And All the Friends of President Reagan - Pt. 3: 1986

"Night Makes Right / The Symbol Remains"

(Back) Ariel, President Ronald Wilson Reagan, The Negotiator
(Front) Kanaan, Sheliast, Nemesis, Sphyne, Senchro
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

The future doesn't belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave.

Ronald Reagan - "Eulogy for the Challenger Disaster" 

June 10th, 1994

At some point, SPYGOD realizes he's all cried out. The wet on his face feels cold, rather than warm, and he's no longer hitching his breath.

"Okay then," he says to the storm, which just seems to be getting worse. It only ever seems to rain in California if there's a funeral, or someone's dying. 

And as for this, well...

He coughs into his fist. Enough of this weak !@#$. Time to butch the !@#$ up and go back in before someone says or does something stupid.

Of course, he gets back into the Reagans' living room as something stupid's already been said. 

"... the heck are you to tell us anything, huh?" George H. W. Bush is berating Aaron, over by the window: "I'm surprised you even came here, tonight-"

"I felt it was my duty to attend," the man says, not looking away from the window to address the man who's shouting at him. 

"Your duty? You've got some nerve talking about that, mister."

"George, please just drop it," his wife says from one of the easy chairs, not too far from the other two men in the room. Barbara's not crying -- he'll give her that much -- but she's clearly upset. 

"Yes, please, just drop it," James Baker sighs: "It's done. We can't change things-"

"And if he and his creepy friends hadn't started this, there wouldn't be anything to change, darn it!"

"Don't you !@#$ing take this out on him," SPYGOD snarls, coming in from the rain and the wet: "Don't you dare."

"Why the heck not?" Bush asks: "He's one of the ones who approached him in the first place, isn't he?"

"And he's also the one who !@#$ing lost everything to help us, !@#$it-"

"He's right," Aaron says, still not turning around from the window: "My deeds after we came to our understanding are not sufficient apology for what we did."

"Maybe not," Baker says: "But they go a long way in my book."

"And mine," Quayle says, not bothering to look at his old boss. 

"Well, that's just flipping great," Bush sighs, turning away and shaking his head: "One of the greatest Presidents we ever had is... I can't even bring myself to say it. And you're all wanting to make nice with the person who helped him get that way."

"We're focusing on the future, George," Baker says, walking over to him: "There's nothing we can do about the past, now. We have to live in the world we made. The world all of us made, together."

"Some !@#$ing world," SPYGOD mutters, thinking of everything they lost along the way. 

"Hey, at least we're still here," Quayle says, trying to smile: "That was kind of the whole point of it, right?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD sighs, nodding: "I just wonder when we're really going to get the !@#$ing bill for what we bought, that day."

And no one has anything to say to that. 

* * *

June 10th, 1986

"Well !@#$ me sideways with a !@#$ spoon," SPYGOD shouts into his communicator as he fires out the window of his flying car, dusting HONEYCOMB agents riding swarms of giant metal insects like they're buzzing dust clouds: "I've got amateur hour at the bug house over !@#$ing DC, here, Second!"

"I know, sir," his new right-hand man is saying: "I've got a general call out to anyone available. But it looks like everyone's tied up across the board."

"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD shouts, doing a barrel roll to avoid being skewered by radioactive bug sludge: "Is this part of a coordinated attack?

"Not so far as we can tell. Everyone else is just... busy. Sir."

Busy. SPYGOD does not like the sound of that. Not at all.

The skies over the nation's capitol are darkened. Waves of tin locusts are descending upon the city. Once they get here, they're going to start eating everything -- buildings, trees, people -- in order to clear the area for some new model city HONEYCOMB wants to build, here.

And it's all he can do to shoot the advance guard and not get chewed up in return...

* * *

SPYGOD.  

Black leather pants. FRANKIE SAYS ARM YOURSELVES shirt. 

Pink Members' Only Jacket. Curly perm. Steel-Toed High-heels

More guns than anyone has any business having.

(Listening to Sigue Sigue Sputnik's "Love Missile F1-11")
"Teenage crime now fashion's dead / Shoot it up
There goes my love rocket red / Shoot it up"

* * *

"See, here's the thing," John is saying in that warbling, grey voice of his: "You can't just make any old cotton-pickin' alterations to reality that you'd like, any old time you'd like to.

"There's a way about things. An order, for want of a better word."

(He's an Operator. Always has been. Wears grey. Looks grey. Beaten hat. Dusty overcoat. Long nose. Never without a !@#$ drink.)

"Now, any penny-ante magician can bend the world to his will, of course. Been doing it for years. You know all about that, I think.

"But when you wave your wand and say 'abracadabra,' everyone knows the hat didn't have a rabbit in it, before. One moment it doesn't, the next it does. 

"And that's the magic at work."

(Knocks back his drink. Somehow it's still full when he's done.)

"Now, people like us. Operators. We can make it so that the hat always had a !@#$ rabbit in it. Only we know for sure it wasn't there before. We do it all the !@#$ time.

"But it takes us years to figure out how. It's no little thing to unzip the guts of the world and sew it all back together. Accidents cause real problems.

"I bet you can imagine."

(Coughs into his fist. Looks at the table. Then around the run-down bar.)

"And here you're telling me that there's a special way the government has of changing things, now? That they've got the power to just flip a !@#$ switch and make changes to reality? 

"Well, my friend... I think that might just be a problem, don't you?"

 * * *

"Second, this is a direct order," SPYGOD says, as calmly as he can: "You've been working for me for, what, ten years, now?"

"Yes sir."

"And you've been my Second for all of a week, right?"

"Yes sir," Second says, smiling a little as he knows what's coming next.

"Well, if you want to not only have your job another !@#$ing day, not to mention breathe in that time? Get me some !@#$ing strategic talents up here !@#$ing ASAP! I don't care if you have to order out from a god!@#$ Pizza place! I don't care if you have to shake them out of the old !@#$ heroes' home and put their diapers on! Just get me one decent cape up here. Now!"

Second hears the line go dead, and sighs. Some of the other people on the Flier look at him as though he's a dead man walking, already. But he didn't get this far by being a pushover, or being afraid of his boss all but !@#$ting down the phone at him.

He got this far by doing the one thing his boss can't do: delegate, with a !@#$ing vengeance. 

And, after a few seconds to catch his breath and decide who on this bridge needs to feel his boot up their !@#$, he does just that. 

* * *

Point, aim, shoot. Point, aim, shoot. Over and over again. 

SPYGOD doesn't even think about it, after the first 100 or so. He wills bullets to their targets.

He makes them die with his mind.

It's the mystery of the projectile. The riddle of the gun.

A secret handed down one gunslinger to another, like bullets from a barrel.

And until his Second can come through for him, it's just his weapons against all of this. 

("Sometimes you're better off dead / There's a gun in your hands and it's pointing at your head.")

Point, aim, shoot. Point, aim, shoot.

Over and over again. 

* * *

"So let me see if I've got this straight," the Negotiator says, sitting bolt-upright in the booth of the upscale bar they've met at: "You have a friend. And your friend made a deal with... let's call them a rival corporation, for want of a better word?"

"I figure that's the best way to put it, anyway."

(Just another suit-wearing corporate weasel, one thinks. Expensive, crisp suit. Fancy silk tie. $500 haircut. Soothing, even voice.) 

"Now, this deal? It's forever. There's no going back for him, which is the bad news, I'm afraid."

"I know you're disappointed. I would be in your place, too."

(A smile that never wavers, but leaves you feeling cold as ice.)

"But as for the peripheral parts of the deal? The ones that are affecting others? 

"Well, those are not forever. In fact, they're very breakable, provided you know how."

(Every so often, the feeling that there's something behind that smile. A darkness, cold and absolute. Red glowing lines where there should be facial features.)

(The smell of sulphur.)

"However, there is just one catch...."

* * *

"Sir?" Second is saying, exactly four minutes and fifty-nine seconds later: "I've got you some capes."

"Well thank !@#$ for that!" SPYGOD shouts, doing a barrel roll in his car to avoid a shower of busted metal bug guts: "Did you have to call up the old folks home?"

"No sir, I've got you some top talent, in fact. Ten of them."

"Who?" SPYGOD asks, knowing full well that all the top talent he can think of is elsewhere, doing other things.

Then he hears the thunder, from not too far away. Boom after boom after boom, ringing through a clear sky.

"Oh !@#$," he mutters: "Um, Second?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Did you call the White House?"

"I did, sir."

"Did they send the god!@#$ Olympians?"

"Yes, sir. They did. You should be seeing them about now?"

"I am, yes," SPYGOD says, very carefully flying his car out of what's about to become an even more insane warzone, and then accelerating as quickly as he can: "Please have the Flier standing by for emergency assistance and clean-up. Like !@#$ing right now."

"Sir? Is it that bad?"

"That bad?" he winces, looking back just one time: "Second, I think we just !@#$ing bought ourselves a ringside seat in Hades. Literally."

"Oh dear..."

* * *

If he lives to be 200, SPYGOD will never forget this moment. 

January, 1981. Just after Inauguration Day. It's time for the Supergods to meet the new boss.

And he's not having any of their nonsense, anymore. 

SPYGOD stands there, helpless. He watches as the President, who's been a friend an ally for decades, rips into these seventeen well-meaning men and women as though they were delinquent kids. Upbraiding them for their global focus. Accusing them of collusion with the Communists.

Telling them they should be ashamed of themselves for playing at being gods. 

What could he say? How could he have interfered? He has no idea. 

But he sees the look on Seranu's face when Reagan tells him things are going to change. It's the same look that august being gave him when he left that Gathering, back in '77, with Reagan.

Knowing and sad, like he knew this was coming.

Like he knew this had to happen, here and now. 

And yet, here he is, somehow ok with it...?

("I look to you / And your strong belief / Me, I want relief / Tonight")

Their King-Father's certainty shames him. Reminds him of Jesus, carrying the cross.

He looks away, embarrassed, as one friend crucifies another...

* * *

"Oh, that is nothing, truly, my friend," Benjamin Franklin says as he puts yet another wondrous contraption down on a table filled with equally-amazing things: "None of these devices are really more than toys, to be honest.

"You should see the truly impressive work I am doing elsewhere, with myself."

(Much as you'd expect him to be. A portly, older gentleman, looking somewhat out of place in a fine suit and vest. He's kept his old glasses, though.)

"You see, the action by Shift, of bringing me from my time into yours, has caused my body to be suffused with time energy. Now most physicists speak of tachyons, which are particles that travel backwards in time.

"Except that I have become convinced that my particles are not so much a traveling thing as a bridge between places. I am both here, in this time, and still in mine, right where Shift found me. 

"Do you understand?"

(A big contagious smile. Nights of drinking and dancing in a new body, unencumbered by his age and girth.)

(Weird stories of what he gets up to, late at night, when no one is looking.)

"Well, it is very technical. I must confess that half the time I do not know what I'm doing until I have done it. But it is very exciting.

"In fact, I think I may have just made a car that can arrive before it departed. 

"Would you care for a ride?"

(A bigger smile. A layer of innuendo. Strangely compelling attraction.)

(The uncomfortable knowledge that he's been set up for a fall.)

* * *

"This is bull!@#$, son," SPYGOD barks at the young Marine inside the suit of high-tech armor, standing outside what has to be the tenth set of underground, guarded double doors he's gone through in less than fifteen minutes: "You know !@#$ well who I am."

"Rules, sir," the Machinemarine squeaks out.

"Please don't make trouble, sir," the other one there pleads: "This is the White House."

"And I've been welcome here longer than you've been alive, kid."

"Sir, please," the first one all but begs: "Don't get me disciplined. It's my first day here."

"Oh, alright," SPYGOD sighs, showing off an official, laminated picture of him flipping off the camera: "Here's my god!@#$ ID. Just !@#$ing let me through-"

"Sir, will you please just look into the retinal scanner like we asked-"

"It won't work, you dumb!@#$. It's made of glass!"

"Then, the other one? Under the eyepatch?" the other Machinemarine asks.

"Oh sure, let's !@#$ing do that," SPYGOD snorts, and lifts his flap to show off the other eye.

The moment the scanner registers it, it begins to smoke and make unhappy noises. Fortunately, the door does open. 

"Waste of !@#$ing taxpayer money," he says, walking through the doors that were not there just yesterday: "Someone's getting the mother of all kickbacks."

Down one more hall. One more ramp. One more set of doors that is opened for him, this time, and he's in the cavernous Command Room, finally. 

There are big screens on the walls and ceilings, focused on various trouble spots around the world. Technicians and Generals stand everywhere, taking and giving orders. Scientists are gathered around banks of computers, overlooking the reams of data coming in. 

And not a !@#$ing one of them seems to understand the gravity of the situation.

"Alright," he says to those assembled there, which includes the Vice President and Dr. Yesterday: "Does someone want to tell me what the !@#$ is going on?"

"I beg your pardon?" Yesterday says, almost dropping his teacup. The Vice President just sighs.

"You !@#$ing told me you had the Olympians under lock and key until you, and I quote, 'figured this all out,'" SPYGOD says, stomping towards the man with a look like murder on his face: "Well, I just saw them go Full Metal Jacket overhead, Bob. I don't think that counts as !@#$ing figured out."

"Well, yes," Dr. Yesterday says, sighing and gesturing to the big board: "We decided it was time for a field test, (REDACTED). And I think you'll agree the results were pretty spectacular-"

"Oh for !@#$'s sake," SPYGOD groans, grabbing the controls for the big board away from some gawp-eyed tech and refocusing the view from the skies of DC to the ground: "Does that look spectacular to you?"

Everyone gasps at the wreckage. Buildings are burning. Streets melt and catch fire. Storefronts shatter and explode.

And throughout it all stride ten of the Olympians -- gleefully destroying the city they were sent to save as they destroy the enemies that tried to beat them to it. 

"All they !@#$ing did was bring the fight from the skies down to the ground," SPYGOD shouts at everyone there: "No concern for civilians! No concern for property damage! No concern for all the god!@#$ memorials and tourist attractions that make this town a !@#$ing vacation spot instead of the black pit of leftist bureaucracy that it actually is!"

"I think you need to calm down, sir," the Vice President says, as gently as possible.

"Calm down?!" SPYGOD shouts, smashing the controls with his fist: "What does it say when I'm the one being !@#$ing concerned about collateral damage, George? Huh?"

No one has anything to say to that. 

* * *

Inside the Oval Office, Ronald Wilson Reagan sits at his desk, staring into space.

He just forgot where he was, for the third time today. 

It's happening more and more, this absence of self. This disconnection from the here and now.

The moments when he stops being here, and goes elsewhere. 

It's a horrible feeling -- vertiginous and strange. He thinks about what he has to do, and what the day has brought him, and then he sees things.

Terrible things. 

When the state passes, he is back. He knows what he must do, but not always why. 

And he has an understanding, clear as crystal, of what will happen if he gets it wrong.

He reaches into the jar of jelly bellies on his desk, and munches on a few. The taste brings him back to the here and now. 

(How many has he had, today? He used to know. He can't remember, now.)

He begins to write about what he saw. The state of emergency in South Africa. Yet another excuse to keep their people from freedom, but he knows he must criticize but not confront.

He must allow this Apartheid abomination to continue, in spite of what he could do to end it. 

It breaks his heart. So much power, yet so little freedom to use it. All his moves watched over. All his words carefully measured. 

All his decisions made for him, by his Backers. 

("That's just the way it is / Some things will never change") 

He closes his eyes. He refocuses. He writes. 

And it all comes true...

* * *

 

"Oh, the connection to up top is !@#$ real," John warbles: "We Operators, we sort of skirt around it.

"That's why we're all in the Grey. Somewhere between the dark and the light, if you know what I mean.

"And I think you !@#$ well do."

(Still working the same magically-refilled drink, hours later. A little more talkative, now.)

"Normally, the folks up there are happy to just let us stand or fall on our own. Hasn't been a real !@#$ intervention since the Man Jesus, all those years ago.

"And look what a god-!@#$ mess that was. Trying to splice the kingdom of Heaven with the world below it...."

(A wistful look. A crack in the cynicism.)

"But here's the thing. To make this sort of thing work, they'll need a physical point of intersection.

"A link, if you want to call it that."

(Pats his gnarled hand on the table. Nods at it.)

"Oh, you know what I'm !@#$ing talking about?  Well, that just figures. They say you know all.

"Or is that just you saying it, all along? I've never been sure about that.

(A raised eyebrow, then furrowing)

"Well, know this, my friend. As long as that link is there, and they've got some poor !@#$-hole to connect to it? The problems are just going to get worse.

"A lot !@#$ worse.

"Why? Well, it's bad enough now. But just wait until some !@#$ fool gets it in his head to bring about a real change."

(A cocked eyebrow at the obvious question.)

"Like, how about Hitler never came to power? How about no more Communism? How about no more bad guys, anywhere?

 "As it is, they can't even !@#$ing rewrite the fine details on a bakers dozen superpeople. You know !@#$ well about that.

"But just wait till they try to handle all the angles on ancient history, or a whole concept. Just wait till they realize there's too way too many fine details to rewrite.

"And when they can't... well, you'll know, friend. You'll see us there to clean it up. 

"And if we have to clean it up..."

(The most stern and threatening look he's ever seen this man give.)

(It chills. Truly.)

* * *

It's some time later. The fires have been put out. The wounded have been tended to, the damage contained.

And the toys have all been put back in the box.

"This seriously !@#$ing creeps me out," SPYGOD says, watching on closed-circuit TV as the ten Olympians cleared for active duty are marched through the complex, guided by fully-armed and very nervous Machinemarines.

They're all wearing shiny, white uniforms with a big, round O on the right lapel. Black boots and belts. High tech wrist communicators.

(Blank, vapid expressions.)

"Well, it's the best we could do, at least for now," Dr. Yesterday says, pouring himself another cup of coffee from a handy pot. They're in his office, now, going over things now that everyone's had a chance to cool down, somewhat. Blue dwarfs run this way and that, bringing tools and components here and there, as they tend to do.

(And SPYGOD knows better than to ask who made the coffee.)

"'The best you could do,'" SPYGOD mocks: "You're supposed to be our expert on Strategic Talents, Bob."

"It was Mr. Franklin and I," the man says: "We handled it together, and I know I held up my end. So if there's any mistakes...?"

SPYGOD just looks at the man, and then shakes his head in disgust: "'If?'"

"Well, this is a work in progress. It's a very complex thing-"

"Bull!@#$! You're the one go to when we're !@#$ing broken, or growing extra arms or heads! You mean to tell me you can't handle their biology?"

"It's not the biology that's the problem," the scientist sighs, watching as their leader, Seranu, is deposited at the door of his living quarters, and has to be reminded to go in and close the door: "It's their minds."

"What, you can't get them some competent therapy?"

"It's not that simple, (REDACTED). When we rewrote their history the second time... well, something got lost. Something we haven't been able to get back."

"Why the !@#$ did you have to rewrite them, anyway?" his guest says, grabbing a cup himself, and then tipping most of a flask of hooch into it: "What was wrong with the previous story?"

"Oh, having them be gods hiding in mortal form?" Dr. Yesterday says, taking notes as the others are led, in turn, to their homes: "Well, I guess that proved to be kind of sacrilegious. I think the Reverend Falwell complained, and, well, you know how tight he is with the President."

"Don't !@#$ing remind me," SPYGOD snorts: "I had to sit there and listen to him call me a degenerate at the last prayer breakfast. I swear, one of these days I'm going to dress up like Satan and bring a god!@#$ flamethrower..."

"You know, you could try being a little less flamboyant, (REDACTED)," the scientist says: "Sometimes you have to go along to get along."

"And maybe you should ask your !@#$ wife to help you with this problem, Bob," SPYGOD says, deciding not to kick the man's testicles into his skull -- this time.

"Oh, Geri?" Dr. Yesterday visibly blanches: "Well, she's really busy with a lot of projects right now. I don't want to disturb her-"

"No, you just don't want her to know how badly you !@#$ed this up."

"Now, see, that's unfair-"

"Unfair?" SPYGOD snorts: "All those people ever wanted to do was !@#$ing help us out, Bob. And in return, we magically lobotomized them. Twice."

"I had my orders," Dr. Yesterday insists, sadly: "So do you."

"Oh, I know all about those !@#$ orders. I seem to recall fighting a war against some !@#$ers who were all to happy to follow theirs. And I know you know where that led."

"That's..." the scientist blanches again, almost dropping his cup of coffee: "My god, that's offensive."

"Yeah, it is," SPYGOD replies: "But maybe that's why you really don't want to bring Geri in on this, Bob. You know exactly what she'll say.

"And you know why, too."

And then he walks away from Dr. Yesterday before he says, or does, anything more harsh than that.

* * *

The thing they all really remember about that day is the light. 

They all wore special sunglasses, in that room. They were warned to keep them on. They were also told to stand well back from the insertion point. 

And no one was going to argue with those Backers -- not then, not ever.

The room was specially prepared for weeks. Lined with steel they found somewhere unbelievable. Work crews with concrete stood just outside the door, waiting for the signal to brick it up.

But inside, there was something that had to happen, first. A sign of fealty, they said. 

A sign of dominion. 

Reagan alone knelt. He was the one, after all. The one the Backers had chosen to work with.

The one who had taken the yoke upon his own neck, for good or for ill.

Everyone else? They just stood and watched, agog. 

They stared in disbelief as the one called Ariel brought a blazing, long sword from nowhere -- its light the equal of a million suns, yet cold. 

They shook as he drove it into the floor of the room, speaking a language not heard on Earth since the Garden of Eden.

And then they all gladly left when bidden, the heat just starting to lick at the back of their shoes. 

When it was done, and the room sealed, they went up to the Oval Office. There, in the corner, was something that had not been there before. 

A telephone, up on a marble pillar. A big, black and intimidating thing with no dial.

It had no cord. It didn't need one. 

It began to ring. The sort of noise that was impossible to not acknowledge. 

And then Ariel pointed to it, and told the President he needed to answer it when it called. 

"Who's on the other end?" The President asked.

"Who do you think?" the Backer said, smiling. 

And it was not a kind smile. Not anymore. 

They all left the room, after that, giving Reagan some privacy. And they all looked to one another, already inventing explanations for what they just saw. Already doing their best to reject it. 

All but SPYGOD, who had seen it through an eye that allowed no rejection of the obvious.

("How can you be so invisible? / Give me the nerves to see")

Ever after, either Aaron or Ariel was at the White House, or wherever he went. Ever after, when the phone rang, he answered it. 

Ever after, he would stare into space for some time, and come back with some new answer to whatever question was perplexing them -- sometimes for things that hadn't happened yet, sometimes for things that, now, never would.

Ever after, the White House no longer belonged to the people of America, but to the God they said they were under.

And while some were alright with this, and some ecstatic, some could tell that the weight of Heaven was a terrible burden for their President.

And some decided something should be done about it...

* * *

"Really? You're asking me?" The Negotiator smirks.

"Well, I mean no disrespect, but given your line of work I'd have thought you'd have figured that out by now. In some ways we're not so different.

(A hand held up to deflect wrath.)

"No, don't get upset. Think. 

"We both get what we want by giving others things they want but can't have, or don't think they can get. The trick is knowing what those things are, and how much to ask for them.

"You see?"

(A disappointed smile, most likely just for show. Scripted.)

"Ah, well, maybe it is a hard thing to understand. Even you can only see the world through so many angles.

"How about this, then? Imagine you're a creature of duty. I'm sure you can do that."

(Knowing smile.)

"Now imagine you are immortal, created to fulfill that duty for an eternity. Imagine you have the imagination to think of other things to do, but no opportunity to do them, because you're always busy.

"And imagine that, when you're down here, watching over humans, you gain a vicarious thrill from seeing them go about their free lives. Making mistakes. Having victories. Living and loving all on their own.

"See, that's what they want. Not free will, as they actually do have it. But they want the freedom to try and to fail.

"The luxury of sin."

(A flicker at that word. The blackness becomes visible, just for a second.)

"Oh yes. They love humans for that simple, small thing. The failing people like you try to purge from yourselves to enter Heaven is the one thing that those who live there wish they could do.

"But no. They're on 24/7. Little angel bees, out making the holy honey for the big G. No time to sin. No time to do anything.

"Unless, of course, they could come down here on official business, and yet not be seen..."

(The worm..)

"Oh yes. There's ways to do that, my friend. Many ways."

(... the hook...)

"Are you interested in hearing about them?"

(And one good, hard pull...)

* * *

"Oh, so good to see you, good friend," Ben Franklin says, shaking SPYGOD's hand as he enters a side room he wasn't expecting to stumble into.

He really was just looking for the exit. Or the john. Maybe both.

"Good to see you too, Ben," he says, looking around at things. There are a bunch of scientists in here, all poring over notes and charts, and looking at photographs and videos. There's also some ladies in amusingly-scanty attire, alternating between hanging all over the scientists and serving cocktails off of trays.

A bar in the corner. Anti-communist posters on the walls. Heavy rock playing from a stereo.

(Blue Oyster Cult's last album, he thinks. Not really his thing.)

"Can I offer you a drink?" the Founding Father asks, waving a hand around the room: "I think we're all a little lit up, at this point. That is what you say these days, is it not?"

"It is, and I don't mind if I do," SPYGOD sighs, closing the door behind them: "Truth to tell I could !@#$ing use a whole car full of drinks at this point."

"Yes, I hear things were... not so well, up top?"

"That's putting it !@#$ing mildly," he says, grabbing two drinks from the nearest tray and downing them one after the other: "Hopefully my Second's got the !@#$ figured out, or he's going to have the shortest career in the COMPANY."

Ben laughs for a moment, and then realizes his new guest isn't joking. After that he just has a drink along with him, and nods sagely.

"So what is all this?" SPYGOD asks, looking around: "Tappa Kegga Brew having a careers in science day?"

The portly man laughs, and then shakes his head: "I must give myself credit, my friend. I actually understood that."

"Caught up on a few movies, eh?"

"One could say that. I have also been pooling the graduate students at the nearby colleges for talent! I've found them most refreshing in their youth and enthusiasm."

"Not to mention the looks," SPYGOD snorts, grabbing another drink and walking over to a nearby table. There, the scientists are discussing something about weaponized dreams. A picture of pale, willowy Sphyne is passed around and tapped.

"So?" SPYGOD asks again. It's the sort of tone he takes with people when he doesn't want to have to repeat himself.

"Well, this is sort of top secret, or so they tell me," Ben explains: "But in short? We are working on doing something with the other eight Olympians."

"Something?" SPYGOD asks: "Like what?"

"Well, as you know, not all of them have talents that are directly applicable to a battle with other Strategic Talents. Case in point, as much as I may appreciate the more erotic side of things, well... could you see Rosi in a fight? What would the young lady do, love them to death?"

"S/he does alright," SPYGOD says, watching a rather large, black man discussing a large stack of printouts about Syphon. He's talking about cloning programs. Short-lived armies made for specific battles, needing only DNA, programing, and a mission.

"And then there's the other limitations," Ben sighs: "Apparently Nemesis is proving to be quite bothersome."

"How so?" SPYGOD asks, remembering the last time he ran into the fiery lady. The look she gave him made even him just a little scared.

And what she'd said...

"Well, here's the thing," the Founding Father goes on: "You know the trouble our government has been having with Libya? That fellow who runs things these days is apparently being quite bothersome and warlike. Not far removed from the troubles we had with them in my time-"

"That he has," SPYGOD interrupts: "What of it?"

"Well, someone had the good sense to ask if Nemesis would be willing to kill him. She asked why. So she was told all the things he had done, and when we were done, she said she could only kill him for those crimes if she killed all other heads of state for the same crimes."

SPYGOD cracks a smile, which Ben was clearly not expecting: "Well, good sir, you can imagine how well that went over..."

"Yes I can," SPYGOD says, smiling even wider: "A god-weapon with a conscience and a sense of humor. Must be !@#$ing inconvenient."

"Well, do you have any advice?" Franklin asks: "Given how much time you spend with others like her, perhaps you could talk some sense into her."

"No," he says, grabbing a drink for the road before he heads out: "But let me give you some advice, Ben."

"What would that be, good sir?"

"Stop it," the man says, looking around the room: "Stop this !@#$. All of it. Stop trying to turn Kanaan into a probability bomb. Stop trying to make Sheliast your personal island-sinker. And as for messing around with Hoosk... well, good luck there."

There's a hush over the room, just then. All the scientists look to Ben, who looks to them, and then to their guest: "You do realize we're... well, we are supposed to-"

"Ben, the best thing I ever !@#$ing read in school was you telling people to stop !@#$ing obeying orders and start listening to what you thought was right," SPYGOD says, tapping the portly man's chest: "Take your own advice, Mr. Franklin."

"Sir, I am not accustomed to having my own words turned against me," the founding father says, taking the drink out of his now-unwelcome guest's hands: "And if you cannot be civil-"

"And just so you know, doing this?" SPYGOD says, leaning in close to whisper: "It's not going to !@#$ing save you when the time comes. Trust me on that. If Shift said something, it's going to come true."

That gets him a look of hate and fear so dire it almost breaks his heart. At the very least, it does silence Franklin up, but at a terrible cost. 

So he gets out of there, cursing his tendency to shoot his !@#$ mouth off.

* * *

"I don't like this," the Vice President is saying: "Not one darn bit."

"I agree, sir," SPYGOD says, looking out the window of the limo they're in for this meeting. It's the middle of the day, but yet it's dark as night out there.

It's a COMPANY Car, made for these kinds of meetings. No sound gets out. No light gets in. No one can hear them speak or think.

Total blackout. 

"I've seen that man go right down the tubes the last few years. Ever since the day they put that sword into the floor of the basement."

"He hasn't !@#$ing been himself, no," SPYGOD admits: "It almost looks like he's got a !@#$ limiter in his noggin."

"A what?"

SPYGOD just looks at him: "Come on, sir. You were in charge of the other Company for a hot minute, back in the day. Don't you remember when SQUASH was putting biochemical and hypnotic programming into their agents' brains?"

"I... might have read something about that."

"Well, it's a moot point, now. Making it so you can't !@#$ing think about anything but the mission causes a lot of !@#$ing problems. Turns your !@#$ brains to J-E-L-L-O pudding after a couple months."

"And that's the problem, isn't it?" the man says, looking out the window at whatever SPYGOD was staring at, a moment ago: "In two years, I might be President. Am I just supposed to... I don't know. Kneel down? Become their darn puppet?"

"That might well be the !@#$ plan, provided we're all still around."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that... !@#$, I feel stupid saying this, sir, but do you get the feeling we're being !@#$ing pointed at World War III?"

The man looks at him, and then nods -- very slowly and sadly.

"I do. A lot of reckless things. Very silly things. Well, we could be handling things better. A lot better."

"Agreed. I mean, I !@#$ing hate the commies more than anything, but I don't want it to end with us nuking Moscow. I'll just do damage control until they can overthrow them, same as always."

The Vice President smiles: "A sensible view. You're a more practical man than I took you for, sir."

"So, speaking practically?" SPYGOD asks, leaning forward: "If there was some way for me to get the President out of this !@#$hole he's fallen into, and our country out of this !@#$ing arrangement, would I have your blessing? Seeing as how you're most likely going to be the next President?"

George Herbert Walker Bush smiles.

("Those lips conspire in treachery / To strike in cloak and dagger, see!")

Carefully extends a hand to shake. 

SPYGOD takes it, knowing he may yet live to regret this.

But, for his nation, and a friend, he'll do !@#$ near anything. 

 * * *

"So, I've had a chance to think, since our last conversation," Ben Franklin says, as the Bugatti takes them across the country in -30 seconds. 

(Less relaxed now. More cautious.)

"I think you may just be right, sir. I do not like the direction this is going. Not at all.

"I think we are tampering with things best left alone. And I say that both as a scientist, and a man who, while not always in step with the Lord God, knows enough of the divine to know that one does not merely poke at it with a stick."

(Downshifts, making the journey last longer.)

"I am not certain what direction this may go. I am not entirely certain of my own motives, given how things are.

"But I do know that, when the time comes, and our masters decide they no longer wish to try and rework and remodel these beings, I feel I can have some say in what happens to them.

"And I would very much like your assistance with this, as you alone seem to care for their welfare. 

"If I leave things up to that Dr. Yesterday fellow..."

(A long, cold shudder.)

"Are we agreed, then? When the time comes, let us be one in this, my friend.

"We both owe them much, and I so most of all..."

* * *

Outside the White House, in the Rose garden, SPYGOD lights up a cigarette. He doesn't give a !@#$ who sees, or what they might say. 

Let them all watch.

The situation has been contained and cleaned as best as possible. Second pulled out every stop to make sure it was done so. He was also amazingly contrite about it, but did not offer to resign, even in spite of the casualty lists. 

SPYGOD likes that. This man might be able to hack it after all...

"You know, you really shouldn't smoke out here," someone says to him, not without some humor.

"You think anyone's going to stop me?" SPYGOD snorts, turning to look and see who it is. But the moment he realizes it's Nancy Reagan, he coughs and puts the cigarette out in his hand, and then tosses the smoking butt into a zippered pocket on his suit. 

"Oh, (REDACTED)," she chuckles: "What are we going to do with you?"

"I won't say no to an iced tea."

"Neither would I, normally. But... not today, eh?" she says, taking hold of his arm and letting him walk her around. 

They walk in silence for a time. Her tiny hands can't both wrap around his arm, which amuses them both.

(He likes her touch. It reminds him of his mother.)

"He's not doing well, is he?" he asks, as gently as he can.

"No, he's not," she says, trying not to stumble in her words: "He's been having nightmares, now."

"Oh?" SPYGOD asks: "What kind?"

"He wakes up screaming. He says 'It's coming.' But when he comes to, he can't remember what. He just knows that he's terribly afraid of what he saw."

"How often?"

"Almost every night. He used to be able to just shake them off, but now... he's not a young man, anymore, (REDACTED). He's later to rise and unsteady. And that phone... every time he gets off of it I think he's got another grey hair."

He nods again: "Nancy, I have to ask you to ask me something."

"That's a really strange way to put it."

"It is, but..." he stops, and turns around to look at her: "I might be able to help him. I might be able to end all this. But it's going to take some doing. It's also going to take some... drastic things. Maybe even bad things."

"And you want to know if I'm okay with it."

"Yes," he says, trying to find the strength to look in her eyes as he says this: "I can't promise anything, right now. I'm still looking into it."

"But...?"

"But I've seen and heard enough in my time to know that something like this? It's... well, excuse my French, Nancy, but it's not going to !@#$ing end well. Not at all."

She looks at him for a moment, as if she was going to scold him for his potty-mouth. But she just nods, looks askance, and then looks back up: "The man I married made a bad deal with people he thought he could trust. He told me he did this to save America, no matter the cost. But I don't think we're saving anything. I think we're just marching faster to the end."

"I don't know what I can do about that," SPYGOD admits: "But I might be able to save him."

"Then please do it," she says, looking off to the Oval Office windows: "Bring me my husband back, (REDACTED). If you still can, please do it."

She doesn't cry. He gives her that much. 

And neither does he. At least not today. 

* * *

Speed is the game in the shadow of kings
Where the company of angels fly
They appear at the crossroads at once in the future
Clad in the darkness on the highways of night
With no love ... from the past

(SPYGOD is listening to Shadow of California (Blue Oyster Cult) and having a Ghost King)

7/3-7/12 - The Gate Is Straight, Deep, and Wide - pt. 2

Ghosts, son? You're asking me if SPYGOD actually believes in ghosts?

Well of course I !@#$ing believe in ghosts, son. What kind of a dumb!@#$ question is that? Don't you remember when I was running with Chinmoku? They don't call him the only living master of Hungry Ghost Path of Kung Fu for nothing.

(The others failed, and became -- you guessed it -- ghosts.)

Now, yes, we can be objective about this. It's true that, sitting at that fire, I'm not really in my right !@#$ing mind. I'm fighting a black hole of depression, suicidal urges, and god knows what other long-repressed mental problems. I'm crying like I won an Oscar, thinking I could just die right about then and no one would give a !@#$, and !@#$sing myself just after I realized I really needed to go water the beer garden.

That and the radioactive !@#$ I'm drinking could probably kill a !@#$ing atom-powered cyborg tyrannosaurus rex if you shoved it down the wrong !@#$ hole.

So, yes, given that by the time those yellow-hatted mystics show up, I'm so !@#$ing drunk that I've lost all sense of time, distance, proportion, and dignity, it's just possible that I imagine everything that comes next. But I don't believe that, son.

Not for a !@#$ing minute.

How does it go? Well, talking with the dead ain't like Charles !@#$ing Dickens, son. You don't get a herald, you don't get told how the ride's going to go, and you sure don't get away !@#$ing clean. Sometimes you don't even !@#$ing get away at all.

There's reasons that Shamen are both revered and feared for what they do, son. Any sensible person would run away from a job like that, but some people just have to be the ones to peek behind the veil and see what's there.

And you know what curiosity got that poor, dead cat.

So when they inform me that there's people who want to talk to me, and I realize what they !@#$ing mean, I realize that I am in for a world of !@#$. Of course, I'm so !@#$ing drunk I can't even stand, much less crawl away, so they got me where they want me, these yellow-hatted, grinning freaks.

And so do the dead.

I see that one of the Shamans isn't there, anymore, and Second is there instead, smiling at me with that special, little smile of his. The kind that always said that he knew, deep down, what a goofy, drunk !@#$-up I could be, but that he admired me, anyway, and wouldn't have wanted to work for anyone else.

And there's a second when I just chalk it up to the !@#$ I've been pounding, and wishful thinking, and regrets? But then he starts !@#$ing talking, and I know it's him. 

I'm sorry to report I kind of !@#$ed up, sir, he says: I did my best while you were gone, but they had us beaten at every turn. Dragon played us all against each other, they snuck in a bunch of GORGON troopers, and... well, they had it well in hand, sir. I can only apologize.

"You shouldn't have to apologize," I tell him (well, blubber out, really): "I was your C.O, (REDACTED). I should have been the one giving the good orders, not you. And if I hadn't made those dumb !@#$ing mistakes... if I hadn't gone South instead of to DC... if I hadn't..."

If you had, you'd be dead, too, sir, he tells me: They had us cold, sir. Dead !@#$ing bang to rights. They had a plan for everything, including you.


"Well, it should have !@#$ing been me, not you," I blubber: "It should have been me..." 

No sir, he says: It was always supposed to be me. You said it, yourself. Soldiers are there to die. The fact that you get another day is a blessing, and I had a lot of them. All of them good... well, most of them. 

I have no regrets, sir. I had a good run, and I died fighting. I went down hard and I tried to take as many of them down with me as I could. !@#$, I even pulled the wool over the Dragon's eyes for a little bit, and that's not something you can say all that often.

"That's... that's good..." I say, not knowing what else to say. If I wasn't so !@#$ing drunk I'd have actually given him a real complement for that one. 

Well, I learned form the best. And that's why you need to get back on your feet, sir. I did my best to save as many strategic talents from what was coming as I could, and they're going to need a leader. 

And that's you, sir. And you know that.

Of course, I can't say anything to that but to make excuses, wallow in self-pity, and continue blubbing. I can't even !@#$ing look at him, son. He's looking at me like a proud parent, and all I want to do is crawl under a rock and die.

So it's a while before I look up, and when I do he's gone, and the Shaman he was inhabiting is looking at me with a nasty, red-toothed grin.

I never thought I'd see the day when SPYGOD got all maudlin and self-pitying, says another one of them. I turn and look, and it's Joe Samuels, who was the Owl, up until just recently. And seeing him there, dead, kicks me even harder.

"What... what the !@#$ happened?"

Well, I'm dead, he says, matter of fact as always: GORGON hit the Owl's Nest hard. They teleported in in droves and shot us to pieces. Your man, Second, tried to warn us, but we missed the message until it was too late. I had to atomize the Owls Nest in the end, just to deny it to the enemy. 

"Oh gods... I'm sorry..."

He smiles: I took them all out with me, (REDACTED). You should have seen it. I showed them what it meant to try and take us on our own turf. 

And next time they tangle with my family, they'll be in real trouble.

"What about Martha? Thomas? Kaitlyn?"

Martha's fine, and she's with your friends, getting a resistance together. Thomas was hurt very badly, but he'll be alright. We're seeing to that. 

And Kaitlyn... he smiles: She's going to be the best Owl that ever was, my friend, but she'll need your help do to it, just like you helped Martha and Thomas. Can I count on you?

Of course, this leads to me trying to blub some more, but he's not having it: Oh, stop it, (REDACTED). We don't have time for tears. Too many people have died, and too many people are going to die, for you to sit around a fire crying your magic eye out. 

"Easy for you to say... you're dead. You don't have to face this failure-"

I didn't say it, my friend, he says, smiling and pointing at me: You said it. You said it to me. And if you think really hard, you might just remember when, and why. 

And I never told you this, because I was so embarrassed, later? But thank you for that. 

So, this is me returning the favor. Tears later, soldier. Action now. You fall apart you're no use to anyone.


"I'm already broken..." I try to say, but it comes across as a tangle of words. By the time I get my tongue unglued, Joe's gone, and in his place is that tall, black Colonel that'd been hounding my !@#$ since the assassination. Colonel Richter.

And he's not looking so !@#$ing good, either. His bald head's a misshapen mess, and one of his yellowed eyes has bugged out of its socket. It almost looks like someone smashed his brains in.

Well well, he says, smiling: Here we finally are. You know how long I've been looking for your sorry !@#$?

"I know... I'm sorry..."

Oh, don't you dare !@#$ing apologize, SPYGOD. Don't you !@#$ing dare! You don't have the right! !@#$, you don't even have the right to speak to me right now, you sloppy !@#$hole.

Now, for some !@#$ dumb reason, this takes me aback. Everyone else so far's been trying to shove complements up my !@#$, in spite of my getting them killed. But he's actually !@#$ing angry.

And, for some reason, that actually brings me up from the slippery, dark hole I've drunk myself down, just a little bit.

"What the !@#$ are you talking about?" I ask, rearing up a bit: "I didn't kill you-"

Oh, but you did, he says, sitting straight up and leaning towards me: That crazy-!@#$ vendetta of yours? Well, while you were !@#$ing liberating Cuba, you sent us off in ten directions at once, trying to catch your !@#$. You had the COMPANY so !@#$ busy chasing its tail that GORGON was able to walk in and !@#$ us without us even noticing. 

If you'd just done the right thing and given yourself up, we could have been united. We could have stopped them. All those people would still be alive. 

I'd still be alive-

"!@#$ you, Richter." I spit at him: "I didn't !@#$ up the COMPANY. You did."

What... he says, the anger bleeding away as confusion sets in: What the !@#$ do you mean?

"Why... why do you think they put you onto me?" I ask him, still too groggy to talk too fast: "What were you doing... before the President was assassinated?"

He tries to open his mouth, and then he closes it.

I... I don't remember...

"No. Of course you don't. Not your last birthday. Not your first kiss. And why do you suppose that is?"

I knew... I used to know...

"Yeah, when you were !@#$ing breathing. But now you aren't, anymore, and when you died all those memories just went away, didn't they?"

I... what are you-

"Because you weren't doing anything, Richter. They activated you. And then, when they didn't need you anymore..."

I point to my head, right about where his has been clearly bashed in, and then roughly pat it a few times.

He opens and closes his mouth a few more times. Then he screws his eyes shut and screams so loud my eardrums almost blow out of my !@#$ing head.

And then he's gone, leaving a hoarse shaman who's trying to hog the kumis bottle he and his two friends are passing back and forth.

How long did you know about him? asks a mellifluous voice I know all too well.

"About as long as... well, about as long as I suspected about you," I say, turning to look to my left. The Dragon is sitting there, smiling that slight, inscrutable smile of his.

And he doesn't even need a shaman to talk to me.

(SPYGOD is listening to Soul Kitchen (The Doors) and drinking... well, yeah. Don't ask.)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 10

 "(REDACTED), I know you can hear me," the President says into the CIA Director's voicemail: "Pick up the !@#$ing phone, okay? We're under attack, the whole world's gone to !@#$, and someone's coming into the White House basement. No flier, no COMPANY, no nothing. If you've got answers-"

The line goes dead, just then. He signs and puts Col. Richter's phone down on a nearby table: "Well, so much for that."

"Can we do anything else?" the First Lady asks.

"Wanna order pizza?" He'd asked, pointing back to the phone: "I bet it'll take more than thirty minutes. Might get it for free this time."

"Oh, that's what I love about you," the First Lady says, standing up and putting her hand on his shoulder: "All the world's falling apart, and you can still make jokes."

"Sorry, hon," he says, putting up his hands: "It's what I do."

"I know. I wasn't complaining. I was just telling you that it's a good thing."

"Well, I'd hope you'd think it was a good thing by now..." he smiles, putting a hand around her leg: "Still glad you married me?"

"Always," she says: "You are a good man, Mr. President. You will have a lot to offer the world in the days to come."

Something about how she says that bothers him, just a little. He's about to say something when the doors to the saferoom open, revealing Colonel Richter, a man in dark sunglasses who must be that Myron fellow, and a number of COMPANY Agents. There's a strong sense of urgency about them, but they seem to be somewhat relieved.

"Sir, we've got an escape plan for you and the First Lady-" Richter begins to say, but suddenly Myron shouts and draws a gun on the President.

A Secret Service Agent immediately hurls himself at the man, who starts shouting something that's hard to understand past the fists and feet launched at his face, knocking his dark sunglasses off.

More Secret Service Agents rush to either protect the President or pile on Myron.

The COMPANY Agents run into the melee to pull the other Agents off the man who saved them from the Specials back at the Heptagon.

And before Colonel Richter can tell his people to back the !@#$ off and let these men and women protect the President, he looks over at the First Couple and realizes that something is wrong.

The President looks bewildered, as usual, but the First Lady is smiling -- a smile he really does not like.

And then the air is filled with flashes of light and sudden motion, and the saferoom proves to no longer be safe at all.

Something terrible has been waiting for them, here, all along.

* * *

The insectile carrier that was once The Flier -- still changing its shape and configuration in mid-air -- hovers over a patch of the Pacific Ocean, not too far from the last battle that the COMPANY engaged in with GORGON.

There's nothing here to mark that momentous occasion, of course. The principal players both left the field not long thereafter, and their dead were swallowed up by the deep. Any lost weapons or wounded machines fell down to the punishing depths of the ocean floor, there to be crushed by the depths and picked over by what few scavengers can thrive in such extreme environments.

Hundreds of such rude cenotaphs litter the dark, hidden depths of the ocean -- cold and mute testament to the ferocious battles that happen on, above, or just under its surface. Down in the eternal, crushing black, they form the only memorials those lost to such conflagrations can ever have. 

But as the giant, metal butterfly that was the Flier hovers high above the water, a strange, circular perturbation on its surface would seem to indicate that something is being returned to the light.

The ocean surface roils and bubbles, and the circumference of the disturbance increases almost exponentially. Within minutes it is a full five miles across, and still growing. And from the vantage point of the Flier, it is possible to see the faintest hints of whatever is causing the phenomenon as it approaches the boiling surface.

Something vast and dark, and swiftly ascending. 

With the crashing of mighty waves, that something breaks through into the air. Something that has been under the surface of the Pacific for untold aeons. Something that has not been seen by unaided eyes before today.

Something alien, yet oddly familiar. 

A massive agglomeration of dark, stone towers -- built with giant, perfectly-cut bricks in the manner of the Mayan temples of old -- reaches for the heavens. It appears to be a city: one made for what may have been giants, or beings for whom cyclopean architecture was the norm. And as it rises and rises in what seems an unending train of black stone spires and platforms, the circumference widens out to ten miles, then twenty, then fifty...

At some point, its rate of ascent slows, and then stops -- just a scant ten feet from the keel of the Flier. Sea spray steams in the heat of the Sun, and strange, deep-sea creatures that had no business existing more than a single fathom beyond their normal habitat explode in the sudden change of pressure. 

For a moment or two, the city and the Flier are content to behold one another. And then something swift-moving and dangerous-looking all but erupts from the newly-risen metropolis, and hurtles towards the Flier with strange intent.

It is a Deros, clearly. And as it streaks towards the Flier, the bottom of the aircraft shudders twice, and then opens wide in order to accommodate it. Large, strange mechanisms unfold from the hole in its belly, clearly intending to provide a welcome mat for the creature.

At the sight of its landing pad, the metal beast curlicues and goes into a spiral, slowing its trajectory just enough to avoid crashing into the Flier. And then, just as it seems to have burned up all its forward momentum, it slides into the underside of the aircraft -- effectively docking with the devices that came out of it.

The Deros tightens its curves, becoming a ball, and begins a spinning motion that creates light, heat, and energy seemingly powerful enough to rival the Sun. The surrounding area is bathed with a bright, radiant light -- one that burns off whatever moisture and damp remained outside the formerly-sunken city, and then vanishes as the Flier pulls the containing machines back into itself.

Then the Flier lights up -- a brilliant, shining butterfly just above the new, dark island.

 * * *

When Second comes to, moments after the conversion is over, he is aware of three things.

The first is that he's no longer in engineering, nor anywhere near it so far as he can tell. The bulkhead he grabbed onto clearly moved several areas away. That one, he was kind of expecting.

The second is that those few Agents who survived along with him have been surrounded by even more Specials, some of which are teleporting in. They seem content to simply guard their captives for the moment, but it's anyone's guess as to when they'll start shooting, instead.

In fact, one stands right by Second's head, pointing the business end of a gauss gun between his eyes. There's no look on his face, but if there were it'd be him all but daring Second to not to drop the pistol in his hand.

(Second does, ever so slowly, but not in such a way so as to not have it back in hand within a moment.)

The third is that something new has entered the equation.

Teleporting in along with the new Specials are beings in colorful, gleaming armor and long, flowing capes. They move gracefully, compared to their heavier brethren, and where the Specials are anonymous behind their armored, blank visages, these ones bare bright and smiling faces to the world around them.

In a way, these newcomers remind Second of the over-the-top sueprheroes of the 70's. The ones who rewrote the book on how strategic talents operated. The ones who built Deep Ten -- Wonderwall, back then -- along with numerous other astounding creations.

The ones who gradually disappeared in the decades afterwards, leaving only fading echoes of themselves and the occasional, re-purposed artifact in their wake. 

Something in their mix of bright color, and the exaggerated lines of their armor, tickles the more nostalgic parts of Second's mind. And for a moment -- however brief -- he could almost believe that those lost heroes have returned, somehow. He could find himself entertaining the fleeing notion that this has all been some massive mistake, and now they're going to help clear it all up.

For a moment, anyway.

But these newcomers are not them. They can't be.

The supergods of the 70's were otherworldly but comforting, somehow filling our need to believe in benevolent higher powers. They were the kind of august entities that might save the entire world with powers beyond imagining, and then take the time to gently rescue a small kitten from a tree. 

These new beings may be similarly dressed, but there's something sinister about them. Their gleaming, colored metal costumes seem so exaggerated as to be caricatures. And their smiles are so desperate for love that they seem broken -- predatory, even.

Indeed, those smiles remind him of a photo he saw of a career pedophile: a human monster who'd abused hundreds of children. His smile was wide and disarming, but somewhere between the lips and the eyes the illusion broke down, and it became not a sign of trust, but a hunter's leer.

And when one of the newcomers' leers is focused on him, he throws caution to the wind and picks his pistol back up, aiming it at the green and yellow, female thing that's languidly walking towards him.

(He doesn't seem to care that the Special beside him's cocked the gun that's aimed at his forehead.)

"Oh, you must be confused and scared," the thing says, walking closer in spite of the pistol aimed at her: "Your world has changed around you. Things are no longer what they were. You think you need to reassert control over it, but there's really no need. From this moment forward, we will take care of you."

"Who... what are you?" he asks, realizing that the pistol has only got a couple shots in it. Maybe just one.

"We are the Imago," she says as the Specials behind her start pulling Agents to their feet and roughly immobilizing them: "And we have come to save you."

"I can see that," he says: "Tell your friend to back off or I'll shoot."

She looks to the Special, who slowly takes the gun from Second's head and moves a few respectful steps back. Not fast enough for his liking, but it's a start.

"Are you in league with GORGON?" he says, figuring he knows the answer, anyway, but might as well get what intelligence he can.

"GORGON no longer exists," she says: "The caterpillar has emerged from the cocoon. A new day has dawned, (REDACTED). And you will be a part of it."

"I don't !@#$ing think so," he says, cocking his pistol at her: "Let my people go or I'll shoot."

"You misunderstand my role in things," she explains, holding her ground: "I am not in control, here. I am merely a part of the greater whole. If you shoot me, others will come in my place. And you only have so many shots in that gun."

He's about to ask her another question when he hears a cry for help from down the hall. An Agent who was badly wounded in the fight is crawling along the floor, trying to get away from the Special who's walking behind her.

(New Agent, just shuffled in from the FBI. He's admired her bright blue eyes, but hadn't caught her name, yet.)

Before he can say or do anything, a number of teleports occur in the hallway -- all of them False Faces. One appears just behind her, not far from the Special, and kneels down to take her around the head with its long, anonymous fingers.

As soon as it's touching both temples with either index finger, the Agent screams, and the two light up in a rush of strange, pulsing energy. The pulsing is equal between the two at first, but soon favors the False Face. And as Second watches the Agent's body withers, turns grey, and collapses into flakes, powder, and fragments of bone.

The False Face stands up again, its body changing to match that of the Agent it just absorbed. The horrible, exposed skull is the last to change: flickering like a television set, and then resolving with her face.

It -- now she -- looks over at Second and smiles, and the baleful, metal eyes behind the projected skin change to a beautiful blue.

"My name is Leila Winters," she says: "COMPANY Agent, tactical section. I am ready to soar."

"Are you ready to soar, (REDACTED)?" The Imago asks Second -- her smile is the genius of languid evil.

"!@#$ you," he mutters, twisting around to shoot the Special guarding him in the crotch -- blowing him into three pieces --  and then pivoting to shoot her dead-bang in the face.

The blast hits her right in the nose, but to no avail. The energy simply slides around her like water, and doesn't so much as alter her complexion, much less her expression.

"Oh, that's excellent," she says as the last wisps of what should have just taken her head off dissipate around her: "We are looking forward to adding your passion and dedication to our new world."

"Like !@#$," he shouts, scrambling to his feet and dodging around the twitching remnants of the Special. He can hear Agents screaming behind him -- absorbed into waiting False Faces -- but there's nothing he can do for them, now. His options are as slim as his gun is empty, and as he flings it behind him he hopes the !@#$ chokes on it.

However, he doesn't get five strides into his headlong flight before the Imago teleports right in front of him. He only has a moment to realize what's happened -- and be amazed by this -- before she slaps him across the face.

It would seem to any onlooker that she gave him a gentle, effortless blow. But it hits like a sledgehammer to the skull -- all but caving in the left side of his face and knocking him up against the wall.

His head lolling on a broken neck, face shattered, eyes half-popped out of their sockets, Second collapses to the floor, gasping for breath in a mouth full of blood and broken teeth.

"I am so sorry to hear how reluctant you are to join in this effort, (REDACTED)," she says, slowly advancing on him: "But you will join us. Sooner or later, one way or the other."

It's to Second's eternal credit that, even blind and broken, he still tries to get up and run. That he fails -- unable to move anything below his navel -- is no blemish upon his effort. And when a False Face teleports in beside him, and starts to kneel down to do what it came here for, he could be excused for simply giving in.

But he still has control of his arms and hands. And he still has one last weapon to use.

"No surrender," he gurgles through blood as the sexless, skull-faced creature takes his crushed, bloody head in its hands: "Not to you."

He pulls at his belt buckle and pushes it up and to the side. A light comes on in the exposed circuitry behind it. A high, shrill beeping begins.

The Imago realizes what this means, and teleports right on top of him, knocking the False Face roughly across the room to try and stop what's about to happen.

Too late.

The white phosphorous explosion rocks that section of what used to be the Flier. The quadrant is all but obliterated, killing both False Faces and Agents in mid-Embrace with a rushing wave of white heat. Stress fractures begin to appear all over the stricken aircraft as bulkheads go molten and collapse in on themselves.

Within seconds of the explosion, it seems almost assured that the insectile aircraft will burst open and fall into the city that just erupted from the Ocean. But just then, the nanostreams that reworked the ship from top to bottom kick into action, and before too long the ship is being repaired on the molecular level. Burn damage is reversed, systems are put back together again, and whatever was put out of shape is quickly molded back into place.

Before long, all that's left to mark the passing of Second is the Imago who oversaw his last moments -- clearly undamaged by the blast -- standing right by where he detonated himself. There isn't even burned smell in the air, much less a single scorch mark on the wall.

"We have failed, leader," she says: "(REDACTED) is lost to us."

No matter, says a wet, feminine voice in her head: We have the entirety of their knowledge within us, now. What we have lost with him, we will regain with others. You have done well. Carry on.

"Thank you," she says, and teleports somewhere else, hoping to make up for what she still sees as a failure somewhere along the line.

And knowing she'll have many chances to to do so in the brilliant days to come.

* * *

"I applaud your passion, Daniel Richter," the red and blue armored man is saying as the Colonel tries to get to his feet and protect the President: "You are a good man. You have done good things for your country."

"I'll show you good..." he hisses, but can't get up. The armored hands holding him down are too strong, and come just within an ounce of breaking his shoulderblades like pretzel sticks.

"You struggle for no purpose," one of the ones holding him down says: "I assure you we have no plans to harm this man."

"Tell that to his wife, you !@#$er," Myron, also held down, retorts through a smashed-up face: "How long? Huh? How long has she been dead?"

The skull-faced abomination wearing the body of the First Lady looks at him with what might be pity or regret: "I am not dead, Myron. I have been Embraced."

"You'll pardon me if I can't see the !@#$ing difference," Myron spits, his mouth and nose dribbling blood.

"I am one with Imago in flesh, spirit, and purpose. This is not death. This is something entirely different."

The President, meanwhile, doesn't know what to say. Surrounded by smiling men and women in brightly-colored armor, all of whom have made it clear that he's free to do everything but leave this saferoom, he's realized -- all too late -- that this is the end of everything he's ever known.

"You too?" he finally says to what he thought was his wife. The way she looks back at him makes him look away. 

The Red and Blue Imago kneels down and picks up the broken sunglasses that Myron had been wearing when he came into the room: "A very ingenious design," he says.

"The specs are already going out all over the internet," Myron lies: "I hope you know that. You aren't going to take us over without a fight."

"There will be no fight," the First Lady says: "You were given no opportunity. Nothing was left to chance."

"We have taken the world in our hands," another Imago says: "From this moment onward, you will be ruled."

"Like !@#$," the President says: "You're underestimating America. You're underestimating the whole !@#$ing world. We will fight you. You will you lose."

"And how will you do that?" the Red and Blue Imago asks, crushing the glasses in his gauntlet: "We control Deep Ten. Your ability to make war on us is nonexistent. Your Strategic Talents have been neutralized. Your leaders will soon sing our praises and convince their citizens that ours is the greater good."

"They will be well fed and cared for," the First Lady insists: "Occupied and content. Safe from petty tyrannies and their accompanying tortures, protected from the worst things life could offer."

"They will have the illusion of liberty," Red and Blue says: "And with just enough freedom and enfranchisement to feel as though nothing is missing, and everything is in order."

"And within one generation, they will know nothing else but what we tell them," the First Lady says: "We have won."

"Humanity is never as magnificent as when they've got an enemy to fight," the President declares, rising to his feet and looking the Red and Blue man square in the face: "And you just elected to put yourselves in the crosshairs, you stupid son of a !@#$. Good luck holding onto it-"

"Oh, we agree," the Imago says, putting his hands on the President's shoulders: "And we have given them that enemy. You."

"What?" the President stammers.

"You, Mr. President, will be the enemy of the world," he says: "Ambition's debt shall be repaid."

"I don't.... I..." the President stammers, and then winces as Red and Blue 'gently' puts him back down in his chair -- all but breaking his clavicle as he does.

"You will soon learn what we mean," Red and Blue says, looking around the room at any non-GORGON personnel that remain. 

Myron and Richter look at one another. Now would be a great moment for one or the other to pull out some kind of last-minute save, or at least find a way to take a number of them out with them. But a look in each others' eyes reveals the sad truth.

They have !@#$ing nothing. 

"I really hated working with you," Richter says to Myron: "You talk too much."

"Likewise," Myron says to Richter: "You are suck a !@#$ing dick."

And they both half-smile, expecting to be executed at any moment. But that moment never quite comes.

They just wish, later, that it had. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Eternal (Joy Division) and having a Shakespeare Stout)