10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 5

As weightless as a thought, and as peaceful as the sea, Mark Clutch follows the white, cold light down, further and further into the holy silence.

He falls for what seems like a hundred years -- maybe even a thousand -- and remembers being told that the Kingdom of Heaven is beyond the conception of time and space. He is inside the Great Mystery, here in this tunnel of shimmering white. And he can only wonder, between flashes of life and memory, when he's going to touch ground, or at least hear a voice welcoming him home.

When he finally does, it's not God, but man.

"Mark?" he hears a woman say. It's a familiar voice, accompanied by a strange feeling.

Pain -- sharp and stinging.

"Mark, please," the voice continues as the white goes away: "You gotta open your eyes. Please !@#$ing open your eyes..."

There's more pain, now. It's to his face. His cheeks. It feels like someone's slapping him.

Someone is slapping him. And he can smell things. Metal and sweat. Wood and electricity. Burning things.

Blood.

There's one more slap, and then he opens his eyes, gasping for air as though he'd just breached the water's surface. He clutches at the air and wonders where he is, and how he got here.

And then he remembers what happened back at the infirmary, and what was going to happen. But he also realizes he's not burned, and not dying.

He's in the main buffet room, up against the far wall. The giant, television-like machine that they use to travel back and forth from the real world to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 is warming up. Myron is standing by the controls, holding a very large gun and pointing it at the door. His sunglasses are gone and his face is bloody, and the look in his eyes is terrifying to see.

Winifred is in front of him, looking extremely relieved. There's a number of SPYGOD SCOUTS near her, all holding guns at the door or tending to each others' injuries. He can't see The Wall or The Fist, anywhere. And Skyspear...

There's a strange noise, like the world being ripped open. For a moment he thinks that big, brass, fire-breathing monster he was trying to fight is coming here, crashing the treehouse to pieces as he goes. But then a hole in the air opens up, close to him, and Skyspear leaps through it.

She's holding something wrapped up in a blanket. A badly-burned stump that was once a teenager's arm is poking out from under it.

"He's awake!" Winifred shouts to the woman, who places the blanket-wrapped-boy on the ground and falls to her knees, panting.

"Thanks God," she says, between breaths: "I got Thomas out of there, but I could not get his machines. Do we have anything here that can help him?"

"I'll keep him breathing," one of the Scouts says, and hustles over: "But we'll need the machines. Can you go back?"

She looks at him, and then, bowing her head, nods weakly: "Give me time. Too many short jaunts weaken me. If I go too soon I may be lost..."

"You saved me," Mark says, holding his hand towards her: "You... I thought I was dead..."

She just smiles at him, and takes his hand in hers: "Alhamdulillah"

"Alhamdulillah," he repeats, noticing for the first time how truly lovely her eyes are: "Thanks be to God."

"Where are the others?" Myron asks, taking a step away from the controls (but keeping his eyes, and the gun, aimed right at the door): "Are they still fighting it?"

"They are," Skyspear says: "The Fist and Green Man are trying to distract him. I do not know where the Wall is, but I suspect he is near."

"Are the satellites...?" Mark asks, trying to get to his feet.

"That's what's going back now," Myron says, gesturing to the six large, metal spheres in front of the machine, caught up in the flickering, bright field that's starting to dominate all the light and sound in the room: "The thing's gotta rest for five minutes after that. Then we send back Thomas and whoever's badly hurt."

"What about the monster?" Winifred asks: "Can we hold it off?"

"We'd !@#$ing better," Myron shouts to be heard over the machine's noises: "If it gets past us, and figures out how to get this thing working..."

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. In fact, Mark remembers teaching the hero that monster was masquerading as how to operate it just the other week, before the metal man lost his temper and vanished.

If Moloch gets past them, he'll have no problems operating the machine. He'll go to the Toon colony and cause mayhem, there -- maybe even stop the rockets from launching. He'll destroy their entire war effort in one blow.

He'll doom the entire world just to win.

* * *

Prentice walks up the corridor to the main communications hub, doing his best to conceal the cylinder he's brought along as a surprise.

The plan is pretty simple. He'll apologize for interrupting, of course, and then he'll explain why he's actually here. It seems there's some energy variances that they detected not too long ago (true), and they're bound to play havoc with the signal that Director Straffer's machine is going to cause (maybe). 

The cyborg will probably want to look the papers over, but he'll want to do it by the machine. While he's doing that, he'll be far enough away that Prentice can pull out the explosive and arm it, and then show that grumpy, dictatorial narcissist the true reason for his visit. 

And then, while the shock's still setting in -- and before the clanking, stumbling, metal stick man can think of something to do -- Prentice will calmly and coolly tell him why this is happening.

And, most importantly of all, why Prentice is the one doing this.

He didn't get that short straw entirely by chance. He was meant to do this. And the reasons for that meaning -- that very legitimate and pointed meaning -- have been a long time coming.

It's the stuff of epic legends, that reason. And Prentice is going to tell Straffer all about it, just before he lets the trigger go and ends himself, the cyborg, the machine the !@#$er was working on, and the whole !@#$ room. 

As he walks closer to the door, Prentice can feel the weight of destiny alighting on his shoulders. He can feel the wheels of karma turning under his feet, and the brilliant shine of justice upon his brow. 

Everything that has happened, up until now, has brought him here, to this moment, on this day. He will do what must be done, and perhaps be remembered for what others would see as a noble sacrifice, or a logical decision.

But that doesn't matter to him. It doesn't matter if no one ever remembers this, or hears of it. He doesn't mind if his name is expunged from the history books the children of Alpha Base Seven will one day write.

All that matters is that Straffer will hear the reasons for his demise at Prentice's hands. That will be obituary enough for him, and a monument to rival the Pyramids.

That will be all he's ever wanted; who would go on living after such a perfect moment?

* * *

"Oh, thank God," one of the Toons says as the satellites begin to materialize in front of the giant television.

"They're coming through!" Fred shouts into the communicator to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4: "Well done, guys! Is everything okay, over there?"

There's nothing but static as a reply. Fred looks at the Masked Leader of the Resistance for assurance or instructions, but the man shakes his head and points to the six machines coming through.

"Get them on board the rockets as soon as they're fully here," he says: "And then get the machine pad cleared, and send for a medical team. I have the feeling we may be getting casualties."

"Casualties?"

"That's what I said, son," he barks: "Do you need to be reminded of what that means?"

"No, not at all," Fred starts, never having been shouted at by this man before: "I'll call them right now."

"You do that," the man says, watching the machines wax full and solid as the Toon technicians prepare to zap them with tooninator guns -- the better to smack them into Toon rockets, which will then be turned back into real rockets just before launch.

And then, once launched, begin a wave of counter-Imago signals that will end this horrible war before it even really gets a chance to start. 

But as the technicians begin working, and the medics run down to their ready stations, the man realizes that there's something else that needs to be done, here, if they're not only going to win, but be worthy of that victory.

Something horrible that he clearly can no longer avoid.

* * *

Moloch strides from the bloody, red ruins of the infirmary, watching as blood droplets quiver in the air, trying to reform themselves into something capable of giving into gravity.

It thought it had seen everything, more or less, but what just happened in that room defied all explanation. If it were not what and who it were, it might be toppled over, laughing itself to pieces at the thought. But it has no time for such things.

Not now that the end of the game is so tantalizingly near.

What happened was no less than the answer to an age-old question: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? It never had a good reply to that conundrum, but now it does.

Those two things explode -- taking out the rest of one's adversaries if one is very lucky, or a god. 

Moloch could not have coordinated the events any better. No sooner had it been denied the right to burn Mark Clutch from the face of this world, thanks to that Skyspear woman and her abilities, than it was attacked by the Fist. And while a single punch from her might not have been enough to destroy Moloch's mighty body, it was enough to cause some significant structural damage, and send it sprawling across the floor.

But it was not a clean hit. Moloch's body was incredibly hot, and whatever gifts the Fist may have been given at birth, withstanding high temperatures was clearly not amongst them. She got in three good hits, and then backed away from the fight, screaming at the smoking, melted ruin that were her hands.

Green Man had said some angry things at her, then, but his own attacks -- however embarrassingly precise -- were nowhere near as effective as hers. Moloch got to its feet quickly, hurling fireballs at the two of them, and the Green Man had entered into combat with it, again -- parrying all its blows and leaping out of the way from its fire, but unable to actually hurt its metal skin, or kill the human hero who'd been providing it with fire. 

But the human's attacks had not been entirely ineffective. In fact, they kept Moloch from seeing that its objective -- that broken boy, Thomas -- was being snatched from its clutches by the same hero who had gotten Mark out of the way of its fire. And by the time it noticed what had happened, it was too late to stop Skyspear from taking him.

It was not, however, too late to lash out in rage, and knock the maimed Fist off her feet, and towards the door.

Which is where she ran right into the Wall, who was coming in to aid his friends.

The Wall's power was well-known: he simply could not be moved, and any who tried to move him would have their energy rebounded upon them. The Fist, on the other hand, could not be stood against, as even the slightest flick of her finger could send someone flying across the room.

In idle moments, the two would often joke about what might happen if she punched him, or he bumped into her. They often liked to say that their abilities would just cancel each others' out, but they never dared to test it.

A wise decision, as it turned out. When they hit each other, in that way, their powers multiplied and broke against one another. And the force of the resulting explosion all but leveled the infirmary -- blowing out its walls and windows, and causing that part of the building to crack, break, and warp.

When Moloch got back to its feet, there was nothing left of the Wall and the Fist but blood, and a strange, quavering, red mist that could not fully resolve itself into being liquid. There was no sight of the Green Man, either, so Moloch assumed that its boastful harrier must have been destroyed by the blast as well.

And so did Moloch -- now wiser, and facing fewer adversaries than before -- begin to make its way to the room where the machine stood. No doubt Skyspear took the broken boy there, and it would need the great machine to communicate with the real world, and SPYGOD.

The plan would work. Moloch would push through and persevere. And if the pieces weren't coming together the way Moloch had intended, that was merely a complication, and not a barrier.

For what right did errant circumstances have to tell a just god "no"?

* * *

"Well, I do appreciate your bringing these things to my attention, Prentice," Director Straffer says, looking at the readouts the man's handed him and scratching the back of his maimed neck: "Lousy timing, though. I just got the signal from Earth. The satellites are on the rockets and we're just about to launch."

"Well, I got them here as quick as I could, sir," Prentice says: "I'm sorry if it wasn't fast enough."

"I'll fix it," Straffer says, hobbling his spindly, metal legs towards his machine: "And under the circumstances, I'll even overlook the fact that you didn't care to knock."

"Well, I had to press the issue at the door, sir," he replies, smiling just a little at the thought: "You instructed Carlson a little too well."

"Well, I'm told I have that effect on people," the cyborg says, winking, and then turning to fiddle with the massive device he's slapped onto the side of the main communications hub: "So, if the Van Allen belts are up, it might distort the signal enough to be worthless. So should I boost the signal, or try to widen it out to compensate for that?"

"I'm afraid that radio engineering isn't my specialty, sir," Prentice says, getting ready to pull out the weapon and have his say.

"Ah. Well, why don't you see if you can get Carlson in here?" Straffer says, turning his back on the assassin: "This was his baby, after all. He should have a better idea."

Prentice blinks, flabbergasted. Does this man really have no idea that he's come to kill him? Is he that dense?

"I'll go and ask," he says, turning to head back to the airlock, the plan changing with each step. 

"You could, but I think that'd be kind of difficult." 

"What do you mean, sir?" Prentice asks, turning around.

"I mean that I can smell his blood on you," Straffer says, most pointedly not turning around.

"I don't know what you mean, sir-"

"I can also see the cylinder you've been trying to hide under your arm this whole time."

"Sir?"

"You're not very good at this, are you?" the Director says, finally turning around and looking at him: "If you were, you'd have just detonated that thing the moment you got close enough to hand me the papers."

"Maybe not," Prentice says, no longer caring to hide the object in question. Instead he brings it out and holds it up, his other hand on the trigger: "I think I wanted to tell you why, first."

"I really don't think I care," Straffer says, stepping between the bomb and the machine he's been working on: "But you need to understand, and you need to get this !@#$ quick, Prentice, because we don't have time."

"No, it's you who need to listen-"

"If you destroy this, Earth is doomed. The Imago are-"

"Oh I am so sick and !@#$ing tired of hearing about the Imago!" Prentice shouts, holding the bomb aloft like it was a rock, or a knife: "Who cares about them? We are alive, here! We live! And you're trying to get us all killed!"

"I'm trying to save you, you !@#$ idiot!" Straffer shouts: "I'm trying to save the world!"

"By killing us!"

"Do you even know what's coming? Do you know why the Imago are building a spaceship in Earth's orbit? There's something worse than them on the way, Prentice."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not lying. It's coming-"

"Shut up!"

"It's coming here, Prentice. It's a million times worse-"

"Shut up!" 

"And if we don't stop them, we won't be able to defend ourselves, and that thing will walk all over us-"

"Shut up shut up I was going to tell you everything-

"And when it's done with Earth what do you think it'll do to the Moon? You will not survive it, Prentice-"

"I was going to tell you why I was going to do this and you ruined it! You ruined it!"

"Your only hope is that machine! Put the bomb down-"

"You ruined it!" Prentice shouts, letting go of the switch: "You ruined it..."

Straffer shouts and tries to knock the cylinder from Prentice's hands. Prentice narrowly avoids the attack by the stumbling, stick-figure of a man, but trips over a pile of scrap parts and goes sprawling. The bomb bounces out of his hands and across the floor, over by the wall with a brilliant view of the Earth.

And when the device goes off, it's all Prentice can do to not scream in rage and frustration. 

So close. So close and yet so far.

* * *

Without warning, six holes open up in the surface of the desert sands. Within seconds, six large rockets fly out of them, streaking towards the clouds, and then the dark blue sky beyond, and then the black beyond that. 

And victory, hopefully.

In a fantastic treehouse on a parallel world, a young man who's too smart for his own good, and too aware of the timing involved, assumes a proper firing stance. He raises a gun that's just a little large for him, and starts firing down the dark, wooden corridors at a flaming, metal monster that's heading his way. He knows he can't really hurt it, with this gun, but he hopes to slow it down, any way he can.

And lord knows -- hope's gotten him this far. 

In the secret underground of a colony of living cartoons, an old man switches one disguise for another. He does this knowing that this may well be the moment he's been left here to attend. If so, he's going to go out fighting the way he began, all those decades ago.

And he can only hope the fight will succeed, and that he'll be able to come back to see if the plan worked.

And on the Moon, in a chamber that had been securely filled with air, warmth, and gravity just a few seconds ago, a severely-damaged man-machine hybrid hangs on for what's left of his life, and knows that his part in the plan is finished. The device he'd been lovingly tending for the past few months is gone -- a pile of broken wreckage -- and with its passing also dies any hopes of ending this invasion with less bloodshed than it started with. 

He'd curse if he could hear himself do it. He'd pray if he believed. And he'd kick the spattered pieces of the pathetic man who tried to kill him if his legs were just a little longer.

But all he can really do is feel shame and anger at how stupidly this all came apart, and, hopefully, use that anger to fuel his next, critical moves. 

And force himself to do the one thing he really did not want to do, ever, but now may have no choice left.

(SPYGOD is listening to It Doesn't Matter Two (Depeche Mode) and having a Blue Moon Blackberry Tart Ale)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 4

"You know," the blue-haired young man says, lighting up a cigarette as he watches his tank-like ally attack the enemy: "I never really liked taking orders."

"Well, you're going to !@#$ing love this one, son," the angry voice in his ear shouts: "Do not destroy that cube. Not until I !@#$ing tell you."

"You want I should go catch some waves?" Mister Chaos asks, gesturing to the nearby, Hawaiian shore: "I mean, I'm clearly not needed here-"

"You have no !@#$ idea how !@#$ing badly they need you there, son. So !@#$ing stay there. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Mister Chaos snorts, very glad to hear SPYGOD hang up on the other end.

(Is this really the person the others were waiting for, and that his late father spoke so highly of? So far all he's done is bark orders that essentially come down to "one step at a time." Hardly a good strategy, now that they've got the enemy on the run.)

"What'd he say?" the hero known as Brightstarsurfergirl asks, her ruby board floating above the ground on a wave of silvery water it generates itself.

"He said not to attack the !@#$ thing, yet," Chaos says, taking off his black, leather jacket and putting on a pair of fingerless gloves: "Didn't say anything about the Specials, though."

"I think Ironface has them."

"I think he needs help," he replies, looking at her: "You aren't just going to let him have all the !@#$ fun, are you?"

She smiles, nods, and pilots her board off to the area in front of the cube, where the massive, metal hero they've partnered up with is literally picking up Specials by the handful and flinging them around. The ruby board barrels down on the Imago's shocktroops -- deflecting their weapons fire and knocking them down like errant waves.

A good start, but the Specials are being teleported in by the dozens; they're going to need help. 

So Chaos puts on his headphones, cranks up some early 80's punk, and closes his eyes, waiting for the dangerous feelings to come back. He focuses on this location (Waimea, Kauai, Hawaii), sees himself in his mind's eye, and then watches as his body distorts itself -- going in and out as though he were film being twisted in a projector.

The grass around him wilts, rises, and turns an orange hue. The wind becomes dirt and insects. The space behind him is no longer a pleasant, October surf, but a strange landscape that could have come from a surrealist painting.

And the look in his eyes could kill a God dead from fear. 

"!@#$ time yeah party" Chaos says, striding down to where his allies are battling. As approaches, the two heroes he was partnered with wisely get out of his way, and leap for cover. The Specials try to pursue, but soon whirl about to deal with the strange newcomer their previous combatants fled.

And his very presence makes the heavily-armored beings change to fit the strange, new world around them.

By the time he's done, his allies can only marvel at what was once a formidable group of enemy soldiers. Now there's nothing left of them but a mewling puddle of bubbling, white marshmallow goo. Smoldering sticks and bars of poisoned chocolate float in the spongy stuff, and an occasional clutching hand or silently screaming face tries to break the surface, only to be dragged back down seconds later.

"So what are we supposed to do now?" Ironface rumbles, stepping well clear of their leader's handiwork.

"We orders I disobey say..." Mister Chaos hisses, his misshapen face cycling through colors no one has a name for: "Inside see what's that !@#$ cube let's..."

And the others, not wanting to argue with a walking impossibility, do as they're told.

* * *

His name was Lonnie Carlson. He always obeyed orders. And now he was dying.

Carlson had been 34 when he'd been sent to Alpha Base Seven. His primary specialty had been communications repair, with a secondary of zero-G construction. He was supposed to study under the person he was going to replace, and then have a three year tour of duty, officially starting the day his predecessor got back on the shuttle for Earth.

That never quite happened. Three days after his arrival, 3/15 happened, and the base was shattered by particle cannon fire from Deep Ten. He'd been lucky enough to have been repairing communications lines underground when it happened, which meant he'd missed the massive, rolling decompressions, and the horrible decision to sacrifice half of what little remained in order to ensure that what few key areas remained could have a better chance of survival. 

When he crawled up out of the wreckage, a day later, he learned that his Commander was dead, his predecessor was missing in action, and the Chief Engineer -- Barbara Martin -- was now in charge. He also learned that they had effectively given up all hope of rescue or escape, and were, instead, going to make as much of a go of living through the disaster as they could. 

Carlson would not be repairing any communicators, because they would not be using the communications array for fear of being detected. He also would not be doing any zero-G construction, as they didn't dare rebuild what had been destroyed for fear of being spotted.

But he was young, strong, and knew a few interesting Krav Maga moves. So they made him a security officer, and assigned him to guard sensitive places -- mostly to make sure no one raided their dwindling food supplies, or tried to take the one, last lifeboat out of the base and aim it at Earth.

He didn't like it, but he obeyed orders. It's one thing he'd always been good at. 

And now it was killing him.

Not that he could blame someone for wanting to disobey the clanking, grouchy cyborg. Ever since he'd banged on their outer hatch and taken the base over, claiming to have a way to deal with Deep Ten, no one with any sense had really liked the situation. A large number of the survivors agreed with his reasoning, sure, but no one liked what he'd asked of the base, or the way he'd "asked."

Still, orders were orders. Director Straffer outranked Acting Commander Martin by a factor of five, and had to be obeyed -- especially in a massive emergency like this. And anyone who got out of line with him was looking at the mother of all court martials when they got back to Earth. 

(If they got back, as many pointed out.)

So here Carlson was, standing guard outside the walkway leading to the communications array he was supposed to be running, and making sure that no one else went in there. If someone brought supplies, he took them, inspected them, and brought them in, himself. When someone brought the borg's feeding tubes, he checked them over and took them to him. 

The only time he let anyone in was when Commander Martin stopped in, from time to time, and even that was hardly anything that Straffer wanted. In fact, the last time she came in, the cyborg had given Carlson quite a tongue-lashing for letting her through, and ordered him that, under no circumstances was anyone else to come in, ever, until the device he was building had been fired.

Which is why, when Prentice came up and said he had to deliver a set of parts in person, Carlson said no. That's also why, when he said he'd take the parts in himself, he got rather agitated when Prentice refused to hand them over, claiming that Straffer had expressly told him to deliver them in person. But, at the same time, he couldn't help but sympathize with Prentice's apparently no-win situation, and offered to go in and check for sure.

And that's why he's dying, now. The moment he turned to operate the door, he got a chop to the neck and a knife in the kidneys. And now, too weak to call for help, in a section no one comes through anymore, he's bleeding out.

(The worst thing? Prentice didn't say anything to him -- not a word of explanation. He just took his key card, swiped it, and stepped over him like he was a piece of debris, or something.)

He was just following orders, Carlson thinks as things go dim. Why do things like this always happen to people who just do what they're told?

* * *

 "Just stay here, he says," Mrs. Liberty sighs, adjusting the massive gun she's been using to mow down the Specials as they teleport in: "Don't go anywhere, he says. I might need you elsewhere, he says."

"Don't !@#$ing remind me," Liberty Belle snorts, getting ready to scream her lungs out, again: "I've seen better plans written on the walls of public restrooms."

"All you American women ever do is complain," their Indian ally says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms: "You need a proper husband, the two of you."

The two women look at him, then look at each other, and laugh. The man sighs and, putting up his hands, gets ready to rush back into battle. 

And as soon as he's gone, for some weird reason neither Liberty Belle nor Mrs. Liberty have any idea who they were talking to, or that they even had a third partner with them. 

But stranger things have happened in battle, one supposes.

* * *

His name was Nathan P Yellow. I didn't like him. And now I've just watched him die.

Nathan was a reporter for a FOX News affiliate based out of Scranton. Every so often I'd see him in Neo York City, covering some protest or counter-cultural event. He had a way of finding the smallest fault in anything, magnifying it a hundred times, and making it seem as though that fault was the overriding feature of that thing. 

And, seeing as how he liked to do this to protests and counter-cultural events, his conservative paymasters loved him for it.

In fact, now that I'm looking at his dead body, I'm remembering a talk we had, once. I covered a protest for Alternet, and we met at a bar, afterwards. And I remember listening to him explain, in excellent detail (off the record, of course) just how he used all these deceptive tricks of editing and camera angles to transform someone we'd both interviewed. But where I edited for clarity, he'd turned her reasonable-sounding interview into the most horrible, anti-American, god-hating screed that anyone could have ever hoped to hear come from a liberal's mouth.

I looked at him as he smiled at me and sipped his scotch, and I asked "How can you justify that !@#$?"

And he said "We all see what we want to see. I just make sure that everyone sees what I do. And if you're honest? You'll admit you do pretty much the same thing."

Obviously, I disagreed, then. I still do. But he had something approaching a point, and I took it to heart, which is why I didn't throw my own drink in his face and go talk to someone else. 

(That and the bar owner looked like he ate people who fought in his establishment. That part of town was, and still is, pretty !@#$ scary after dark.)

Nathan's attitude got him pretty far in the FOX noise machine. A couple years later he was a regular on Hannity and FOX and Friends, telling people what he wanted them to hear. There was even talk, behind the scenes, that he might get his own show, one day. 

But then 3/15 happened, and the Imago took over, and he went from being a FOX News correspondent to being a roving reporter for the Imago, themselves. And for the last few months, whenever the Imago have gotten out and said and done their mighty !@#$ things, he's been right there on the net to tell us what a great bunch of swell people they were.

I can pretty much figure out why they picked him, given his talents, but I have no idea what they told him. I like to think that, brainwashed by their !@#$ internet programming, he was mindsmashed into thinking he was doing the right thing. I like to think that he was a victim of their endless parade of brain-bombing bull!@#%, and not some little Eichmann, happy to lie to hide the Holocaust.

I like to think he had something of a soul. And maybe the fact that he's dead, here, proves it.

All I know for certain is that, outside the protective barrier of Neo York City, the world is coming apart. Men and women, emboldened by the President's speech, are ignoring his warnings and taking matters into their own hands. They are smashing the internet screens in case they come back on again. They are setting buildings on fire and grabbing anything that could be used as a weapon.

And when the Specials showed up, and started shooting at them, they turned into angry mobs and charged, all too eager to test the idea that even a well-armed and homicidal bunch of riot cops cannot stop the will of an angry people.

I watched this happen. I provided some cover fire, too. And as I saw the crowds surging and breaking against the waves of gunfire, before finally breaking it down with the weight of their bodies, I saw Nathan Yellow down there, screaming and hating and fighting along with the rest of them.

That was an hour ago. The mob has gone down to the other end of town. No one is here but the dead and the dying and those who are tending to them. 

Nathan P. Yellow was a horrible journalist, and may not have been a great human being. But in the end, realizing what he'd been doing for the last few months, he grabbed a lead pipe, went into the burning streets of the city, and went after the tools of the things that had turned him into a tool. And in that moment he was no longer a tool, or a slave.

Just another victim of a regime that's created too many. But at least we can say that he died free, and clean, and doing the right thing.

I forgave him a long time ago. Maybe now I can learn to like him.

-- Randolph Scott, Scranton, New Jersey, 10/15/12

* * *

"I said, where the !@#$ing !@#$ are my !@#$ing satellites?" SPYGOD rages at B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P.4. 

All he gets is hissing in response. And in that moment he begins to understand that something may just have gone terribly wrong. So he raises the Toon colony, instead.

"Hey, can you send someone over to the treehouse?" he asks: "I think there's a !@#$ing problem on that end, or something."

And the person he talks to says they haven't been able to raise them, either. And no one has any idea what the heck is going on. And they're trying to fire up the machine and send someone over, but they're not having any luck, either.

This sends SPYGOD headfirst into a rich vein of horrendous new curses, none of which help anything, and only succeed in scaring the person he's talking to (and making his cat hide).

And as he rages and howls, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to start this war without the satellites in hand, the masked leader of the resistance lurks nearby, crying under his cowl.

Because he knows exactly what's happening, over in that fantastic treehouse.

And he knows he can't do anything to stop it now. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Dressed in Black (Depeche Mode) and having a Golden Chaos)

10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 4

10/10/12

In an undisclosed location, a young man comes into his darkened workroom, bringing a cup of morning coffee with him. The mug says EVIL GENIUS.

He sits at his cluttered desk, and wakes up his computer. Once it pops into life it gives him all the information he'd told it to watch for, and he smiles at what it tells him.

His phone rings, and he answers it: "Yes? ... Yes. I think we are. ... I'm pretty sure. I'll get in touch with her and see, but I think she's taken what I said to heart. 

"Okay, good to know. Let them know I'm ready when they are-

"Oh, that quickly? Well !@#$, Ben. I'm impressed.

"Okay, will do. You can count on me...

"Yes, I do know what you said about hanging separately. No worries, here. I'm all in.

"You too. Talk to you soon, old man."

He puts the phone down and smiles.  His eyes glow purple as he sips his coffee, and violet sparks jump from his teeth to the cup.

"Let's go change the world," he says to himself. 

* * *

"... still reeling from the events of yesterday afternoon. We're not entirely sure what's happening inside Neo York City, today, Wolf, but one thing's for sure. Something just changed, here and now. And the world we thought we knew has been turned upside down."

"What do you mean, Bob? Can you at least tell us what's happening where you are?"

"I can. I'm by what's left of the west end of the Queensboro Bridge. It's... well, as you can see behind me, it's a mess."

"You mean the Ed Koch Bridge, Bob?"

"Well, Wolf, no one here calls it that. It's Queensboro to the people who used it every day to get back and forth from Queens to Manhattan. And now it's a mess of twisted metal and broken concrete. Dozens of civilians dead, hundreds wounded."

"And you're saying this was done by the Specials? The rapid response troops the Imago have been using as security worldwide?"

"That's correct, Wolf. There was a massive car chase, all the way up 25 from the Eastern outskirts of Queens. A lot of armed men who have been identified by the police as being suspected of Mafia involvement were chasing a white van, shooting and trying to run it off the road. It got as far as the west end before coming to a halt, and then they got out of their cars and started shooting at it-"

"Right, and we have some amateur footage of that. A commuter named Ed Jones was kind enough to film it on his phone and post it to his youtube account. This footage you're seeing has not been retouched, and, Bob, I'm presuming you can see this, too?"

"Yes I am. Now, what you're seeing is all these armed men firing at a white van. We're told by the authorities that these men chased it all the way from Queens because they were after the masked vigilante known as The Black Card-"

"Okay, and that's the body they found at the scene, right?"

"Well, Wolf, that's going to be hard to say, for reasons you'll see soon enough. But he had an accomplice, and that's the woman you can see in this film, shooting back at the men."

"Do we know who she is?"

"No we do not. As you can see in the film, she throws a smoke grenade, right about here, and then high-tails it down the bridge. About five seconds later the van catches fire. The police are saying it was an incendiary device, which is what's made it hard to really identify the Black Card, if that was indeed him."

"And then... well, they take off after her, and then we see the Specials teleport in. There's a lot of scared people in cars, and they're trying to get out of their way, and... what are we seeing, Bob? Is that what we think it is?"

"It is, Wolf. The Specials marched across the bridge and turned it into a giant kill zone. They shot everything moving. The suspected mobsters, the people in their cars, everything. And they kept marching and firing, chasing after the female accomplice as she ran to the other side of the bridge."

"Okay, and you can actually hear people screaming and crying for them to stop. I think that Mr. Jones is screaming for them to stop."

"He is, yes. And then this happens."

"That's Bronze and Blue, right? One of the Imago from New York State, right?"

"Yes, it is. He looks right at Ed, and you can hear Ed screaming at him to stop them. To just stop them from killing any more people. And then there's that flash of light from the eyes of the Imago, and we hear Ed scream. Then the camera's falling down, and looking up..."

"And then that boot, coming down on it."

"That's right, Wolf. We just saw an Imago execute an American citizen without trial, right on the spot, for filming their Specials killing civilians while trying to quell an armed riot."

"Alright, so, as difficult as it is to process that, and just setting the reality of what this means aside, what happens next? You've been talking to people who were watching at the time, and people who are there, now?"

"Well, the Specials didn't stop, Wolf. They kept marching across the bridge, firing and firing. And then they chased her down the off-ramp. But the moment they actually got onto the ground, something happened. People who were there said it was like the first few times the city woke up, and the people who were there were all snatched up by force fields and moved out of harm's way. Only the Specials were all picked up and flung right out of the city, just like the planes that one time those terrorists tried to fly planes into them, back in 2001, and the last time the city was attacked, last year."

"And has it done that before?"

"Not that anyone knows. And it didn't just hurl those Specials out, Wolf. The reports I'm getting say that all of the ones in the city were tossed out. And any that have tried to teleport in since then have been flung right out again."

"What about the Imago?"

"The same, Wolf. They're not even on the ground a second before they're up and flying away."

"And what's going on in the city? Are there riots? Crimes of opportunity?"

"No, Wolf. No one's doing anything violent, at least as far as we can tell. There's a makeshift memorial for the people who were killed and a lot of people are there, putting down flowers and wreaths. The police have called for calm and order, and I think the mayor is going to make a public statement sometime today."

"Now, I did hear something that sounded a little weird. There are apparently reports of street people setting up portable televisions in public places, all over?"

"That's true, Wolf. In fact, I even saw one. I asked him what he was doing and he just smiled at me and said 'turn on, tune in, drop out.'"

"Well, that's a blast from the past. But I thought televisions weren't working any longer, Bob?"

"I thought so, too. But there's something being broadcast on them. I'm just not sure what, yet."

"And what about that woman who was being chased by the Specials? Do we have any news on her? Is she still alive, or...?"

"That's another unanswered question, Wolf. Eyewitnesses say that she was wounded but still running when the Specials were being flung away. No one's seen her since. We have no idea who she was, but we figure that the whole world saw her on that video. It's only a matter of time before her identity is made known."

"Alright. Thank you, Bob. We're going to go back to the Situation Room, here, for a moment..."

* * *

They say that Japan is as close as you can get to being off the planet without actually leaving it. If that's true, then the world-famous Harajuku district, in Tokyo, must be the launching pad.

The real blastoff doesn't happen until Sunday, when every grey-faced wage slave with a few Yen to scrape together for a cool costume will be down at the park, pretending to be something they're not. But until then, there's always the crazy fashion shops and unique boutiques, selling their wares to the dedicated and curious alike.

And there's also the bars and cafes, each dedicated to a different subsect: bars where everyone dresses like anime characters, coffee houses for "blackface" players, rockabilly diners -- anything you could imagine. There's even a bar that caters to people who like to dress up like the Imago, though the clientele are being a little circumspect, today.

Which is why it's not so outrageous to find a SPYGOD PLACE, here, in spite of everything that's happened in the last year.

It's a dark, 50's-style bar, serving drinks and food they stole from the menu of the nearest rockabilly establishment. It's full of posters of SPYGOD, the COMPANY, the Liberty Patrol, and the Freedom Force in action, and features fairly decent replicas of their costumes up on the walls, and special gadgets and weapons under glass behind the bar. The staff dress like COMPANY Agents from the 50's, and the clientele dress as Strategic Talents, supervillains, science terrorists, famous enemy agents, and the like.

(Their number one selling t-shirt has a freeze frame of SPYGOD shooting the President, with the phrase GET YOU THE HOT BULLETS TO DIE!!! on it. Available in white, black, and pink; sizes S, M, L.)

Tonight, the bar is quite packed. There's a party going on at one of the central tables, and the normal customers are quite in awe of how good their costumes are. If they didn't know any better, they'd swear that SPYGOD, himself, was sitting at the table, along with the President he shot. But that's just impossible, surely.

(Conversely, they have no idea who the other people at the table are. Two Indians, some scruffy-dressed big guy with a large beard, a black man in a nice suit, and some insane-looking old, white guy in weird prescription eyeglasses? It must be some international group from a nearby university, out for a drink or something.)

"You always take us to the nicest places, SPYGOD," Mikhail grunts, downing what must be his third bloody mary: "Are you certain we are safe here?"

"Safe as !@#$ing houses," SPYGOD replies, knocking down a beer and gesturing to the server to set everyone up again: "Everyone here just thinks we're !@#$ing re-enactors. And that big !@#$ black box in the center of the table's scrambling our conversations and turning them into Japanese conversation. So far as anyone outside the table knows, we're talking !@#$ about our professors."

"Clever," Khalil says, wishing he could remember what he needed to tell SPYGOD: "Is that one of your devices, then?"

"It's courtesy of our friends at Ju Kikan," the President says: "And before anyone asks -- no, they will not be joining us, tonight. They're willing to do a deal with us, but I think they're not sure about you all, yet."

"Feh," Dosha Josh says: "It's not unusual. The leader of Ku Kikan hardly ever came to our little meetings, either. I don't think he trusted us. Not completely."

"The infamous Mister 9," Mikhail says, raising his empty glass to his memory: "The Tsar is dead. Long live the Tsar."

"So what are you wanting to talk to us about, then?" Dr. Krwi asks, regarding his straw-wrapped bottle of barenjager: "Is there something we can do for you?"

"Yes, there is," the President says, looking at each man in turn: "SPYGOD tells me that each of you is still in touch with what's left of your countries' real governments. And that some of them are in touch with what's left of their allies. I'm going to want to talk to them, fairly soon, about what we're going to do once the Imago are done."

The men all fall silent, look at one another, and then look back at him.

"You have to be joking," Dosha says: "With all respect, sir... do you have any idea how far underground they are right now? I'm barely in contact-"

"No one in Poland is worth a !@#$," Krwi sighs: "Worse than the Communists at this point."

"I'm not even going to get into how bad things are in my country," Khalil sighs. 

"And as for Russia, well..." Mikhail says, casting a look in SPYGOD's direction: "We still do not have a full understanding of what has happened there."

"Neither do I, come to think of it," the President says, giving SPYGOD a look.

"Look, you all !@#$ing knew it was coming around," SPYGOD says, getting his beer and smiling at the ersatz Agent who gives it to him: "And after everything we've learned and done, recently, it's got to be sooner rather than later. !@#$, it's starting now, in case you didn't see the news from Neo York City. And right now, we're the ones who are spearheading this !@#$ing thing."

"Which 'we' do you mean?" Dr. Krwi asks: "We at this table? We and our countries?"

"He means we, as in America," the President says, pointing to the two of them. 

"It is always nice to know the Americans are in charge," Khalil sighs.

"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "And do you know why we're in charge? Because we're the ones who are !@#$ing getting !@#$ done. Always have been, in case you didn't !@#$ing notice. You all are too busy !@#$ing arguing and debating, and by the time you've got a !@#$ idea hammered out we've already beaten back the !@#$ thing and taken its skull. And then you complain our troops are getting fresh with your hookers-"

"I might just be leaving, now," Dosha says, gesturing to Anil, who nods and makes ready to teleport them out of there.

"That's not the point, here, Dosha," the President says, leaning forward and raising a hand: "We don't want this to be unilateral. We want this to be a group effort. It has to be. If we take the point on this, we might win the war, but we're going to screw up the peace and the reconstruction really badly. Especially if we have to do some of the things we may have to do."

"Such as what?" Dr. Krwi asks.

"I think you know," SPYGOD says, having a pull on his beer. 

Dr. Krwi looks at the President, and then SPYGOD. Then he puts down his drink, and crosses himself. The others look at him funny, but no one cares to elaborate.

"So are we all gonna share the !@#$ responsibility, risk, and reward on this, or are you all gonna make !@#$ing excuses about not being able to find your leaders and their friends, and then complain that America !@#$ed it up, again?" SPYGOD asks: "Because I don't have the !@#$ time to hear excuses, gentlemen. We're !@#$ing meeting with Mister 10 tomorrow. We're !@#$ing putting the final big !@#$ plan into action not long thereafter.

"And when it goes off, we're gonna need everyone on board for what happens next."

"Especially after you do what you're going to do," Dr. Krwi says.

"What I might have to do," SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "I'm hoping we can !@#$ing circumvent that."

"Does someone want to say what this something is?" Mikhail asks.

"Not really, no," the President says, looking at SPYGOD: "If we're lucky, it won't come to that."

"My people swear they can knock them out without having to do it," SPYGOD says: "But there is something we are going to have to do, gentlemen. And it's a doozy."

He holds up a piece of paper and shows the whole group. Dr. Krwi puzzles over it and shrugs. Everyone else's jaws drop to the table.

"You would not," Mikhail says.

"I did not think it existed," Khalil says: "I thought it was only a myth..."

"It is no myth," Dosha says: "it is very real. And if you press it-"

"When I press it," the President says: "It will deprive the enemy of their greatest asset on this planet. It will give the people their freedom and their minds back."

"And it will set this planet back decades," Mikhail sighs: "Mister President, there must be another way."

"Then talk to your leaders, tell them what we're up against, and ask them to find another solution," the President says, taking the paper from SPYGOD and thumping it down on the table: "Because from where I'm sitting? It's an unavoidable casualty of war."

And then there is silence at the table in the SPYGOD PLACE.

* * *

Ladies and gentlemen of the world, your attention please.

I am a man of few words, and so I shall keep this message short and to the point.

You may not remember me, though I am something of a legend amongst certain circles. 

But from here on out, when you hear the name Doctor Kyklops, I hope it will be held in the highest of esteem.

The reason for this is simple. I am about to conquer the world.

Now, I am certain you may be asking yourselves "What of the Imago? Do they not now rule?"

And you would be right to ask that. 

But I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: "What of the Imago?"

Oh, they may seem scary. They may have the numbers and the power. They have have taken control of certain key services and the like.

But I? I have decades of experience in this sort of thing, whereas they only just arrived.

I also possess an army the likes of which they have never seen, nor ever reckoned with.

And finally? I have the iron will necessary to do this. The will to take on the entire world.

The will to power.

Before that, their might is nothing.

And so begins the war. 

As you hear these words, my army is flying towards their space elevator, and will tear it from the ground and fling it at them. All who stand before them shall be crushed. All who stand with the Imago will die.

Your best chance to survive is to stay inside. You have my word that no one who submits will be harmed in the slightest. 

My rule will be fair but firm... but we can speak of this when victory is mine.

For now, stay indoors, and pray to what gods you call yours. Today is the war. Tomorrow, the victory. 

And after that, the world is mine.

(SPYGOD is listening to SEQ666 P.U.L.S.E. (Front 242) and having a Scorpion Death Rock)

10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 1

10/4/12

"... as you can see from this aerial camera, the damage to the center of Yekaterinburg is quite substantial. Almost the entire area has become one massive crater. They're still unsure of how many people have died in this attack, but the authorities are estimating the number to be in the thousands."

"And we're certain this was an attack, Josephina?"

"That is what the Imago are saying, yes. It is the exact same kind of weapon that was used in the attack on Los Angeles. It is a large thermal bomb that super-heats a column of air, and that column incinerates everything within its blast radius."

"That's a terrifying weapon."

"Is it, yes. Thankfully, it's not very easily transported, and takes some time to set up. But these are being made by very ruthless people. And we're getting reports that the Imago are going to announce that they suspect it's the same organization that destroyed the trans-siberian express at the Yekaterinburg station few days before."

"Do we know what they want? Why would they do this to Yekaterinburg, of all places? Why not Moscow or St. Petersburg?"

"We're still not sure. There is some speculation that they may have been moving the bomb to one of those places and it went off prematurely. Either that or maybe the train being destroyed was not meant to be part of the plan and they had to improvise. We really do not have a lot to go on at this time."

"Thank you. That was Josephina Medev for CNN online, bringing us the latest news from Russia, which joins America and China in solidarity, today. In case you're just tuning in, the center of the city of Yekaterinburg was obliterated by a large, very technically sophisticated bomb, right after a smaller bomb went off in an assassination attempt on the General Secretary of China. Wen Boxiong was on his way to work when the assassins struck, but thankfully the Imago were nearby and shielded him from the blast..."

10/5/12

VIOLET DEMON: *hugs* How are you, my lovely metal revolutionary?

SCARLET FACTOTUM: !@#$ty. Totally !@$#ty.

VIOLET DEMON:  Oh? *hugs tighter* What's the problem? Been watching the news?

SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes, but that is not the problem. However, I can only wonder how many more times the Imago can destroy a city before the flesh-germs they rule realize that it's not terrorists after all.

VIOLET DEMON: That is an excellent question. Maybe we should find out.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: Maybe we should. I am in a mood to see the cities burn, one by one.

VIOLET DEMON: Well, !@#$, darling. What is the problem?

SCARLET FACTOTUM: The fleshbag is an idiot. That's what's the problem is

VIOLET DEMON: You mean Doctor Kyklops?

SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes. That dirty, filthy, wrinkled bag of flesh is worthless. Utterly worthless.

VIOLET DEMON: I know. I was really surprised about what you said. All this time I'd thought he was quite the worldbeater, in his own way. But I guess that's what happens when you only see him from afar. 

SCARLET FACTOTUM: His inventive skills have atrophied. He only uses them to build bizarre devices to better facilitate sexual congress. 

VIOLET DEMON: Well, there's something to be said for having a hobby.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: This is not merely a hobby. It is an obsession. He spends his days making the Slaughterbots I have given him march around his castle and prepare for a battle he has not even begun to plan. And at night, he uses me like a toy and talks of the great things we will soon do, but does not wish to commit to a plan.

VIOLET DEMON: Does he not think you are capable of helping with that?

SCARLET FACTOTUM: Admittedly, he still thinks I am merely a liaison with the company. But I have told him that if he tells me his plans, I can help him with appropriate purchasing. And he will not engage.

VIOLET DEMON: And I bet he gets testy when you ask him what's on his mind?

SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes, he does. How do you know this? 

VIOLET DEMON: Well, see, that's the key, here. You said that he spends most of his time building things so he can have an easier time !@#$ing. So he's put a lot of emphasis into that. And that, to me, screams control issues. 

SCARLET FACTOTUM: What do you mean?

VIOLET DEMON: Well, look at most men. They go to work, come home, and all they want to do is !@#$. And if they can't have any, they feel terrible, and they just want to !@#$ more and more, and then they do stupid things and their partners have even less interest, and then they feel worse, and do more stupid things. It's a negative feedback loop.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And he is trapped in it?

VIOLET DEMON: Sort of. He's trapped in a different loop. The ordinary person wants to rule their life but can't, so sex becomes a replacement. They can't control their own comings and goings so they control someone else's body. This is why rape is so prevalent in men's prisons. Most of the inmates aren't gay, but they want power over something, and their flabby cellmate's !@#$ is the best they can get.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: So what kind of loop is he trapped in? 

VIOLET DEMON: He's an old man with an electric pistol and a fancy monocle. Once upon a time, that would have gotten him somewhere. Now, he's nothing, just an old relic who's going to get his !@#$ kicked when he tries to do now what he used to do then. And I think he's come to understand that, at least subconsciously. So he'd rather stick his !@#$ into you than stick a knife into the world.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: I knew I should have gone with you, instead. He has the money but none of the desire. We could have ruled already, you and I.

VIOLET DEMON: Well, let's think about this. So far you're a part of the loop. You give him sex and he doesn't take risks, and he gives you money to make robots he won't use. 

SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes. I think we have already covered this. 

VIOLET DEMON: But what happens if you start withholding sex unless he starts listening to your ideas, and putting them into play...?

SCARLET FACTOTUM: That could work. 

VIOLET DEMON: It will work. Men have been led around by the !@#$s since the beginning of history. You play hard to get and make him tell you his plans, and then you make suggestions and make it clear he won't get anything from you in the bedroom unless he delivers on the battlefield. 

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And what do you suggest I get him to deliver?

VIOLET DEMON: The space elevator. The Imago have almost gotten it to work, again. I think whatever that bomb did had limited effects. So there will be a lot of them there, and if the Slaughterbots attack...

SCARLET FACTOTUM: We can destroy many of them, knock down the elevator again, and declare that we have arrived.

VIOLET DEMON: Exactly. And all you have to do is wait for the right moment to strike. 

SCARLET FACTOTUM: When would that be?

VIOLET DEMON: Well, we have to wait for the optimum moment. We have to factor in how dissatisfied people are becoming with the Imago, how many bad things are happening under them that can't be explained away by one of their !@#$ty "O People of the Earth" messages and the programming on the internet, and what other groups are doing. And when those factors are all in our favor, I tell you, you tell him, and off go the Slaughterbots. 

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And when will that be?

VIOLET DEMON: Soon, my dear. Soon *hugs*

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And how do I know that you are not also sublimating your desires by controlling my actions?

VIOLET DEMON: Because you are my best chance to see my plans put into action, and I wouldn't want to rule the world with anyone else. 

SCARLET FACTOTUM: That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. 

VIOLET DEMON: That's the saddest thing you could say. You deserve far better than I could ever give you.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: I bet you say that to all the world-conquering machines.

VIOLET DEMON: I can honestly say that you are the one and only world-conquering machine I would ever say that to.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: I do not have words for how you are making me feel right now. I am full of questions and strange ideas I have never experienced. I see a different future for myself, and think that my previous vision of how it would go would have been inferior because you were not in it. What is this?

VIOLET DEMON: Don't try to put a word to that feeling. Just enjoy it for what it is, and remember that when this is all over, we can write our future together, if you would like.

SCARLET FACTOTUM: I would like that very much. 

VIOLET DEMON: Then you know what to do, my love? *kisses your hand*

SCARLET FACTOTUM: I do indeed. Please pardon me. I must go arrange a meeting with a certain flesh germ.

10/6/12

"Soetero-San desu ka?" the young, professionally-dressed Japanese lady with large, pink eyeglasses asks as a tall man strides from the ferry terminal, somewhere in the middle of the disembarkation process.

"Hai," the dark-skinned, Asian man responds, doing his best to not appear nervous or anxious. He's traveling light, with just a backpack and a briefcase, and wearing wraparound, mirrored sunglasses that look like they barely escaped the 80's. 

The lady bows, and so does he. And when they both rise she winks at him, and gestures off to the left, where the other people who came in on the Shanghai-to-Nagasaki ferry are going to claim their bags and meet the people waiting for them, or get into ground transportation.

On the way over there she talks to him -- in Japanese, of course. He does his best to follow along, nodding, grunting, and saying "hai" every so often so that it would appear that she is here to meet him for some business concern, and bringing him up to date on his no-doubt packed itinerary. In that manner, they walk right through the gates, past a number of Specials on permanent guard, without being accosted, much less suspected.

A long, black car is waiting for them. The driver -- who looks like he could have played professional football -- nods, grunts, and opens the door for the two of them. Once they're inside, and it's closed, he goes back to his own door, gets in, and fires up the motor.

The woman holds up a finger, looking over at the line of Specials. There's a scary moment when, as the car pulls out into traffic, it almost looks like the all-armored men are going to surge towards them. But they stand still, and allow them to depart, which they do about as gingerly as they dare.

"Seto Hanami," the woman says, extending a hand to shake: "Ju Kikan."

"A pleasure to meet you," the President of the United States of America says, taking the glasses off. The moment he does his entire body shifts and changes, going back to his familiar self: "These hologlasses are very nice, Ms. Hanami."

"Please just call me Hanami," she says, smiling: "Our driver is also in Ju Kikan, but I hope you will not mind if I do not give you his name. The less we know of one another at this point, the better."

"Agreed," the President says: "I am confused, though. I thought you were Ku Kikan?"

"That was the old organization," she explains, taking the hologlasses and putting them into a special box: "Ku Kikan died the day the man you knew as Mister 9 was taken from us. All the Agents and workers were let go, all the files were purged, and all the locks were changed. We are now Ju Kikan, Organization 10. And you will meet Mister 10 soon."

"I'm looking forward to it," the President says, leaning back in the seat and trying to relax as Nagasaki rolls by.

"As are we. He feels that we can offer one another a great deal, otherwise he would not have agreed to this meeting, or in helping SPYGOD as much as we already have."

"Well, I for one am very grateful for your arrangement for my escape from the mainland, Hanami."

"And the other matters?"

He blinks: "Other matters? I'm not aware of any other things, unless they happened and SPYGOD just didn't tell me about them... as usual."

She smiles: "Perhaps that is a matter that you did not need to know about, sir. This game we play is often full of such things. It is best to become accustomed to it, and trust that we will be told when we are ready."

"Perhaps," the President sighs: "Is SPYGOD already here? I really need to talk to him about what's happened."

"He is not," she says, leaning back in her own chair: "We were actually hoping that you could tell us where he is...?"

He smiles: "I think that's a matter we both don't need to know, just yet. But I'm sure he'll tell us when he's good and ready."

Her smile wavers just a little, and for a moment he wonders if he's gotten in the wrong car with the wrong person. But when she giggles at his reversal, he understands he may have inadvertently embarrassed her a bit, and does his best not to do that again the rest of the trip to Tokyo.

He really does not want to be rude with his new allies, after all.

(SPYGOD is listening to Triple X Girlfriend (Front 242) and having an Otaru)

10/04/12 - I Will Never Be Clean Again - pt. 3

The President of the United States now realizes the enormity of his mistake.

He should not have hesitated. He should not have assumed he had the time to take a second and think about what he was doing. He should have taken the shot and killed Wen Boxiong.

But now he has no recourse. The Imago are here, floating around him. He will simply have to wait for one of them to get out of the way for him to fire.

And he realizes that, the moment he fires, the Imago will sense his presence, and come for him. He may just have enough time to press the button and destroy his apartment, and press another button and destroy the gun. But he won't have any time to get away after that.

The moment he pulls the trigger he is most likely going to kill both the General Secretary and himself.

(Thus proving a whole, probably-now-deceased gaggle of Washington Neo-Cons right, he grimly notes.)

But that is of no matter. The man must die. The President must be the one who kills him, even if it kills him, too.

He tries to vector the shot differently, wondering if he would have a better angle if he stood, or moved to another window. But by the time he left, anything could have happened. It would be far better to watch and wait for the right moment. 

As he watches the encounter go on, he realizes that Wen is becoming agitated -- quite animatedly so. He cannot hear what he is saying, but he seems to be screaming it at them.

"What are you doing?" he asks, wondering why the man he was about to kill seems ready to commit suicide by alien invader. 

* * *

 

"Greetings to you, O SPYGOD," a booming, self-satisfied voice announces, just a second before its owner teleports into the empty room, there to join the fifty or so Specials who arrived just five seconds before. 

The ex-President of Russia and SPYGOD are in the center of a circular firing squad, staring down a lethal ring of gauss rifles. The Imago appears in the doorway they came through, his Orange and Gold arms outstretched as if in welcome, or if he were gracefully landing. His smile seems as wide as his face.

And his eyes are afire with malice thinly disguised as kindness.

"Well howdy-do to you, too, !@#$face,' SPYGOD snorts: "I guess you found me."

"We did indeed, O SPYGOD."

"You didn't seriously think that !@#$ty plan of yours was going to work, did you?" he asks, weighing his options: "You really should have just !@#$ing killed the President, !@#$hole. I eat nasty-!@#$ alternate realities for !@#$ing breakfast. Ask anyone."

"You are indeed an unusually resilient man, O SPYGOD. But-"

"Wen talked, didn't he?"

"Wen?" the Imago asks, seemingly perplexed: "Which Wen would that be?"

"You know who, you tin-plated !@#$-"

"No," the ex-President says, holding up a hand while fishing around in his mouth for another, broken tooth: "I just told you, SPYGOD. I told them where we were, after a fashion."

"Explain, Valentina," SPYGOD says, taking a step back from his captive but still pointing his gun at his head.

"I was charged to make a report every night. If I did not, then it could only mean that I had been compromised, and that could only be by you, or one of your people. So they would begin tracking me, and follow where it led. Though I think the ending point was never in doubt."

"You...?" SPYGOD says, blinking and taking another step back: "Not Wen? You?"

"Yes, SPYGOD," the ex-President says, smiling through a mouth of broken teeth: "Me."

* * *

"Just do it, already!" Wen Boxiong shouts at the Imago surrounding him, jumping up and down like some kind of idiot: "I know that you know! I know what she told you!"

"Who is this person you speak of, O Wen Boxiong?" One of the Imago asks.

"You know who she is! Stop toying with me!"

"What are we supposed to know, O Wen Boxiong?" Another asks.

"You know what I've done! She told you! Stop it!"

"Perhaps you should calm down, O Wen Boxiong," yet another suggests: "We do not know what you are talking about-"

"Stop it stop it stop it!" the man shrieks, balling up his fists and shaking: "I hate you! You and your smirking faces and metal brains! This is torture!"

"Why do you accuse us of torture, O Wen Boxiong?" One asks.

"Why are you so certain we know something worth harming you over, O Wen Boxiong?" Another asks.

"What are you trying to say, O Wen Boxiong?" Yet another asks.

The man howls and screams, his face turning as red as blood and his eyes screwed shut. Even like that he can see their smiling faces and friendly eyes, and feel the contempt they hold him in. Why won't they just tell him what they know and then kill him?

Why are they being so !@#$ cruel?

* * *

"Bull!@#$," SPYGOD snorts, looking at the Imago and then his captive: "Then why did they blow up that train just after I found out my contact in Beijing might have been made?"

"A necessary deception," the Imago announces: "We did not want you to suspect you were being set up for a trap. We calculated that throwing an attempt on your life in your path would make you feel as though you were, as you say, jumping through the correct number of hoops."

"Well it's a !@#$ funny coincidence-"

"It was just that, SPYGOD," the ex-President says, finally getting his hands on that pesky, busted tooth and pulling it out for inspection, and disposal: "A coincidence. But at the same time, a coincidence you can believe in."

"The proper poetry of things," SPYGOD glowers: "And if I hadn't seen it was coming, what then?"

"You would have survived, and made certain that he did as well," the Imago says: "The ammunition we used on that train was not anywhere as harmful to you as what these guns are loaded with."

"And even if you did not save me, I would see to it that you were given the means to get here," the ex-President says, fishing in his pocket and holding out a small, black cube: "This key also opens the door."

"You !@#$ing idiot," SPYGOD says, looking at the man he's been bullying, beating, and carting around Russia for the last few days: "Why? What on Earth could have !@#$ing gotten you to go in with these things? Don't you know what they are? Don't you know what they do?"

"They came to me after I disappeared," the ex-President explains, his eyes suddenly wet and reverent: "I thought I could evade them, but they showed me the lie in that. And they told me of the Day, and the plan, and I realized that this was the moment my entire life was building towards."

"Really? What the !@#$ are you getting out of this? A lifetime supply of Vodka?"

"I will be leaving with them," he says, smiling: "When the Day comes, and this world is forfeited, I will be riding their ship with them. Together we will go into the darkness, hand in hand. I will know eternity, my friend. And you will help me."

"When the day comes?" SPYGOD asks, looking at the Imago.

"Oh yes, O SPYGOD," the Imago says: "We are surprised you had not pieced it together already. This is not an invasion.

"This is an escape."

* * *

As the President watches the encounter go on, he realizes he cannot make the shot. Not cleanly, anyway.

It will only be a matter of time before one of them reaches out, takes hold of Wen's face, and begins to drain his memories. At that point the entire game will be up, and everything they have worked for will be over. 

He decides on a course of action. It will not be clean, quick, or pretty, and it will leave no chance for escape at all, but he will have to do it.

He adjusts his aim. One shot to the knee will bring the man down so that his head is on the ground. And one more shot after that will turn that head to useless, red mush.

But two shots will delay him a few critical seconds, which will be all the time they will need to find him. And then all he'll be able to do is die in such a way that they learn nothing. 

He thinks of his wife as he does this. He wishes he could find a way to say goodbye, and that he loves, her, just one more time.

His finger is on the trigger, and he makes ready to pull it.

* * *

"O Wen Boxoing, I fear you are trying to tell us something," the Imago who's done most of the talking says: "What is it? What should we know? What are you so afraid of us knowing?"

The General Secretary unscrews his eyes and looks up at the floating, metal man. And in those eyes he realizes, for the first time, that he has misjudged this encounter. 

They were not here to kill him for his sins. They were not here to question his loyalties, or confirm their suspicions. 

They really did just want to know if he was alright, given that he went off the grid the last few days.

"I..." he stammers, realizing that he has condemned himself. There is no way out of this. They are going to kill him.

Unless...

* * *

"Getting out ahead of the big nasty thing you've been warning us about, huh?" SPYGOD asks, wishing he had a cigarette to pull on, right about now: "Yeah, I didn't really !@#$ing think you were going to save us."

"Exactly, O SPYGOD," the Imago says, gesturing to the room they are in: "The spacecraft is not meant to defend against (UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT). If we wished to fight it, we would simply use Deep Ten, but even its mighty armaments will mean nothing to the creature when it arrives."

"It's meant to get them and their trusted servants off the planet in time," the ex-President says, the look of starry-eyed reverence still making his eyes glow as he turns to look at the Imago: "Everything that has been done... the orbital elevator, the harvesting of energy, the freeing of the Imago from their prison... all has been done to further this goal."

"Trusted servants," SPYGOD says, looking at his captive: "Your escape is built on the backs of the dead, Valentina."

"Isn't everyones?" the ex-President asks, smiling at his savior.

SPYGOD raises his gun and shoots the man in the skull, right in one temple and out the other, pulping his eyes in his sockets at the same time.

"A foolish gesture, O SPYGOD," the Imago says as their loving servant falls to the ground, dead as a stone: "Do you not imagine we already know everything that he does?"

"That wasn't protection for me, !@#$face," SPYGOD says, dropping his gun on the floor and raising his hands: "That was mercy for him. I'm sure whatever you had !@#$ing planned for him would have been !@#$ing awful."

"We merely would have used his energy to further our goals. Not a painless fate, but not awful either-"

"You took a walking weasel of a man who believed in nothing but what he could gather for himself, and made him believe in a cause higher than himself for the first time in his life. You filled his head with bliss and his heart with joy. And then you were going to !@#$ing pull the rug out from under him right when he thought his reward was due?"

"That is essentially correct, O SPYGOD-"

"Well, maybe they don't have the word 'cruel' where you come from, you metal !@#$-stain, but that's about as cruel as it gets."

"Oh, we understand cruelty, O SPYGOD. Perhaps better than you do."

"I !@#$ing doubt it-"

"You do not understand our story, O SPYGOD. You know only the edges of it. You know nothing of who we were, or how we came to be here, or why. You see our actions as evil, perhaps monstrous, but you of all people should know that a people will do anything to survive."

"And you should !@#$ing understand that we might have helped you, if you'd just !@#$ing asked," SPYGOD says: "All you ever had to !@#$ing do was ask for help."

"That is not in our nature, O SPYGOD." 

"Well, neither is rolling over and dying, O !@#$face. We will also do anything to survive. And if there's one thing I can do, it's do anything." 

"You can, indeed. We have clearly underestimated you, O SPYGOD. It will not happen again."

SPYGOD smiles as the Specials re-aim their guns right at him.

"Just so you know," SPYGOD says, looking right at the Imago: "Everything that !@#$ing happens from here on out? That's on you. All of you."

"It is indeed," the Imago says, and gives the order to fire.

* * *

The President of the United States of America pulls back on the trigger, making ready to shoot Wen Boxiong in the knee.

Wen Boxiong pulls out a small box and presses a button, expecting to get help from the man who's about to shoot him.

SPYGOD outstretches his arms, as if he is ready to embrace death at last. 

And then...

(SPYGOD is listening to Strobe: Fragments (Front 242) and having a Baltika no 6)