures Midgard has to offer them.

One alone does not choose to join in the revels, though. Instead he stands upon the roof of the tall, wide building -- looking down at the masses as they shout and stomp their feet.

And smirking wide, as...

* * *

... Godspace comes in at the edges of his vision. 

FAUST Agent 78 closes his eyes, scared as hell. He didn't sign up for this kind of !@#$. 

He imagined a life spent doing undercover cop stuff when he enlisted with FAUST.  A career no more outrageous than all the American cop shows he grew up watching, and yet nothing less glamorous: girls, guns, and cars; drug busts, criminal intrigue, and the occasional shoot-out.

He couldn't have conceived of something like this...

The fading of one reality and its usurpation by another, more real one. A cold, frosty landscape where mountains the size of worlds towered over them. A land dotted with mighty castles built from bright ice, blackened iron, and the cleaved bones of giants. 

A place where -- in the space of mere moments -- their group could travel entire leagues, crossing the dangerous, frosty landscape from their point of origin to the highest, tallest freehold to be seen anywhere. 

A realm where, with one more step, they are all within the mighty hall of the old gods, and standing before their massive, roaring fire in the hall of warriors -- awaiting Valhalla and the fall of the world. 

He looks up at these hoary, muscular beings, unable to truly comprehend their magnificence. Tall they are, and sleek with the sweat of fire and mead. Long of hair and beard, sharp of eye and wit.

And they, for their part, gaze upon their many interlopers as one might do to a stranger upon the doorstep, selling something no one would think to buy. They look to one another with what may be annoyance or disdain, perhaps even amusement.

But not surprise...

"Mighty beings of the Aesir!" their pale, pyrokinetic leader says -- going down on bended knee before the august gods they have just disturbed: "We humbly beg you forgive this intrusion into your stronghold. We have endured much to be here. Done and dared many mighty things to kneel before you. We plead that you listen to what we have to say."

"We know what you would say, and why you have come," one of their number says, rising from his portion of a tall, exquisitely carved throne of bone, hewn from a single, massive breastbone: "You seek to bound with us, so that we may enter the world within your skin. You desire to become one with us, so as to share in our power."

"Mighty Odin," Helvete says, looking up bravely upon the one-eyed father of the Gods -- seated aside his brothers Ve and Vill, on the throne of bone: "All seeing, all knowing. You know much of what I would say, as I well thought you would. May I say the rest of what I desired to speak to you, so as to make my desires... our desires more plain?"

"You may not," Odin replies, putting a hand to his sword: "We shall not join you in this sorry folly. For you mistake our noble cause for that of your own, thanks to the hideous perversion your fellows have filled your heads and minds with. The filth of hatred and fear. The stink of needless bloodshed and honorless death."

The room goes cold, just then. The fire seems to no longer warm. The stone floor of the hold becomes as ice. 

And 78 realizes he'd better get up off his damn knees and run like hell the way he came, except that he can't even move. 

Hold fast, mortal, a voice whispers in his ear: Not to run, or lose your nerve. They would slaughter you ere you reached halfway to the door. 

"What do I do?" he whispers back, hoping no one hears him.

Suffer yet to let this story play out a while, it challenges him: And when I give you words to say? If you would live, say them straight and true, and as loudly as you can... 

"My lord, please," Helvete says, raising his hands up: "Perhaps you are right-"

"Perhaps?" Odin laughs, somewhat ruefully: "Am I not Odin -- all seeing, all knowing?"

"This isn't working," the bearded Klansman says, looking to their pale leader: "Get us out of here..."

"Aye, better that you had never come," a rumbling voice announces from the other side of the room, its owner treading upon the stone with a massive stride and mighty gait: "These are the ones I spoke of, Father Odin. The murderers and madmen, soaked through with the blood of their own kind, and misdeeds too perfidious to fathom."

That is my brother, Thor, 78 hears in his head: He desires to rule, in his father's stead. But he never will, for his father shall be eternal. Until the Wolftime, that is. Until the ending of us all...

"Would that we could return to Midgard and tear such lies asunder," Odin says, drawing his sword: "But it is not yet our time. The shields are not yet cloven. The wolf is not yet yet awake. There is only the slow, steady walk towards the end of things. And Man has long outgrown his need for the likes of us."

"No we have not!" 78 suddenly shouts, getting to his feet and pointing to the All-Father -- as the voice in his ear bids him to do: "Man is weak and leaderless. Broken and afraid. Its race has become diluted with alien seeds and inferior ideas, poisoning the true way of things. We seek only to return the race of men to the glory it once held! The glory it shared in when it walked in your footsteps! Sang its sagas to you! Held your name above all!"

"Be silent!" Odin roars, pulling his sword from his scabbard. All other warriors there do the same. 

All save for the one who wields the hammer, who suddenly gets the strangest look upon his face.

"Father, a moment," Thor says, holding up his hand and looking to Agent 78: "This one speaks as though not himself. And yet, I find his words to be telling. For he does not speak entirely without truth."

"Even a drunken fool can sometimes see the future, my son," Odin snorts: "This does not mean we prop him up by our fire and expect him to throw the runes."

There's laughter at that, but Thor shakes his head: "My father, my brothers, sisters. Friends and allies of old. Hear me, for I too say that what this man says is the truth. When last I tread the grounds of Midgard, I fought alongside many who would have been worthy to stand amongst us. And together we fought those who, like these sorry beings, were weak creatures, too easily led by evil.

"We fought those creatures in human shape, and the monsters they made of their own kind. And at the end of the War I swore to one day return, should I be needed. And now, as I see things such as these stealing enough power to come here, of all places. To appear in our mighty hall. To beg us to lend them our power?

"Then I cannot help but wonder if that time has come around at last."

"What, then, do you suggest?" Odin asks, looking to his son with what may be curiosity, or else kingly impatience: "Should we go back and slaughter the lot of them? Is Man so weak that he cannot fend off such beasts for himself? I was against your going forth into battle then, my son. I am not convinced it is such a great idea, now."

"Odinson speaks truth," another God says, rising towards the All-Father -- his eyes and teeth of gold: "I see much, perhaps too many things. I see the horror they are. The terror they create. I see the disaster they may bring."

"War shall decide the right, as it does always," another says, grinning: "And I know of war."

"Heimdal. Tyr. This remains between my son and I," Odin gently scolds them. But before he can say another word the hall erupts in discussion, then debate, and then shouting. 

And then, with the clash of sword on hammer, in godly violence...

* * *

"... shall be done this day!" Ve goes on, holding his axe aloft: "The honored dead stand alongside us! Their ranks grow with each skirmish! They flood with each battle! Soon we shall be mightier than our enemy can ever imagine!"

More cheering. More screams. More calls for blood and war. 

And Ve goes on, promising glory and fighting and death.

And up above, Agent 78 best considers how he might turn this magnificent, doomed venture to suit his needs.

"Father...?" he hears a voice upon the wind: "I would speak... with you..."

"My darling Hel," he says, making her sign so that the image of the half-rotten death goddess might appear to him: "How are things in your cold and still realm, this day? Perhaps not so still now?"

"No..." she says, smiling through half a face: "But I would have more... my father... more lovely boys and girls... to play with... more swordsmen and shield maidens... more horses and beasts..."

"Insatiable as ever, my darling, my love," Agent 78 says, reaching to caress her deliquescent features: "You know I can deny you nothing. And soon, if my uncle has his way, I feel you will have all the toys your cold heart can hope for."

"Mmmm... thank you..." she murmurs, bile slopping from her pouting lips as she closes her eyes: "And what of... the dead girl...her allies...?"

"Oh, they shall be no further bother," he grins, waving his other hand: "In fact, I have, in my own quiet way, ensured their end within the turning of a few days.

"What have... you done... my father...?"

"Oh-ho!" he says, blowing her a kiss before sending her away: "That would be telling, my darling poppet. And there is no better telling than seeing, or so the sagas have said.."

And he goes back to looking down at the throngs, below, wondering how they'll look when they enter his daughter's clutches.

And wondering how many other they'll bring along with them, once his puppets have done their work. 

Thursday: 5/12/16

"Man, that's... just !@#$ing insane," Blastman says, looking at the holographic satellite imagery from over Moscow.

"That is being one way to put it," the somewhat-pudgy Russian Ambassador says, clearly not impressed by the heroes he's hosting in the DC Embassy: "Not only do these so-called gods have our own National Guard seriously outmatched, but the creatures they are calling up from the ground? These dead men from wars of our past? They have become an unstoppable force."

"And you're worried that, if they start moving out from Moscow..." Mr. USA says, putting his hands on the table where the images are being projected.

"There would be no stopping them," the Ambassador's assistant says, holding his hands before his crotch as if afraid of being kicked.

"Well, that's no good," Red Wrecker says, looking to Hanami, and then Dr. Uncertainty.

"What kind of access have they gotten?" Dr. Uncertainty asks in his mechanical voice, seeming rather concerned: "Dangerous weapons, state secrets, things like that?"

"Not a lot, thankfully," the Ambassador says, after looking at his assistant for a second too long: "Most of the controls are not located in Moscow, anymore. They have been scattered and hidden, so that such a thing will not cause an even greater disaster."

"Well, there's that at least," Mr. USA says, visibly relieved. 

"If you're asking for help, we have to go through proper channels," Hanami says: "Josie will have to ask the Interim President, who'll have to ask the UN if they mind us helping. It's rather complicated, as I understand it."

"But it would not be the first time you have... how do they say. Gone cowboy?" the Ambassador asks, looking hopeful.

"No," the Japanese android smiles, looking around the room: "But when I've done it, in the past, there's been some kind of diplomatic repercussions. If we're to operate within your borders, we need to do it properly. Especially after Buryat."

Everyone nods at that.

"Well, I'm in," American Steel says over her intercom, from outside the Russian Embassy's front door -- her armor's too large to let her inside: "I always wanted to go shoot things in Moscow. I just never figured I'd be helping the Russians when I did."

"You'll have to pardon her," Dr. Uncertainty says, holding up his hands: "She watched Top Gun and Red Dawn too many times as a young lady."

"How does she feel about working alongside Russians?" the Ambassador asks, not entirely without humor: "We shall have our own strategic talents there, as well. Also some from FAUST, I am hearing."

"FAUST?" Hanami asks, raising an eyebrow: "That's... interesting."

"That's logical," Dr. Uncertainty offers: "If these Aesir are telling the truth, then it's today Moscow, tomorrow Russia, and then Europe. If they don't stop them now..."

"What sort of sanction are you allowing us?" Mr. USA asks, looking at the Ambassador: "If we're going to fight these Odal people, and the Aesir, and all these resuscitated corpses they're using as shock troops... well, it's going to get messy."

"You will have total freedom to do what is necessary," the Ambassador says: "We would hope you would leave some alive for questioning, of course. But when it comes to the thugs who have taken our proud city..."

They go back and forth on that for a time. As they do, Dragonfly sits in the corner -- seemingly far from their conversation -- and weighs certain things in her mind.

Remembering...

* * *

.. the way Satanoth's soul chamber glows, sending the other ghosts and spirits scurrying away from what's oncoming.

Gail holds up her hands -- a weak defense against the end that might be approaching. Maybe her former patron has decided today is the day to come and eat her soul. Or maybe he'll just tease her with oblivion, some more...

But no. It's not him. It's the large, redheaded woman in the purple cloak she's seen before. The one who warned her of accepting his deal, for reasons that are now very apparently. 

Tombo, there sitting in her cloud of glowing dragonflies -- her tall staff resting across the tops of her thighs. 

"Hey, you," she says, sadly: "I came as soon as I could. Sorry it wasn't sooner. Time's a little muddled up, here."

Gail tries to talk, but fails. It's like her voice is gone, here. 

(Odd she never noticed, before. Maybe she was too busy screaming.)

"Here, let me help you with that," Tombo says, floating closer and gently putting her hand on the Red Queen's neck. It glows for a moment, and then Gail feels like she can speak again -- almost like the large woman flipped a switch in her, or something.

"How...?" she asks.

"Soulweaving," the redhead says, smiling and holding up her glowing hand -- the shine going from her palm to her fingers in a soft, flowing motion: "I can change what you're made of into anything I need it to be. I can heal you or harm you with a flick of my finger.

"And if you really piss me off?" she goes on, her voice deep and evil: "I'll turn you into a scarf."

"Really?" the former Red Queen asks, somewhat unsure at whether she's kidding her or not -- the look on her face seems more silly than threatening.

"Hey, I always was kind of crafty. You should have seen me do origami."

"Do you still?"

"Hard to find paper over here," she sighs, shrugging her shoulders: "So I have to make do. But it's not as much fun making the paper and doing the pattern, somehow. Plus, given the materials I work with it's a little weird showing off the pieces."

Gail looks at her, and decides she doesn't really want to know.

"Anyway," Tombo says, tapping both palms on her staff: "That's nothing to do with your problem, hon. You're dead. He killed you. And it's probably only a matter of time before he comes down here and eats your dead ass for second breakfast, or something."

"I know," Red Queen says, looking down and then up: "You tried to warn me. I didn't listen."

"I know," Tombo says, frowning: "It's like I'm inaudible or something. I warn people, I tell them what's going to happen. And then they don't listen."

"You don't have to make me feel any worse."

"No," Tombo says, raising an eyebrow: "I don't have to do anything. I could really just leave and leave you to it, Gail. Maybe the lesson this time is that you don't get a second chance."

"Oh God," Gail sighs: "If you're going to !@#$ me over at least don't quote Sandman at me. That's just cruel."

The redhead looks at her, lowers her eyebrow, and snorts: "Okay, then. I thought you were too cool to die. That just confirms it."

"You'll help me?"

"I will."

"Can you? I mean, the last time you came to me... well, Sat-"

"Shhhhhh!" Tombo says, holding up a hand and looking around: "Don't say his name. It'll be a like a dinner bell to a dog in here."

"Skull face, then?" Gail asks, and goes on when her guest nods: "Skull face threw you out of here like a nosy salesman. I didn't think there was any way you could have helped me, after that, even if I'd wanted you to."

"Well, he had me at a disadvantage," the large redhead says, looking down, and then back up again with a toothy grin: "You weren't fully dead, yet."

"And that makes a difference?"

"Absolutely!" Tombo says, patting her staff again: "See, that totally changes the rules of the game. You were pledged to him before, so I couldn't help too much. And, since you're dead now, he technically still has power over you because he's a god of death.

"But I'm with death itself. And that means I get to do whatever the !@#$ I want."

"I don't understand."

"Well... let's try this on for size," Tombo says, tapping her chin to think: "You ever work fast food?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he just runs the local Taco Hell franchise," she goes on: "Me? I report directly to the one the District Managers call at night, and pray they find in a good and loving mood..."

"The C.O." Gail says, putting it into a language she can understand: "Gotcha."

"So here's my proposition, Gail," Tombo says: "I can get you out of here. I can make you a new body, just like your old one. I can bring you back to life.

"But there's a catch. And I'm not going to lie, hon. For you? This is going to be a tough one..."

* * *

"... but we need to contain these bastards before they go any further," Josie is saying over Hanami's communicator: "Give me a day, Mr. Ambassador. It will happen. I will make it happen."

"That would be wonderful," he says: "Thank you, Director."

With that, her glowing face disappears, and Hanami nods -- extending a hand: "Hopefully this means we have a deal, sir."

"Hopefully we will have our forces ready before they move again," the Ambassador's assistant says, still holding his hands over his crotch: "This Thor is rather proactive. Just yesterday we lost-"

"Wait," Mr. USA says, holding up a hand: "Did you say Thor?"

"Yes," the Ambassador says before his assistant can: "One of them is claiming to be him. And from what we have seen it may be no idle boast. He is certainly powerful enough to be him, and that hammer..."

The pudgy man shudders at the thought of it.

"That might be good," Blastman says, clapping the older hero on the back: "You knew him, right? Back in the War? Maybe you can talk some !@#$ing sense into him."

"Maybe he's not the same person," Dr. Uncertainty offers: "Maybe it's a different entity with the same name. It's not like that's never happened before."

"I don't know," Mr. USA says, shaking his head: "If it is him, I don't think he'll want to listen to me. He never was the one who listened.

"He was the one who talked."

Friday: 5/13/16

"Man, he did not know when to shut up," the Candidate says, getting into his limousine outside the Capitol building, fresh from a meeting with the Speaker of the House: "Blah blah blah. On and on and on."

"Did you come to any decisions?" his new aide -- fresh from the DC Campaign office -- asks, facing him from the seat on the other side of the driver: "Any agreements?"

"No, not really," the beefy fellow says: "It was all talk, you know? He wants to know what I'll do for him, and the party. And I want to know what they'll do for me. And I guess he's waiting for me to offer something, and I'm waiting for him to offer something. And back and forth and back and forth..."

The Candidate sighs, shaking his large head: "When we get closer? He'll fold. He'll have to. He'll have no voice."

"That's true, I suppose," the aide says, turning over a page: "Now, I have to tell you. I spoke with the Campaign Manager while you were in the meeting. And she's very concerned about this Wheeler matter."

"I'm not," the Candidate lies, waving his hand as though he were brushing aside a pesky fly.

"Well, maybe you should be, sir. It's gaining traction. People are asking questions. And I'm not sure we have good answers."

"Kid, let me tell you something," the big man says, leaning in to his aide and punctuating each sentence with a jab of a finger: "The more they talk about it, and we don't? The sillier they look. The worse they look."

"What if they find out something while we're not talking?"

"What would they find?" the Candidate laughs, leaning back: "There's nothing to find, kid. I didn't make any deals with him. I certainly didn't tell him to kill those Toons. Sure, I wanted him in my Cabinet, again. He was a good man. A great Defense Secretary. But all this stuff... well..."

He looks around, puts his knuckles to the side of his mouth, and snorts back a laugh: "You just gotta laugh, kid. It's campaign stuff. Poison words. They can't beat us at the polls so they claim we got into bed with murderers and terrorists."

"Well, be that as it may," he says, but then the car slows down unexpectedly.

And then the aide's head explodes as a well-placed sniper round blows his skull apart.

The Candidate yelps and ducks. Another bullet comes through his window a quick second later, missing him by inches.

The Limo starts up again, and rushes forward as quickly as possible -- trying to get out of the kill zone the street has suddenly turned into.

A lost dog stumbles down the street, unsure of what's going on. The limo must have stopped to avoid hitting it.

A dog, the fat-faced man thinks. He owes his life to a dog.

* * *

"Man, someone want to feed that damn mutt?" some soldier says, on his way into the Incirlik Base officer's club: "If he's the camp mascot, we need to be looking after him."

A few of his fellows laugh and tell him to drop his pants. Everyone laughs at that -- especially the Turkish officers, glad to have these amusing American fellows here for the duration.

Just not the people on the far end of the club, alternating between watching the television news (someone shot at the Republican front-runner, still no details) and trying to make small talk with one another. 

And failing, miserably. 

"So," Shining Guardsman -- looking damned weird with his armor retracted, and a ball cap on his bald head -- "No word in almost a full week."

"No," Myron says, pointedly not looking at the cyborg, or anyone else in the team for that matter.

"And you'd think... well..."

"Sorry, maybe I wasn't clear," Myron says, tapping his almost-empty beer can as a sign for the bartender to bring him another: "That wasn't 'no' as in 'no, we haven't heard from SPYGOD.' That was 'no' as in 'no, we are not having this damn conversation again.'"

"Look, man," Gosheven says, sauntering over to sit on the other side of Myron: "You know the !@#$er. He's indestructible, but only up to a point."

"No."

"And, well, Josie's saying they lost all telemetry on Free Fire," Guardsman says: "That's not a good sign."

Myron almost shouts at them, but then his beer arrives. Efes. Nice and nutty.

He pops the top, takes a sip, then a gulp. Then another. 

"You elected me team leader in SPYGOD's absence," he says, turning around to look at everyone: "So this is me leading. I'm waiting until I see a damn corpse. And even then I'm not going to throw in the towel, just yet, because he's come back from worse. I think we all have by this point?"

He looks at Shining Guardsman and Gosheven in turn, and they both nod and look away.

"Okay, good," he says, taking another chug of the beer: "So why don't we actually talk about what's really !@#$ing bothering everyone for a damn change, instead of this penny-ante bull!@#$. 

"And that's the fact that, when we signed on, we agreed to follow him into Hell wearing gasoline-soaked dresses. Thick or thin, legal or illegal. We bought the ticket, we took the ride.

"So we stood by and smiled when he knocked poor Peg out and had you !@#$ing impersonate her, Gosheven. And we took his hand and ran all over the damn world, lying about our whereabouts the whole while, as we looked for Straffer instead of the Mahdi.

"And we lose Swiftfoot when SPYGOD blows him the hell up because it turns out he was spying for the !@#$ing Decreator the whole damn time. So we're down from the Magnificent Seven to the Somewhat-Magnificent Six. 

"And now, now that we finally find the mother!@#$er we were supposed to be looking for all this time? Well, guess what, kids? SPYGOD, the guy who we counted on to get our butts out of the fire he lit? Well, he's missing in action, along with the most powerful member of the team. We have no idea if he's alive, dead, or somewhere in-between. No telemetry, no sign, no nothing. 

"So unless he comes back? We're kind of !@#$ed. And even if he does come back? We still might be kind of !@#$ed. Either way, we've gone from Magnificent Seven to !@#$ed-Up Four. And the four of us need to prepare our anus for one hell of a reckoning at the end of the ride."

He looks to the two of them, and then to the beer: "So you gentlemen will have to excuse your duly-elected interim team leader if right now he'd rather sit here, in our emergency fall back point, drink this lovely beer, and not be in any damn hurry to go back and face the ass!@#$ing."

They look at him, then at one another, and nod. 

"We didn't want to tell you..." Gosheven sighs: "But we've got another problem."

"No gay bar on the base?" Myron asks, trying to smile.

"Oh please, this is Turkey," the metamorph chuckles: "I've gotten more ass than a toilet seat just by looking faaaaabulous-"

"Mister Freedom vanished, this morning," Shining Guardsman interrupts: "We were on our way somewhere, and he suddenly stopped walking, looked due southwest, and said 'oh dear.' And then... well, poof."

"Poof," Myron repeats, sipping his beer.

"Yeah," the cyborg says: "I was hoping he'd come back by now. But, well..."

"Okay then," Myron sighs: "And then there were three..."

The dog outside starts barking again, like it had a purpose.

Saturday: 5/14/16

The worst thing about Aleppo, right now, is that there is no noise coming from it -- especially animal sounds.

No cars. No trucks. No talking. No industry.

The city is black and dark. The fires rage, unfought and alone.

And as for what can be seen, in its streets, the sight of it turns SPYGOD's stomach and makes him abandon the binoculars for a time.

"What the mother!@#$ing hell..." he says, shaking his head and handing them to his enemy-turned-ally: "I had no damn idea."

"It would seem the way forward shall be more difficult than we thought, my friend," the Mahdi says, admiring the bloody handiwork of the creatures that live there, now.

It's like some weird charnel garden in there. The bodies of the dead have been piled higher than should be possible -- turned into gruesome totem poles of skin, flesh, bone, and organ, all bound up in a wet, low-hanging web of what might be tendons knotted together, or maybe even smaller forms of gristle.

"What could do such a thing?" the man with the burned face says, putting the binoculars down and staring with his own eyes. For a moment SPYGOD thinks he sees some trace of decency, there -- righteous shock and horror at such a terrible spectacle.

But no. The mother!@#$er is in awe. 

"I have a bad idea," SPYGOD says: "Last I saw of one of my operatives, she turned into a goddamn Wendigo. I thought we killed her, but maybe we didn't. Maybe she got better.

"And maybe she's been really !@#$ing busy since then." 

"It will be dangerous, then," the Mahdi says: "For that is where we must go."

"How did I know you were going to !@#$ing say that?" SPYGOD sighs, shaking his head: "You are just a barrel of damn laughs, Star-Son."

"Perhaps the joke is upon us both, my friend," the man says, grinning his dead smile...

* * *

 "... and put a damn bullet right through it," SPYGOD says, looking across the way at his enemy -- sitting in a makeshift hiding hole, out in an abandoned farmer's field, and trying to guess his facial expressions under the stars.

"I assure you, I will not betray you," the Mahdi says: "Not now, anyway. If these last few days have proven anything, it is that we need one another to survive.

"After that, however..."

He seems to smile, and then looks up at the night sky. And SPYGOD wonders why he doesn't just kill the bastard, here and now.

And then remembers that he really can't -- and not just because of the threats of what might happen if he dies, or anything like that.

Because the bastard is his father's son. And killing him might just make him appear somewhere else.

Somewhere SPYGOD won't have eyes on him.

So yeah. he's got to keep him alive for now. He's got to save his skinny, sallow-skinned ass from the hordes of zombie viking that keep finding them both, somehow. He's got to keep the various actors in the Syrian theater from even seeing them, much less shooting at them.

At least until he can find some way to freeze the !@#$er, like they did to his father, now so long ago...

"Swiftfoot," SPYGOD says, looking at the Mahdi, something becoming all too damn clear.

"What of him?"

"You put the whammy on him, didn't you?"

The Mahdi very clearly smiles, there in the starlight: "Well reasoned, my friend. How did you guess?"

"Because there's no !@#$ing way he would have willingly given himself over to those alien black goo zombie bastards," SPYGOD says, leaning forward: "And while I know he was erratic, which is putting it !@#$ing mildy, he's been real damn weird lately."

The Mahdi claps his hands, somewhat mockingly.

"Why?" SPYGOD asks, patting the gun he's been cradling in his lap.

"Would the knowledge bring you peace? Or simply cloud your judgment?"

"Just tell me, please. I'd really like to know why I had to !@#$ing kill an old friend."

"Very well, then," the Mahdi says, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, putting his hands on his knees, and assuming a story-telling position: "Simply put, I knew you would come for him again-"

"How?"

"I have my ways."

"I know, asshole. I want to know what those ways are."

"That would-"

SPYGOD raises his gun and aims it: "You make that reference again and I will !@#$ing kill you."

"After all we have shared?" the Mahdi says, raising an eyebrow over a burned eye socket: "That would be so disappointing. Besides, I think you know that even a bullet may not rid you of the likes of me."

"Maybe not," SPYGOD says: "But it might bring others. And they might kill me. And then you'd be all alone, out here, with no one to save you from them."

The Mahdi looks at the gun, and nods: "Very well. As for your answer, well, let us just say that, while I would never be so cliche as to say that you and I are a lot alike, our methods are not too different. Except that where you bully and blackmail others to give you information? I ask. And I ask politely."

"You put the damn whammy on them," the superspy corrects his ally-enemy, putting the gun back down.  

"Admittedly, yes. But it gets the job done. And I find they tell me everything they know. Not because they want to, in all cases, but because they have no choice."

"So someone you spoke to knew I'd come to find him, again? How?"

"A combination of things. A few of your AGENTS. A former handler of the Soviets' precognitive program. That, plus my knowing you too well, (REDACTED)."

SPYGOD bristles to hear his name on this man's grinning, burned lips.

"So, suffice it to say that, through fair means and foul, I knew you would come after me. And I knew that you would come for him again while building your inevitable team of useful but disposable persons.

"So I spoke to him over the phone, there in his sorry pit of squalor in Thailand. And I ordered him to report back to me, and damage your efforts in subtle ways. But he kept resisting my orders to do more terrible damage, somehow..."

SPYGOD raises an eyebrow at that: "He resisted?"

"Yes. He did."

The superspy raises his other eyebrow, and then furrows them: "Bull!@#$."

"No, my friend. Before Allah, most high, I swear this to be true. And such a thing is not entirely unheard of, as my recent issues with your President have shown. And then there's you-"

"Whatever," SPYGOD says, waving a hand -- trying to reconcile this fact with what he knew about the dead speedster, and his many epic, sad, and utterly predictable falls from grace caused by his inability to resist a goddamned thing: "Let's take it on faith he resisted, like you're saying. What then?"

"I decided to up the ante a bit, as one might say," the Mahdi goes on: "I had him approach your alien enemies to act as a go-between. I was reasonably certain such a strategy would either kill him or strengthen my hold upon him, either of which would further my goal of inconveniencing you."

"But it didn't do either," SPYGOD mutters: "Did it?"

"No," the burned man says, shrugging his shoulders: "So when, courtesy of him, I learned you were secretly heading to Africa to deal with the compromised lockup, I had him inform them of your actions. And then, as you truly prepared to raid the place, I ordered him away, hoping that would hobble you more. And I told him to give himself fully to the alien, so that they would use him to destroy you all from within.

"And yet, once again, he somehow disobeyed me-"

"That's because I !@#$ing put a bomb on him, you asshole," SPYGOD says: "I blew him up as soon as I realized he was a mole. I just though he'd been a mole for them. I didn't know you were involved, too."

"Yes," the Mahdi nods: "And your bomb made quite a hole in the coastal city of that country, my friend. The place where their headquarters once was is now a hole in the ground.

"But I fear he was not there, my friend."

SPYGOD blinks: "What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean that he has been seen, elsewhere," the Mahdi says: "Strobing in security cameras. Caught on tape. There is evidence that a ghost runs upon this land."

The Superspy considers that: "So maybe they found the bomb when they took him over."

"And, perhaps, being so alien, they did not realize what it was," the Mahdi suggests, shrugging his shoulders once more: "So they left it in their headquarters. It exploded. And perhaps they are dead, now.

"But yet, he lives..."

"So you've got a half-controlled speedster with alien gunk in his system !@#$ing running around on the loose," SPYGOD sighs: "Great. Perfect planning, there, dumbass."

"The world turns as Allah wills, my ally. I feel our shared asset will have a part to play that is yet undetermined, but will be incredibly important."

"No," SPYGOD insists, tapping the gun on his lap: "Not if I !@#$ing kill him first..."

* * *

"... we have to hunker down somewhere safe," SPYGOD says, looking back at the city: "For the night, anyway."

"Why?"

"Because what she's become?" he says, gesturing to the garden of rotten meat and bone she's turned Aleppo into: "It comes out at night. And believe me when I !@#$ing say you do not want to run into her. Not in the dark."

"I shall command her, as I do all others."

"You will, huh?" the superspy asks, leaning in closer to his enemy-ally: "Just like you've done with the President? With Swiftfoot? With me?"

The Mahdi sighs, and nods: "I take your point, my friend. Perhaps we could do with a rest."

"That's putting it !@#$ing mildly."

"So we will just have to hope that our enemy does not find us, tonight, Inshallah. And that none of my servants do anything stupid or dangerous tonight, either."

"Yeah," SPYGOD says: "You know I know you've had a satellite phone on you the whole !@#$ing time, right?"

The Mahdi blinks: "I did not. No."

"And I have seen you texting people. Which means that while you haven't been talking to your servants, you've probably had people run them messages on your !@#$ing behalf."

"Yes..."

"So you really want me to get you into Aleppo for some other !@#$ing reason," SPYGOD says, looking around for a good place to lay low: "And I'm really looking forward to seeing what it is."

And for once, the Mahdi is at a total loss for words.

Sunday: 5/15/16

"Well, that's !@#$ing special," Red Wrecker says, looking down the M-9 at what's waiting for them at the end of it.

"How many..." Hanami says, shaking her head. Can there really be that many dead people in Moscow?

And yes, there can. There can be a lot of corpses, plucked from the massive boneyards in and around the city.

And they can be outfitted with metal helmets, leather armor, iron circular shields, and a panoply of axes, swords, spears, and bows. Stood in a long lines at the roads leading into and out of the city.

Made ready to march on the enemy at their gates -- arrayed around the city in preparation to take it back.

Behind the Freedom Force stands all the force the Russian Federation could spare. Tanks, troops, and high-tech vehicles no one's even seen yet -- all waiting for the chance to prove themselves against this new and strange foe.

Beside them are all the heroes Russia has to spare. The new People's Protectors. The Cold Guard. The Federation Guards...

Everyone.

"I don't think the zombies are the real problem," American Steel says, figuring firing angles in her head: "It's the ones behind them, cheering them on."

"Racist scum," the leader of the People's Guard spits, smacking his very large fists together -- lightning crackling between his knuckles as he does: "I look forward to laying them flat upon the pavement."

"Agreed," Mr. USA says, nodding to his Russian counterpart -- The National Man -- and looking to Hanami: "Are we waiting for some kind of sign, or...?"

"We're operating under Russian orders, here," the Japanese android says, shrugging her shoulders: "That and FAUST, though I haven't seen their people, yet."

"They are being delayed, my friend," a young man with webs for hair -- who looks like a weird cross between a human being and a spider -- says: "Something about the weather between here and Berlin."

"Horse!@#$," Dr. Uncertainty mutters, looking at her pad: "Weather Underground's clear."

"So we're just waiting," Dragonfly sighs, crossing her arms: "Great."

"You in any hurry to get your ass handed to you by a million viking zombies?" Blastman asks, chuckling.

"Who says I would?" she says, raising an eyebrow: "It's not like I can't let loose on them. They're already dead-"

"Shhhh!" Hanami says, holding up a hand: "Something's changed..."

It has. There's movement, all the way down there. It's a motion in the line of zombies as someone walks through and then past them, heading in the heroes' direction.

"Oh my god," Mr. USA says, shocked: "It's... that's Thor."

"Are you sure?" Dr. Uncertainty asks: "Remember, it could be anyone."

"No, that's him," the older hero says, looking to Hanami: "Let me go talk to him. I might be able to end this before it starts if I can talk some sense into him."

The android looks at the older hero, and nods -- somewhat hesitantly: "If it goes bad, signal us. We'll come running."

He nods, and heads that way. He walks like he's got all the time in the world, which is pretty fast.

With each step he becomes more certain it is his old ally from the War. But at the same time, he sees things that make him wonder.

Same armor? Yes. Same hammer? Oh yes.

Same face? No, not really. The beard is gone, as are the warm, blue eyes and the smile. It's some skinny-faced guy, now. Bad teeth, grinning.

But the eyes -- it's what's in them, rather than how they look, that convinces him it's the same entity, somehow.

"Thor," Mr. USA says as they get within ten feet of one another: "It's been a while."

"It has at that," the son of Odin says, hefting his hammer. The voice is the same, too.

"When they told me the Aesir had come to Earth, I hoped we might meet again."

"That was a foolish hope," Thor sneers: "Now we stand at odds, you and I. You would have been better to stay at home, and leave the fight to younger men."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then you know I will fight you, old man. And kill you where you stand."

"Thor, I don't understand this," Mr. USA says, holding up his hands: "You were a decent man, before. Maybe we didn't see eye to eye on some things, but you weren't like this."

"Oh, but I was," the hero of the Aesir says: "You saw only what you wished to see. And we fought together only because it was required of me. 

"And now? I need only fight the war as I desire to, old man. And that means we conquer, and we hold, and we lay waste to those who will not submit."

The eyes. They're broken. Something horrible is living there, back behind them. And the old hero realizes there's no convincing the god he knew that he's gone down the wrong path, here.

"Then I guess we got a problem," Mr. USA says, holding up his fists and getting ready to use them: "And damn me for thinking we could settle this by talking."

"That is the first thing you've said that makes any kind of sense, you fool!" Thor says, raising his hammer.

It sparks in his grip. A bolt of lightning arcs from it up into the sky, bringing down a torrent of heavenly fire down upon the Russian National Guard -- exploding their tanks, troop carriers, and large numbers of their soldiers in one go.

Mr. USA shouts and runs forward, ready to stop this god.

Thor screams and rushes at his his friend-turned-foe, hammer raised and ready to strike.

The zombies run forward, screaming through dead lips. The heroes run and fly at them, prepared to destroy their foes if needed.

And then...

(SPYGOD is listening to The Neon Indian (Glitzy Hive) and having a Thor's Equinox)