12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 4.2

There's a prison, outside of Marrakesh, where anyone can go in but hardly anyone comes back out again.

It used to be a Berber fortification, once upon a time. People spent a lot of time trying to break into it, with no success. But centuries later, it's become a jail, and now people are unable to break out of it -- an irony that's not lost on anyone incarcerated there.

It has an official name, as one expects from such a thing. It also has a number of other names in several languages, which is also to be expected in a country with so many. But the one name that tends to stand out is La Fosse de L'enfer.

The Pit of Hell.

So when Director Straffer comes to visit, he makes sure to have his transport bring them back to Earth right in the front courtyard -- right between the massive, closed gates and the entrance to the administration. This is partially because he doesn't care to be held up at the gate by surly prison guards, and partially because he just loves the idea of having his own personal teleporter for the day.

If his ride realizes this, he makes no sign of it. He's content to stand and impassively light a terrible-smelling cigarette as the stunned, well-armed interior guards stumble all over one another to threaten and harangue the man he's been assigned to, this day. But he can't help but smile a little as that man calmly stares down the sweaty, angry guards and -- ever so slowly -- pulls out the letter of introduction that the newly-installed Minister of Justice just wrote for him.

After that, everything changes, and they're allowed inside after all. 

* * *

There's a man in a bar in Tokyo who shouldn't be there, but is. 

The beefy, short-haired fellow's clearly not dressed for the establishment. He has a Hawaiian print shirt on, rather than the "casual" everyone's supposed to be affecting, here. He's also wearing heavy sunglasses, and has been nursing the same large drink all night, rather than obeying the two-drink minimum.

He doesn't look like he gives a !@#$, though. And none of the severs, bouncers, or patrons seen inclined to give him any. They're just letting him sit at the bar -- with plenty of space -- and drink in silence.

They even turned the music down just a little, just for him, just because he winced a little when some jarring "chill out" number came on.

And maybe that's because he's missing some finger joints. And maybe it's because there's something about him that says he could either buy or kill everyone there a dozen times over.

And maybe it's because they know who he really is.

So when Straffer walks over to him, and sits down right next to him without so much as a "Konichiwa", everyone nearby freezes in horrendous fear, thinking there's about to be some blood on the floor. And maybe there would have been, too, if the large man had been able to speak first.

But he doesn't get that chance. Before he can even open his mouth, the well-dressed interloper has pushed a photograph in his direction. It's of a smiling, young woman, dressed in a well-pressed business suit.

"I can get her back to you, Mister Ten," Straffer says (in Japanese, of course): "She may not be the same as she was, after what happened. But I can bring her around, in time."

"And what do you want, Spaceman?" Ju San, head of the Organization, asks, looking at this impudent gaijin over his shades.

"The world needs you back in the game," Straffer answers, returning his stare: "No more sitting at the bar drinking your day away. No more twenty hooker anime rampages in Shinjuku. You get back on your horse and you ride it, because you know what's coming, and we're going to need everything on the table, again."

"Talk to the government. I have no say in these things-"

"I did. They wasted my time trying to make deals. I don't have time for deals, Mister Ten. I need action. And I know for a fact you can provide it."

The man sighs and looks away. He says nothing for quite some time. 

And then, at last, he nods: "You'll want The Dignitary," he assumes.

"To start with? Yes," Straffer says. 

And then, in a flurry of photographs, he confidently proceeds to tell the most powerful man in Japan what else the world requires of him, for the future.

* * *

There's a wait in a stuffy room full of photographs and maps. The chairs are uncomfortable and the windows are small. The ceiling is high and dusty, and the sad, creaky fan is too slow to move the air. 

Eventually a small boy brings in tea from a cart out in the hall. It's strong and grainy, and desperate for sugar. Straffer takes it with two lumps, and Disparaître with only one. More cigarettes and silence, as per the Frenchman's desires. 

Eventually, a sweaty, fat man in a uniform a size too small appears, mopping his forehead as he enters the room. He apologizes in broken English, and -- delighted to find that his guest speaks French -- launches into a lengthy discussion about the subject of their visit. Nothing he has to say is anything new to Straffer, but he nods along politely and pretends to be interested and uninformed. 

Eventually, they get to the important part: why they're actually here.

"Do you mean to say that you are taking him out of here?" the Prison Director asks, clearly shocked by this. 

"We are, yes," Straffer says, accepting the young boy's offer of more tea: "The Terre Unifee has need of him. I'm sure you understand."

"But you do understand the reasons he was put here?"

"We do, yes," Straffer smiles, sipping at his tea ever-so-politely: "There were some concerns about his demeanor?"

"The man was a !@#$ing lunatic," the Director stammers: "And a fruit! The things he said... the things he claimed. It was just as well they put him in here. They'd have ripped him apart on the streets of Marrakesh if we hadn't arrested him."

"That was thirty years ago," Straffer reminds him: "Times have changed."

The Director sighs and leans back in his chair: "What does the TU want with this man?"

"That's kind of a need-to-know matter, Msr. Director. I'm sorry I can't be more specific than that."

"I need more than that."

"You have a letter from the Minister of Justice. Isn't that enough?"

"Pfah! Minister of Justice? I could tell you things about that man and how he came to power..."

"I'm sure you could," Straffer says, leaning forward a little: "In the interests of transparency, I should tell you that he told us quite a few things about how and why you were installed here, in this prison. They made for an interesting discussion."

The Director blinks. Then he goes blank-faced, and then finally smiles, somewhat weakly.

"Very well," the man says: "But I should warn you, this man is a danger to society. The things he claims he saw and the ideas he has... they could be very disruptive. I think we're better off with him locked up so he can't pervert anyone with his insane talk."

"You could have just taken him to Tangier," Disparaître intones, almost absent-mindedly: "There's hardly a straight man in town."

The Director almost has a heart attack. The tea boy tries not to giggle. Disparaître goes back to looking disinterested.

And Straffer sips his tea, trying not to smile now that he knows they've finally won through.  

* * *

"Have to be kidding me," the Major says, looking down at his desk.

"No, I'm not," Straffer says, putting both hands on that desk and trying to look his former superior officer -- and current Doctor, after a fashion -- in the eyes: "You know when I'm joking, Harvey. This is not my joking face."

"Isn't, is it?" the barrel-chested man says, sighing and looking up.

"Don't you want to know why?"

"Think I do," the man says, getting up and walking across his small office to get a bottle out of its hiding place: "Security."

"There is that. If something happened to me-"

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he says, getting two glasses out: "Body'll outlast your brain. Maybe already has."

"Okay then, but I'll still need a good Number One. And that's you."

"Not selling me on it," Harvey says, pouring them both a glass of the Scotch: "Gave it up. No more rush. Why would I go back?"

"Because you can't stand being in charge of it all," Straffer says, taking a glass and raising it up: "You wanted a challenge, so you jumped at everything they gave you. Eventually, they made you the one in charge of saying who got what, but you couldn't go out and do things yourself, anymore. It was too much of an unacceptable risk."

"Paid attention," the man says -- sitting down, lifting his own glass and following through on a drink: "So why-"

"Because this time, you're not going to be behind a !@#$ desk," Straffer says, wincing at the drink's bite and putting the glass down: "This time, you'll be in the field. You'll be my eyes and ears. My hand on the world. You will be the one jumping through the hoops, and doing everything possible to make sure my !@#$ stays in one piece."

"I won't be in charge of the whole thing ever again..." Harvey says, mulling that over.

"Exactly," Straffer says, tapping his empty glass: "I'm tired of being !@#$ed by people I can't trust, Harvey. I'm tired of having to watch my back and worry about rogue androids or people who are too good to be true. 

"I know you. I trust you. And you put me back together, for God's sake."

"Don't want you breaking, do I?" the man says, filling both their glasses: "Sir."

Straffer smiles and salutes with his glass. Harvey does the same.

The deal is done.

* * *

"Do you want me in there with you?" the Frenchman asks as they walk down yet another long, cramped hallway -- guards on either side.

"No, I think I'll be okay," Straffer says, adjusting his cufflinks: "This man's not nearly as dangerous as they make him out to be."

"That's not what I heard."

"Well, he is dangerous," Straffer clarifies as they turn the corner, only to find yet another long, cramped, stone hallway awaiting them: "The man's taken on entire armies. Destroyed whole armadas. Repelled invasions, for God's sake, and sometimes single-handedly."

Disparaître whistles, not sure he's hearing this right: "How can he do such things?"

"Well, sometimes he had an army on his side, which never hurts. And sometimes he made those armies himself, out of people who were fighting each other just days before. But sometimes he only needed a sword in one hand and a blaster in the other to do it. 

"And sometimes...?" Straffer says as they near the cell, which has two very nervous guards standing outside of it: "Sometimes all he needed was for his enemies to know he was there, and they'd turn around and run out of fear."

"And yet, here he is," Disparaître says, gesturing to the cell.

"That's right," Straffer nods: "Because there's one thing more terrible and powerful than alien invaders, evil emperors, and warring kingdoms from another galaxy."

"And what is that?"

"Your own government at home, convinced you're insane," the man says, winking. 

And then he's heading for the doors, which the guards throw open rather hurriedly, and shut twice as fast.

Inside the darkened cell is a cot and a toilet. There is no window, and no light.

All the walls are covered in massive murals, all drawn by scratching onto the rude stone. Friezes of armies and battles, entire kingdoms new and old, people and places and wonders beyond imagining. 

"Are you here to bring me a copy of the Noble Koran?" a man says, suddenly right behind Straffer. His voice is firm and supple, and he speaks Arabic with a cultured, shoreline accent. 

"No, I am not," Straffer says: "May I turn around?"

"Not just yet," the man says, putting a single finger on the back of his neck and holding him there: "If you're not here to make me recant my heresy, then why are you here?"

"I am here to inform you that you are a free man, again," Straffer replies: "But there are some conditions."

"I could snap your neck with this finger," the man hisses: "Do not speak to me of...."

And then he falls silent. The finger is joined by another, and then a hand.

"Not... you are not human?"

"Yes and no," Straffer answers: "I am a cyborg. And I've been one for a long time, now."

"I did not think there were any that were this... convincing."

"Not outside of the Space Service, no. But we've always been ahead of the curve. You know that."

"Dear God," the man says, quickly walking around and showing himself at last. He is tall and well-muscled, with long, silver hair down to his waist, and a well-trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes shine in the dark, and his body, though old, appears to have been worn down very little by the decades he's spent in this cell.

"Faraj," Straffer says: "I know you have suffered greatly. I know you have been treated unfairly. I wish there had been a way, before now, to get you out of here. But the world needs you."

"Is the Empire invading?" Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir says: "Has that dog of an Emperor finally deigned to come here?"

"No," Straffer says, gesturing to the cot, so that they both might sit: "Something a billion times worse, Faraj. Something that makes that Emperor look like a little boy throwing rocks at fish in a pond. We are looking at the end of all life on Earth, and only someone with your skills could save us."

And that's all he needs to say to go from annoyance to center of attention. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Sense the Adventure (The FIXX) and having a Special Flag)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 16

When the Imago began to hatch their plan to take over the Earth, through GORGON, they realized that they would have to neutralize SPYGOD as soon as possible.

It wasn't necessarily because of his position, his connections, or his long history. Nor was it his skills, or his abilities, or even his power set.

(It wasn't even his somewhat skewed sense of fashion, though the less serious amongst them joked that removing his utterly flamboyant optical pollution from the world could only be a good thing.)

It was simply because they knew that, when the time came, he would fight them tooth and nail in such a way that they could not ignore, much less sweep under the rug.

They thought they had him taken care of, thanks to their gruesome deception involving the American President, and the arrangement they'd made with the two beings from Alter-Earth. They figured that, accused of such a terrible crime, SPYGOD would crawl underground and bide his time, giving them just enough of it to take over the world before he could launch a plan. And even if he did show his face again, he'd have a very hard time convincing his people of the truth while they were hunting him down -- especially with False Faces in important positions.

And if he followed the trail the truth ultimately led to -- all the way to Alter-Earth -- he would surely not return.

When they learned he'd gone there, after all, they were worried at first. But then came the news that the city they'd taken the real President to was gone -- completely obliterated -- and they figured that he was, at long last, dead. And so they went forward, secure in the belief that no one and no thing could stand against them now.

And for a time, things were truly glorious. 

But then things started happening, like the high-tech bombing of their space elevator. And after they chased down the obvious culprits -- killing far too many humans in the process -- and then discovered that, while they'd been searching for them, someone had stolen key information from a lock-up in China, they realized that they had been played.

And they were quite confident that they knew who was sitting across the card table from them, sleeves stuffed full of Aces.

So they began to hunt him down, as he was, in turn, hunting them. They swatted aside annoyances with increasing levels of firepower and civilian casualties, hoping to rouse him to anger and sudden action, but he did not oblige. They laid traps along the way, hoping to snare him, but even when they did they never held onto him for long.

And then there was that strange attempt by that old, had-been supervillain to take over the world using an army of the sort of robot SPYGOD used to use for domestic help. At first, they figured it was a separate matter, but when it was all over, they wondered if it wasn't yet another costly diversion from SPYGOD, after all.

And now, not long thereafter -- seven months to the day since they took over the world -- they were in dire danger of actually losing it, again.

And here is SPYGOD, leading the charge against their own center of power.

He is surrounded by a horde of Imago -- false and true -- and being bombarded by eyebeams that should be deadly to any living being with a set of eyes. Except that he has no eyes, save for a glass copy of one and the Chandra Eye under an eyepatch. And while their beams can do massive damage to nonliving things as well, he is not letting that stop in him the least.

He has no armor, no weapons, no means of transportation. He is naked and unashamed, battered and bruised and bloody. And yet he continues to fight on -- leaping from Imago to Imago, killing each one in turn with a vicious bite to the forehead, or powerful smack upside the skull with his hands, feet, or penis, and then jumping onto the next and nearest victim.

And all the while, as the Imago are tied up dealing with him, the massive, white robot he brought out to fight flies ever closer to the Lost City, and the Flier, not even feeling the sting of the Flier's weaponry yet.

The Dragon -- perhaps the only member of the Imago's leadership with the tactical skills to know what to do next -- realizes that it's only a matter of time before the Dignitary is at their gates, and using its own strength and weapons to rain mega-powered ruin down upon them. He has no desire to see this, and so has decided to hold back on the true strength of their weapons, the better to lull them into a false sense of security, and get them close enough to feel the full bite of their power.

But as he prepares to fire these as-yet silent weapons -- sliding forward massive dark matter cannons, sending protonic missile pods out from their shafts, and aiming the mighty displacer beams -- The Dragon realizes that even this is a terrible gamble.

They may yet lose. The enemy may yet win.

And if the enemy does win, that victory can only ever be laid at the feet of the man who they tried so hard to put out of the picture, and obviously failed to do so.

SPYGOD will have won this day.

And, given their history, The Dragon will not have any standing for surrender in the aftermath.

So he waits for the crucial, critical moment, when either SPYGOD or the earth-shattering mecha he has awakened gets just close enough, and then he can make that one last roll of the-

* * *

dice, lady," Mrs. Liberty says, kicking the Imago trying to kill her right in the uterus, and smiling rather widely when she sees an entire, boot-shaped section of her metal-plated anatomy go flying out the back.

And then it's all she can do to shoot the !@#$ in the face -- the better to withdraw her foot from the sticky, bloody mess -- and then go on to the next one. 

Her partner and friend, Liberty Belle, is dead, lying in sorry pieces at her feet. She doesn't have the time to mourn her now, and that just makes her !@#$ angry.

(And the strange presence that either was or was not with them, helping them fight, hasn't been around for quite some time, so she's imagining he's dead too -- whoever he was. But imagines she'll feel sad for him, too, when the time comes.)

She also realizes she'll have a lot to mourn, in the days to come, if she survives this -- which is a big maybe, right now. The special eyeglasses she's wearing to keep the Imago from killing her with their eyebeams is probably one more direct hit from frying, and then she'll either fight blind or not at all.The guns she's been looting from dead enemies are getting fewer and harder to find.

And the sky keeps opening up and vomiting out Imago, or Specials, or whatever those weird hybrid things are...

All around the world, it's the same thing. Groups of heroes huddle together, dealing with the last, frantic gasps of an enemy whose true power was never truly known until now. The weird armies redouble their efforts and try to protect civilians as best they can, but find themselves unable to both kill the enemy and save others from being killed by them. 

And if not them, the seemingly-endless supply of those that come after them. Over and over again.

As the numbers of the good decrease, and the numbers of the bad increase, more than one hero raises his or her head to exclaim that they could win this day, if only someone would find a way to-

* * *

!@#$ it!" Myron shouts over his communicator, as he heads into the dark bowels of the Ice Palace with only a map and a headlamp to guide him (and Yanabah to guard him): "You deal with... that, and let me deal with this, okay?"

"Alright son," Mr. USA replies from where he is, his voice weak and quavering: "Just hurry. We've already been too late, today..."

Myron grimaces. He really did not need to be reminded of that, just now.

"Hold up," the Native American woman says, capping off a pair of shots into the gloom ahead of them. There's a scream and a gurgle, and then a dwarf tumbles from a support beam, his rifle clattering to the ground just after him.

"Good shooting," he says: "Can you see in the dark?"

"I can smell things really well," she explains, kicking the rifle away from the thing as they pass it, just to be sure: "There's no more in this passage. Might be some in the room we're heading to, though."

"Alright then," Myron says: "You take point, I'll come after."

"No guns?" she asks, looking at his uniform.

"I didn't get into this business to kill people."

"Time to learn, Underman," she snorts, and runs ahead to the swinging double doors looming ahead of them. She kicks them in, and does a cartwheel with her forward momentum. There's six quick shots, and then some more screaming, and then nothing.

"Nasty !@#$," he mutters, remembering when SPYGOD told him the same thing about learning to kill, and how well that went.

In the room, there's a half-dozen dead dwarves strewn about the ground, some still twitching. All of them appear to have been shot between the eyes. Yanabah is looking at the large bank of controls on the other side, most of which appear to have been added onto whatever ABWEHR was doing, here.

The noise in here is almost deafening: electrical hums and clicking, along with the strange, water in the wind noise that massive teleportation platforms give off when they activate in series. 

"Okay, this is the energy output station for the upper level," Myron says, tossing the map aside as he goes: "So it's the logical place for them to be sending their teleport waves through. Might also be a good place to see if we can disrupt their energy supply, somehow."

"Don't talk," she says: "Do. I'll watch the door for more. I can smell them coming."

"You really are one nasty and unpleasant person," he says, sighing: "I could really use some good vibes right now."

"Ain't got none to spare," she says, walking to the door. And it isn't until five minutes of feverish and fruitless work go by -- along with a lot of shooting outside the doors -- that Myron realizes she was crying when she said that.

But he doesn't dare ask her-

* * *

why this way, paleface?" Gosheven asks his older ally, who's so angry it's a wonder he doesn't turn red and melt.

"Because it's all coming back to me now," the original New Man says, purple flecks of energy coming from his mouth as he talks: "While I was being used by them, all those months, it was like my mind was all over the ship. They were using me, but I was spying on them. I just couldn't do anything."

"And now you can," the shapeshifter says, taking a quick look down the maintenance corridor they're about to turn down, and hearing more strange groans from the superstructure: "Any idea what all that !@#$ noise is?"

"They're gearing up to use the big guns."

"You mean they haven't already?"

"Oh no, friend. Not in the slightest. All they've been using so far is the stuff that was on board the Flier when they took it over. These weapons they're calling up are the things they used the last time they took over a world, and maybe the time before that, too."

"Oh boy," Gosheven says: "So what sort of !@#$ are you intending to have us !@#$ up, then? The weapons?"

"How about the kind of !@#$ they can't afford to lose in a firefight of that scale, my friend?" the older man says, patting his ally on the back: "Their central power conductors. And I know just where they are, and how to knock them out."

"Then let's do it."

"There is a chance the damage might be so great that you won't survive," New Man warns him: "I can become energy, but I'm not sure if-"

The Native American looks at the man he rescued and just smiles: "I survived a shot to the head and turned myself intangible to fool you people. You think an explosion's going to hurt me?"

"Fair point. Just duck when I tell you."

"Oh, no worries-"

* * *

there. The robot is just within range, and SPYGOD is not far behind. 

It is time, The Dragon announces to the Leader. I will destroy him.

I cannot speak with The Motion, the Leader says: He has gone blank in my mind.

Perhaps something has happened, The Dragon says, knowing full well what has probably just occurred: Do not worry. Safeguards are in motion to protect what he was doing. They will not be overcome by the likes of what little they have to throw against us.

You do not care for him, the Leader says: Just as you did not care for The Fist, or The Sight. You care only for yourself.

I care for you, my leader, the Dragon says. And maybe, in his heart, he does not feel that it is a lie. 

(And maybe he does, but simply does not care to deal with the contradictions at this glorious, supreme moment. There will be time enough for reflection -- and further, necessary deception -- when the day is done, and the battle won.)

He flexes his muscles and aims his fingers. The dark matter shells are loaded into the cannons. The exotic explosives are armed and ready to fire. The displacement cannons are aimed and primed.

He focuses on the massive, circular iris in the robot's chest -- the place that its primary armaments will come from, when the moment comes -- and then makes ready to fire....

And then, something strange happens. 

The entire city lurches to the east, as something incredibly large and dense crawls out of the ocean and begins to attack it.

From all over the Lost City, and from cameras all over the Flier, The Dragon can see that they have been attacked by some strange, undersea creature -- the genius of all pirates' tales of otherworldly monsters from the deep. A tremendous, sanity-blasting mix of Leviathan, Behemoth, and Kraken, roiling and ripping and smashing as it goes.

A War Spawn.

And it is not alone. A half-dozen more burst to the surface and begin to attack. Then another dozen. 

Then at least a score more...

We are attacked! the Leader screams, panicking: Destroy it! Destroy them! Now!

The Dragon can only concur, and quickly shifts the Flier's weapons to aim at both the monsters and the robot.

And it's only after he begins firing at both that he realizes the massive mistake he's just-

* * *

made this decision lightly, Emperor Thurl says, knowing that SPYGOD can hear him: I tell you truly that the one you called my father feared you, but also respected you. I say to you, also truly, that I give you this gift in his name, as agreed with the one who led your troops in your absence. I hope we both understand what this means, going forward.

"Emperor, you just made a lot of dead sailors lost in the War very !@#$ing unimportant," SPYGOD says, watching the mighty guns of the Dignitary come out for the first time this battle and begin firing at -- and down -- the exotic weapons of the Flier: "And when I say something like that, it !@#$ing means something." 

Then the Overobligation is done?

"Done and dusted," SPYGOD says, tearing the head off the Imago he's riding, throwing it right through another one, and then leaping to the next: "Next time we talk, let's !@#$ing talk normalization, okay? I'm just a little !@#$ing busy, now..."

Truly I understand, the Emperor says, staring up at the darkness above his palace: Go well into battle, my ally. All our hopes are truly with you at this time. 

"Halle-!@#$ing-lulah," SPYGOD says, reaching his hands down into the bloody mess of the Imago he's riding and trying to get it to keep flying: "I could sure !@#$ing use some, Emperor. The world's gone !@#$-down in a sea of !@#$ here and now..."

He thinks to try and explain what he's seeing for a moment, but how could he really? How can he tell someone of the harsh and beautiful glory of what his eye reveals, as the weapons of the Imago attempt to rip open reality, itself?

Shells armed with exotic matter detonate not only matter, but spacetime, itself, in small, controlled bursts. Missiles that can create miniaturized atomic blasts streak towards the target. And beam weapons that put their target zones both a million miles away, and yet exactly where they are, try to create critical instabilities in the enemy's molecular structure, causing terrible implosions as they go.

Against a lesser enemy, the battle would have been over seconds ago, and the foe all but wiped from the face of the world.

But yet the Dignitary strides forward, answering the strange weapons of its enemy with stranger weapons of its own -- unleashed from behind the great iris in its chest. Birds of light and fire that intercept shells and missiles. Spirals of crystal flowers that erase beam weapons, turning them to soothing music. And green waves of power that take the damage done to the surrounding areas and clean them up, as though no battle had ever taken place here.

It is beautiful to see such terrible weapons overcome by such wonderful ones. Indeed, SPYGOD could sit on this dying Imago and watch it all day.

He just doesn't have the time, now.

"Gonna have to let you go, Emperor," he says, getting back to work in the knotty, red innards of his foe: "Hopefully I can !@#$ing make this-

* * *

work!" Myron shouts, banging his fists on the controls: "They've been locked down, !@#$ it!"

"Then unlock them!" Mr. USA replies, not sounding too good.

"I can't. Not without the code. And I bet it's !@#$ing DNA...."

"And there's not enough of him left to get any," Mr. USA sighs: "And Doctor Power doesn't have the power to deal with that, right now."

"And, not to rush you or anything?" Yanabah shouts from the door, where she's been firing non-stop for the last few minutes: "But I'm running out of ammo, over here. And not running out of targets."

"What was that, son?" Mr. USA asks.

"My two-handed firing partner says we're about to get overrun by the nazi sex dwarf brigade."

"So what are our other options?" the old hero asks, something approaching weary defeat in his voice (which scares Myron more than he's willing to admit).

"Not a lot. Not without going down there and tearing half this base apart. And..."

"Then you're going to have to just go do it, Myron," Doctor Power says, his voice hoarse from effort and weeping: "I'm dealing with things up here. Mr. USA doesn't know a circuit board from a checkerboard, and Skyspear's... well, she's not leaving the survivors."

Myron shakes his head, not wanting to think about that. And as he does, he glances over from where he's been working.

And that's when he sees it. 

"Did you hear us, son?" Mr. USA asks after a few seconds of silence.

"Yeah, I did," Myron says, taking his broken sunglasses off, and looking at the electrical components he'd built into them, long ago: "I think I might have an idea, provided that's not locked off, too."

"What son?"

"No time to talk. Mr. USA? Get your !@#$ing mega-geriatric !@#$ down here and help guard the door. Maybe Skyspear can teleport you if she can let the two of them go for a second. Let Doctor Power do what he has to with her, okay?"

The answer he gets isn't nice or polite, but he doesn't care. He rushes over to the portion of the controls he just saw, hoping that it's what he thought it was. And he's not only delighted to see that it is, but that they didn't lock it down -- probably because they didn't think it was important.

"Can it just be that simple?" he asks himself, looking at the eyeglasses and the exposed -- and, in the Imago's case, highly redundant -- communications circuits: "Really?"

* * *

"Not really, no," New Man says, looking out at the massive field of large, glowing glass balls -- all of which seem to have something inside of them, spinning and spiraling too fast to be really seen.

DEROS, of course. 

"What do you mean?" Gosheven asks, using his powers to break and smash through the Specials that were guarding this large and cavernous room -- formerly the engine room, from the looks of things -- and keep his ally from being hit by their weapons.

"I mean I didn't think there were actually so many of them!"

"So what does that really !@#$ing mean?"

"It means that the moment I blow them up, we're both dead!"

"Even you, paleface?"

"Even me, Tonto."

Gosheven looks at him and smiles: "I was wondering when you were finally going to get one in on me."

"Not much as last words go, huh?"

"I'll take 'em," the man says, forming a large, metal wing to deflect the storm of flechettes heading their way, courtesy of the Specials' guns: "How about we both yell 'Geronimo' for good measure? Then we can be totally politically incorrect."

"Okay, that makes it official. We get out of this, you're my new best friend for life."

"Only if you buy the drinks."

"We'll take turns."

"!@#$ straight we will," Gosheven says, and gets ready.

New Man inhales and grits his teeth. Then he releases all the energy he's been storing for the last seven months in a massive, rippling wave of purple light. 

The wave goes forward, into the DEROS as they spin and purl, unaware of their fate. Each one only has a split second to realize what's happened before it's consumed by the violet fire and explodes.

And as each explodes, the energy carries on to the next, and the next, and the next, like massive alien firecrackers the size of large boulders. 

Gosheven cradles his spent ally-turned-friend in his arms and changes as rapidly as he can, hoping he can ride them both out of here. It's a slim chance, but he's been through tinier holes in his life.

Maybe the Great Spirit will let him keep his life to go with the victory, today, after-

* * *

all the weapons of the Flier are silenced, suddenly, as a great burst of fire and flame erupts from its center. 

The mighty craft begins to expand, then, as though it were a trick balloon rather than a thing made from otherworldly metal. Tendrils of light shoot out from where it buckles and bends, and debris begins to rain down from its undersides.

For just a quick second, it looks as though the battle is won.

But this is an advanced craft, by anyone's standards. It does not merely take damage lying down. It repairs, and rebuilds.

It reforms.

The light ends. The fires are extinguished. The falling parts are reclaimed and remade.

And, perhaps three seconds after it should have been destroyed, the nanites' work is done, and the Flier begins to open fire once more.

But it does so unconvincingly. Haltingly. It is nowhere near as massive or rapid as it was, just seconds before, and it gets no better.

Indeed, the craft appears to be crippled. It does not hover above the Lost City, but rather perches above its highest points -- forming grappling arms to take its weight as it settles down, unable to fire and fly at the same time. 

And that's all the invitation its opponents need. 

Before The Dragon can fully comprehend what has just happened -- and how badly things are going to go for them, now -- the Lost City is all but overrun by the remaining War Spawn, and the Dignitary now stands right beside its ultimate target.

"Enemy of this world, I call upon you to surrender!" the massive robot commands, its many, positive weapons jutting from the circular hatch in its chest and its arms raised to strike: "You have no option!"

Never! The Dragon shrieks, and begins to fire everything he has-

* * *

left to fight," Mr. USA wheezes, barely able to pull himself back through the doors, beyond which is an endless, running horde of dwarfs: "I'm sorry, Myron..."

"And I am out of ammo, now," Yanabah says, pulling out a long knife and making ready to use it on whatever comes through the door next: "So if you're going to !@#$ing do something, Underman, now would be a !@#$ good time..."

"It's done," Myron says, looking at the weird cobble-together he's just made from his glasses, the communications station, and a few odds and ends he was able to break off of other things while they were keeping him safe.

"Are you sure, son?" Mr. USA says, looking up at him: "I don't hear any difference...."

"You wouldn't," Myron sighs, sitting down and looking at the doors: "I didn't stop anything from happening. I just added a few things, that's all."

"Like what?" Yanabah demands, quickly slashing the head off the first dwarf to come through the doors: "Underman? What did you do?"

"I'm sending the signal we were going to broadcast through those satellites," he says, wondering if he should get up and fight or not: "Right now, every Imago in communication with this place is shutting down."

"Does that mean..." Mr. USA asks, but then he cocks an ear as a series of thumps come from the hallway, outside.

Yanabah looks at Myron, and then at the doors. Then she carefully walks over, knife still at the ready, and kicks one of them open.

Beyond the light of the room, just outside the swing of that door, all the dwarfs of Dr. Yesterday lie still on the floor, twitching and groaning.

"Good thing he upgraded them, then," Myron says, getting up and grabbing something two-handed and heavy: "I was afraid we were still going to have to fight through them."

"Are they dead?"

"Just stunned," he says, walking past her: "So let's take advantage of it, huh?"

"Well done," she says, smiling at him.

"Thank you," Myron says: "And please? Underman is dead. Just call me Myron."

And then he starts to bring the bar up and-

* * *

down to Earth, at long last -- one and all.

Every Special drops down, useless and still. Every False Face seizes up and keels over. Every Imago goes cross-eyed and clanks to its knees, or on its face, and every strange, hybrid monstrosity stops moving and falls to the ground, smashing open like ripe fruit when they hit.

And every new group that gets beamed in does the same -- tumbling through the hole in the air like garbage through a chute, only to land in a heap on the ground.

At first, there is disbelief. Then shock. Then joy.

And then, when that's exhausted, and cooler heads prevail, joy turns to concern that they might get back up again. 

And then anger, and the desire for revenge, take over in full measure -- giving even the meekest and weakest of survivors a chance to kill one of their would-be assassins this day.

The streets run red with stolen blood. The cities burn with fire, with anger, and with hard-won freedom.

The Imago have lost.

* * *

The Flier stops shooting. 

The Dragon curses, wondering what has happened, but then realizes that not only can he not fire, but he cannot move, either. He cannot fly the machine away, or change its shape. He can barely even think.

All he can do is hear as the Leader screams and screams, terrified like a child. 

He tries to disengage himself from the machine he is bonded to, but the thing will not obey him. He tries to howl in complaint, but he cannot be heard.

Outside, the massive white robot reaches its hands out to take hold of the Flier. He can feel as its mighty hands clutch at it, and pull it up off the Lost City. He can sense it coming to pieces under that grip.

And then he feels the strange parabola of forces as the Dignitary picks it up, holds it over its head, and brings it right down upon the city, itself.

As he goes down, just before being smashed into the ancient stone, the Dragon looks through frozen eyes, and sees SPYGOD watching him fall. The man is riding athwart a headless Imago turned into a jetpack of sorts. 

And as the Flier is driven into the city -- again, and again, and again, until the nanites cannot cope with the damage and cease working -- he is aware that SPYGOD can actually see him, somehow.

And that he is flipping him both birds.

"... and you were !@#$ing lousy in bed!" he shouts at some point, but The Dragon can no longer quite comprehend what that might mean. The damage to the Flier takes away his mind, piece by piece, until he is little more than a simpering moron.

And then there is just darkness, and the fear that comes with it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Strangelove (Depeche Mode) and having a Victory Lager)

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

Some time ago -- what now seems several lifetimes in the past -- when Whisper was just starting down the long battery of tests for the Ladykiller Program, her extremely sadistic initial Instructor looked her right in the eyes and told her, point blank "I am going to fail you, soldier. Leave now and save us the !@#$ing bother."

That rather hefty fellow had told every other person up and down the line the exact same thing. And they'd all either gulped, or shrunk, or tried to argue with him.

Her? She didn't even blink. She just smiled and said "You can try, sir."

That slappy answer got her the mother of all chew-outs, and almost did get her bounced out. But someone put a word in the Instructor's ear that she was to be given another chance, and he obeyed. He did, however, do everything possible to make her quit, or drop out (or dead, after a certain point) -- slowly ratcheting up the challenge to the breaking point, and then beyond, no matter who got hurt.

But nothing worked -- it was as if she got just that much better to match his mean-spirited attempts to shake her off. The same could not be said for the others, however, and before long she was the only candidate left standing.

The Instructor didn't instruct much, after that -- just another casualty in the strange, one-person war this sideways-smiling young woman was intent on waging against the world. And when he conferred with her other teachers, much later -- the ones who'd helped make her the killing machine she would become -- they came to the conclusion that she was only ever as good as the opposition she was up against.

She needed to be up against the wall to overcome it.

That hefty fellow didn't live long enough to see her eventually get bounced from the Army, thanks to a bum ticker that was as sadistic as he was. So he didn't witness how she slipped right into professional mercenary circles, and went on to work for just about every regime in the world -- no matter how black, evil, or nasty their leaders, or the mission. He never saw her partial rehabilitation, under SPYGOD, or how she managed to make that go South, too.

(And he would have been !@#$ amused to see how badly she !@#$ed up, when she got weird, went soft, and stopped seeking challenges.)

But if he could only see her now...

Now, that the world outside her New Jersey hideyhole's window is a massive !@#$ing mess of rampaging Specials, murderous imago, and metal-plated hybrid monsters. Now that wave after wave of the beings that said they were here to save us are teleporting in to do the exact opposite, now that their mighty !@#$ing space cannons are dead and gone. Now that the only things standing in their way are what's left of the police and emergency services, people who wisely kept their guns (and are somehow keeping their wits) and newly-minted superheroes.

Now that she has finally found a supreme challenge to rally against.

Some scared slip of a boy in an ill-fitting, white and blue costume -- who doesn't quite know how to use his telekinesis to keep a Blue and Violet monster from using his eyebeams on a crowd fleeing down a smoking, car-strewn street -- is ever so grateful when the thing's head explodes, and it falls down dead and quivering.

"What's your name, kid?" she asks, striding out from behind rubble with a very large, very long, still-smoking rifle in her hands. Weapons, ammo, and gear are strapped to every free inch of her body, and she's wearing a bandana mask over her nose and mouth -- one emblazoned with the lifesize face of the Queen of Hearts, and folded over so that the playing card's nose and mouth are where Whisper's should be.

"Josh..." he says, clearly in awe of her: "Josh Duchamel... er, I mean Blue Force."

"Blue Force, huh," she says, looking at him, and smiling behind her mask: "You're drafted, kid. I'm going up to the tallest !@#$ building we can find, and then, while I'm putting spent uranium anti-shield slugs into every tinhead I can get an LOS on? You're going to cover my !@#$ and make sure they don't sneak up behind me."

"Okay," he says, looking around at the people they just saved, and then back at her: "Who are you?"

"Red Queen," she chuckles, turning to go: "Move it, soldier. I aint-

* * *

"... gonna take my time," Dr Yesterday sings along with the song he's playing, using the hammer like it was a microphone: "I have all the time in the world..."

"Please," the First Lady says, putting herself between the man and her children as they run to the other side of the large control room: "Please be reasonable."

"To make you mine," he warbles, seriously off-key, and pulls out a small, strange ray gun from his pocket: "It is written in the stars above..."

"I know you're in there somewhere..." she says, and then he shoots her. 

It's a weird, chittering beam of white and green energy, and she feels strange, but not hurt. He just looks at her and then, quickly, marches well to the side of her as he heads for the children, hammer up and ready to swing.

"The gods decree!" he belts out, increasing his step: "You'll be right there by my side..."

"No!" She screams, running after him. But then she realizes what's wrong.

Her first stride towards him is normal, but the second is half of that. The third half of that. And before she knows it, she can hardly move at all. 

"Right next to me..." he says, putting the Zeno Pistol away, and returning his attentions to the two girls, who are backed up into a corner and crying: "You can run... but you cannot hide..."

The First Lady screams, as-

* * *

the main group of well-armed and well-endowed genetically-engineered dwarves prick up their ears, get up from their nasty deprivations on the main floor of the Ice Palace, and wonder what the strange vibration they're hearing is.

"Is earthquake?" one of them asks as the noise gets louder.

"Is reactor?" another asks as the floor starts to rumble.

"Is Nazi science boobytrap?" yet another inquires as the floor cracks and crumbles under their feet.

And then there are screams of panic and whoops of surprise as the entire floor collapses in and around them, disgorging a massive drill tank that literally explodes into the room, right in the center of the giant tile swastika that dominated the room.

As soon as the machine stops moving forward, and the drill starts slowing down, a hatch opens up at the back, and out comes a very old man dressed in a very patriotic -- if ill-fitting -- costume. The surviving dwarfs have just enough time to aim their guns at him before he shouts and runs at them, swatting their bullets out of the air like they were no more than buzzing gnats.

And running down the small beings that shot those bullets as though they were less than that.

Behind Mr. USA comes Skyspear, who teleports herself past a burst of gunfire and then behind the dwarf that fired it, the better to kick in the back of his skull. After that comes well-armed Yanabah, who very quickly walks into the melee, capping off shot after expertly-placed shot with her twin revolvers -- not even flinching at what she's facing, or what she does to them. Then comes Doctor Power, who weakly casts a few quick, minor spells to befuddle their foes, or make them sleep, which is what he'd really like to be doing right now.

And then, last but not least, comes Myron: dressed in his long-abandoned Underman guise, wearing cracked sunglasses, and waving the map they were relying on.

"They're in there!" he shouts, pointing to a large and ominous door at the other end of the long room: "Someone get the !@#$ in there!"

Mr. USA doesn't have to be told twice. He smacks, slaps, and smears his way past a gaggle of dwarves on his way over there, and then crashes down the door like it was a set on a cheap movie. Skyspear follows thereafter -- possibly even beating him -- leaving Yanabah to mop up, and Myron to duck back into his machine and wonder if they've gotten there in-

* * *

time to show these fools what pain their folly has purchased, The Dragon thinks, and wills the Flier's forward weaponry to begin firing at The Dignitary, and the ridiculous, re-purposed Nazi UFO his ex-lover is riding atop.

SPYGOD has just enough time to see that he can actually see the city, and then he can't see it for all the cannons, lasers, missiles, and drones it's shooting at them. 

"Evasive !@#$ing maneuvers!" he shouts to Bee-Bee, but the cat's already ahead of him on that one -- dropping them down to just above the waves. SPYGOD aims his gun at the missiles he can see coming their way, taking great pleasure at blowing them out of the sky, but realizing he's just about out of ammo.

Behind him, he can hear the massive, white robot's shields begin to make noises he's never heard before. He turns to look back, and -- thanks to the Chandra Eye -- he can tell that the Dignitary's shields are holding, but starting to deplete.

"Can you hold out, Mister 10?" he asks, hoping the grumbly bastard doesn't give him one of his taciturn answers that don't really answer anything. But, before he can get even a glimmer of a reply, he realizes he's missed at least one missile that's coming for him, instead, and turns to nail it with his gun.

Sadly, he's just a second too late.

The projectile hits Lady Gilda right in the starboard side, causing a massive explosion and tearing a hole right in her side. SPYGOD shouts and tries to hold on for dear life, only to be flung from the flying saucer as it goes into a swift death spiral -- arcing up into the clouds and off to the South as it goes.

"Bee-Bee!" he shouts as he activates his jetpack, realizing he's lost his nearly-depleted gun to Davy Jones' !@#$ing closet: "Are you okay, you mangy Russian !@#$ball? Answer me!"

There's nothing but the sound of the saucer rattling apart. He can't tell over all the other noises and stimuli if his hard-drinking feline companion is alive, dead, or somewhere in-between.

Schroedinger's !@#$ing Demon Cat, he thinks, scowling, and pulls out a pair of knives. 

Up ahead of him, the Imago are coming down to try and finish what the Fliers' weapons started. He grins and shoots up to meet them in battle.

"Picked the wrong !@#$ing day to be here, you !@#$ing tin-plated alien !@#$s!" he shouts as he hurls himself knives-first onto the skull of the closest one: "Let dirty uncle SPYGOD show you how to-

* * *

die, already!" the Talon shouts, kicking the Special she's been pulverizing for the last minute and a half right in the face-plate. With a squeal and the crashing of glass, it goes down, dropping its gun as it does.

And there are so many more right behind it.

"Can't you do another burst, yet?" The Owl yells at the new New Man, who's quite winded and having to rely on a weapon he's looted from their enemies.

"Not just yet," he says, amazed at how out of breath he actually is: "I'm having a hard time recharging. I've never had this happen before..."

"Get over it, please," Talon says, grabbing the gun from the one she just dropped and dropping a few more of them before ducking behind cover: "We really need what you have, right now."

"Politeness, dear," the Owl chides her protege, moments before kicking the Special coming towards them right back into his fellows: "I'm sure our friend's doing the best he can."

"Believe me, I wish I could get over this," he says, clutching at his chest: "It's like... someone's borrowing my power again?"

The Owl considers what that could mean, and smiles just a little, in spite of-

* * *

everything, Thomas is somehow still alive. But it's up to them to find a way to keep him like that.

Winifred, Mark and the SCOUTS hurtle down seemingly endless corridors and ramps, listening to Wayfinder's instructions as he follows them on the cameras, watching them roll the maimed boy's gurney so fast it's a wonder the wheels haven't flown off yet.

"Up ahead, on the left," they hear him say: "The medical facility's there. I have no idea what half of it does, but there should be a machine that puts people into stasis... whatever that means..."

"I know exactly what it means," one of the SCOUTS says: "We put him in there, and it effectively freezes him. He doesn't get any worse, and that gives us time to get the specialists together to save him."

"Sounds like a !@#$ing winner," Winifred says, getting ready to turn the cart to the left.

"Young lady, I don't mind telling you that your language has deteriorated quite a bit," Mark says.

"Just wait til we've got him stabilized," she says, not really giving a !@#$ right now.

Inside the room they crash into are several clear, plastic pods -- each perched on a high-tech dais. All of them light up as they come into the room, and begin speaking easy to understand directions.

"Put him in, huh?" one of the SCOUTS says: "I bet we couldn't figure that out..."

"Less talking, more hefting," Winifred says, and, after they get the burned stump of a boy alongside the closest pod, they all put their hands under him, and -- one, two, three -- put him into the plastic bubble, and then yank his portable life support machines away.

At first, nothing happens. But then the dais lights up as it begins to read his DNA sequence, and diagnose his many ailments. A strange, fuzzy light suffuses the pod, rising and falling in brightness along with the humming of the machine it's connected to.

And then it says that it has begun uploading...

"No, no," Mark says, reaching over to what looks like the main panel: "We want to put him into stasis. Do you understand? Stasis."

"The order is understood," the machine says in a weird, Douglas Rain kind of voice: "However, it cannot be obeyed."

"What do you !@#$ing mean it can't be obeyed?" Mark shouts: "Obey! Put the boy in stasis!"

"According to protocol A-1, uploading of Thomas Samuels is called for," the computer announces: "This order cannot be countermanded."

"What do they mean by uploading?" one of the SCOUTS says, looking around nervously.

"Just what it !@#$ing sounds like," Winifred says, shoving Mark out of the way and trying to get the computer to obey them: "I will !@#$ing disconnect you and use you as a coffee maker if you don't !@#$ing do what we want!"

"Uploading beginning, now," the computer says. Winifred screams and pounds the controls to no avail. The SCOUTS run around, trying to find something to do that will help.

"Wayfinder, can you do something from where you are?" Mark shouts, looking up at the nearest camera he can find: "This computer's trying to kill him!"

"I'll see what I can do," the old man lies, getting to his feet and turning off the communicator he was using. 

He doesn't want the others to hear this.

"You knew this was coming?" his visitor says, stepping out of the shadows.

"I thought as much," he says: "I know how to find you, so it makes sense you'd come for me. And I've felt you nosing around me for days, now, just like a dog."

"Woof woof," the man says, grinning: "That why you kept your bitch around for so long? Did you figure you were safer that way?"

"No. I know what you'd do to her," the old man says, stepping to the side of the monitor bank: "But I also knew you couldn't resist doing it to me, instead, when I was alone. That way you could leave me for the others to find, and imagine their shock."

"Well... that's pretty much correct, old man," his visitor says, slowly moving to close the distance between them: "You know what I am, I take it?"

"I do, yes."

"Oh, please say it," the man says, holding out his hands in a pleading gesture: "So few people on this sorry world have any idea what I really am-"

"A pile of !@#$ wrapped in human skin that thinks it's a man," Wayfinder says, no longer moving, but fixing the man with a flinty stare: "You're a thing that's best kept in the wet dark under a rock, along with all the other nasty pieces of creation. You're the reason people like me have to come up with bull!@#$ myths and stories to explain to children how the Creator could have thought to make something like you, instead of kind and gentle things. And you're so far gone that nothing I could ever say or do would shame you, or call you to a higher code."

"Oh, I have a higher code," the man replies, pulling out a very long, sharp knife that's been rubbed in what looks and smells like human !@#$: "You just can't see it, you being so debased by what you think are virtues."

"Well, I guess the wasp that lays its eggs in a dead child's belly thinks its a hero, too."

"So, do you know what happens now?"

"I know what you think is going to happen, wasichu," Wayfinder says, pulling out a knife of his own and making ready to fight: "But I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

"I guess we fucking will," the other SPYGOD says, grinning ear-to-ear and charging in for the kill.

And, as they fight -- and one of them dies -- the sounds of Thomas' unstoppable uploading gets louder and louder behind them.

(SPYGOD is listening to A Question of Time (Depeche Mode) and having a Wake Up Dead stout)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he...?" Mark asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," the magician says, somewhat wearily.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course," Mister Ten says, scowling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he told her the truth. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Three small words: "Open the box."

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

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

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

And she is far from the only one.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Except there's a distraction, here, too. 

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

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

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

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

 

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

"They're using me..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so he is.

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