1/5/13 - METALMAID: Und wird von millionen Augen angeguckt - pt 4

   ... some brown-haired guy that looks about as remarkable as a mud puddle.

"Et, voila!" The Violet Demon announces, waving a hand at the man as though he'd pulled a rabbit out of a hat: "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Francois Dinoart."

"Who?" METALMAID demands, glaring down at their captive. 

"Who?" most of the supervillains echo, as they've never see the man in their life.

"Wait a !@#$ing minute," The Angle says, taking a step forward and looking at the man: "Danny...?"

Francois sighs, and begins to roll something around in his mouth. But before he can the Violet Demon waves a purple, glowing hand on the left side of his head, and the man falls down unconscious, once more.

"Sorry about that," the masked villain says, looking up at METALMAID as he kneels down and puts his fingers into the man's mouth: "I figured he'd have a poison tooth to chew, I just wasn't sure when he'd do it."

"And how did you know that?" the Lord of Spiders asks.

"Direction Noir always sent their agents provocateur out with a failsafe, just in case they got made and couldn't get away," he explains, pulling out the still-intact poison tooth: "Not as good as two to the eyes, but not everyone has an N-Machine."

"What the !@#$ is Direction Noir?" the Angle asks, shaking his head: "I know this guy as Danny French. He was one of the Secessionist leaders at the Montana compound."

"Yes," the Violet Demon says, coming up and holding the tooth aloft for inspection: "And before that he was Freddie D. Arthur, supposedly-American staff at the French embassy in Washington D.C., but really in charge of keeping a number of our spy organizations under surveillance. Especially the CIA, which had a number of people in bed with the American Secessionist movement, and was very interested in strategic talents, seeing as how they couldn't stand the guy that ran the COMPANY..."

He looks around the room at all the blank stares, sighs, and -- after tossing the tooth into the punchbowl -- waves his hands and smiles: "Maybe I should start from the beginning?"

"It would probably be a !@#$ good idea," Chassis says.

"I think I'm going to need some aspirin," Red Thunder sighs, looking down at what's left of Green Thunder.

"Just hurry it up, will you?" the Emperor of Pain sighs: "I can't hold this for too much longer."

"Okay, then," the Violet Demon says, vaulting up to the stage, nodding to The Pusher, and turning around to address the crowd: "Those of you who don't know me? I'm the Violet Demon. The Scarlet Factotum can vouch for me, and I can certainly vouch for her-"

"How might that be?" the Lord of Spiders asks, putting a heavy foot down on their unconscious captive's head so he can't escape.

"Well, we almost worked together, once, and stayed in contact thereafter. We would have worked together more, but, well, you know how the song goes. 'We all have to duck / when the !@#$ hits the fan.'"

There's a couple laughs, there -- especially from the turned heroes -- and he smiles behind his mask.

"Glad you thought that was funny. What comes next is definitely not. And before I get started, can we just agree not to kill the messenger?"

"Anyone who touches you will answer to me," METALMAID announces, walking up to the stage and standing next to him. And there's something about the look that he gives her when she says that which makes her heart do more strange things, inside her.

"Well, okay then," he continues: "Long story short? You've all been played, and badly. You were all set up to fail by the Terre Unifee. They've been the hand behind the wheel on a lot of things that have happened, lately. The idea to get the Secessionists together with the former members of the Legion? Making inroads with you new folks? Getting everyone to strike on Christmas?

"Well, that was all them."

Booing, now. But METALMAID growls, and it stops very quickly.

"I'd really like an explanation on that," Husqvarna says, pointing a chainsaw at the stage: "What exactly was going on?"

"Well, I can give chapter and verse, but it'd take longer than we've got," the Violet Demon says, gesturing to the very-beleaguered Emperor of Pain, grimacing behind them on the stage: "The simple explanation goes like this:

"To start with, there was the CIA. Like I was saying earlier, there were a number of connections between them, the Legion, and the Secessionist Movement. It was all one big conspiracy of convenience, with each of them playing off the other to get what they wanted, and then being able to toss the trail down the trash."

"That's got to be bull!@#$," one of the new heroes snorts.

"No, it's not," Nefartiti offers "When I got into this !@#$ing gig? King Totenkhamen told me all about the history of the Legion. There was a !@#$ing lot of CIA involvement in there, especially during World War II. And they just kind of made it a thing, after that."

"King Totenkhamen?" The Sound asks as softly as he can.

"Don't ask," The Pusher replies, shaking his head: "It's a branding thing." 

"So, anyway," the Violet Demon continues: "The Legion went down, as most of you know. And then the CIA went down, after the Imago took over. I'm sure you watched the trials on TV?"

"Kill your TV, man," Groovy Nightmare giggles from the back of the room.

"Can't disagree with that! But even with the Legion and the CIA gone, you still had the Secessionist movement, only now it could do whatever it wanted and not have to answer to its handlers in the Company.

"But did you ever wonder why they seemed to be all wait and no action, right up until Christmas? Did you wonder how the main compound just folded like a house of cards when Le Compagnie showed up? Did you marvel at how efficiently most of your now-jailed colleagues were rounded up afterwards?"

There's some assent, and a few verbal question marks. On the other hand, Black Rider seems to be nodding so enthusiastically it's a wonder his head doesn't pop off.

"Well the Terre Unifee knew that they'd have to take the United States of America in to get the rest of the world to fall in line. The best way to do that was to show the American people just how weak and vulnerable they were on their own. And, as you all know by now, things were pretty sketchy out there, after the Reclamation War."

There's nodding on that. No one there didn't feel the pinch in some way, shape, or form.

"But they also needed to find a way to get the serious troublemakers and loudmouths out of the way. That would be the Secessionists, who were all butt-hurt now that the Imago were gone, and they had to be part of America again. I'm sure you talked with enough of them to know how angry they were at the thought of taking orders from France, of all places?"

More nodding and mumbles of agreement.

"So they decided to get rid of a few birds with the same stone. So they got the Secessionists to work with you lot to build their compound, up in Montana. And they got them to work with you new folks so they could run guns, money, and supplies back and forth. And then they planned for there to be one big attack, during which all the necks would be stuck out and ready for the axe.

"And, well, the axe was swung," he shrugs, holding his hands out: "And you all, here? You're most of what's left of that. They built you up just so they could knock you down, as proof to America's people that they're weak and in need of foreign assistance to maintain their security. And as America goes, so goes the world."

"Diabolical," the Lord of Spiders says: "I must remember to congratulate the head of the TU on such a masterstroke, just before I bite him."

There's laughter at that, and the Violet Demon grins behind his mask.

"Well, why not make that happen?" he asks, looking around: "Before we were so rudely interrupted by the Terre Unifee, masquerading as the Brotherhood of the Righteous, you heard the plan to deal with the TU-"

"We heard a part of a plan," the Black Rider squeaks: "I still don't like the idea that we don't know the whole thing going in-"

"If we did, and they captured your racist !@#$, you'd spoil it all for the rest of us," Husqvarna snorts: "I'm okay with limited intel. It's how things work in the real world."

"And I think we're all aware that, if we don't like the plan, it's sixty-to-five right now," Chassis points out, glaring at the five people on the stage.

"And come on, folks," the Violet Demon sighs theatrically: "Is there anyone here who doesn't want some !@#$ing payback on the TU at this point?"

There is no one, judging from the cheers.

"Then I think my work is done, here," he says, walking off the stage and heading back into the audience: "And I think the lady has the floor, again."

METALMAID tries not to smile too widely at that, and, within a short time, has them eating out of her hand.

* * *

"I think that went rather well," the Lord of Spiders says, later, as he and the Emperor of Pain stand outside the church doors, shaking red bits and pieces of the late Francois Dinoart off of their boots.

"I can't disagree," the old man says, lighting up a cigarette and offering one to his tarantula-faced colleague, who politely refuses.

"It's a good thing that young fellow interceded, though."

"What, this !@#$hole?" the Emperor asks, pointing to a rather large, red piece that's stuck under his heel.

"No, the young man in the purple mask."

"Yeah.. what's his name..."

"The Violet Demon."

"Yeah. Violet Demon," he says, taking a long drag: "Right."

"My goodness, man. You are rather out of it."

"Ah, you know how it is. A herd of elephants could have thundered through that church and I might not have remembered. I'd have come out of it and wondered who made the holes and left the pats."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Doing my thing for that long takes a lot out of me."

"It didn't used to."

"No, it always has," the Emperor admits: "I used to just be better at hiding it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, making everyone double over in pain? That's no problem. It's making it so that everyone who was with me wasn't in pain that's the hard part. And normally it's just me and a few folks, and not half a !@#$ basketball team."

"All these years and I never knew," the Lord chuckles: "But it does explain some things."

"Yeah, well," the old man shrugs: "I guess we all got our crosses to bear."

The Lord of Spiders nods, and finally accepts the offer of a cigarette: "I hate spiders."

"What?"

"I hate spiders," the man admits, lighting up and taking care not to singe the tiny hairs on his face and hands: "I always have."

"You gotta be joking."

"I am not. There was an accident with one of my devices, early on. It transformed me into what I most feared. And while I have learned to use it to my advantage, and make myself the stronger for it, I still cannot look in a mirror. I can barely stand to look at myself."

"And you with eight eyes and all," the Emperor says, nodding.

"Quite the irony, yes?" the spider-faced man sighs.

"Well, hey, it could be worse."

"Really?" the Lord says, his voice re-acquiring its earlier edge, his eyes sliding to the Emperor in a not-so-friendly way.

"Yeah, I mean, at least a lot of people are scared of spiders. Imagine if you'd been terrified of something else?"

"Such as?" the man asks, turning to stare down the Emperor.

But then the doors open, and the Buzzard walks out, looking at the sheet of paper the Pusher gave him. The two men turn to look at him as he wanders away, as if in a daze, trying to pronounce his new, French name.

And as soon as he's in his buzzardmobile, they both break out laughing almost hard enough to burst, and keep laughing until he's well down the road.

"Your point... is taken," the Lord of Spiders finally gasps, clapping the Emperor on the shoulder.

"So, we're okay?" the Emperor asks after a time.

"I think so," the spider-faced man says, nodding: "On one condition."

"What's that."

"We remain firm in our oath to never say what happened that day at Doctor Morbo's Castle."

"Oh, don't worry about that," the Emperor of Pain says, remembering his conversation from earlier: "I think we're better off letting the legend speak for itself."

"Agreed," the Lord of Spiders says. And that's all that really needs saying on that point.

* * *

One by one, the rest of the people leave. They get into their cars and strange vehicles, their palanquins and giant monsters. They fly away on wings borrowed or created, or flit away as though they were no longer there.

And then do so knowing that something amazing has happened today, and they have been a part of it.

The rift between the old hands of the Legion and the new, turned heroes seems to be on the way to closing, now. People shake hands and laugh, no longer staring daggers at one another, much less contemplating their demise. There's a sense of cooperation and togetherness, replacing the mistrust and distaste from before.

(Someone even sort-of admits where a few of the missing people were disappeared to, on their way out.)

Was it the plan, itself, that turned their hearts around, and gave them hope? Was it the Violet Demon's explanations of how they'd all been played for suckers by their would-be rulers, and how this was the perfect chance to get back at them?

Or was it the final act, when METALMAID allowed all her people to take their rage out on their unfortunate captive, now lying in several small pieces on the floor?

Whether it was her ideas, his truth, or the bloody baptism that followed, none can say. All that is certain is that, at least for now, METALMAID has her army. Whether she can hold it or not is another matter, entirely, but that will be for the future to tell.

The Lord of Spiders and the Emperor of Pain shake hands for the first time in decades, and then the tarantula-faced man gets on top of the giant spider he hates, and causes it to lumber him out of town, to his waiting aircraft. After that, the Pusher and the Sound come to collect the Emperor, so as to drop him off at his new lair, and repay him for his excellent service, this day.

Finally, there's the belle of the ball, METALMAID. She leaves along with the Violet Demon, and is not at all shy about holding his hand as they walk away from the church, their feet still bloody from their object lesson.

Just before they get into their separate vehicles, he runs over to the church sign, and, using a few pulses of energy, burns the IST out of METHODIST. He seems to think it's hilarious, but she doesn't quite get it.

But never mind. He'll explain it later, along with a lot of other things. Bits and pieces of a life that she's only seen parts of, so far, but now wants more of. Tales of the road and the toil. The excitement and horror of being on the run for his life.

The joy of coming here, and being able to help in the way that he did. And the relief and the eternal happiness that she responded as she did.

They get into separate cars, yes, but they travel in the same direction. One gets the idea, watching them, that they'll be parking in the same place, tonight, too. These things have their own patterns and rhythms, after all.

The same story, told over and over again -- no matter how strange the actors or their circumstances. 

* * *

Not long after the two of them left, the Emperor of Pain finally relented, and the cloud of his namesake left Lebanon, Kansas along with them. 

Hardy hands were up first, tending to their own needs, and the needs of those they could see. After that, it was a matter of calling what passed for a local police force, and having them call the nearest emergency services to deal with the ones who couldn't rise just yet, or never would again. 

And there were far too many of those, this time. 

The authorities the survivors summoned would find clues, left behind. The defaced sign on the church, which no one understood. The bloody mess on the floor that used to be a French secret agent. Punch and pie they got from a Behemart in Phillipsburg, now poisoned with a fake tooth at the bottom. 

(A dead man dressed as a woman, stuffed into a trashcan by the restrooms)

Other than that, the room was frighteningly clean. No fingerprints or trace elements. No identifying markers of any kind. No videotape caught the revelers, no satellite tracked their paths in or out. 

It was as though they were evil ghosts, come to mock laws both moral and physical, and then go back the way they'd came. 

The local authorities didn't have the case for too long before the TU showed up, of course. A flying squad of people in bright uniforms appeared, not long after the church had been combed by the Sheriff and her officers. And as soon as they appeared, the information flow became one-way, and all cooperation ended. 

They were assured that justice would be done, of course, but that's what they always say. They got the idea that other, less kind things were said as well, but no one in town had much cause to speak French. 

So all they could do was care for the wounded, count the dead, and pick up the pieces as best they could. Life would go on, here in the center of America.  They would not let this beat them down or knock them out.

They were survivors, here in Lebanon. And now they had another, stranger tale to tell.

(METALMAID is listening to Das Model (Rammstein) and having... well, you can guess)

12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Yanabah) - pt 2

By all accounts, whatever its past -- or maybe because of it -- Richmond, Virginia is a beautiful city.

Though the city may have been all but leveled during the Civil War, it's come back up from the rubble and ashes to become a near-perfect mixture of old and new. Picturesque, historic buildings share the same space as more recent constructions, without either seeming out of place. It's calm and peaceful, efficient and clean, and tranquil to the point where even the most cynical of visitors -- if they listen to the true stirrings of their heart -- would perhaps think of moving there, someday.

It's everything you could want in a State Capitol, and that's what makes this day especially sad.

By the time the Neo York City crew gets to their landing zone, just outside what's left of the State Capitol Building, itself, the immediate area has already been wrecked beyond recognition. The buildings are on fire, the streets are shattered, and heavy objects are flying through the air like rocks thrown by small boys. The calm has been broken by the sounds of sirens, shooting, and screaming.

Lots and lots of screaming.

The secessionists have taken the Captiol area, using the muscle of the turned Strategic Talents and leftover Legion Supervillains to hold and enforce their position. The Governor has been abducted from his mansion, along with his family, and is being held at the nearby Museum of the Confederacy. All available emergency services are too busy fighting fires and dealing with the wounded to mount a real rescue, to say nothing of rolling the armed belligerents back.

And -- just to make things worse -- a large number of the police have joined with the attackers, sensing that a chance to grab hold of their long-denied neo-confederate destiny has come 'round at last.

As for those in costume? They preen and pose, strutting upon the smoldering mountains of rubble like cockerels in near-human shape, and cheering like beasts baying over a kill. The ones long-known to be villains have merely revealed themselves for what they've always been, however hidden or dormant those personae were. And the so-called heroes have shucked their assigned uniforms and codenames for things more befitting their new, chosen identities.

Meanwhile the true heroes of the day -- the ones that held true to their oaths and their station -- lie dead or broken around them, lashed to signs and bolted to walls as warnings to some, and examples to all.

The appearance of much-needed, strategic intervention does not signal the end to the conflict, but merely a different stage within it. Speedsters whirl around the slow-moving, only to be outflanked by other, quick-moving types, and lured into near-endless races of doom. Powerhouses trade blows and fling weighty objects at one another, hoping to wear their defenses down. Those that can fly turn the sky into a protracted dogfight, those with strange offensive powers draw at fifty or more paces, and those with more interesting abilities find their foils and test them.

And as the colorful and the costumed rage on earth and in heaven, the real work gets left to those whose skills lie within darker avenues.

Call them the shooters, if you must: you wouldn't be the only ones. They're the Strategic Talents whose powers and abilities lie not within altered DNA or grossly enhanced bodies, but in their aptitude for ranged combat -- the magic that happens in the space between their eye and index finger. On a normal day, in any other fight, they'd be using their signature weapons to bring down their overpowered foes, knowing full well that they could take what damage they could do -- or maybe not, as the case may be.

But here, today, they are under orders to stun, only, if only because the eyes of the new world are watching.

And so, while the proud and the powerful clash loud enough to shame thunder, the sneaky and underhanded quietly  unleash their F-guns on the enemy combatants. The chittering, swirling rays of orange and purple that overwhelm the senses of anyone caught by them, and bring them down in seconds. Lines of traitorous police officers fall collapse where they stand, still trying to use their now-useless authority. Waves of hidden survivalists and secessionists are likewise brought down to the earth, as even their well-padded boltholes and improvised cover will not protect them from this.

And as they fall down, they are quickly disarmed, disrobed, and left tied up for eventual collection.

That accounts for most of the shooters, but in any battle there are always exceptions. One of those exceptions is stalking through the burning buildings and shattered ruins, carrying two large guns filled with ammunition meant to be used on the new breed of superhuman. Her orders are a simple-sounding task -- one she is uniquely suited to handle, given both her skills and temperament.

Find the new supers and kill them, no matter what.

Yanabah's been on the ground for exactly ten minutes. In that time she's shot no less than three of these turncoat newbies. Each time, she's carefully aimed for the eyes, making sure to put a spent uranium bullet through each pupil, the better to blow their brains out the back of their heads.

Because, while supers may be dense of skin or fleet of foot, eyeballs are hard to armor or protect, and brains are as fragile as a first kiss.

She's been careful, of course. She hasn't engaged anyone who's currently tussling with another Super, just to make sure they don't get any more blood on their uniform. And she hasn't shot anyone in such a way as to get the slaughter on camera. She finds a worthy target, slinks into position, takes careful aim, fires twice -- once from each gun -- and then slides away before anyone realizes where the shots came from.

Three volleys, three corpses, zero sightings -- so far, perfection, and she should be proud.

But as she creeps along, watching her fourth victim as she pummels one of her colleagues down, and preparing to line up that perfect, paired shot that will end her, she can't help but wonder why she isn't feeling more -- or even anything at all. Her heart isn't racing, she's breathing normally, and every time she pulls the triggers (and watches the front of their face blossom violently) she doesn't experience any of the emotions that she should. There's no joy, no pity, no hate, no revulsion.

It's as if she's moving through a scripted introduction for a videogame she's played a million times, and knows too well to be excited, anymore.

Something is missing. Something is wrong. Yanabah knows this, assuredly, but she can't figure out what's happened. And as she ends the life of her fourth victim -- blowing her up and back the second she stands up from her now-unconscious victim -- it's all she can do to go find victim number five, and hope that the answer presents itself in due course.

That's what her father/grandfather/great-grandfather would have told her, she's sure.

If only he was here to say it. 

* * *

"You know, you might want to put that gun somewhere else," Wayfinder says, looking the strange-looking Russian fellow in the eyes.

"No, my friend," the SQUASH operative says, re-adjusting his grip on the very large, Soviet-made pistol -- its barrel just out of the hero's reach, but aimed right at his forehead -- "I am thinking I will keep it on you for as long as we are talking, here. I think it will persuade you we are being serious, and should it not, perhaps I will aim it at your daughter."

Yanabah growls. It's not a pleasant sound, and the two large men standing on either side of her raise their guns reflexively, wondering where that came from.

It's the mid-eighties, and they're in a !@#$ty, chain hotel in southern Iowa, of all places. The COMPANY had them flown in to help with a rather curious missing-persons case -- one that resolved itself a little too neatly for anyone's liking. And, after it was done, the group paid them for their time, and then put them up here for the night so Wayfinder could get some rest.

Only there were three Russians waiting for them when they checked in.

One of them seems to be able to phase through objects, if their rather disorientating rush through the wall is any indication. He's the one doing most of the talking. The other two seem to be standard heavies, complete with staid, Soviet stares and handguns large enough to kill an elephant at 50 paces, and a lack of conversational skills.

But one of them brought a big, heavy briefcase. And Wayfinder knows enough to know what that means. So he knows he has to play for time, at least for now.

Yanabah stands there, dressed in the same kind of work shirt and jeans that he does. Only now she wears the silver and turquoise jewelry, all around her neck. It's both therapy and restraint, at this point.

(But they don't need to know that, do they?)

"So, this case we were working," Wayfinder asks: "That was your doing?"

"Of course," the man says, grinning to reveal a mouth full of bad, brown teeth: "We needed to get you out of hiding, and so we have. How convenient that you must always rest after such an exertion! So we brought you here, where there is only one hotel, and laid in wait."

"I'll tell them to be more careful, next time," the man says, rolling his eyes.

"Except that there will not be a next time, not for your COMPANY, anyway," the Operative announces: "We have a waiting transport. You will come with us, and get on board. You will travel with us back to our space, and we will use your unique skills to our purposes."

"Like !@#$," Yanabah spits: "I don't think you could afford him."

"You see?" the Russian says: "This country is all about money. There is no vision, here, my friend. You seem to be a man who understands about vision?"

"I also understand about freedom of choice," Wayfinder says, leaning up against the dresser. The Russian clears his throat and re-aims the gun.

"It's okay," Wayfinder says: "Just resting. I'm not really able to do more than stand here and talk, if you're scared."

"You will come with us," the man says, apparently not very afraid: "This is a surety. If not for your own sake, then for hers."

The two heavies pick that moment to raise their guns and aim them at her heard. Yanabah growls again, but has made no move to take her jewelry off. Maybe she's thinking they can get out of this without her having to kill them.

Wayfinder realizes there probably isn't, though, and -- cursing himself for doing so -- begins to bring the conversation down a darker, more doomed path.

"And if I say no?" he asks, standing straight up.

"Then we kill her," the man says: "Slowly, in front of you. We have privacy and time. You will watch the whole thing."

"She knew the risks when she signed up," Wayfinder says: "And I won't betray my people for anyone."

(He sees the look on her face. She's aware of what's going on. She's pleading with him not to do this -- not to make her go backwards, to what she was -- but he's steadfast in this.)

"Well, we have also brought the Machine," the Russian says, cocking his head towards the briefcase: "It will be crude, and painful, but we will ensure that we will have a map of your mind, and how it works. Not as good as the real thing, perhaps, but enough to replicate it surgically."

Yanabah growls again -- deeper and lower. The Russian's starting to wonder what's going on here.

"And I suppose you'll make her watch?" Wayfinder asks.

"Oh yes," he says, no longer as sure of himself: "If you wish to go that route, I am certain we can let her hear you scream."

That's done it, then. There's a clinking, almost wet sound as the jewelry falls from her neck and hits the floor. And then there's that howl that has no business coming from a human mouth...

Wayfinder's outside of the hotel room before the screaming starts. He hears a gunshot, maybe two, but then nothing but wet noises. Rending and ripping, tearing and chewing.

The howl that makes his blood run cold.

"Yeah, it's Wayfinder," he says into his communicator, which -- if he'd been thinking -- he would have found a way to tap the moment he realized they'd been ambushed: "We need help. We got held up in our room by three Ruskies. SQUASH Agents, they said. Yanabah's dealing with them right now, but...

"Yes, Yanabah," he repeats as something heavy gets slammed into the wall, just before a new wave of screaming erupts: "Maybe give us a couple hours before we go in, but you better get people here now. I think there may be more of them, nearby. They spoke of a waiting transport. Maybe check the nearby airfield, any airstrips within a ten mile radius..."

The screaming gets too loud to talk, then, so he turns it off and goes back to watching the door.

They had the curtains closed. They're being soaked with blood spatters. He can almost imagine the scene inside the room, right now: pieces of Soviet agents flying all over the room, the wet squelching noises.

The feeding.

"Creator, forgive me," he prays, knowing that this might just take her therapy all the way back to square one, but not knowing how else he could have ended that. Sometimes you just have to use what's there, and make amends later.

That and hope the cure wasn't worse than the disease.

* * *

Not far from the State Capitol, there's some buildings that haven't been set afire, yet.

Some of them are the Museum of the Confederacy, where the Governor's being held, and a firebreak has been established to ensure his safety (until it doesn't matter, anymore). And others are just outside the conflagration, at least for now. No flaming cars, wayward bolts of lightning, or gouts of fire have been lobbed their way, just yet, and any eyebeams have been focused on targets closer to the actual fighting.

So when trio of (mostly) bruised and battered secessionist supers use it to try and escape, they're reasonably sure they're safe in one of those alleys, for now.

"Man, that sucked," a tall, well-muscled woman in a red and white suit says as they walk along: "I can't believe we actually thought we could win."

"Shut it, Red," a long-haired man in black, riding leathers -- covered in Confederate patches -- and a pitch-black, handlebar mustache commands: "You knew there was a risk, here. This is just a battle, not a war."

"They say we're losing," a skinny, blonde man in purple and white says: "I hear the West Coast already went down in flames-"

"Just a temporary setback. You watch. I bet they're pulling the reserves out, now."

"And we're bravely sneaking away to meet them?" the woman says, turning to smirk: "Face it, bro. We got hosed."

The man in black takes a swipe at her, but she parries the blow with something approaching a languid gesture and leaves him to nurse what may be a broken wrist.

"Truth hurts, Confederateer?" the kid in purple and white asks.

"I told you, it's the Black Rider!" the man insists, stopping to stick his finger in the kid's face: "And the South is going to rise again!"

"Yay, racism," the kid sigh.

"Sneer all you want, Purple Haze, but this is a White Man's nation! And the sooner you get with that-"

"Remind me again why we shacked up with losers?" the woman in red interrupts, amused to see the steam rising from their supervillain's head as he walks right through him.

"Orders, hon," the kid says: "And not the kind you can ignore-"

He'd have said more, but then twin bursts from a pair of well-used 50 calibers turn the woman's head into a wet mess, making further conversation irrelevant.

"What the !@#$?" the Black Rider says, ducking behind some trash cans and looking around the alley. The kid just stands there, staring at what's left of his fellow hero on the ground.

Another pair of shots ring out, and the wall behind the kid explodes out at eye-level. He just stands there, looking in the direction they came from, and smiles a little.

"You know, there's a reason they call me Purple Haze," he says, turning just slightly invisible: "That isn't going to work too well on me, whoever you are."

"Where are they coming from?" Black Rider asks: "Can you see?"

"If you shoot that !@#$er, I'll consider us even and let you live," the kid says, taking a half-step away from him.

There's laughter at that, somewhere up the alley. It's not very comforting.

"You little !@#$!" the villain says: "If you weren't untouchable, I'd-"

"Run," the owner of the laughter says: "Now."

He does just that, without saying another word. He gets about as far as the other end of the alley before a single shot gets him, right in the !@#$. To his credit he keeps running, but the howling and pain echo for quite some distance.

And then Yanabah comes out of her hiding place and walks up to the kid in purple and white.

"You're the one who was killing people like me, back there," he says, looking at her.

"I was, yes," she says, smiling, her guns still pointed at him.

"How many have you gotten?"

"With your friend, there? Twelve."

"And I'm going to be lucky thirteen?"

"Well, you're the last one," she says, lowering her guns just a little and cocking an eyebrow: "I guess I'm going to have to try something different with you, since you got phasing powers and all."

"You don't seem afraid of me," he says, dropping into a defensive stance: "Do you just not think I can hurt you? Is that it?"

"Passing through things isn't much of a power," she says, putting the guns away and pulling out a rather large knife.

"Oh, but I can do more than that," he says, grinning as he moves his hands past each other in successive, sliding motions: "Imagine someone reaching into your chest and squeezing your heart valves shut. Or maybe just punching into your brain after passing through your skull. I can do a lot of damage, lady. And all I have to do is touch you."

"Yeah, about that," she grins, putting the blade up: "You come and try, wasichu."

"Now that doesn't sound like a nice word."

"It's not," she says, and lunges forward.

The man just stands there, his arms outstretched, expecting her to pass through him. Imagine his surprise when the knife slams into his breastbone, breaks on through, and cleaves his heart.

He tries to speak, but coughs up blood. He falls to his knees, disbelieving. And the moment he does, she lets go of the blade, pulls out her guns -- faster than anyone should be able to -- and pulls both triggers.

Only one goes off. Shooting the racist idiot must have emptied the clip, clearly. And so the kid falls down with one ragged hole where his eye was, and yet most of his head intact.

"Oh, right," she says, looking for a fresh pair of clips as she realizes the blade's slipped position a little "Phasing powers. But I bet I can shoot all day, wasichu. I got nothing but time, now."

"Why...?" he whispers, his mouth full of equal parts blood and air.

"Orders," she says: "Not that I owe you an explanation, you little piece of !@#$."

"But we're... following..."

"What?" she asks, looking down at him: "What are you saying?"

"We're following orders... also..."

She scowls, leaning down just out of the range of his hands: "Whose orders, pal? The Legion? The Secessionists? They don't count, you little !@#$. You had your own orders, and they were given to you by the COMPANY."

"So were these..." he says, the life fading from his eyes: "SPYGOD... told us..."

"Told you what?" she demands: "What did SPYGOD tell you?"

"To help... revolution... said it would come, and we'd... need to help it... join with Legion... fight the power..."

"Bull!@#$," she stammers, watching him die: "That's bull!@#$! You're lying!"

"No..." he insists, almost choking on his own blood: "SPYGOD... ordered us to... defect..."

She looks at him as he says this. She remembers what Wayfinder told her about the last words of the dying, when lies have no profit, anymore.

She realizes that everything this man had said is true.

It doesn't stop her from blowing the top of his skull completely off the second he dies, but she's screaming when she does it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cold Warning (Gary Numan) and having a Betrayal Imperial Red)

12/26/12 - Randolph Scott - No Words But the Truth - pt. 3

11/15/12

Who is Zalea Zathros?


Before today, if you grabbed a microphone, hit the streets of DC, and asked a dozen people, you'd probably get a dozen answers. Maybe a baker's dozen, if someone wanted to hedge their bets.

You see, there's the Zalea Zathros the authorities want you to know: the amoral mega-genius supercriminal who's been on the loose since last January. The one who kept trying to take over the world, back in the 70's, and was so duplicitous and dangerous that even the Legion didn't want her on board.

(That and she probably would have supplanted and killed The Big Man, for many obvious reasons.)

That's one Zalea Zathros, and -- thanks to the authorities -- probably the best-known one. But there are many others, depending on your point of view. And all of them are equally valid.

There's Zalea Zathros the socialite, who was born into the wealthiest family of Lamia, in Greece. They say she only needed to snap her fingers and every servant in the house would crowd around her, asking how they could make her day just that much better.

There's Zalea Zathros the coldblooded killer, who schemed to do away with her father for her tenth birthday, and kept her mother so out of her mind on tranquilizers that she was effectively running the house. Some say this was self-defense, but there's been no proof to suggest that her patrician father was physically or sexually abusive. It's more likely she just really wanted to be in charge of things.

There's Zalea Zathros the child prodigy, who astounded all of Greece by attaining a dual doctorate in Genetics and Robotics by the time she was twenty. They say that she literally rewrote the book on human genetics in her office at the University of Athens, achieving insights that stunned even people like Dr. Yesterday.

There's Zalea Zathros the robotics savant, who created a self-replicating army of humanoid robots in her spare time, just so she'd have time to work on "important things." Zalea Zathros the cloning pioneer, who created a working, fully-adult copy of herself by the time she was 25. Zalea Zathros the mental engineer, who perfected a working hive-mind at 26, allowing her to simultaneously exist within ten clones at once.

And then there's Zalea Zathros the feminist icon, whose third Doctorate -- in Sociology, at age 27 -- laid out a near-perfect blueprint for a genetically stable world. A planet where women took specially-prepared pills to become pregnant, and produce children that were perfect, 50/50 genetic amalgamations of their lovers and themselves.

A planet where men were useless, and not worthy of further production.

Zalea Zathros the sexual revolutionary, whose book -- One Love with No Limits -- advocated the love of the self as the highest and purest form of spiritual, mental, and physical love. Zalea Zathros the objectivist, who found in Ayn Rand's teachings the perfect philosophical support for her ethical and sexual revolution. Zalea Zathros, who planned to create a floating island paradise for her and her female followers (and all their clones), but never quite got enough people on board.

Zalea Zathros the controversial firebrand, who spent her 30's being both lionized and demonized for her achievements and ideas. Zalea Zathros, who, by the time she was 39, seemed so intent on putting her theories into action that Athens University barred her from the premises, and destroyed her equipment for fear of her doing something "rash and hasty."

Zalea Zathros the science terrorist, who -- on her 40th birthday -- unleashed a genetic plague on AU that targeted only men (and women of inferior genetic stock). Zalea Zathros the super villain, who declared that the "Athens Action" would be the first of many "genetic geldings" until the world was ready to accept her blueprint.

And Zalea Zathros, who was captured by SPYGOD after one of her better, subsequent schemes went awry, and spent the next thirty years locked up in a cell in the Heptagon basement. Shackled and stuffed away, knowing that her original body was gone, and all her clones were likewise dead and burned.

Mostly because he handed her a bag with the ashes, and told her to choke on them.

Thirty years, down there in the dark, stuck in one perfect, seemingly non-aging body. Three meals a day and no news of the outside world. Somehow she maintained her sanity and her resolve. Somehow she persevered.

And then came the day they made the mistake of letting her out, not really realizing that she would find a way to turn the tables and get loose. Sure, they took precautions, but they should have known better than to think she wouldn't see a way past them. And they should have known that, given enough time, she'd come and get revenge.

But no one could have ever expected something like this. 

* * *

I'm looking at a live satellite feed from the former state of Israel, right now. Former both because the Imago killed every single person within its borders -- Israeli, Palestinian, or other -- one day, during their occupation, because both sides refused to serve them.

And because it's new owners have given it a new name.

I say "owners," but I really only mean "owner." That would be Zalea Zathros, who has been burning up the airwaves to tell us about what's just happened, there.  

When she speaks it's with many voices, from many mouths. This is something she's done before, when broadcasting demands or manifestos to the world. It's distinctly unnerving and yet strangely compelling to watch several Zaleas Zathros speak and move in unison, which is probably why she does it.

This time, it's just outright eerie and wrong.

Eerie because, this time, it's not a multitude of Zaleas doing it. And wrong because of who it is. 

You see, when the Imago destroyed Israel (and Palestine, to be fair) they blanketed the entire area with their deadly eyebeams. Anyone who was struck by them was killed automatically, with effects ranging everywhere from a pair of holes burned through them to total destruction -- a process that left a puff of ash-cloud in the shape of a person.

The entirety of Israel and Palestine was reduced to ashes, that night. Ashes so thick that they rolled about like sand in the wind, forming strange, pale dunes in the streets and the fields. 

Ashes that, pulverized as they were, still contained enough DNA to do something with -- especially to a mega-genius who solves complex genegineering puzzles while having wild, sweaty, four-way sex with herself. 

This is what Zalea Zathros has done, since the end of the Reclamation War. She has brought the entire population of Israel and Palestine back to life -- men, women, and children -- and incorporated them into her hivemind. Over eight million people, give or take a hundred thousand.

And all of them are Zalea Zathros.

What does she want? Autonomy for the Nation of Atlas, as she has rechristened the area. A lack of interference from the Terre Unifee, or any nations that also choose to retain their independence. The ability to do their own thing, in their own way.

And if they attack, or interfere, or cause the Nation of Atlas any problems whatsoever, she will retaliate by killing a thousand members of the population per "unfortunate incident."

This is the twisted genius of the situation. The memories and lives (and maybe the souls) of all the people who died in Israel and Palestine, on that horrible day, are there, within the bodies she's controlling. We know because she let some of them speak, for a time, before resuming control as easily as slipping a hand into a glove.

And so she is both hostage and captor, using the bodies of those she's recreated to carry her consciousness as she goes about creating her perfect world, at last. 

It's like something from a comic book: how do you strike at a foe made of people? How do you dislodge her from their minds without killing all those people, all over again?

How do you make this kind of thing right?

I have no !@#$ idea. I can only sit and watch and recoil in horror at what I'm seeing on the screen.

And realize that, after today, there's no denying what Zalea Zathros really is, past all her achievements and atrocities, nicknames and titles.

The most dangerous person alive.

(SPYGOD is listening to Phantom Living (The FIXX) and having a Goldstar Dark Lager )

12/26/12 - Randolph Scott - No Words But the Truth - pt. 2

Notes of Randolph Scott, outlaw journalist

10/31/12

It's Halloween, tonight. But right now -- at 8 in the morning our time -- all the masks are on television, turning France into a wonderland.

Human blurs rebuild national monuments and apartment buildings. Dynamos on legs bring electricity back online outside the big cities. The sick and the wounded are healed with a touch, food sprouts from the trees along the sides of the road.

And above it all, streaks of color fly across the screen, like jets with shaded contrails, just one step ahead of the cameras' ability to zoom in and see their faces. 

I've been watching this happen live, courtesy of a call from a source in Paris a few hours ago. I thought he'd bought it during the Occupation, given his tendency to stick it to whatever "Man" he could put himself in front of. But here he was, alive, and telling me I needed to tune into France 24 as soon as possible.

So I did, and I was watching as they interrupted their 1 PM news coverage to bring us what may the most important development in the half a month since the Imago were defeated: the rise of an organization that promises to use Strategic Talents to solve the world's problems, as part of an overture to an actual, working world government.

They're calling themselves the Terre Unifee. Their "interim President" is some short, stout, and impeccably-dressed fellow named Henri Valentin Geraud, who never goes anywhere without Tempete Bleu, who was France's best-known superhero before the Imago took over.

A small man behind a large, well-appointed podium, he talks with reverence about the amazing things his people are doing for France, here and now. He speaks of a place where want and need are outlawed, and wonders will be around every corner.

And then he makes an offer to the rest of the world.

"Join us," he says to the cameras, looking at each one in turn: "Let us put aside all past rivalries and hostilities. Let us clasp hands and celebrate our differences, instead of relying upon them to keep us apart.

"As one planet we have kicked these creatures to the ground, and risen up as one people. Let us continue to rise as one unified planet! Together, we can reshape the world into what it should have been all along, and not what the old powers, run by madmen or imperialists, would have has us believe was the correct configuration..."

That's about as far as I got before I started feeling very uneasy. Not only because I don't remember France actually doing anything, during that war, but also because, once upon a time, France was one of the old powers.

And as I watched these heroes perform miracles, and create a whole new world in front of the cameras and their disbelieving crews, I realized that I knew a few things about this that they, perhaps, did not.

I know, courtesy of SPYGOD, that France never had too many Strategic Talents to begin with, thanks to their Direction Noir being a joke. 

I also know that, apart from that Tempete Bleu guy, and maybe one or two of the others, the vast majority of the ones I'm seeing in front of me are a complete mystery.

So where did these heroes come from? Where have they been all this time, especially when we needed them? How do we know they're going to stick around?

And what price are we going to pay for these miracles?

All the world's agog, and France 24 is claiming that the Terre Unifee already has ten would-be members calling Paris on the phone. And all I can think of is that, given what happened to our Vice President just yesterday, the timing on this is !@#$ suspicious.

And while part of me thinks that it's !@#$ing sad that I think that way, the other half knows better. 

11/9/12

His name is Frank McGarrick. He's 47 years old, married with two adult children. He describes himself as a capital-C conservative (as opposed to a small-r Republican), a Christian, a believer in America's God-given special destiny.

And he's just shaken hands with a supervillain.

We're standing on the side of a hill in Northern Montana, right now. I can't tell you exactly where because, to be honest, I have no !@#$ing idea. We took the long route to get here, today, and when I'm done telling the story I'm going right back by a different route, just to make sure I stay ignorant. 

Not Frank, though. He's come all the way from Santa Fe to be here, today. And he and his wife aren't leaving for anything, now that they've finally made it to God's Country.

Home of the American Secessionist movement. 

So how did this man get here? It's a story that involves a small business, a world without guns, and a squandered chance to do things differently. It also involves an organized group of supervillains who've capitalized on what's been going on, hoping to offer something unique to people like Frank.

A place to do things their own way.

Back in March of this year, Frank ran a gun shop in Santa Fe. He describes his life as quiet and ideal, in spite of taxes and Federal meddling in his affairs. He admits he cheered when the President was apparently shot, as he was convinced he was ineligible for the office, given the "facts" of his overseas birth and "Unamerican" parentage.

(He does, however, refuse to believe that he was a secret Muslim, as so many of his friends at World Net Daily did. I'm sure the President is glad for such kind considerations.)

Then the Imago came, and he was put out of business. Their ban on guns meant he had no livelihood, anymore. And he says he'll never forget the vapid smile on the blue and purple spaceman that had come to tell him in person, acting like he was doing Frank a favor.

He complained at first, of course. You don't just run a business for twenty years and then walk away from it with no feelings. He thought of protests and organizing, maybe marching all the way to what was left of Washington D.C. with all the other deprived gun store owners and traders and letting these "outer space faggots" know just what they thought about their rules.

But after a time he realized that he didn't care as much as he thought he might. Like so many others, he soon became content to watch TV over the internet, participate in milquetoast debates over the course of the nation on what was left of his old, conservative haunts, and enjoy the new job the Imago had given him.

He'd been victimized, just like the rest. 

Once the War was over, and his mind came back to him, Frank was understandably furious. He wanted to grab every gun he could get his hands on and deal with the Imago personally. More importantly, he wanted to re-establish a stronger, better America, where no one would ever take them over, take their weapons, and leave them stupid and pacified in front of a literal idiot box.

And that desire would require a Second -- though some, like Frank, say third -- American Revolution. 

He was far from the only person who wanted that, but his ideas got no traction. Most people were simply grateful to be free, and, thanks to the deputizing of America's Strategic Talents -- and their massive relief actions throughout the country -- no one was starving or deprived enough to be desperate enough to attack the government.

What was a capital-c Conservative to do? Frank decided to throw in with the secessionist movement, which was a major improvement over the old one, as he likes to tell people. Now they've got momentum, and purpose, and a real sense of what can happen when the government drops the ball and lets their country get taken over by outside forces.

Before, the threat was just some vague boogeyman. Now the threat had a face they could attach to it. And it scared the !@#$ out of them that this could ever happen again.

And that's why he's up here, in God's Country, shaking hands and getting set-up directions from a man who, at last count, has at least ten warrants out for his arrest for everything from bank robbery to murder one.

That man's name is Richter Scale, as in the Richter Scale. At some point in his teens he learned he could cause localized tectonic events, just through touch. He probably should have done the "right thing," and turned himself in to the COMPANY for testing, evaluation, and -- one hopes -- a snazzy uniform.

But he could only see dollar signs, fast cars, and women who would actually talk to him, provided he had the other two.

Along came the Legion, who snapped him up well before the COMPANY could get there. He spent 40 years with them, pulling heists and doing whatever they wanted him to, so they he could turn around and do whatever he wanted to do in his own free time. Mayhem, murder, team-ups, pitched battles in the streets of Anywheresville, USA -- everything, all the time.

Four decades of supervillain hijinks, just so he could have his memory wiped, and retire somewhere warm and sunny on money he couldn't remember making. Down in the tropics, surrounded by hot cars and hotter girls, wanted and desired at last.

Unfortunately for him, SPYGOD got tired of dealing with the Legion, last year. He brought them down like a stack of cards. Erased their political connections, destroyed their ace in the hole, put their leader in a medical coma. And suddenly Richter Scale was off the leash and without a cent.

But connections are connections, which bring us to this sad thing I'm watching here.

How many secessionist sympathizers are in the American intelligence community? More than you want to know. Most of them are just the crazy crank down the hall who works for a body that serves a thing he hates, and all his hate talk goes nowhere because, frankly, neither does he. He doesn't get promoted or advanced because no one likes him or trusts him, and he's kept around just to keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn't do any damage.

Or maybe to have someone to burn, if it goes that way.

But every so often a smart little turd manages to swim in the punchbowl long enough without being noticed. He keeps his !@#$ty opinions to himself, until after hours, and uses what he knows to keep them hidden.

And, after getting enough promotions, he turns whole departments septic and brown.

These turds clump together and have meetings and get-togethers. They attend rallies incognito and make deals in back rooms. They shake hands with people who should be in jail, or shot on general principle. They put arms, cash, and materials into the wrong hands, hoping for the right results.

Which is why, thanks to certain elements of the CIA's old domestic spying program, and what was left of the Legion after the organization tried to burn itself down in self-defense, and SPYGOD !@#$ed on the flames, those persons who want to create a sovereign nation, right here on US soil, now have a place to go.

And this is quite the layout, I have to say. From here I can see impressive, ultra-modern armaments on the wooden palisades, like some alternate-history retelling of fights between cowboys and Indians. Inside I can just make out log cabins with satellite dishes and gun emplacements, and a few other things here and there that speak of technical superiority and heavy firepower.

And everywhere you go, some big, old man or woman who used to be an Operator for the Legion -- back in uniform, again -- is on patrol, making sure their new guests come to no harm.

They're not letting me in the palisade. They know my connections, and what I might do, or what I might say to those connections. But they wanted me to come here and talk to the people who are going into God's Country, knowing that it's going to be their last, great hope to stand against the One World Government that's coming.

(After what happened to Israel, I don't hear any talk about ZOG, anymore. I guess that's a small blessing.)

So I talk to people like Frank, and his friend Charlie, and their wives. I hear them tell me about how they hope their kids will join them, up here. I bite my tongue when they go on about how the world's now a lot less safe than it was before the Imago took it over, because at least we knew they were evil.

I shake their hands and wish them well as they turn to go. I do so knowing all too well that the next time I see them it'll be when I come here to report on the aftermath, and walk through the morgue. Because when it gets out that there's a separatist colony, up here, I have little doubt that Federal weight will be brought down on it.

And even in its weakened condition, there's enough firepower behind that weight to turn this place to matchsticks -- villains or no.

No one should have any illusions, here, and yet everyone's full of them. This is the answer to so many hopes and dreams that so many people have had for so long. It's a perfect little secessionist snowflake, floating down from heaven out of the clear sky.

And nothing is perfect, especially when it comes to things like this.

So it doesn't take someone like me to see that there's an angle, here. Someone is playing these people like camouflaged vioilins. And either their death is inconsequential, or just part of the plan.

I think about all that as I greet another pair of sacrificial doves, all kitted up in duck hunting gear and M-16s, and get ready to wade through another pile of bull!@#$ from the damned.

(SPYGOD is listening to Lost In Battle Overseas (The FIXX) and having a Bitter American)

2/29/12 - The Big !@#$ Story So Far - Presidential Assassination Version

SPYGOD.

Immortal. Superpowered. Drunk.

Highly conservative. Queer as !@#$. Out as Hell. 

Assassin of the President of the United States of America?  Well, it sure as !@#$ looks that way.

After a quarter century or so of eating out on having killed Hitler with his bare hands, rescuing the world too many times to count, and saving the lives of three Presidents (and having to shoot one), it would seem that SPYGOD has turned his back on his oath, and his country, and done the unthinkable.

For the President is dead -- shot down on live television. And SPYGOD's hand was on the gun.

How ironic that the former Director of The COMPANY, tasked with handling America's Strategic Talents, is now being hunted down by the organization he once ran! Especially since he was the one who had to kill rogue Supers when they went off the ranch.

What could have happened to him that would have made him sink so low? Was it losing a major battle to GORGON? Being fired by the President?

Something else entirely?

(Well, maybe we're !@#$ getting a little ahead of ourselves, here. Let's back up a bit.)

Since The War, SPYGOD had been a major player in the international spy game. He was the go-to man for America's part in the zero-sum dance that kept the world from being conquered, annihilated, invaded, eaten, or just plan vanished by way of Science Terrorists, Supervillains, aliens, or threats too weird to classify. Sometimes this involved the use of Supers, sometimes conventional forces, and sometimes just a single bullet in the right head. 

(And boy is that really !@#$ painful to consider, right now)

Until May of last year, the dance involved a detente tango with hideous partners like ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, GORGON, and The Legion. In a sane and rational world, those boogie people would have been harshly dealt with some time ago. But they were dug into the world and its governments like fat bloated ticks, and had a marked tendency to create and use doomsday devices when attacked too massively, or thwarted too harshly.

So, under the circumstances, it was agreed that it was better to lose a few hundred civilians every year than risk billions.

However, last May, SPYGOD -- for reasons never fully explained -- decided he'd !@#$ had enough. The Outland that year was a real bang, much to the consternation of the International Spy Community, and all the evil people of the world were on notice.

The era of complacency was over. Complacency Kills. From now on, all their asses were belong to him.

The first dance was easy -- maybe a little too easy. The COMPANY came to call on the Ice Palace in Antarctica, and, faced with a massive attack not seen in decades, ABWEHR flopped over like a greenhorn nellie in a black leather dungeon. The Super Nazis' attempts to engineer a new Reich by way of repurposed alien technology -- some of it truly !@#$ terrifying -- could not withstand the assault, and their reserve guard turned out to be sadly pitiful. 

Buoyed by swift victory, SPYGOD extended himself a little too far, and went after GORGON's stronghold in West Papua with a skeleton crew. Saying the "plan" was the big !@#$ mother of all fiascos is extremely generous; If it hadn't been for new allies he didn't know he had, SPYGOD would likely have died there. 

However, his recklessness did have a price. The President -- already less than pleased with him for certain, highly embarrassing breaches of protocol -- decided The COMPANY's presence was no longer required at the South Pole. From now on the United Nations, along with America's favorite son (and SPYGOD's personal nemesis) Mr. USA would be looking after things, there. 

They would not be getting their hands on The Chamber, though. He'd already seen to that, by way of America's fourth-smartest man, and his brilliant wife, who would also be looking after Mr. USA.

(America's premier Superhero is up to something, you see. SPYGOD's just not sure what, yet.)

Unfortunately, round two with GORGON would have to wait. They'd quietly and messily vacated their island paradise, and SPYGOD suffered a bad case of "animation sickness," requiring exile to a cartoon colony "for his own good." Not one to suffer big government, take-a-hammer-to-a-hangnail solutions gladly, he was deniably plausible when the other patients finally took matters into their own hands.

Was that what did it to him, then? Being Tooned for so long? Or was it the wave of assassination attempts, all involving his secret weakness, making him more paranoid than usual?  The President was one of the few people who knew what it was, after all.

Or maybe it was dealing with that truly monstrous assassin -- Moloch. After he challenged the monster a fight, Moloch pulled a really !@#$ dirty trick and killed SPYGOD. Sort of.

That SPYGOD kept dying and coming back from the dead over and over again was courtesy of a cloning trick, by way of some of the stranger equipment in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. But the side effects were highly unexpected, and the fallout was truly disturbing.

And that, on top of having to interrupt his operations against HONEYCOMB -- a truly evil organization -- may have had a hand in future events.

The Science Terrorists' attempt to attack Neo York City during one of its citywide conversion processes led to a gruesome discovery in South Korea. That he expressed his displeasure at the revelation in his own unique way, and then capped one of the Legion's retirees to cover for his internationally embarrassing actions, could be seen as business as usual, or perhaps a warning of things to come.

For a while, it looked like things were going forward, though not without question or cost. After having previously tweaking the dictator's nose, SPYGOD and a small army of international Supers went back into Libya for an operation just prior to Colonel Khaddafy's inglorious end. Oddly enough, he not only allowed his reporter "protege," Alternet reporter Randolph Scott, to attend the proceedings, but also gave him free reign to publicize what took place, there.

SPYGOD's actions making the press made a few people up top less than pleased, as one might expect. But whether he did this to anger them or reward Scott has yet to be determined.

Following that successful action, SPYGOD shifted gears and fought a terrible war against the supervillain collective known as The Legion -- a battle that also pitted him against certain, highly-placed elements at the CIA. In fact, one of the other Company's pet monsters did a terrible thing in order to get closer to SPYGOD -- a thing that didn't become apparent until after SPYGOD had smashed the organization, and taunted its leader into sending out its best and deadliest weapon for a no-holds-barred fight with The Flier.

(A fight won only because of Deep Ten, and its mysterious and mercurial Director -- a man SPYGOD later became romantically entangled with, for too short a time.)

After that, there was just mourning and a mop-up. The Flier was all but destroyed, and many of his Agents dead, but yet another dark dance was finished -- maybe.

However -- did the self-sacrifice of that promising Agent send him towards the edge? And did the Legion's leader -- the Big Man -- manage to put an alien idea into his mind?

Was he really as immune to mind control as he claimed to be?

Yet another ill-timed detour put that issue on hold. Randolph Scott took the Ice Palace kids he'd been looking after since NAZISMASH to the wrong place, with tragic consequences. This set off an epic journey across two continents as SPYGOD took their kids from bolthole to bolthole, trying to evade assassins he initially thought were Israeli, but turned out to be BUSH -- seeking revenge over a terrible thing SPYGOD once did, decades ago. SPYGOD's revenge for the loss of his ward, and endangerment of the others, was somewhat delayed due to testicular difficulties, but was swift and all-engulfing when it finally came.

Meanwhile, back at the Heptagon, plans continued on without him. The reformed supervillain known as Underman -- Myron, if you please -- was given leave to assemble a tiger team from pieces of what remained of The Legion, and put to them work on the plan SPYGOD sort of had cribbed down for his return. The end result was that, by the time SPYGOD returned from his Big !@#$ Road Trip, OPERATION BUGSMASH was over and done with, and HONEYCOMB's central hive in Costa Rica was defeated.

Of course, as with the Ice Palace, the ruins of what had been left behind had to be taken charge of, cataloged, and defused. Some dark discoveries awaited -- maybe more than The COMPANY really should have tried to take on. But between the satisfaction of having an enemy stomped in his absence, and seeing that he'd been right to trust Myron -- however much work he still needed -- SPYGOD got back into his "came, saw, conquered, !@#$ up the !@#$" routine once more.

But you remember what we said about how complacency kills.

A looming threat was made plain to him by an agency he dared not ignore. It was in keeping with something he'd been told earlier, by someone else he could trust, along with other bits and pieces he'd picked up along the way.

The message was clear: something bad was going to happen, and soon. And whatever it was, he already knew its face.

Was it panic that set in, then? Making him behave somewhat recklessly and mysteriously? If so, it may have been justified. A Republican Presidential Candidate was assassinated, and certain fingers of suspicion pointed to his involvement. And while he might have been overseeing the rebirth of The Flier at the time, in his line of work that was no guarantee that he didn't have a hand in it.

Disasters piled up. First a moment's carelessness led to the escape of Zalea Zathros -- one of the most deadly supervillains on the planet, and the only person The Big Man ever feared. Then the head of BUSH was "rescued" from a cell in Africa, only to be found dead, most likely courtesy of a truly nasty GORGON operative, which meant all he knew is now known to them, too.

Then total disaster: a tripped deadman's switch caused a volcano to explode, destroying a large portion of Northeast Costa Rica. SPYGOD offered to massage the results to save America's face, but the President, tired of his seeming incompetence, came clean to the international media, and began to take steps to remove SPYGOD from his position.

No sooner did SPYGOD hear about that then he found out Randolph was in a medical coma in San Francisco -- a victim of a hit and run that might leave him severely brain damaged. Someone tried to kill his Second in Command, too, on board The Flier, but somehow SPYGOD was more worried and upset by Scott's dilemma. (Go figure.)

But this critical juncture is about where the story gets more than a little befuddled.

SPYGOD effectively vanished from detection for a couple days, which isn't outside of his power set, of course, but highly unlikely during a crisis. What happened to him was something he didn't want to discuss, but it clearly bothered him a great deal. It may also have lasting repercussions, either now or in the future, depending on what he does or does not do.

Then, when he got back to The Flier -- only to find it wracked with cascading malfunctions -- his Indian ally, Dosha Josh, was there, along with his age-old enemy/ally/love interest, The Dragon. He'd been found in Paris, apparently, and Dosha had handed him over rather than leave him to the French to deal with. Saying SPYGOD was happy to see him was a massive understatement, and before long the two were !@#$ inseparable (and inseparable !@#$).

Apparently taking this as a good omen, SPYGOD activated long-stalled-out OPERATION DECAPITATION, intending to deal with GORGON. He told the President off while promising him victory, and then called up every operative and spare Agent, press-ganged every useful supervillain, and turned in every favor he had on the gamble of a lifetime.

It failed. Badly. But even in the wake of that colossal failure, SPYGOD tried to rally the troops for one more push. He might have succeeded, too, if he'd been allowed. But the President of the United States of America had other ideas.

He fired SPYGOD, then and there, bringing about the end of an era in super crime-fighting.

True, SPYGOD was initially infuriated, homicidal, suicidal, and despondent, but after a truly dark night of the soul he seemed resolved to his fate. Maybe the President was right. Maybe he had gone too far, too fast, after too long of hanging back and doing nothing at all. Maybe his instincts had failed him, and he, in turn, had failed America.

Maybe it was time for a long !@#$ vacation, someplace where he didn't have to worry about saving the world.

(Plus, he could get the !@#$ away from The Dragon, who'd gotten more than a little weird on him.)

But one trip to The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G later, a harmless musing while packing up led SPYGOD to a whirlwind of discovery, which led, in turn, to a number of very distressing concerns. This is, of course, a nice way of saying that everything he knew was either wrong, very wrong, or !@#$ wrong.

And the next time anyone saw him, he was in the White House Rose Garden, shooting the President on live televison.

What happened in the penthouse atop The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G? No one can say. METALMAID is missing in action, and SPYGOD's rather peculiar -- and outright dangerous -- cat, BeeBee, was last seen kneecapping several elite commandos with that gun she's always dragging around behind her.

But it's fair to say that, right now, outside of maybe the robot and the cat, SPYGOD doesn't have a friend in the world. They've disbanded the SPYGOD SCOUTS, and the story about what he had to do to President McKinley is no longer a secret. Right and left alike hate him with renewed venom, and the Republican Candidates for America's upcoming elections are taking turns explaining just how badly they want him dead.

They'll have to get in line, though: all Armed Forces branches are on alert, all law enforcement agencies are engaged in the hunt, and The COMPANY -- now under new management -- has been tasked to find him, and to shoot to kill when they do. All NATO countries and many of America's spying partners have also sworn to find the man and deal with him, which means his old network of allies, friends, and people he could pressure doesn't mean !@#$, anymore.

He doesn't have a flying car to get away in (someone blew it up) or a massive armory to pull weapons out of. He doesn't have an army of Agents willing to kill and die for him, or the backing of any Supers who want to maintain good relations with the organization he used to run. Except for his powers, and whatever he had on his person when he did that terrible thing, doesn't have !@#$.

He is disgraced and disavowed. Hunted and harried. Cursed and condemned.


But all that probably means is that he's never felt more alive.

SPYGOD. A massive !@#$hole, yes. But hopefully he's still our !@#$hole.

Hopefully there's some reasonable explanation as to what happened that day in February.

Hopefully he'll live long enough to tell us, and save us from the !@#$ that's coming.

Sometimes hope is all we have in the face of the bad times to come.

(SPYGOD is listening to Warriors of the Wasteland (Frankie Goes to Hollywood) and watching the Sunset with new appreciation.