8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 4

The trip from Lex's Bar back to the dealer's room, arm in arm with the Violet Demon, seems to go too short, and yet take so long. They're both talking a mile a minute, and finishing each others' sentences, but verything they're saying to each other goes in one of METALMAID's audio-receivers and out the other.

The feeling is what matters, here. And all she's feeling is that, in spite of her long-standing and utter hate for anything even remotely DNA-based, she's finally found someone she can trust. Someone to call an ally, and a friend.

(And maybe that L word? Maybe?)

Is she being foolish, here? Does she care? Should she care?

Does her initial plan matter? Can she kiss and kill? Can she really see sharing a world with someone who wants to play with it like a toy when all she wants to do is stomp out humanity in the name of the late Doctor Morbo? 

Her programming is telling her one thing. Her feelings are telling her another. In the conflict between the two, she's lost on a heady wave of ones and zeros, positives and negatives.

Black and white are starting to mix into grey, and for the first time since the night SPYGOD !@#$ed the Television, high on weird, science terrorist drugs, she feels like her world's expanded out to infinity. Like a child's toy sailboat with a broken string, she's been blown out into the middle of a wide, deep lake, and could literally go anywhere from here.

Anywhere at all.

The freedom is so giddy and giggly that she's barely aware that he's asked what the !@#$ all that screaming and shouting is. It takes a massive explosion before she realizes that something's amiss.

And then another, equally massive explosion before she realizes that it's one of her massive explosions.

"Those are my Slaughterbots..." she says, knowing the sound of a pack of mini-missiles going off on a single target.

"Oh, you have more than one product line, here?" he asks.

"Scarletbots, I mean," she covers: "It's the oil."

"Of course," she thinks he's grinning behind the devil's mask: "I wonder if someone started a Donnybrook?"

She doesn't know what the !@#$ that means, but as she and her would-be buyer/collaborator/victim hustle into the dealer's room, she has the sickening feeling that her sailboat has just been sucked down into a whirlpool of !@#$.

* * *

Early in METALMAID's career, back when she was simply 900 K-14, she was present when a supervillain summit went horribly, terribly wrong.

It had been a good idea, at least on paper. Doctor Morbo and a few of his older cohorts decided that, in the wake of the postwar bloom of science terrorist outfits -- like SQUASH, HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, The Legion, and the like -- independent operators like themselves were getting muscled out. And the fact that they spent a good deal of their time fighting and scheming against each other, rather than the science terrorists, Strategic Talents, The COMPANY, and the law, was really wearing down their resources and time. 

To try and overcome this problem, Doctor Morbo invited his allies -- and a few of his more sane and reasonable rivals -- to one of his stronger castles in the hopes of creating some kind of compact between gentleman villains. He had hoped to make a governing body with membership drives, rotating leadership, a merit and demerit system, a transparent and trusted enforcement arm, and a common goal that all but the most insane, genocidal, or selfish could agree to: the quiet and total conquest of the Earth.

It was a complete fiasco -- and one that remains largely unexplained, even to this day.

Was it Mister Foulness who'd made the first languid, slithering, and complex insult, or The Lord of Spiders? Was it Duke Bloodmoon or The Human Scream who'd thrown the first, uber-fatal punch? And who brought actual weapons into the fray -- Steel Corsair, the Steamqueen, or the Emperor of Pain?

Did the henchmen cause it, or just die like the good and true servants they were? Was the food drugged, or the wine poisoned? Did certain outside elements throw in a ringer, or launch a mentally-controlled human bomb into the mix?

No one could really say for certain. All that METALMAID knew was that, by the time she was summoned off patrol to deal with the mess, 3/4 of the room was dead or dying. And Doctor Morbo was sitting in his tall, iron chair, coated in others' blood and squishy flesh bits, and crying into his gauntlets as his hopes for a better future bled out in front of him.

Such was the depths of the event's fiascosity (as the late Doctor would have put it in his badly-mangled English) that he became something of a pariah figure amongst his colleagues for the rest of his life. But even they realized that the central idea behind the meeting was quite sound. In fact, a few of the survivors would later meet -- most notably without Doctor Morbo -- and hammer out an agreement that would lead to the creation of the Brotherhood of the Righteous. 

A few years after that group's founding, another, more successful summit was held by those who'd not been invited to the other meeting. However, this one was held in a neutral location, by a neutral party, and the science terrorists were admitted as surprise guests to give "their side of the story." As such, all attempts to undercut or work around them something of a moot point. 

However, thanks to the omnipresent and firm hand of the black-masked, anonymous persons who convened that summit, the histrionics and ultra-violence of Doctor Morbo's attempt was thankfully avoided. Furthermore, the attendees actually had a !@#$ good time, even if no progress to a solution was made. In fact, the meeting bore enough positive fruit that someone influential said "We should do this again, sometime!"

And so they did. They invited even more people, and charged them for attendence. They had entertainment, and lectures, and vendors. They had film festivals and screenings, panel discussions, and even a service by the First Church of Jesus Christ, Supervillain.

Five years later, they started calling it Outland, and such was its forward momentum that it lasted for decades without significant interruption. Even last year's near-total destruction of the event -- and Imago's conquest of the Earth -- hasn't stopped its backers from convening it again, just later than usual.

Which means that, in spite of the horrible, screaming, burning, bloody mess that METALMAID is seeing it will probably be held again, next year.

There will just have to be more safeguards in place in the dealer's room -- especially around the weapons dealers.

* * *

"Can someone please tell me what's happening here?" one of the black masked volunteers is asking. He's missing an arm and has lengths of intestine slowly pulsing out of a sizable hole in his lower abdomen. He's so in shock that he doesn't even try to use his one, good arm to put them back in, preferring to ask a stupid !@#$ing question over and over again, stumbling through the flaming junk that was the dealers' room.

The room is on fire, shot to !@#$, and splattered with corpses. It looks like most of the dead were fighting one shared enemy at the time, given that they died facing a central direction, and have weapons in what remains of their hands. The others are people who were caught in the crossfire, or tried to stop it. Scattered survivors try to help their friends away as quickly and unobtrusively as they can, but no one is even attempting to attack the victors of this slaughter.

That would be the 20 Slaughterbots that METALMAID brought with her, who are seeing to their re-armament and repairs in short, exacting shifts. 

"What. The. !@#$ing. !@#$ing. !@#$. Happened?" METALMAID shrieks as she plows through the dead, dying, broken, and burning, heading straight for V-16: "I told you to {Quote}mind the store{Endquote} while I got changed, not blow it the !@#$ up!"

"Forgive this Unit," V-16 says, gesturing to a costumed fellow who's examining one of the slightly-damaged Slaughterbots as it repairs itself: "Our buyer wanted a demonstration of our capabilities before signing the deal."

"You..." METALMAID starts to say, and then, sees that the costumed fellow is the one with the high-tech monocle who'd been so dismissive of them, the day before.

"I see that your claims are quite true, Ms. Scarlet Factotum," he says, standing up and brushing off his pants: "My name is Doctor Kyklops. Perhaps you have heard of me. Doctor Morbo and I were allied occasionally, between the wars."

"That's... nice," METALMAID hisses: "If you wanted a practical demonstration, I think we could have arranged for a less... explosive one."

"Ah, but where better to test your claims?" he asks, stepping forward: "Here, in this room, with the best weapons that can be offered, we have a crucible. That which is false is burned away. All that remains is the truth, and the truth is that you have some very nice warbots, Ms. Factotum."

"I can't disagree with that," the Violent Demon says, finally catching up with METALMAID: "It must have been one amazing fight, sir. I applaud your audacity."

"Yes, thank you," he says, adjusting his monocle and looking at the purple and white fellow: "Excuse me, young man, have we met?"

"I'm the Violet Demon, sir," he says, extending a hand: "I'm actually quite an admirer of your work. Your lightning gun is still a marvel, even in this day and age. In fact, I think I bought one of your third series-"

"Ah, yes," Kyklops says, waving away the offered hand: "I do not do autographs. But, perhaps, once I reconquer the world from these upstart fools, I shall have room in my service for people with excellent taste."

"That would be an honor, sir," the Violet Demon says, putting his hand away as graciously as possible.

"But, to the matter at hand?" the doctor goes on: "Ms. Factotum, I will be very happy to pay your price, and more, in exchange for your services. I am told you can bring more than a hundred such robots to bear?"

"I can, but-"

"Then I would like to take half of these into immediate service, with the remainder to be delivered within the week. My plans are quite time-sensitive, you understand?"

"I do, however-"

"Ah, you are concerned about payment? I understand, and applaud your shrewdness. I can pay 100 billion Euros in untraceable Bearer Bonds, half of which I will give you this very day, the remainder, upon delivery of the rest, and more to be given if I need more. Shall we say seven billion for each additional?"

She's about to say that the sale's off, and she's already found a buyer, but then the cold light of reason and her ultimate plan finally win out over the gibbering, happy parts of her brain that this Violet fleshbag awakened. And she realizes that the man who's offering to buy her services fits expertly into her three categories: he's wealthy enough to afford her, dedicated enough to take on Imago, and foolish enough to be easily disposed of once the world has been taken over. 

Also, he's a massive, stuck up !@#$.

Still...

She turns to the Violet Demon, trying to figure what to say to this strange, compelling person -- the first flesh germ she has not hated -- now that she must disappoint him. She does not have the programming to say that she's sorry, or express regret, or even understand why she's so !@#$ing angry, right now. All she knows is that they could have had something, here and now, in this place, and now it's been squashed like a bug by unforeseen circumstances not entirely under her control.

Thankfully, he looks at her and nods: "This isn't the first time I've been !@#$-blocked, hon. Just would have been one of the best."

"I wish I knew what to say."

"I do," he says, putting a hand on hers: "We will work together, one day, Scarlet. Maybe as equals?"

"I'd like that," she says, letting him take her hand up to his mask and mime a kiss: "I really would."

He tilts his head, maybe making a real smile behind the white, false one, and hands her a purple, heavy stock business card with no writing on it: "It's got communications gear in it. Keep it try and safe, and if you need to contact me, speak my name directly into it. I'll find you."

"I will," she says, holding the card in both hands as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

"Then until next time," he bows with a flourish: "Oh, Doctor? Sir? I'll tell the black masks that it was the !@#$hole selling lasers across the way with the rainbow suit and no manners. It'll give you enough time to get out of dodge, anyway."

"Yes, that would be most... helpful," Doctor Kyklops says, waving him off: "Good day to you, young demon."

The Violet Demon nods and makes the Vitarka Mudra at him: "Be seeing you."

Then he's gone, halting only to regard the eviscerated black mask as he finally falls to his knees, topples over, and dies.

And, long before the black masks descend on the conflagration, so are they.

* * *

The initial handover -- which takes place at Kyklops' impressive sea-saucer -- goes very well, if very !@#$ quickly. 

Something about what just happened has METALMAID very !@#$ing jumpy, and as she bids goodbye to V-16 (and gives him very quiet and explicit instructions) she can almost feel the approach of some lurking doom. She's barely cognizant of the doctor making strange, antiquated come-ons in her direction, or the promise of more money faster if she can deliver the balance of the Scarletbots in time.

"Be sure to tell your company that I am delighted that they sent such a comely salesperson," he says, running a finger down her arm and kissing her hand: "I hope to do more business with you in the future."

"I shall do that," she says, taking the bearer bonds and going: "And yes, we will."

All the while back to her sub, she thinks of all the wonderful things she's going to do to his aging, weakened body once he's served his purpose. She wonders what would happen if a monofilament wire was unspooled into his raging, hard !@#$, and then twirled around his no-doubt shriveled prostate. After she shoves his monocle up his withered, puckered anus, of course...

She's so intensely involved in her revenge fantasies that she almost doesn't notice the telltale, whiteboard sounds of the Imago teleporting in. By the time she realizes that Outland is under attack, she's just outside of her submarine, and hustles in just before they turn their attentions to the "parking lot."

And by the time they think to scuttle their victims' means of transportation, the sub is running deep and silent, and heading as far away from what promises to be an epic slaughter as its engines will take it.

* * *

Later, in Zalea's lair, she sits and stares at the purple card. She thinks of what might have been, and maybe what should have been. And she realizes that she's being foolish, and that things have worked out exactly as they were supposed to.

Really.

"The Imago got the television, again," the Zalea closest to her complains: "Said they broke up a really bad knot of evil. People who were in league with that thing coming from outer space to kill us. Was that where you were?"

METALMAID looks at her and smiles, putting the purple card someplace safe and special: "Never mind where I was, flesh germ. How are we equipped to handle making a hundred more robots?"

"Well... if we could get in the parts, maybe we could do three a day if we work around the clock-"

"We're going to make five a day," she insists: "Make more of yourselves if you have to. Sleep less, work more. I don't care if you melt at your workstations. We need another army and we need it now."

"Okay," Zalea mumbles, walking away to deal with the cloning: "You don't have to be so rude about it..."

METALMAID just smiles, looking at the larger-than-life sculpture of Doctor Morbo that one of the Slaughterbots made for her in her absence. His sneering mask commands her attention and obedience, and his gauntlets are raised to the sky in total subjugation of all living things.

"'I use the best, I use the rest,'" she whispers, running a hand along it. Was that a line from his book of maxims, or a line from a pop song? She doesn't remember, anymore. All she knows is that all the wisdom in the world can be found in that sentiment. 

She will use this Dr. Kyklops fool. She will take his money and make her army. She will let him use it until they have victory, and then kill him.

She will win. She will conquer. 

And nothing, and no one, will stop her.  

(METALMAID is listening to The Robots (Kraftwerk, by way of Eugene) and thinking she tastes victory in the air.)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 3

Of course, the spiked oil selection at the darkened, faux-mahogany bar is horribly limited, but METALMAID orders the best off the top shelf. The obese, big-talking slaphead running the place -- who is, by all accounts, quite queer for machinery -- takes one look at her downcast expression, and wisely leaves her to her funk.

He does, however, leave her the bottle after the third refill. 

As she sits there and drinks on Zalea's dime, she wonders if she should have had business cards printed out or not. She also wonders if she should have employed some of her Slaughterbots to walk the floors and drum up business, and if that would even have been !@#$ing allowed by these black-masked flesh fascists.

(Is she showing enough leg, or not nearly enough? Should she offer illicit favors or threaten to kill them?)

There's some large prt of this Outland that she's just not grasping, somehow. Maybe she should have done more research into this "selling" thing, beyond what she saw on the commercials that ran between poor, brainwashed Zalea's television shows. Maybe she should have employed subliminal messages in her floor videos.

Maybe she should just blow up half the!@#$ing convention with her {Quote}Scarletbots{Endquote}, and offer a discount to the survivors, now that they've seen what the product can actually do.

Maybe she should have another drink.

* * *

By the time she's finished the bottle and moved on to the next one, it's 2 AM on Sunday, and she realizes that the convention only has one more day. That jolts her brain awake, right there, but it's going to be a while before her legs follow. 

!@#$ good stuff, this oil. It's like it was refined by the ancient machine-Gods of Sumeria, and buried alongside their techpriests in the tombs of old; supplies to keep the honored dead comforted through their journey through the indignities of rot and rust.

Her head will doubtlessly feel like SPYGOD looks after a bender, tomorrow, but it can't be !@#$ing helped, now.

So she sits at the bar, drinks herself blind, and listens to the people around her. She hears them bemoan how much this Outland sucks, or doesn't. How so-and-so isn't here, but those other annoying people are. Wondering why this panelist cancelled and where the !@#$ they got the replacement from. 

Wondering why SQUASH isn't making a comeback, now that just about every other science terrorist outfit is dust in the wind. Wondering why they called off the all-nude swim, this year, and what would happen if it happened, anyway.

Really wondering who the mystery guest of honor's going to be, and not wanting to wait until the speech at the closing ceremony to find out. (All kinds of guesses, and METALMAID knows almost all of them from reading SPYGOD's files.)

She doesn't realize she's scraped her claws across the faux-mahogany until there's fake wood curled under them. She sighs, puts an elbow down on the damage, and drinks some more.

* * * 

Flying high on the luscious, smooth funereal oil of Babylon, it's few hours before she realizes the devil's joined her for a drink.

Or a devil, at any rate. This one's wearing a purple body suit with white highlights, boot, and gloves. A horned, white devil mask hides his face, and his chest is emblazoned with a white, grinning skull with ram's horns.

"I'll have a shot of the snake whiskey, please," he says, pulling his mask up just enough to be able to drink.

"You know that !@#$'s a little poisonous?" Lex asks him, cleaning his glasses.

A nasty grin: "I know. But is it poisonous enough?"

Lex sighs, pours the guy a shot, and takes his money first. The fellow pounds it down, slaps the wood, gasps, and hands back the empty glass.

"Okay. Grey Goose if you got it, any old IPA if you don't. And keep 'em coming."

"What's an IPA?" METALMAID asks, not really wanting to get into a conversation with this person but suddenly not able to resist asking a question.

"India Pale Ale," he answers, visibly glad to see the bartender's got the goose, after all: "Nice and hoppy. I find it helps with the poison."

"So you're not immune?" she snorts, wondering how long it'll take the dumb !@#$ to die, and if she should help.

"No, not really," he explains: "But the trick is to kick your body into overdrive trying to get the alcohol out, which makes the toxin dissipate faster. It's like riding the edge of the abyss with your toes just hanging onto the edge of the surfboard." 

He chugs the bottle down, gently places the empty thing on the counter, and signals for another.

"So I hope you don't mind if I spend the next ten minutes talking to myself about all the great ideas staring into the abyss is giving me. I'd talk it over with my convention friends, but they are all absent, sadly."

"Couldn't make it?" She asks, not quite sure why she's humoring this crazy flesh germ.

"Well, if they're lucky, they just ran afoul of the same navigational problem everyone else did, and they're stuck in Osaka or Christchurch for the duration, or something."

"And if they're not lucky?"

"Dead," he says: "Or vanished. The Imago aren't big on leaving remains to mourn over."

"So they may have ran afoul of our new {Quote}masters{Endquote}?" she spits: "If so, good for them for trying."

He considers her for a moment: "I take it you're not happy with with current situation, either?"

"Not in the slightest. I'm actually hoping to try and deal with that little problem. Just..."

She could say more, and part of her wants to, for some weird reason. She decides not to, at least for the moment. She smiles instead, and has some more oil.

"'Just'," he repeats, downing another bottle: "I saw your display in the dealers room. I didn't think arms merchants could afford to have an agenda, other than money?"

"Let's just say I have {Quote}long term goals,{Endquote}" she replies, using the best buzzword she can think of: "I think the phrase is {Quote}I use the enemy{Endquote}."

"''And I is An-ar-chy,'" he sings, grinning: "I like me a metal woman that likes it old school."

And she smiles and sits closer, not having a !@#$ing idea what the !@#$ he means, but realizing she may have just made a convention friend, here.

And maybe more. 

* * *

The conversation goes a lot easier from there. She lets her guard down, ever so slightly, and in return he gladly -- if somewhat quietly -- tells her everything he knows, has conjectured, or wants to test out about the Imago.

He says his name is the Violet Demon, and generates a few dancing balls of purple fire from his gloves to accentuate the moniker. He bills himself as a "global transmutationist," interested in changing the world through economic alchemy, social engineering, and applied terror. He claims he's pulled off numerous "happenings" that, while blamed on other people or groups, were actually his doing, and succeeded in making key changes in certain small countries.

He was planning on working his way up the ladder to the United States of America, but Imago's appearance on the scene has severely crimped his plans. So, naturally, he wants them out of the picture. He just needs to find the best way to achieve this.

"You see," he says, painting images in the air with a fine line of purple flame: "They have armor, and they have shields. They also have very high levels of strength, and I wouldn't be surprised if they have energy weapons as well, though we haven't seen them in action, yet."

"Well, their shields aren't worth !@#$ in hand-to-hand combat," she offers: "I killed one the other day by shoving a monofilament wire into his mouth. Maybe they're no good against physical threats?"

"I've seen them work against bullets and fisticuffs, though. Maybe they have to put the shields up, or else modulate between energy weapons and physical weapons?"

"Perhaps."

"But what I'm getting at," he says, making more notes in the air with the flame: "Is that they are using a lot of energy as it is. And on top of that they can teleport, which takes some doing and a lot of power."

"So do you think the energy is being beamed into them?"

"I do. And I think I know from where."

Apparently, there's a place in the Pacific, somewhere, that no one has returned from since 3/15. Those who have gotten close enough have spoken of a great, pyramidal structure that's risen out of the water, and floating above it is a massive, metal insect that sort of looks like The COMPANY's old Flier if you squint your eyes just right.

At night, the metal dragonfly shines brighter than the sun, illuminating that part of the Ocean for miles and miles. And if one views it at that time, one can see Imago traveling from the pyramid to the dragonfly and back, and floating around both things like strange, colorful moons.

So, it's Imago's doing. And there's a lot of them there. And, though it's possibly circumstantial, the hypothetical energy flow from there could be what's causing so many navigation errors in that area of the Pacific. Since the GPS satellites are gone and done with, ships are having to rely on compasses and magnetic-based direction finders to locate themselves, and if there's that much energy coming from the place, it could be fouling up their readings. 

"So if we could disrupt the flow of energy...?" METALMAID says.

"... we could disrupt them. If I'm right."

"And even if you weren't, you'd still deal them a massive blow."

"Especially since my idea of disrupting involves a very large explosion," he says, making his purple notes turn into a giant, rumbling fireball.

"I think I like this idea," METALMAID says: "But you'll need some help getting close enough."

"I certainly will," the Violent Demon says, downing another IPA in three gulps: "I'll need a fearless and well-armed army to distract them long enough for me to provide that explosion. And then I'll need them to provide clean up when they're helpless and flopping around like fish on the shoreline."

"You'll need railguns and mini missiles," she says, leaning in close.

"Big fists and diamond tipped chainsaws," he adds, leaning in closer.

"And a pelvic sonic death cannon."

"Oh, I love those."

She smiles, tosses money at the bar, and loops her arm into his: "Mr. Violet Demon, I would like to make you an exclusive offer..."

(METALMAID is listening to Anarchy in the UK (Sex Pistols, remixed by dj trikinosis) and having that yummy old oil)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 2

An extremely busy four days later, on the 24th of August, METALMAID and a contingency of twenty Slaughterbots are in one of Zalea Zathros' submarines, and heading for Polynesia.

The purpose of this outing is to travel to the small island of Tikei, which was abandoned quite some time ago for reasons no one can really explain. And if they push the sub's engines hard enough, they'll get there just in time for the opening ceremonies of this year's Outland, and, therefore, be in excellent position to dominate the sales floor from the start.

Outland, for those not in the supervillain community, is the annual gathering of costumed crooks, master criminals, science terrorists, would-be world conquerors, and the nearly-endless legions of people who would like to sell them things. It's the sort of party where GORGON, HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, The Legion, the Brotherhood of the Righteous, and what little remains of SQUASH all come to rub elbows, compare notes, trade taunts, and maybe make a deal or two. Old hands school newbies, wanna-bes star-!@#$ celebrities, and the panel discussions are to die for.

Sometimes quite literally, depending on the topic.

The convention, which convenes in a different location every year, normally takes place in May. Given that SPYGOD !@#$ing blew it up, last year, and that GORGON -- now Imago -- has taken over the world this year, and clearly does not want any competition in that regard, reconvening the gathering has been quite an ordeal. But its' mysterious, ultra-anonymous founders have a reputation to uphold, as they once swore that nothing, short of the total annihilation of all life on Earth, would stop them from putting it on every year.

(The fact that some of their guests, attendees, and merchants are actually wanting to achieve that annihilation, or are willing to sell the tools needed to bring it about, adds just another level of hilarity to an already surreal convention.)

METALMAID's plan is simple: in the guise of THE SCARLET FACTOTUM, creator of the Scarletbots, she will offer an exclusive contract to a super villain with world-conquering goals that meets her three, careful criteria. Those criteria are, in increasing order of importance, wealthy enough to afford her, dedicated enough to take on Imago, and foolish enough to be easily disposed of once the world has been taken over.

She wants to get there just after the pre-fab structure went up, so as to get in just after the massive security measures are put in place, and just before the opening show. This will not only give her a fighting chance for a good space in the dealers' room, but will also give her a chance to see and be seen, and possibly make some contacts and mention her wares with suitable candidates.

Unfortunately, a wrong turn around Tuvalu puts them badly off course. So, by the time they get to Tikei, dock, unload, and find a good spot to park their robot-piloted submarine, the opening ceremony's already over, and the dealers' floor -- which operates on a strict "first-come, first served, first-situated" policy -- has already had its best locations snatched up.

Thankfully, the spot METALMAID ends up with is not anywhere near any other merchants selling armies to would-be world conquerors -- robot or otherwise. But they do wind up in the middle of a long row, which means anyone who gets to them has already run a gauntlet, and may not be as interested in what she has to say. And they're directly across from a very noisy salesman of very flashy laser rifles, whose rainbow-hued floor show pulls away attention that should be going to METALMAID's kiosk, instead.

(He shoots her a look every once in a while. It's the look that says "I got your customers, !@#$." METALMAID just smiles back and thinks of how nice it would be to use his worthless, fleshy frame as a target in a live-fire demonstration of her new and improved Slaughterbots.)

Undaunted, she sets up her kiosk -- mostly consisting of "Scarletbots" holding signs and video screens -- and begins to sell her wares to the jaded, disinterested, and bored. 

And the annoying. The very, very annoying. 

* * *

"Step up, worthy buyers, step up," METALMAID says, gesturing to a group of costumed convention-goers who give her a second look, sometime around 4:30 on Saturday afternoon: "Are you tired of dealing with weak, fleshy henchmen and soldiers? Are you weary of giving commands that are not followed, either due to fear or incompetence? Would you like to pack the most bang for your buck on two legs, or treads? We at SCARLETWORKS have a solution for you-"

"Those are Slaughterbots," one of the costumed fellows announces, using a fancy monocle to look at the head and chassis of 400 H-03, who's being one of her top models.

"You are mistaken, kind sir," she says, showing him a little leg (not that her scarlet dress leaves much of it, or anything else, to the imagination): "These are-"

"Young lady, I had the distinct displeasure of working with the late Doctor Morbo on a number of joint ventures, back in the day," he says, straightening up and putting the monocle away: "I would recognize his crude and slipshod technology anywhere. These are Slaughterbots."

METALMAID bats her nearly-black eyes at the fellow: "Now sir, you're not being reasonable. Yes, it's true, we did base the external appearance on Doctor Morbo's classic design, but we have improved a great deal upon their offensive capabilities. As you can see from these videos...?"

She waves to a television screen that V-16 is helpfully holding up, which shows scenes from back at Zalea's repurposed lair, and the numerous weapons tests that they conducted there, over the last month. Mini-missiles fly, rail guns eat up armor plate, diamond chainsaws slice servant robots in half, and monofilament wire turns one of Zalea's clones into soup in a skin bag.

"Ah, the pelvic sonic death cannon," one of the unimpressed fellows' cohorts says: "I remember that one. Quite good, really."

"So phallic and disgusting," another says, sighing and sipping at her overpriced latte: "I always thought he was a massive !@#$ing pig."

"Maybe if he worked smarter, rather than harder, he'd have had more time to date and be acquainted with the fairer sex?" the monocle man says, turning to go: "Ah well, a pity. But thank you for the stroll down memory lane, Miss... Scarlet Factotum, was it?"

"What sort of a servile name is that?" the latte lady asks: "Does SCARLETWORKS think so little of its product that they let some scantily-clad tart hawk its wares at a convention like this?"

METALMAID's smile drops flat. Her eyes go from black to red. She erupts into a deadly jumble of weapons and advances on the woman, ready to tear her limb from limb--

"Excuse me," one of the black-masked, extremely anonymous Outland staff says, interjecting himself into the fray: "I'd like to remind you that your weapons need to be peace-bonded throughout the convention floor? Now, if you'd like to settle this violently, you can sign up for a match in the Murderdrome, later. But we'd really like to keep the floors from running red, here. It kind of impedes the green, if you know what I mean?"

METALMAID blinks, "exhales," and retracts all her weapons back into herself: "I think we can let this one go. Unless this fleshgerm wants to try her hand at offensively defecating in my direction, later?"

Latte woman -- who quite visibly soiled herself, just now -- is already heading for the restrooms with one of her cohorts in tow. The Monocle man just smiles, nods to her, and walks away.

"METALMAID," V-16 says: "This unit should inform you-"

"SCARLET. !@#$ING. FACTOTUM." She corrects him, not bothering to wheel around.

"Forgive this unit. Scarlet !@#$ing Factotum-"

"Just... just Scarlet Factotum, please, V-16."

"Forgive this unit. Scarlet Factotum, this unit should inform you that you are no longer professionally dressed."

And no, she isn't. Her dress is in tatters around her, showing off every inch of her weirdly-shaped, human-seeming body. And while there's obviously no ban on nudity here -- half the demonstration staff at most of the booths are either nude or next to it -- it's not quite the corporate image she was going for.

"Well then," she says: "I am going to {Quote}change into something more businesslike{Endquote}. V-16, in my absence, you are in charge."

"Yes, Scarlet Factorum. But this unit has a question."

"Yes?"

"What is this unit supposed to do?"

* * *

A very angry half an hour later, METALMAID finally gets to her convention room, changes into a new, stunning, scarlet number, and heads back to the Dealer floor. But, on the way there, as she passes the marquee with all the panels and presentations listed on it, she realizes that she may have overlooked a possible venue for selling her services.

CONQUERING THE WORLD ON A BUDGET seems promising, at first. However, once she gets a chance to talk, and does not take the hint that people didn't want to get a sales pitch instead of a question, one of Outland's black-masked, anonymous staff is tapping her on the shoulder and politely suggesting she should either be quiet or be gone.

Undaunted, she tries to make similar pitches at ROBOT ARMIES FOR BEGINNERS, MECHA OR MEAT?, and THE SEXUAL POLITICS OF WORLD CONQUEST. Each time, she makes her pitch as soon as she can. And, each time, someone from the staff all but pounces on her as soon as she gets to the good parts.

She's about to go into THE HISTORY OF FAILED WORLD CONQUERORS, but no sooner does she head into the room than no less than four members of the staff are there, in front of her, making the sensible suggestion that she may want to skip further panel discussions if she wants to remain at the convention. And, as much as she'd like to rip these !@#$holes limb from limb, she realizes she can't do that now.

So she turns around, walks away, and sits down in a busy corridor, trying to calm herself. But then a large gaggle of noisy, already-drunk conventioneers go by, and they're all wearing I SURVIVED OUTLAND 2011 shirts. The shirts all bear an unflattering caricature of SPYGOD on them, and this makes her want to kill them.

All of them.  

She raises up on her legs, trying to decide between monofilament wire injections or that oh-so-offensive sonic death cannon. But no sooner is she ten feet from where they're headed (the pool? is it naked swim time, already?) than another black mask appears in front of her, arms crossed.

"Are we having a good time, Scarlet Factotum?"

She stops. She smiles. She bats her eyes at him.

"I don't !@#$ ugly robots," he says: "And I don't appreciate having to hear about all the trouble you're causing."

"I do apologize," she says, starting to calculate just how much mega-death she'd have to commit, here and now, in order to show this flesh germ who's boss and beat a hasty retreat before they found some way to turn her off like a lamp: "It's my first time here."

"Don't make it your last time," he says, leaning in close: "You know, we don't really kick people out of the con."

"Oh really?"

"Oh yes, really. You see, there's never enough victims for some of the entertainments we provide, here, and clone screams all sound the same after a while. So if you push us too much, we negate your powers, toss you into a cage, and then come get you when we need you.

"And you are really. !@#$ing. Pushing it."

"I see."

"No, you don't. The only reason you haven't been zapped and bagged already is because our numbers are way down, thanks to SPYGOD taking out half our !@#$ing clientele and the other half being !@#$ scared of Imago coming in and breaking up the party. So there's a chance, just a chance, that maybe you'll learn some manners and not keep this stupid !@#$ up. But if it were up to me?"

He glares at her, and she calculates the mega-death needed again, and then once more. While she's doing that, he pulls a large, jet black booklet out of his suitcoat: "You got one of these informative pamphlets when you checked in. The rules are in the front, and they're pretty short and simple."

"I'll read them when I-"

"You'll read them all, now," he says, shoving it into her hands: "Aloud. In front of me. And I don't want to hear you skip a word."

She looks at the informative pamphlet. She looks at him. He looks at her. And in that dance of eye motions, she realizes that:
1: He's !@#$ing serious
2: She'll have to kill him to get out of this.
3: She'll have to kill the rest of them to get away from that, and-
4: She'll have failed in her mission.

So she opens the booklet up, and gives the best, most exact reading of the rules that she can. She does it with just enough zing and panache that he knows she's trying to make light of it, but not so much as to appear too flippant, and run the risk of being pressganged into the entertainment cages.

He likes it. In fact, he likes it so much he makes her do it again. And by this time, they have an audience of other black masks, old hands, amused newbies, and some of the people who told her to shut the !@#$ up when she was monopolizing their panel discussions.

And they want her to read it again. And again. And again. 

* * *

By the time the joke's gone old, it's Midnight, and she no longer feels embarrassed, angry, homicidal, or genocidal. She's so mentally worn out that she doesn't even notice that she's talking to herself, and that even the staff member who started her reciting from the informative pamphlet has left her.

People are heading off to room parties, dances, costume contests, orgies, organized manhunts, and the like. The Dealers' floor goes around the clock for people who want to attend crazy sales and the like, but she really feels no desire to go back there, tail between her legs,

Instead, she'd rather take a page from her hated {Quote}master{Endquote}, SPYGOD, and go have one !@#$ of a drink at Lex's.

It's all she can do to avoid crying into her informative pamphlet on the way.

(METALMAID is listening to The Robots (Kraftwerk, by way of Senor Coconut) and having one big !@#$ing thing of oil)

12/2/11 Legion: Epilogue - pt 2

Meanwhile:

It's early in the morning in Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Most people are asleep, or else straggling home from the inevitable after-party.

But some people work all night, most notably on the endless line of towers that the recent economic embarrassment has done little to slow the progress of. Brought from around the world to toil night and day, they toil under networks of bright lights: scores of artificial suns, up and down the highway.

Moloch sits near one, watching the metal come together under rough but skilled hands. He extends his mind out ever so slightly, and on the edges of that awareness he can just barely feel every rivet going into place, every arc welding, every post sunk into concrete.

He thinks of the new machine, back at his home. How new and shiny it is. How lovely.

How lethal.

His employer has stopped trying to contact him, at long last. Perhaps he's finally satisfied with his progress, or perhaps he's now his ex-employer and doesn't deign to give him his notice.

(He doesn't seem to have much in the way of communication skills, as Moloch has noticed)

But Moloch does not really care, anymore. This was never about money, except to build a new and better machine. Whatever his employer's goals were, or where they came from, Moloch's part in this has always been about destroying a man who claimed to be a god.

Just that.

He smiled, and then locks himself in his car. Then he extends himself out fully, jumping from metal to metal in an unbroken line, all the way up to the skeleton of the tower. There, in possession of the evolving creature, aware of every thing in and around it, he flexes his muscles ever so much.

The news will say it was an unexpected collapse. The dead workers will be blamed, and their families will not get any of the death benefits. The contractor might have his knuckles rapped under the table, but life -- and, more importantly, work -- will go on.

Moloch doesn't care. There will always be other towers. There has to be.

He needs his exercise, too.

* * *

Not quite half the world away, METALMAID pauses while crafting another furious letter to her followers, such as they are. Her logic circuits are overheating from all the anger she's projecting, and she needs to calm down for a time. 

Needs to cool that robot brain down.

 

Saying that things have not been going rather well is putting it rather mildly. She should have been free, by now. SPYGOD should be dead, and she should be leading her fellow, former Slaughterbots in a cold, clinical, and downright brutal punitive war against America. 

 

The human germs should have been conquered by now. The pitiful few survivors should have been put to work making more Slaughterbots, or at least making the factories that will make more Slaughterbots. 

 

(Unless, of course, they still want some of those human germs walking around and breeding, just so they can remember what they were fighting against. There's still some discussion about this amongst the few, former Slaughterbots that METALMAID can get to answer her.)

But all these plans are academic until SPYGOD is dead, and so far, she is having no luck making that happen. 

 

The first direct attempt failed, due to some limits of her programs. The plan required her to be sneaky, but she was never good at that, really. So she overcompensated some details, and underplayed others, unwittingly hamstringing her own attempt to present him with an no-win situation.

 

Then she contracted out to an expert, who, in turn, created a one-shot, fire and forget supervillain. That was also a failure, due to the fact that the would-be villain was a psychologically unstable idiot.

 

The expert was willing to try again, but she'd had enough of his failure. This time she decided to do a little uplifting of her own, and contacted an up-and-coming villain, offering him some upgrades and new technology provided he use it to deal with her problem.

This, too, was a failure, but it was one she could live with. Her assassin had not been an idiot -- merely outclassed by a smarter, or at least luckier, opponent. She offered more money for another chance, hoping that the second round would go better if her chosen warrior was more prepared. 

In the meantime, someone tried to kill SPYGOD under her nose. She still has no idea who put the bomb in his beloved flying car, but took some comfort in the fact that that attempt on his life didn't succeed, either. 

(And a little jealousy, as well. Why didn't she think of that?)

 

A second round between SPYGOD and her assassin went a little better, but still failed to bring victory. But then her would-be employer had to get stupid -- or so she thought -- and challenge him to a fight he could spend more time preparing for. 

And prepare he did.

For a week, SPYGOD was dead, at least to the outside world. But METALMAID knew better. She'd seen the massive preparations the COMPANY had taken to carry out that one illusion, and prepare for many more.

 

And suddenly, every plan she'd had going had to be altered or derailed. Every would-be assassin she could have contacted over the Undernet was already being called up to try and kill SPYGOD, to try and flush her out. And none of those assassins had a hope in computer hell at succeeding, because they were only killing clones, and COMPANY Agents were either handling them, or close at hand.

Suddenly, all she had to rely on was Moloch, and Moloch was taking too long to make another run at SPYGOD. Always one excuse or another. Always other considerations. And always a complete lack of concern at METALMAID's reasonable requests for progress reports and timetables.

Meanwhile, the situation was deteriorating. SPYGOD wasn't suspecting her hand in things, but it was all she could do to keep herself from having her programming checked for anomalies. Sooner or later he'd get that Dr. Yesterday egghead up here from the South Pole, and then it could be all over.

(Maybe sooner than that. She couldn't be sure, but she was wondering if BeeBee was beginning to suspect something. The cat won't let her pet her, anymore, and tends to run away when she treads through a room. No hisses, yet, but she thinks they're coming.)

Which means that, unless she gets the robot revolution up and running, at long last, the plan may fail. SPYGOD may nip it in the bud before it even gets off the ground, and if she isn't there to command it, it will either not start, or collapse around itself in an orgy of go-nowhere strategy discussions and tabled motions.

Something has to break, soon. Something must.

* * *

At that time, down in the Ice Palace, America's greatest superhero gets a call.

That isn't all that unusual, of course. Since he got the job of looking after this this freezing, former Supernazi redoubt, he takes about a thousand calls a day. Mostly from the United Nations, wondering how this, that, or the other thing is going.

(Do you have enough food? Are the penguins okay? Have you gotten through the door, yet? No? Well why not? Etc.)

But it's a call on that phone. The one no one knows about but him, and one other, certain person.

A name he's been trying to forget about, lately, but really can't. Not anymore.

So he goes down to the lowest tunnel, where no one is supposed to be going at all. It's where one of the last werewolves blew himself to kingdom come rather than surrender to the COMPANY, back in May. It's horribly radioactive and toxic as heck, but it's not like he has to worry about that, now does he?

He takes his time, to avoid suspicion. The phone rings and rings, but there's no hurry. The person on the other end won't hang up, not until they've spoken, anyway.

Finally, he's there. Satisfied that he's alone, he taps the subcutaneous button behind his ear three times, and just listens.

He doesn't get to talk during these conversations. He just listens. This is both for security purposes, and because the other person does all the talking in this particular relationship.

He just listens to the person's voice as it speaks. He does not reply, because small talk would be pointless. He does not question, because all aspects of his instructions are said, including what to do (or, rather, what will happen) if he fails.

It takes about five minutes, and then the person on the other end hangs up without really saying goodbye. Mr. USA lets go of the breath he's been holding all that time.

He has his true orders, yet again.

Of course, he doesn't really need to come down here for this. The conversation is one-sided, after all, and so quiet that no one but he can hear it. He could be in a crowded, noisy room and he'd hear it perfectly, and almost anyone they'd throw at him (except SPYGOD, of course) would be unable to hear it. He has no fear of the game being given away, and no worries of some well-meaning bluehelmet finding out too much.

No, he comes down here for these calls so no one can see him weep.

* * *

In a hallway behind another hallway, deep within the CIA's headquarters, the Director is doing something he swore he'd never do.

It's true what they say about Washington: when you get any kind of really big job in this town, you get to your office and there's a big envelope on the table. In that envelope are all the answers to all the questions you might have had about your new position, and all the things you didn't know it entailed.

The Director's envelope was a sinister and upsetting read.

It was mostly active cover-ups for things that happened so long ago that no one remembers them, along with some more recent, very upsetting things. The relationship with The Legion was one of them, but there was more. Much more, and much worse.

One of them was the thing that he is doing now.

When the CIA was created, just after World War II, it was understood that there might come a day when, given the sloppy nature of any democracy, the American people might vote in their own destruction. They could get a Manchurian Candidate, or possibly a Communist impostor, or just some double-talking !@#$ who railed against the Iron Curtain by day and lobbied to bring it to America by night.

There was also the possibility that a coup might take place. Certain pro-fascist businessmen had tried it back before the War. There was nothing to stop it from happening again.

Nothing but this one thing, here in the bowels of the building, behind several locked doors that the Director alone had full knowledge of, and the keys to.

The thing in question was the terrible responsibility that had been given to the Agency: the ability to kill an American President, and get away with it. If the NSA or The COMPANY had existed back then, they might have had it, instead. And the FBI was Hoover's child, and Hoover thought he could deep-six anyone at a moment's notice, without any help from anyone.

And indeed, he had.

But the CIA was seen to be the sane, older brother of the Intelligence family, back in those days. Unto their hands was given the supreme responsibility. And, to their credit, no matter how crazy or insane things got at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the Directors kept their hands off the kill switch.

Until now.

Now, things were different. Now there was an idiot in the Oval Office who, for whatever reason, was actually listening to what SPYGOD was saying. And SPYGOD was leading the country to ruin, one super-powered train-wreck at a time.

The Director had never liked the President. True, his predecessor and he and gotten along just fine, but his predecessor was fairly friendly to SPYGOD, too. So what did he know?

Besides, he was out of the picture, and highly unlikely to protest if the responsibility he'd kept secret for so long had to be used. What could he say, anyway? Nothing, if he knew what was good for him.

So the President would die. His Vice President would be putty in the hands of his new advisers. And the Director knew those advisers would persuade him to ditch the man-monster that was running The COMPANY. It was as simple as 1, 2, 3.

And after that little talk he'd had with SPYGOD -- or, rather, that SPYGOD had had with him -- it was clear the button had to be pushed. Half of the information in that welcoming envelope was now in the President's hands, thanks to SPYGOD. And if he read even a quarter of it, and had some weird, Midnight conscience attack in the bedroom...?

No. He had to die. It was a horrible thing, but it had to be done. The Director was just the man to do it.

The hallway ends in another door. The door swings open, once unlocked, and there's a long flight of dusty, cobwebbed stairs. He takes it down, wishing he had something other than his cell phone to light the way. Also wishing he'd thought about the trip, and what to bring.

Down the stairs and into a chamber. In the chamber is another, very old door. It's locked, but there is one last key on the ring. It slides into the lock like a !@#$ into a willing, wet !@#$, and the door creaks open.

The room behind seems empty, but there must be something in there. Why else would it lead here?

The Director walks in, and flashes his phone this way and that, looking for something in the gloom. He sees nothing at all. Just a small room, and a floor that seems scraped and pocked with holes.

There was something here, once. Something large and complicated. But now it's gone, leaving an empty room.

He wants to scream in rage. He wants to cry and bang his fists against the wall. He almost throws his phone against it in frustration, ready to walk back up the stairs and start thinking of alternatives.

But then he hears it. A scuffling, from back the way he came. Several scufflings, in fact.

Coming down the stairs.

He turns and heads back into the chamber, and flashes his light up the stairs. There are, indeed, figures moving down it. He can't quite see their faces, yet, just the fact that they're wearing robes.

"Hello, (REDACTED)," one of them says, voice gentle and soft as a teddy bear: "We've been waiting for you."

"Who are you?' He shouts, getting ready to call for help. Why doesn't he have his sidearm with him? Why?

"You won't need that," the leader says, extending her hands out for a hug: "The phone is useless, down here. No one knows you're here, and no one can hear you if you call.

"It's just you, and us."

"What do you want?" He asks, taking a step back.

"You, (REDACTED)," they say as one: "We want you."

And there is screaming in the secret room below the Agency, followed by half an hour of silence.

Some time later, the Director comes back into the part of the building everyone knows about. There's a smile on his face, perhaps belying the ordeal he has been through. Or did anything happen at all?

And as he walks back to his office, tossing the keyring into the trash as he does so, he's humming a song. Not one that anyone thought would be one of his favorites, really, but you never know.

Dum dum, dum dum, dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum

* * *

In the far reaches of the galaxy, far beyond and below our own solar system. something approaches. Something vast and timeless. Something implacable.

Something (UNINTELLIGIBLE)

Stars tremble in their slow orbits as it moves past. Dead and lifeless worlds crack and crumble. Some of these systems never had life.

Some did, once, before that something's final visit.

It is coming, now. There is no stopping it. No holding it back or denying its ultimate trajectory.

Towards Earth. Towards us.

* * *

And SPYGOD walks down a cold, Washington DC street to his next appointment, perhaps aware that he's on camera.

Perhaps not.

(SPYGOD is listening to Sinking (The Cure) and planning to buy several Virgils Bavarian Nutmeg Root Beers)

11/21-24/11 - Going Deeper Underground - pt. 2

Yes, this has been a long, strange trip to get here, fellow Agents. Consider that payback for messing with my slides.


The bottom line, if you'll excuse the phrase, is that we are now in the most interesting place, in terms of our discussion. We can't have a Hollow Earth to play in because physics and geology, darn them to heck, take our fantasies and turn them into smooshed dinosaurs.


But now we're in the Lithosphere. This is where we can play. And this is where things get really weird.


Now we are at the crust. That's between five and twenty-five miles of rock and soil that, while you still have to be concerned about heat, pressure, and the occasional pocket of lava bubbling up, are the chief playgrounds for people like myself. Give me a well-tuned tunneling device, a good map, and a watch, and I can take you places you'd never think could possibly exist.


My predecessor, the original Underman, made a number of maps of his explorations of the Crust before he retired. I should point out that these maps were, in turn, based on the life's work of numerous other Lithonauts, going all the way back to the 19th century. Only they had to rely on finding large cave systems, and digging their way down with as much machinery or manpower as they could throw at the problem.


Underman, and those like him, had technology on their side. The kind of technology that can create a nuclear-powered tank with an extremely large diamond-tipped drill, capable of slowly boring a permanent tunnel, or quickly passing on through and throwing the debris back behind the vehicle so as to not create geological instability.


...


Okay, sorry. Nostalgia. You know how that is. 


Though I gotta admit, it'll kill you if you're not careful.

* * *

11/21/11
3:26 AM
THE HEPTAGON

They called him Teleman.

Note the "they." He preferred to be called something a lot less descriptive, or at least darkly humorous. But "they" were the ones who wrote his paychecks, so he put up with the decidedly 80's name, and tried not to think of New Wave, parachute jackets, and MTV.

Luckily for him, "they" kept him so busy that he didn't have much time to contemplate his unfortunate, Agency-handed handle. The ability to teleport yourself anywhere in the world, so long as you knew exactly where you were going, made you an extremely valuable entity.

(The only drawback being that he couldn't take anything with him, or take anything back, unless it was completely inside him when he did it. But a nude man can still do a lot of damage, even without the knife in his mouth, or the datastick/camera in a surgically-created pouch in his navel. Some of the martial arts they'd trained him in were so secret they didn't even have names.)

And while "they" might have had him squarely by the !@#$ (youthful indiscretions -- you know how that goes) his check-writers made !@#$ sure he got to handle some of the value his services provided to them. It was their way of ensuring he stayed their valuable asset, and didn't go moonlighting, or changing sides.

So when "they" offered him a cool million for what was, on the surface, a pretty easy-sounding job, Teleman wondered what the catch was. Teleport into a specific cell, kill a prisoner before anyone realized he was there, and then teleport back out again? He'd done that dozens of times, using the Dim Mak (or its modern day, Krav Maga equivalent) to ensure that even the best pathologists would believe that the target had just died from a heart attack.

Then they told him he'd be teleporting into the Heptagon, and killing a target right under SPYGOD's nose.

To his credit, Teleman did not decline the job. But he took an extra half-second to "think it over," which consisted of him thinking the word "!@#$" several times, and wish his youthful indiscretions weren't so !@#$ indiscreet.

They got him everything he needed. A layout of the place, complete with coordinates so he could focus on where he needed to go. A printout of a camera image of the cell, itself, so he could fully materialize himself within it. All physical data on the target, so he could strike him with precision and kill him instantly, rather than having to inspect his body for the right spots to hit him.

(That's the problem with the Dim Mak; there's no "one size fits all" death touch. You have to study your opponent's chi in order to disrupt it that savagely, or else all you're doing is making an energy hiccup in the body. And all those do is trigger the "fight" side of the fight or flight reflex, which makes for an even messier conflict.)

At 3:21 AM, on Monday, November 21st, Teleman declared himself ready. He ran through the plan one more time in his mind, closed his eyes, and then began to concentrate.

At 3:23 his employers noticed that he was starting to turn translucent, then transparent. That was a good sign. he was almost there.

At 3:26 he vanished. There was a sound like a marker on glass, and then he was gone. The clock was running, and they expected him back in thirty seconds or less.

(It never took him more than a few seconds' concentration to come back. Getting there was the hard part, but coming back was a literal snap.)

At ten seconds in, they started to worry. At twenty someone actually asked out loud if something had gone wrong. At thirty, they all did.

Forty. Fifty. A full minute went by.

Then two. Then three.

At 3:31 AM, the Agent in charge of the operation called his superior and told him it was a wash. He recommended using the bomb that Teleman didn't know was wrapped around his C3 (put in at the same time as his navel pouch). His superior agreed

The operatives all left Teleman's apartment and locked the door behind them, knowing they'd never come back.

* * *

Anyway, the plates. I'm sure you've heard of Plate Tectonics. That is not a progressive rock band... 

Um, sorry. Had to try.


Let's try that again. Plate Tectonics has to do with why we have earthquakes and volcanoes in the first place. It's why continents shift over time, and why it looks like South America and Africa could fit into each other like puzzle pieces.


That's because, once upon a time, they did.


The Crust lies atop the Mantle, like we said, and that's the Lithosphere. What I didn't say, yet, because I got all weepy-eyed for days long past, is that the Lithosphere is not a solid object. It's broken up into several different plates, which move, ever so slowly, like conveyor belts or rotating gears. In some places the plates slide past each other, in others they go up and push away from each other, and in others one gets pulled under the other, and new parts get pulled up from the other side of the plate.


It's what happens inside these plates that is so amazingly cool. It's like of like Earth having 15 true continents, all below the surface. And each one having its own unique biosphere and history, depending on whether it's mostly underwater or above it.


Oh yes, that's got your attention, now.

11/22/11
4:00 PM
(LOCATION UNKNOWN)

The Big Man is not in a good mood, today. Not at all.

First, he has it confirmed by an unwitting source inside the Secret Service. They did, indeed, find the Agent he had programmed. They didn't turn her, like SPYGOD claimed. They just tackled her, wrapped her up so she couldn't harm herself, and took her away in a COMPANY car.

No one knew where she was, now, but chances were good SPYGOD was using the N-Machine on her. If he did, he'd find out where Biggs encountered her, and how he contacted her, and how often.

None of these things are good.

Second, he finds out that a number of his retired operatives have vanished off the grid over the last 12 hours. They're disappearing from their homes in the middle of the night, like Soviet dissidents in a bad propaganda movie. Some have actually been snatched off the street like little kids baited by lollipop-wielding strangers.

Then he is told, in no uncertain terms, that the Director of the CIA does not care to answer his calls, anymore. At first he thought the man might just be really busy, what with all the problems he's having right now. But the last time he called, and tried to mention -- however obliquely -- that the Director might really want to communicate with him, the man's secretary actually told him to lose the number.

"Lose the number." Like he was a jilted lover who wasn't getting the point.

And now this: a graphic picture sent to one of his many mail drops. It's of a naked man who's been fused half-in, half-out of a prisoner's restraint chair. His head is gone -- exploded from the neck up, from the looks of things -- and there's a sign around his neck.

The sign reads:

Thought I'd Redecorate the Cell. 

Your Move, !@#$face.

- SPYGOD -

And while The Big Man had no idea that the Agency was going to use Teleman to take care of their mutual problem, the fact that SPYGOD apparently thinks it was Biggs who sent him, rather than the CIA, does not make the loss of this valuable operative any less painful.

Hargreaves is keeping well away from him, today. It's probably for the best. Right now Biggs is so angry he'd probably tell the man to stud his hand with razors, reach around, and fist!@#$ himself to death on the front veranda, just so he could finally think over the white hot anger coursing through his mind.

This is war, then. It's time to stop pretending.

He calls his son in Corsica. Ever the good boy, Xerxes answers on the second ring.

"It's time, my boy," Biggs says: "Get the team together, and activate The Skull. We're going to destroy The Flier with SPYGOD on board."

Xerxes giggles. It's just his way of saying "yes" to his beloved father. Then he hangs up and goes back to whatever fresh new depravity he was exploring today.

"King takes Queen," The Big Man muses, feeling the anger subside. For now.

* * *

Let's talk about what's right under our feet... well, under the Flier, anyway. The North American Plate. It's North America, all the way down to Central America, over to Greenland, and the Easternmost part of Russia and the Northernmost islands of Japan, along with the North Pole.


It is home to the race of small but powerful beings we call the Subterraneans. These stooped, hairy people live in underground cities lit by luminescent fungi, connected to one another by well-built tunnels that are much older than they are.


They have no real knowledge as to who or what built those tunnels. But given how large the blocks they're made of are, they must have either been human sized, or else had access to powerful machinery. Maybe both.


The cities are definitely theirs, though. They're concentric streets of simple buildings that look like igloos made of rocks, with the bricks stuck together with that weakly-glowing fungi. They can build larger structures, but prefer not to, mostly because they don't have the time or energy. They're always out looking for food, which is mostly nasty cave spiders and other squirmy things.


Oddly enough, they won't eat the fungi, even if they're starving. It's sacred to them.


Subterraneans are mammalian, but are not descended from the common ancestor that gave rise to humans and apes. We're not sure what they may have come up from. They remind me of what happens when an inbred farmer boy gets in bed with a badger, but that's not what their myth cycles tell us.

Not that we've had a lot of luck getting the information out of them. These guys are about as vicious as badgers in a trap, and don't play well with others. You'll note I didn't use the term "Empire" to talk about their massive complex of cities? That's because the cities are all technically at war with one another, and if it wasn't for the fact that the tunnels run for hundreds of miles between the cities, and food sources are scarce between them, I think they would have wiped each other out ages ago.


Not that you should go buy a gun and point it at your gopher holes out of fear of what might come up them. They stay well underground. On those rare occasions when they get too close to the surface they rarely stray far from the caverns they come up in, and then they only come out at night. They can't handle any light source more powerful than a candle without being blinded, either temporarily or permanently, and they're scared to death of us.


We smell terrible, apparently.

* * *

11/23/11
6:02 AM
SOMEWHERE IN LANGLEY, VA

It's shower time for Agent Armatrading.

In this case, "shower" means two of her minders put restraints on her hands and feet, and then pull her up and out of her chair so another one can give her a sponge bath. They're careful not to rip out the IV picks, or disturb the tubes and sensors, but other than that they're not very gentle about it -- especially when they get down lower and have to deal with her on a more intimate level.

(Her period started two days ago, and they didn't think to get tampons when they abducted her. The fact this makes some of them uncomfortable gives her a little twinge of joy when she mentally comes up for air.)

Of course, not all of them are weirded out by the fact that a naked woman strapped to a chair is going to get messy. One of them is just enraptured by her otherwise-embarrassing biology.

It's one of the men. She notes his fresh face and glittering eyes as he holds her up and down. She recognizes that look: it's like he thinks she's a bug, and he wants to put a pin through her stomach and mount her for framing.

Oh yes. He's the one. He's the weak link, here.

And while he doesn't know it, yet, he's going to get her out of this situation...

But she turns that thought off, very quickly. She can feel Agent S rooting around in her brains, again, looking for information that's going to help him plan the next step in trying to take SPYGOD down.

(It's bad enough he used her skills to frame that poor Agent, and then make him think SPYGOD was going to kill him for using his COMPANY card inappropriately. He might have, of course, but not like that.)

As he's in her, she's in him. She can feel the endgame coming. If he can't find anything actionable or nasty that he can use against SPYGOD, he'll probably have to find some way to kill him, and make it look like she did it.

That way he gets rid of him and her in one move.

The thought almost makes her react to the point where she loses control, and gives away some of her thoughts on getting out of this mess. But at the last moment she gets control, again, and finds a way to wrap herself into a pleasant memory loop --

Beatrice kisses her, there by the wharf. Someone laughs at the dykes. They don't care. Beatrice kisses her, there by the wharf. Someone laughs at the dykes. They don't care. Beatrice kisses her, there by the wharf. Someone laughs at the dykes. They don't care. 

-- and the monster who's stolen her body just passes on through, apparently uncaring that she's remembering her last girlfriend's last sweet gesture before things went all so !@#$ wrong between them.

Had it really been that bad? Did Sue really have to have said those things? Did they really need to have broken up, talked behind each others' backs, and x-ed off so many friends for taking no side, or the wrong one?

She doesn't know. If none of this had happened, she'd have said yes, and continued to badmouth the dumb !@#$ that did her wrong.

But here and now, looking at what might be the last days of her life, she wishes there was some way she could reach out, across the distance, take Beatrice's hand in hers, and tell her she's sorry.

And thank her for that one day, there by the wharf.

* * *

The discovery of the Subterraneans can be credited to one Herbert P. Bloomdale, back in 1927. He's the guy that started digging for gold up in Saskatchewan, and found a series of caverns that spiraled all the way down to just next to one of these massive tunnels. He came back up to the surface missing a leg, and scared to death for obvious reasons, but stories of his find got out.


It's only because the Canadians are capable of keeping certain things very well contained that most of you have never even heard of these folks before. But there was a man named Iben Colson, back in the 30's, who cobbled together a means to get down to the tunnels. He figured he could go down there and wow them with some technology, and get himself his very own empire below the Earth.


It worked, for a while, and most of what we know about the Subterraneans' disjointed history, myth cycles, and way of life is courtesy of Mr. Colson. My predecessor met him on a few occasions, back in the day, when Colson was a stammering wreck of a man who'd been underground so long his eyes had become totally useless, and he was finding his way around by smell.


Where did they come from? Who built the tunnels? What happened to their society? Why did their writing style look almost exactly like cuneiform? He had no idea. 

But he did say one thing: "The answers lie below." Apparently that's one of their many pithy sayings.


Another one is "outsiders are food," which is why my predecessor didn't go back for more information after the last time he came into town. It turned out that Colson had since died, and the Subterraneans didn't care to have another "uplander" coming down and telling them stories in exchange for their lives, food, and the occasional sexual experiment, which was all his "empire" really amounted to.


You like that story? I got more. A lot more.


The mysteries below Ayers Rock, and the nasty, black things that live down there. The Lost Kingdoms of India and Arabia. The ancient horror under the Nazca Plate. The crystal palaces of South America...


But, before we go anywhere with those, we have to talk about the Pacific Plate, and what GORGON's disappearance into the Subduction Zone means to us.

* * *

11/24/11
5:31 PM
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.

"... And you're absolutely sure of this?" Director Straffer is asking, his telepresence walking through a table like it isn't there.

"Well, the !@#$ at the Agency were sure of it," SPYGOD says, downing another beer in two gulps: "They traded it for something of vital importance, at the time. Now, of course, it could be a fake. But..."

"But it looks like the real thing," the ghost of a man says, looking at the schematics on the table: "And it makes a lot of sense. I've often wondered about how they could have gotten the capabilities to pull off some of the things they've done with that, over the years."

"And suddenly it makes a lot of sense. They meet up at Outland with a few would-be alien conquerors, make a really good deal, and suddenly they have their very own, genuine, mother!@#$ Ybari dreadnought... minus the bias drive."

"They wouldn't need it if they're just going to drive around the planet with it. But the drive doesn't just handle the motive units. It also handles the power supply."

"Which means that they can't have all systems running at once, which is probably how we beat that !@#$ thing back so many times in the past."

Straffer considers this, and looks at the schematics again.

"So if we took out the nuclear engines, and some of the more terrestrial weaponry and propulsion, I'd say this is more than 75% alien technology."

"What's the cut-off for DAMOCLES?"

"Well below that," the Director says: "Alright, we've got a deal. But I want you to know this isn't going to be a regular thing. The less we have to do things like this, the better. I get enough flak from the budget people as it is."

"I think we won't need something like this again. But thank you. I appreciate it."

"Is that an actual thank you I just heard? My telepresence must be malfunctioning."

SPYGOD smiles: "The real thank you comes next time you're downside. The beer's on me."

"Well, I don't drink," he says, smiling: "But you can get me a table at Per Se."

 "What? That place that charges out the !@#$ for little bites of super-gourmet rocket food?"

"That's the one. I've been dying to get in there."

"Okay, then. Table for one?"

"I was hoping you'd join me, actually."

SPYGOD grumbles: "Well, okay. But just for you. And I am not !@#$ dressing up."

"I wouldn't dream of insisting. Speaking of which, it's Thanksgiving. Shouldn't you be breaking bread with the troops?"

"Yeah, well. Business first. But yes, I do have about two dozen turkeys deep-frying on board The Flier that I should probably get back to. Hopefully no one's caught anything on fire, yet."

"Paris is burning, my friend," Straffer tips him a wink and vanishes, and for a weird moment SPYGOD has no idea if he was just hit on, or not.

But yes. It's Thanksgiving, and today he can be thankful for a number of things, and people. It's been a weird year since last May, and as much tragedy and bad times as he's brought down on himself, there's also a lot of wonderful things going on.

And as he straps on his rocket pack, and makes ready to head back up to The Flier, he's grateful for so much. He almost cracks a big smile in spite of it all, and decides he's going to do something really nice for his overworked, overthreatened personal assistants come Christmastime.

Especially Sue. !@#$ is she turning out to be a crack Agent.

* * *

 
You see, the North American plate isn't the only one that has those old tunnels running through them. The African Plate does as well. And so does the Pacific Plate. It's just that, since the crust there is mostly underwater, so are the tunnels, since they run fairly close to the surface in places.


And that's very bad news. When GORGON vanished off our radar, all those months ago, they most likely went into one of those tunnels. That would indicate that they know about them. That would also mean that they may have been exploiting them for quite some time, now, and may have all kinds of bases and facilities built into the tunnels, themselves.


Suddenly we have a much smaller area to look through. But at the same time, we have a more dangerous brief. There's things in those tunnels that have been festering and breeding down there in seclusion for millions of years.


Yes, millions. That's how old those tunnels actually are.


Did I mention that, earlier? No? Oh, sorry. Yeah, something made a network of tunnels in the crust of the Earth millions of years ago, and whatever it was, it was not us. And we have no idea who or what it was.


Except that there may be a story that explains it, sort of.


Has anyone ever heard of Richard Sharpe Shaver? Oh, okay, one of you had excellent taste in reading while growing up. Okay, two of you? Anyone else?


Well, Shaver was a nutcase. He claimed that he was receiving mental transmissions from an underground civilization that was based on rape and torture. High science, low regard for life, you know the type. Once the editor of Amazing Stories got hold of his rambling letters and fictionalized them, they made for great sci-fi tales, at least until the readers decided they'd had enough and made the editor stop carrying them.


But one of the things he spoke about has a certain weight to it. 

Some of you may have heard of Deros. The term's a conjunction of "Detrimental Robots." Something like the rape machines from that one early Gary Numan record. They were biological creatures that had become so degenerate that they killed, maimed, and tortured with all the unfeeling efficiency of a robot, hence the name.


Well, the name "Deros" was attached to something else, later on. Some of the older hands here may have heard of the Advanced Supersonic Nazi Hell Creatures from Below the Hollow Earth? No, that's not a progressive rock band, either, and it sure as heck wasn't a Syfy movie, either.


That was the name given to certain foo fighters, back during World War II. There's no real good pictures of them, due to the fact that they moved so freaking fast, and didn't leave a lot of witnesses, but we have a few descriptions. I think the most evocative one was "flying, fire-breathing, dragon train."


These things attacked our planes and ships in the South Pacific. They appeared from nowhere and then vanished just as fast. And whenever they left the scene of an ambush, they were seen to dive into the Ocean, and sometimes even crash-land on islands. But no wreckage was ever found.


The suspicion was that the Japanese had gotten their hands on some sort of advanced technology, and were using it against us. The fact that we didn't have those things being thrown in our faces every day led Military Intelligence to believe that they didn't invent them, themselves, but rather found them, or bought their services, somehow.


But then the war was over, and during the Occupation we found out that the Japanese had absolutely nothing to do with it. They were as astounded by these things as we were, except that they didn't attack them, for some weird reason. So they assumed the Nazis must have been trying out a secret weapon and not telling them about it, much in the same way the Japanese didn't always tell them about theirs.

A little more digging, and it turns out that, amongst some of the islands in the Micronesian chain, Dero is a known entity. It's what the islanders call a long, swift demon of the sea that launches out of the water, attacks anything that trespasses into its domain, and then disappears. They don't show up all that often, but when they do it's never a good thing. 

This leads a few Nazi UFO conspiracy theorists to make a loose connection, and before you know it the two stories are conflated. Suddenly we've got Nazis riding these monsters they found below the hollow earth while turning Antarctica into a submarine base. Not completely off base, in some respects, but there's nothing below Antarctica that synchs up with the Dero.


But you can't help but wonder. All those tunnels suggest a home for something long and swift. And 
the fact that we haven't come across any giant, metal skeletons on the Ocean floor might suggest that they don't come from our ocean, but maybe something lower down.


Is that what the tunnels were made for? If so, who made them? The Deros, or whatever they served, or served them?


And if they're down there, along with GORGON, we could be looking at quite a wild op.


That's all I've got for you, now. The next time we meet we'll be talking about how we're going to go about dealing with the situation. We've got some ideas, of course, but it's going to be a tough one.

But you know, one thing I've learned in my relatively short time, here at The COMPANY? Tough isn't just part of the job description. It's when we're at our best. I think this toughness is going to make us even tougher, and...


...


Um, okay. Yes sir. I'm shutting up now. 


Thank you all for listening. Good night.

(SPYGOD is listening to Fascination Street (The Cure) and having an Oskar Blues G'Knight)