12/22/12 - The Owl - The More I See the More I Fall - pt. 2

11/10/12

"...think he'll be fine," SPYGOD says, waving his hand in the air as he lights a cigar with his brain. One of the workers at the uptown pizzeria is about to say something, but then shuts his mouth as soon as he realizes who it is, and gets back to making more pie.

SPYGOD and The Owl are dressed in their civies, tonight, but it's not like anyone doesn't know who they are. After she got back to Chicago, Martha went on television and went public with her identity, promising the city that they could put a human face to the force that would be acting as emergency marshal. 

(And as for SPYGOD, it's a rare person who doesn't know his face, in or out of black leather.)

"I wish I could be that certain," Martha says, crossing her arms as she looks at the man across the table: "You didn't hear what he said to me. How he said it to me. Something... it's like they took what my son was and made a bad copy of him. No emotions, no kindness, no love."

"It's all there, Martha," the man says, putting a hand on hers: "He's just... how the !@#$ can I put this."

"Changed?"

"That's putting it !@#$ing mildly. Kid's been through something that most of us never will. Imagine having your entire consciousness pulled out of your noggin and uploaded into a computer the size of a city. Then imagine that you can remember everything, now, and take every !@#$ing thought and dream that you had, and examine them. Imagine being able to put it all together for the first time, ever.

"That's the sort of state of mind that people out East spend their whole !@#$ lives trying to achieve. And Thomas? He got it done to him. And he's riding the effects, same as anyone else would in that situation."

"And you don't think it's changed him for the worse?"

"Well," SPYGOD says, tapping his eyepatch: "When I put this !@#$er in, my brain melted down. I could see everything, clear as day, including a lot of things we just aren't !@#$ing meant to see. And I know it sure changed me, and it still does, a little every day. But I have my coping mechanisms."

"Yes, I know," she says, watching him chug down the tenth beer he's had in the fifteen minutes they've been here: "But I hope you won't be upset if I say I'd rather my son not go that route."

"Not at all," he replies, wiping the foam from his lips and flagging down the waitress for round 11: "But we talked, and I looked, and I listened. And I think he's going to be okay. He just needs some time to adjust to this."

"And what he said to Mark? About being..." she gulps: "Being a god?"

"'Like unto a god,' I think he said."

"That's still disturbing."

"That's what happens when you get powers, hon. I'd have thought you'd have been around enough supers to know that, by now."

She scowls, sighs, and looks out the window. The streets are bustling with bikers and boarders, all hurtling down the empty streets to their destination.The occasional bus or city truck proves the exception to the new rule of people-powered transportation. 

"I guess change is what we have for stability," she admits, taking a sip of her coke as he gets his 11th beer and puts in an order for another.

"That's the way of our world, yeah," he says, trying to smile: "But... he loves you. And he understands that you're afraid. And he wants you to come back and see him, when you can."

"I don't know if I'm ready to see him, yet," she admits, more than a little ashamed to say it: "What I saw on the news... dozens of him, walking down the streets. It's frightening."

"It's his new reality. He's literally !@#$ing looking in a million directions at once. We had an... interesting conversation about that."

"And it doesn't hurt having a man who can be in a million places at once helping with the crime problem."

"No, it does not," SPYGOD smiles, wiggling his eyebrows: "Crime's down 75%, and at the rate he's going I think he might have it down to 90%, once he realizes what he's really !@#$ing capable of."

"Like?"

"Well, he's still shy about intruding in on people," SPYGOD says, wondering when their !@#$ pie is going to get baked and get to their table: "As well he should be. But when he gets over that, and learns when to be proactive and not just reactive, I think he'll really come into his own."

"It's a fine line."

"It sure is. And I know your father was more cautious about that than I am."

"He was, yes. He felt everyone deserved the right to make the choice. And then, if they chose poorly, we would be there."

She smiles, thinking of her father, and wondering how he would feel about what's happened to his grandson. 

"True. But sometimes you have to be harder than that. You don't want to wait until Chemcrook poisons the water supply to bust him. You have to stop it before it happens."

"Agreed. But what about petty theft? Should he break some kid's wrist before he can slip it into someone's wallet?"

"If he knew it was about to happen with 100% certainty? Absolutely." SPYGOD says, tapping his finger on the table: "Maybe not break it, but a good thwack on the !@#$ing fingers, at least. Worked for me in school."

"If only we could all be so sure."

"Those Nuns were sure."

The Owl shakes her head: "You know, this is going to sound like a terrible thing for a Christian to say, but I never really liked Catholic schools. Everyone I ever knew who went to one either turned out really boring or really broken."

"I think that's the idea," SPYGOD says, smiling as their long-awaited deep-dish comes around the corner, loaded with extra everything: "Ah, here we go. I can't believe you have never eaten here in all the time you've been in this town, hon. This is pie, right here."

"I've had it recommended. I've just never been because, well... training."

"Ah yeah," he says, smiling as he gets ready to cut off a piece: "Couple slices of this will set your exercise regimen back weeks, if you're lucky. But I think it's worth it, once in a while."

"Well, your one-man army does march on its stomach."

"Amongst other things."

She blushes: "Really, (REDACTED)."

"Really, Martha."

"How's he doing?"

"He's great. We got him a new body that's even !@#$ing better than his old one."

"And better at !@#$ing?"

SPYGOD starts. Martha laughs.

"Did you just... you did not," he says.

"I think your bad habits are wearing off on me," she laughs, cutting herself a slice: "Something about the company you keep."

"I'll drink to that," he says, winking as he clinks his beer bottle against her coke glass.

* * *

"So," SPYGOD says, after regarding the empty pie pan for a time: "Team Chicago. How are they doing?"

"Just fine," Martha says, having a sip of her coke: "I was a little worried at first, given how quickly we came together and how much we had to do. But everyone you set me up with has turned out to be pretty good."

"No problems?"

"Eh, no more so than usual. People trying to balance their personal lives with being in costume. Personality conflicts, thankfully nothing major."

"No suspicious activity?" SPYGOD asks, leaning in and looking her in the eyes: "No times when you hear their excuse for being late and know they're !@#$ing you? No apartments full of contraband or money they got for looking the other way?"

"Not at all," the Owl says, leaning in and taking her voice down a notch: "But then, I have to admit I wasn't looking too hard. I figured if you trained them and vouched for them, I didn't have to worry about that?"

"Well, you'd think so," SPYGOD coughs into his fist: "But apparently we have some problems."

"Oh?"

"I've been collecting these kids when they popped up, all along," he explains: "I kept them under the radar, made sure they got training, had someone from the COMPANY keep an eye on them, and then had them ready to go in case of an emergency. Come the day, most of them performed just fine, and we lost a lot of them. Lost a !@#$ing lot of them, really."

"I know," she says, taking his hand in hers: "You did the right thing, (REDACTED)."

"Yeah, well, I'm wondering if doing the absentee team leader was such a !@#$ good idea, now," he says, leaning back: "That's one of the things your son's activities have turned up, Martha. He can see everything that goes on. So he could see certain members of Team Neo York City acting like !@#$ing crooks."

Martha gasps: "You're kidding me."

"I wish I was. I had to deal pretty harshly with one of them, yesterday, but he was just in with the mob, getting paid to look the other way. The other two I got on 24/7 surveillance to see if they go to their secessionist friends, and see where that leads us."

She blinks: "What are they doing, exactly?"

"Money and guns, mostly. But they're also giving them places to stay, and information on vulnerable sites and services."

"That's disturbing," she says: "And I bet you're going to tell me this isn't isolated?"

"No. I have reports from a few other cities that some of their new heroes aren't being too !@#$ing heroic."

The Owl nods, leans back, and considers this.

"In light of that, maybe I should be more forthcoming," she admits: "Two of my team members have been a little off, from time to time. I've put it down to stress and the life, but now that you mention this..."

"What do you mean by 'off'?"

"Weird hours. Being late. Things they don't want to talk about."

"Which could be part of the life, admittedly."

"But could also be suspicious, given what you've told me."

"Do you want me to handle it?" he asks, leaning in and giving her that look.

She looks at him, knowing full well what he means, and shakes her head: "My team, my responsibility."

"Your !@#$ if it goes pear-shaped."

"Well, let's just say I have faith I can pull this off," she smiles, gesturing for the check: "And I don't them to think I have to turn to you to deal with my problems."

SPYGOD smiles: "And you were worried you wouldn't be a good leader."

And Martha smiles, hoping he doesn't realize that her real reason is wanting to avoid dead supers -- even if they do deserve it.

11/24/12

"Aunt Martha?" Kaitlyn calls from upstairs in their apartment: "Are you still up?"

"I am, sweetie," she answers, turning down the volume on the large television she's been watching: "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"I couldn't sleep," the girl says, walking downstairs in her Spiderman pajamas, a blanket wrapped around her.

"Me either," Martha asks scooting over on the couch so the girl can sit down and lean against her: "Is it jet lag?"

"No," Kaitlyn says, looking at the television. On the screen, a man with blue hair and a sad face is answering questions at someplace that looks like a temple.

"Oh," Martha replies, turning it off: "I don't know what to say, honey. This has been a really bad couple of days."

"Is it true about what happened at the White House?" the girl asks: "What they said happened?"

"It's true," the Owl says, shuddering at the thought as she puts an arm around the little girl.

"And is it true about what Uncle Chaos says?"

"Yes, I think so. I wasn't there, but he doesn't have any reason to lie."

"I think it was a miracle," Kaitlyn says: "I think God worked through him. I just wish he could have done more, but..."

"I know," Martha says, holding her closer: "I wish God had done more, that day, too. But I guess we'll learn why someday."

They sit a while in silence, just breathing. For a moment, Martha wonders if she's gone to sleep in her arms.

"Are you still mad at them?" Kaitlyn asks.

"At Mr. Chaos? No, I'm not mad at him. Why would I be?"

"I meant uncle SPYGOD and USA."

"Yes, I'm still very mad at them," she replies, wondering why she didn't bring this up before: "Do you understand why?"

"I think so. I think you're angry at them because they couldn't save Grandpa."

"No, honey," she says, trying to explain: "I mean, that's part of it. But I'm really angry because they broke my trust, sweetie. We say that we're all going to be there for one another, thick and thin. And then they lie and don't tell us things, and..."

She pauses for a moment, not sure how much she should actually say. 

"But you said Uncle USA might have been able to stop what happened that night, at the mansion?"

"I don't know," she admits: "He says... well, he says there was a chance he might have destroyed time, or something. I don't know how true that is. I never played around with it, so I don't know. But I just feel like they could have done something."

Kaitlyn is quiet for a while, and then nods: "I understand."

"I don't expect you to be angry at them, too. That's your decision. But I want you to understand why I don't want to talk to them for a while."

"Do you think they did this to be mean?"

"No, honey, no," Martha says, turning to look Kaitlyn in the eyes: "I don't think they were trying to be mean or bad. They didn't think what they were doing was wrong. But sometimes that's the worst kind of wrong, when you think you're doing the right thing and don't tell other people what's going on."

Kaitlyn nods again: "Are you going to forgive them?"

"I have, sweetie," she says, looking at the dead television: "It's just going to take me a while to trust them, again. And if I can't trust them, I can't work with them. And that's really sad, but..."

She falls silent, thinking about how she's not sure she can trust at least two of the heroes she's in charge of, now, either.

And wondering what she should do about that, now that she can't call SPYGOD if it goes really badly.

(SPYGOD is listening to Wish (The Fixx) and having a Castle Rock Screech Owl) 

11/13-15/11 - The Week of the Hunt pt. 3

11/13/11
10:34 PM
(LOCATION UNKNOWN)

The Big Man sits in a small and simple room, off from the side of his office.

He's all alone in that room, sitting behind a desk that costs more than most people see in their lifetimes. On the desk are six photographs: four women, two men. All of them are reasonably attractive, but each possess one small flaw that makes them memorable -- more desirable, somehow.


There's another room, beyond that small one. There's no door between them, but the wall has been specially made so that he can hear almost everything that goes on in it. Every creak, every footfall, every slap, every groan.

The six people he has photos of are in that other room, and they're !@#$ each other. He can't see them, but he can hear everything. And as he sits there, with his eyes closed, he imagines everything they're doing to each other. Who's doing what to whom, and with what, and from what angle.

It's one of the few things he does that really gets him off, these days. Once he was quite the connoisseur of flesh, and the fun, complex things one can do with it, but now he's really feeling his age -- at least, when it comes to that one little thing.

In terms of everything else, age hasn't slowed him down. He may appear thin and wrinkled where he was once stout and strong, but the weathering is all surface. Below the sallow, baggy skin he's as lithe and spry as he ever was.

But below the waist, something has withered and will not bloom without massive help, no matter how much top-grade pharmaceutical help his doctors give it.

This ritual is part of that help. There's a video camera in the room, and later that night he'll watch it. He'll see how close he was to imagining what really happened -- especially when his special actor chooses to reveal himself -- and the delicious difference between imagination and reality will fuel his lust enough to make his manhood stand up proudly for itself, once again.

And if he's lucky, he'll be able to time his release with the last, energetic act of that special actor...

There's a knock at the door. He scowls, but, knowing his factotum would only interrupt this ritual if it was extremely important, he presses the button on the desk that unlocks the door. He does not, however, open his eyes as the whip-thin man approaches.

"Sir, you asked to be informed if the SPYGOD situation deviated from how you anticipated."

"Has it, really?" The Big Man asks. His voice sounds as cracked and lined as his face, but it's still full and forceful enough to make the so-called powerful men of the world fear hearing it.

"His Agents are making certain inquiries. We think they might be going after the current roster--"

"Let them. Anyone they know about it is as expendable as the people we dealt with. Second rate losers and unnecessary risks, all of them."

"Yes, but they may be going after The Magician."

That gets The Big Man's attention. He opens his eyes and turns them on his servant, who shudders to see them so angry.

"How did they find out about him?"

"I don't know sir. We don't know. But word's come that his people are looking for the man who handles the retirements, and that's him."

"That's disturbing," The Big Man says, closing his eyes: "Tell his security details to expect my son. Tell my son to go get The Magician. Tell him I want him relocated as soon as possible."

"Well, sir, your son's in France," the factotum says, praying that doesn't become his epitaph. Fortunately, the old man's eyes don't open, and his hands don't leap up to choke him.

"Then tell the security detail to expect a relocation team. Have him removed as soon as possible. Take him to The Skull. I'll figure out what to do with him tomorrow."

"Yes sir. Is there anything else, sir?"

The Big Man shakes his head and gestures to the door. The factotum leaves quickly, carefully, and silently, hoping he hasn't ruined his master's ritual.

The timing couldn't be better. The actor The Big Man had the talk with, earlier tonight, is starting his special part of the show. Someone's asking what he's doing with that, which is how it usually starts.

But however it starts, it always ends in screams, which seems to be what he needs, these days.

11/14/11
5:53 AM
BILLINGS, INDIANA 

Zachary Leighton is a magician. He always tells people that. If they cock and eyebrow and say "oh really," he makes a quarter fall out of their nose or pulls an endless handkerchief out of their pocket, depending on what he's got up his sleeve.

He doesn't make them smack their significant other or walk into traffic. Not anymore. He could, but he doesn't.

He's retired, you see.

But there was a time, years and years ago, when making someone engage in some spousal battery was the least of what he could do, and did do.

They said he was the greatest natural hypnotist of his time, but that was bull!@#$. He was not a hypnotist. Hypnosis doesn't make you do something you wouldn't normally do, or would find morally repugnant. You can hypnotize people into acting like a chicken on stage or spilling somewhat embarrassing secrets, but you can't talk them into lying, stealing, murder, or killing themselves.

No, what Zachary had was mind control. It was short term, and required full eye contact and verbal precision, but he could make just about anyone do just about anything for at least ten minutes, maybe more.

Now, with a gift like that, he could have had anything. He could have eked out a quiet life for himself, somewhere, asking for what he needed, and relying on the compliance of kind strangers.

But he discovered the power in his twenties, which was back in the 30's. In those more exciting and trying times, it seemed like just about anyone with a talent was putting on a costume and doing something amazing with them. Some were heroes, some were villains, and some didn't seem to know which they were from week to week.

Zachary? He didn't have a hard time figuring it out. He wanted what he wanted, and felt no need to stop anyone else from taking what they wanted, unless they both wanted the same exact thing. That made him a villain, he guessed, and after years of working and then not working, of having and then not having, but always needing and wanting, he was happy to take whatever name the papers and police wanted to give him.

As long as he could take what he wanted.

He dressed the part, in dapper, black coat tails and tophat, with a white domino mask and wand. He'd walk into banks and persuade the guards, tellers, and patrons to help him take the money out of the safe and put them into his waiting car. He'd walk into upscale stores and empty them of their best wares.

Sometimes he'd take home a comely customer for insurance, or fun. Sometimes he'd just want to enjoy his new things by himself. And he had a lot of things.

He wasn't a killer, at least not then. He actually prided himself on having a zero body count, unless you counted that one guard who had a heart attack after lifting all those heavy sacks of money in Chicago, that one time. His fault for not retiring early, Zachary figured.

He had nemeses. Mostly costumed superheroes, sometimes the occasional villain who was upset that he was getting away with it all too easily. Zachary thought it was all in good fun, and just took it in stride.

Until The Big Man got hold of him, anyway. Then things changed.

Suddenly they were all working for him. Suddenly they were all patriotic Americans, fighting against the Axis in the war that was on its way. Suddenly they were being shipped all over the country, there to be trained, renamed, and remade by the War Department, so they could go overseas and fight for America.

And spy, steal, sabotage, suborn, and slaughter for The Big Man.

The Magician didn't like it. Not one !@#$ bit. He didn't like being told what to do. He didn't like having to kill, either.

But The Big Man had him by the !@#$, and he wasn't letting go. You were either with him or against him, and those against him got rubbed out, one way or another. So Zachary had decided, very early on, that he was going to survive this, even if it !@#$ killed him.

And if it killed someone else, well... that's just how it went.

After the Armistice, most of the others stayed in character, and remained with the Occupation. Not Zachary: he was brought back to the states and put in a special team, doing special errands for The Big Man. He got a new name and some semblance of a new face, and then spent several decades keeping them both far from the light of day.

Most of what he did consisted of putting a word where it needed to go, on those occasions where The Big Man's powers weren't going to work so well. Mobsters, monsters, truly corrupt politicians, and fellow villains needed to be told where to get off and what to do when, which The Big Man couldn't compel, but his personal Magician could.

And then there were the retirements.

After The Left Handed Legion became The Legion, and membership in the fraternity became something of a generational thing, those members who really wanted to sell their franchise and hang it up had to be made to forget everything they'd ever done. This was done so they wouldn't blab when they got old and started losing their minds, or found religion or got remorseful. It was also done to avoid stray thoughts from leaking around telepaths, as well as keep them from being discovered by heroes who just wouldn't quit looking.

He performed the same service, under much duress, for those older, original villains who didn't retire, technically, but had since become Operators: handling the hiring out and recruitment of new blood while masquerading as normal elderly folks. Once they got too far gone, or started showing signs of remorse or regret, he'd step in to make sure they remembered nothing at all.

(It was kinder than killing them, of course, but The Big Man wasn't thinking with his heart. He just didn't want any suspicious deaths coming back to haunt him.)

That was his life for most of the past decades, right there: professional memory-destroyer. A mere hour and a few good scripts and he could have someone believing they'd always been John T. Polka, hairstylist and car salesman from Parma, Ohio. Every so often he'd work in some funny details (usually a taste for weird porn) but he found that The Big Man didn't have much of a sense of humor about that, so he kept it low key after a paycheck dock or two.

Past that, he was well cared for. Money rolled in whether he did anything or not. Anti-aging drugs kept him looking like he was in his 50's, when he was really much older. A team of security guards lived on either side of him, making sure he didn't get attacked in the middle of the night. He only had to make a phone call to get what he wanted, and it was there in an hour or two.

And if they did come after him, well... he had his powers. One look and a few words and no one would be shooting him.

Which is why he doesn't panic when he becomes aware, after waking up much earlier than usual, that something is wrong. The usual noises from the house on the left, closest to his bedroom, are not coming. They haven't changed watch shifts, which never happens.

He gets up out of bed, puts on a robe, and walks over to the other bedroom. He can't quite tell if they've changed shifts or not, but he just has the feeling something is not right. The car parked in the driveway hasn't moved. The house just seems too still.

He thinks to call and check, but that might give the game away. If whoever's doing this knows that he knows, he may have less time. And if he's wrong, he's wrong, and they can all laugh about it, however quietly.

He goes to his bedroom and quickly dresses in something casual -- something that'll get him through an airport pretty quickly. Then he goes downstairs to his office to grab the emergency suitcase he's been keeping just in case. Change of clothes, change of identity, lots of cash and easily-traded items, guns that don't show up on x-rays or other scans.

He's about to leave when he realizes he isn't alone. They've been here all along, watching, there in the dark. Probably wearing No-Suits, the !@#$.

"Drop your weapons," he says, looking around: "Kneel down on the floor. Pick one among you to come with me to the airport. The rest of you wait two minutes, then kill the other teams with you, then each other. Last person alive go walk into traffic. Tell no one I was here, what you were doing, or--"

"Oh shut up," one of them says, and the No-Suits drop their invisibility field. They're COMPANY Agents, wearing carapace armor and carrying very large, convincing weapons.

Each one has a special helmet. It looks like an old-style stereo speaker, only rounded to fit the contours of the human head.

Echo-location, The Magician realizes. They can't even see his eyes. No wonder they aren't doing what he tells him.

"I really don't like your tailor," he says, putting the now-useless suitcase down. When the taser hits he tries not to scream.

11/15/11
12:39 PM

THE FLIER

SPYGOD walks down a long hallway, and into a large room. The lights come on the moment he enters, and reveal a treasure trove of amazing and mysterious objects.

Trophies, one and all.

SPYGOD is the only one allowed into the trophy room. If he was anyone else, various things would have leaped into life and killed him in about twenty different ways. Not that he'd have much of a problem dodging them, of course, but then he's him, and that makes it something of a moot point.

He walks down one walkway, then another, and touches the glass on a large case. Behind the glass is a rack with room for five long, bat-shaped objects. One of them is filled with a black and white bat that's tricked out with diesel-punk knobs and wires. The other four are empty.

He reaches into his uniform and pulls out a long, black and white bat. It's the one he took from Columbine, the other day. He puts it next to the other bat, and then closes up the glass.

Three more and he'll have the full collection. This makes him chuckle, but not for long. He's here on other business.

Serious !@#$ business.

He goes to the end of that walkway, past the other glass cases with their strange objects on display, and comes up to a large, black box with a screen, and an old-time movie camera on the top. He runs a hand along the top, appreciatively, and turns it on.

There's a hum, and a burst of static. He runs his hand over the screen, feeling the tingling. Before long the blackness is gone and there's an image: blurry and indistinct, and more than a little flickery, but it's a chair.

"Come on, you old !@#$," SPYGOD shouts: "Your magic black box is on. Notice me."

It takes an hour. He sits the whole time, fuming and occasionally taking a call. But finally some wiry weed of a man comes by, on the other side, and notices the box is on.

"Hi there" SPYGOD says, waving theatrically: "You must be Hargreaves."

"How did you--"

"SPYGOD knows all."

"What?"

"Shut up. Go get your boss. Tell him if he's here in five minutes I'll actually stick around to tell him what he needs to hear. Otherwise he gets to guess what I wanted."

The Big Man makes it there in less than two. He's clearly not happy, but does his best to disguise the irritation in his voice.

"Well, if isn't (REDACTED)," he says: "Nice to have you calling me. I didn't think this old thing still worked."

"It didn't, until about a week ago, Gilbert," SPYGOD says, not remotely surprised that The Big Man knows his real name: "We had someone come in and quietly fix your side of things, so we could have this little talk."

"I see. And we're having this conversation because you didn't feel like arresting me, then? Nice try, (REDACTED). The truth is that it's always worked. We built it to last. Your move."

"Queen takes Bishop. Check."

The Big Man raises an eyebrow: "If by Bishop you mean Magician, then we figured as much. Have fun with him. He only knows as much as I allowed him to know."

"Which is quite a lot, Gilbert. All the retirees? Plus all the dirt on The Legion, itself. Including where The Skull is currently parked."

That gets him riled up: "You had better consider that move very carefully, (REDACTED). There's a danger in taking a symbolic victory while the game is in its first moves."

"That's very true. And if I was playing the old game, I'd probably take that advice to heart. But this is a whole new game, now. The truth is that I no longer give a flying backwards !@#$ if it's too soon or too late."

"What do you want?"

"You under arrest. Your organization under arrest."

"That's not on the table."

"Yeah, I figured as much. I'll just settle for dead, then."

"No, I don't think so. Let me tell you what I have on the board. You know about our retirees, and our Operators--"

"All of whom you slaughtered, the other day."

"Not all of them. Just most of them. They'd gotten weak and complacent, anyway."

"That was pretty !@#$ merciless, even for you."

"Actually, I was merciful, (REDACTED). The poison gas went first. It put them to sleep and painlessly killed them long before the sludge gas turned on. I owed them something for their service, after all."

SPYGOD nods like he considered that, which he actually didn't (and is somewhat bothered that he failed to do so).

"So what else do I not know about, Gilbert?" He asks.

"Every so often, I go out in public, and I make a new friend," the old man says: "That one Agent of yours that you did away with the other day is just one. I have many more. A lot of them work in very important places. Nuclear plants, defense industries, the armed forces, intelligence organizations, even the White House, and especially the Secret Service."

"And?"

"And I've got them on speed dial. And every so often, maybe once a month, or once a week, sometimes once a day, I call up my new friend and say 'don't.' And he or she does not do what I told them they should really do if I didn't tell them to do it. Like, say, cause a chain reaction, or shoot the President's daughters."

"I see," SPYGOD replies: "And you think this is going to stop me from coming after you?"

"I think it should give you pause-"

"I think !@#$ you," he says: "Go ahead, Gilbert. Nuke the !@#$ planet. Bomb the wrong !@#$ country. Sell secrets to the !@#$ Chinese. Shoot the whole First !@#$ Family and their !@#$ dog. All it means is that I'll find you that much faster, and put you down that much harder.

"Your move, !@#$ !@#$."

The old man blinks. Once, then twice. "Are you insane?"

"There's some serious theological debate on that, Gilbert. What isn't up for debate is how this happens. You go down. I do it. Either you come to me with your hands out and accept what's coming, or I come to you with my guns drawn and we see what happens."

"I guess we will," The Big Man says, still visibly shocked: "But-" 

"And just so you know, we got to your mole in the White House a full week ago. She's been playing along with you ever since. She'll be calling you in about an hour to tell you to !@#$ off, Gilbert.

"Check. Mate."

With that he stands up, unholsters his gun, and shoots the television. It explodes into black flinders and sets off a dozen alarms. But what can the security devices do?

It's his trophy room, so it's his rules.

"Yeah, get me the interrogation division," he says to his communicator on the way out: "I want our new guest singing like he's on X-Factor as of !@#$ yesterday. Threaten to pull his eyes out of his skull with rusty pliers if you have to. I want everything on The Big Man and I want it now, before we run out of counter-bluffs."

With that, he tries not to grin too widely (so the Legion mole he knows he has won't see) and heads off for the commissary. It's sausage pizza day, and that makes it a good day indeed.

* * *

The Big Man sits in his office, now. He looks at a telephone he bought for one special purpose.

He waits for it to ring. Fifty minutes, now. Soon to be fifty-one. 

Is it war, then? Is it war so soon and he wasn't ready, yet? Did he not plan well enough? 

Does he have a chance to win?

Fifty-two minutes. Any moment now...

(SPYGOD is listening to The Edge of the Deep Green Sea (The Cure) and having an Elliot Ness)

11/11-12/11 - The Week of the Hunt pt. 2

11/11/11
12:48 PM
HAPPY OAKS RETIREMENT VILLAGE
ALLENTOWN, PA


SPYGOD appears outside the towering retirement home in a puff of smoke and burning exhaust, having pushed his machine as hard and fast as it can go. The jetpack's dying throes match his mood perfectly.

Right now he could murder a serious drink, along with anyone who !@#$ looks at him funny.

"Sir," the Agent in charge of this detail hails him from the doors, where most of the team stand impotently: "I'm glad you made it, sir. It's not going well in there."

"Brief me on the way, then," SPYGOD snarls, handing his jetpack to one of the Agents by the door as he storms on past: "We get once chance at this and then we're !@#$. Just like this whole !@#$ day. !@#$ !@#$ this !@#$ !@#$..."

No, he's not happy. Not even remotely. In the words of one the Presidents he used to serve at the pleasure of, this !@#$'s gone right down the toilet.

And SPYGOD feels like he's dodging toilet paper all the way down into the dark. 

* * *

Today was supposed to be perfect. Numerous teams were supposed to fan out across America, Mexico, Canada, a few of the more scenic European countries, and, in one case, Peru. They were supposed to swoop in on every last member of the original Left Handed Legion that was still alive and locatable, in perfect synchronicity. And they were supposed to drag them all back to The Flier for extended interrogation sessions with SPYGOD, himself.

Instead, they got bumpkiss.

Every single person on the list is either gone, dead, or in a hospital after bungling their escape. Phone records show that every single member of on the list received a phone call early yesterday. And while they don't have transcripts, yet, they know that the calls were very short. No more than twenty seconds long.

Just enough time to give a code phrase, and maybe an additional warning or two.

Every single person was warned. Every single person knew that The COMPANY was coming to get them. Every one bolted, or at least tried to.

And right now the only person with the answers is in a retirement home's hospital ward, suffering from a badly broken arm and not likely to last the night, given the shock to her already frail system.

SPYGOD got here as quickly as he could, cursing his luck, the time, and every single !@#$ thing that crossed his flightpath on the way over here. Now he just hopes he's not too late to get some sort of information from this elderly woman.

That and maybe one of those serious drinks. It may make certain things a lot less excruciating.

* * *

The old lady in question is a tiny sour pickle of a woman, scowling at everything in her line of sight. Agents have her in lockdown in the infirmary, where she's recuperating after her little adventure yesterday -- the one that left three orderlies seriously wounded, and her arm broken in three places.

SPYGOD and the Agent in charge of things stomp into the room like they own it, which, for now at least, is 100% true. He looks down at the woman and smirks, letting her nasty looks wash over him like nasty sewer runoff. 

"So, Florence Abignale," he says: "Or should I say Liosliath Flores? That was your birth name."

"!@#$ you," the old lady spits: "What the !@#$ do you know about it?"

"Oh, I know everything, Florence," he says, nodding to one of the Agents, who grins and leaves the room: "I know that you used to rob banks with four of your friends, back in the 30's. I know that, in the 40's, the five of you worked for the Department of War in Europe, under different names. 

"I know that you continued to work for your government in the 50's, also under different names, doing slightly different work. And I know that, since then, you've been hiding out under another assumed name, and doing work for your friends in The Legion on the sly.

"Finally, I know that you had to stop doing that about ten years ago, when it became apparent to even your stubborn old !@#$ that you couldn't do fieldwork anymore with your arthritis acting up. So you came here and had to fall back on being an operator."

He stops and looks askance: "I think that's all I know. I'd like to know a little bit more, though. Like, for example, you got a phone call, yesterday? What the !@#$ did it say, and what the !@#$ did it mean?"

"I thought SPYGOD knew all?" Florence/Liosliath snorts: "You're so smart, !@#$, you figure it out."

"I think I will, thank you," he says as one of the Agents comes back into the room. In his hands is a long, metal rod that's half white and half black. It almost like a softball bat, only more stylized. 

Also, it has small knobs at the black end, and smells of ozone. 

"Liosliath Flores, AKA Columbine," SPYGOD continues, regarding the business end of the bat: "Last surviving and functional member of the Harlequinade. Pierrot died in France in 1943. Pantaloon was captured in Turkey while in Agency business, back in 59, and got !@#$ to death in his cell. Or so they say. Clown went to jail in Alabama after a solo robbery went south, in '63, and died in the prison infirmary of a heart attack with his sentence only half completed. And Harlequin's in a medical coma in Detroit. They tell me the phone in his old room rang 13 times the other day. Pity no one picked it up."

More scowling from her, but no talking. 

"You know, I gotta !@#$ hand it to you, lady. It's clunky and heavy, but you crazy kids invented the taser 40 years before everyone else did. Who did it? Pantaloon? Charles McTaggart? His files indicate he had a background in electrical engineering."

Yet more scowling, but her lips are quivering. It's a tell.

"Now you, you came up with the dance and tumbling based martial arts you all used in the crimes. I've seen the films. Nice work there, too."

"Well thank you," she spits: "I want a lawyer."

"No, no lawyers," he says, rapping the ceiling with the business end of the bat. It snaps and crackles, blackening the paint. "No lawyers, no cops. No nurses or doctors, either. Especially after that !@#$ you pulled yesterday. It's just you and me and the truth, now, Liosliath.

"And If I were you I'd start talking."

"Or what? You'll torture me? Good luck with that, you !@#$ queer. They've got me so doped up right now it's a wonder I can even understand what you're !@#$ saying."

SPYGOD turns to the Agent in charge: "That true, son?"

"They did give her some local anesthetic for her arm, sir. It's in a bad way."

"Did they now?" he says: "Silly !@#$ should have had more milk growing up."

"!@#$ you," the woman says: "I want that lawyer in here!"

"I wouldn't !@#$ you with his !@#$, lady," SPYGOD says: "I know where your girly parts have been. All those sweaty, four-guy hookups after a bank job. You weren't even 15, yet, were you?"

He looks at the business end of the bat. He looks at her waist, under the blanket. He looks back at the bat. 

He grins.

"When's the last time you got some action, Liosliath?" he asks, smacking the roof with the bat and making sparks fall down onto the bed: "Was Reagan still in office?"

"You wouldn't..."

"Lady, right now is not a good !@#$ time to tell me what I would and wouldn't do. Right now I got a few leads on what I need to know, and you're one of them. Right now you're all that stands between me and getting my hands around the Legion's throat.

"And if you think I won't do what you think I'm about to do for that information..."

He says nothing. She starts to go into hysterics. But by the time she's done screaming and yelling SPYGOD has all he needs to know.

* * *

"I want every strike team we got on this case to pack up and head for their rendezvous point," SPYGOD says, rushing out the front doors and retrieving his jetpack from the bewildered Agent he handed it off to: "Don't worry about being stealthy. If they've got visual confirmation, take them down."

"Understood, sir. Do you want lethal, non-lethal, or ultra-lethal?"

"I want them !@#$ flambeed. But leave me at least ten percent in shape to answer questions. There's still some explaining to do."

"Very good, sir. Where will you be?"

"Are you kidding me?" SPYGOD asks, putting the jetpack on and lighting it up: "It's Philadelphia, son. This is the city of brotherly love. I'm gonna go get my !@#$ sucked."

And then he's up, up, and away -- with the occasional sputter.

***

"Agent Armatrading," Agent S says, picking up SPYGOD's call on the deck of the Flier: "Go ahead, sir."

"Agent, we've got ourselves a cluster!@#$ here," SPYGOD says, dodging yet another helicopter: "Cancel all my evening appointments and slash everything for tomorrow, too. It's a whole new ballgame as of right !@#$ now."

"You got it, sir," S says, trying not to chuckle at how well his 'cluster!@#$' worked out: "What's the gameplan?"

"The Flier will be receiving a !@#$load of data from the Agents on the ground here in Philly," he says without thinking: "Then all the Agents standing around with their thumbs up their !@#$ get a free, all expenses paid working vacation to scenic Omaha, tonight."

"Oh? What's in Omaha? The Gerald Ford birthsite?" he asks, somewhat conspiratorially. He knows full well what's there.

Or what was there, anyway.

(And oh, does the real Agent Armatrading scream at that. It makes this all the more fun.)

"Bit over the current paygrade, there, Agent," he chuckles: "But, just between you and me... let's just say some some rest home escapees are gonna get that old time religion. Right up their wrinkled !@#$."

"Amen to that, sir." He laughs, just not too much.

"Amen, Agent. Let us prey. SPYGOD out."

Agent S leaves the deck for five minutes, after that. Using an unsecure line he makes a call to a number. On the other end is an actor being paid to have a bland conversation with a complete stranger on any topic that stranger wants to talk about.

S identifies himself as the actor's sister, and talks about getting together in a few weeks for pizza. Someplace nice in New Jersey. Oh, how about Gardin's? Sounds like a plan.

They hang up. S goes back to work, smirking imperceptibly. The actor goes back to reading this week's People, and is soon interrupted by another call. Then another.

All these calls are monitored. All of them have someone in Langley listening in, cocking an ear for identifying names and telltale codes.

In the case of Agent S, who has gotten hold of the Agency as soon as possible, the news is a relief: SPYGOD is on the move, but knows only so much. Not nearly enough.

And it will soon be too late to do anything.

11/12/11

8:30 PM 

THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.

So, let's talk about the exact dictionary definition of cluster!@#$. It'll keep me from shooting holes in my ceiling again. Not that there's anything wrong with that, exactly, but it tends to scare the cat.

And when BeeBee gets scared, she shoots at me, which is never any !@#$ good.

Not that there actually is such an entry in the dictionary, son. Believe me, I've looked. I've even written a few pointed letters in to the eggheads who get together and actually make the !@#$ things, and let them know they also need entries for "fart!@#$," "robo!@#$," and "!@#$ !@#$."

Oddly enough, they actually write back. Usually pretty politely, too. And nine times out of ten they're aware that the words exist, but don't believe they've been around long enough to enter into what they call "the general parlance," which is a fancy way of saying even your !@#$ grandmother the soap opera addict knows what it means.

("Hey, grandma, why did they cancel 'General Hospital?'" "Oh, it was one big cluster!@#$ behind the cameras, kiddo. If it wasn't for Guiding Light I'd be screwed.")

But since they won't do it, here's my try:

Cluster!@#$ is a noun. I guess it can also be a verb, but it's a little clumsy. I never hear anyone saying "I cluster!@#$ the operation all by myself, sir." I also never hear it being used as an adverb ("That was a cluster!@#$y attempt at infiltration, Agent"). I supposed you could use it as a pronoun ("Go ask Cluster!@#$ over there what happened."), though that seems a little sloppy. 

And as far as interjections go, "oh, cluster!@#$!" could be used, technically, but why do that when you have so many other colorful, more apt words and phrases to use?

I remember one episode of The Simpsons where someone told Homer that he was the textbook definition of stupid, or something. When he asked what that meant, he was told that, in the dictionary, next to "stupid," there was a photo of him. 

So what does a textbook definition of "Cluster!@#$" look like? It looks like this operation, so far.

Day one, we go after the remnants of the Left Handed Legion, only to find out someone tipped our hand to them. I thought I took care of our mole problem, but it seems we may have another traitor, or at least a really bad problem with bugs.

So we have Agents all over North America, Europe, and !@#$ Peru of all places kicking in doors and windows, only to find out that most of the birds have flown the !@#$ coop. And this is, by any definition of the word, a Cluster!@#$.

Thankfully, we get lucky, and there's at least one person who failed to fly due to a busted wing. It seems the old weapon she used to rob banks with is now too heavy for her to do real hit-and-run damage with, anymore, except to herself. (Well, that and a few nurses and security personnel.)

After scaring the living !@#$ out of her, I get the information that the Left Handed Legion was going to meet at a warehouse in Omaha, Nebraska. It's the dead bang center of the country, apparently. I don't know if the guy from Peru was coming in or not, but it's a days trip for most folks, and two days for the others.

No problem, I think. I tell the Agents to regroup and head to the warehouse. Well, guess what. It's !@#$ empty. It was just a staging ground, apparently, and they've since taken off in a fleet of buses and trucks, all going different directions. 

So I get this news while I'm in the middle of getting one of the best, slow and deep mouth!@#$ I've had in a while, which officially makes this even more cluster!@#$ier. 

(Yes, it's not grammatically correct. !@#$ you.)

And then we get a line on where those buses and trucks are going. We follow them by satellite and pinpoint where they're most likely to wind up. Now, to yours truly, this sounds suspiciously like a set-up or a distraction, but it's all we've got for right now, so we go for it. 

They rendezvous in Flagstaff, Arizona. You know what's in Flagstaff? Jack and !@#$.

Every single one of those trucks and buses were rigged. The drivers were androids. The doors and windows were locked down, and the air filtration systems were loaded with poison gas, followed by really nasty sludge gas.

Sludge gas is nasty !@#$. It dissolves the bonds that hold organic things together. You get dosed with it, you start falling apart.

You get bathed in a cloud of it, you're nothing but bones in less than an hour. 

Every single one of those old !@#$ was told to flee for their lives and rendezvous in Omaha, and then put onto vehicles that were going to take them somewhere safe. Our pathologists aren't sure when they died, but they must have died badly. If the poison gas didn't kill them, the sludge did.

And, of course, no brain matter, no N machine.

Which essentially means that we have achieved the apotheosis of cluster!@#$. This is the most cluster!@#$iest thing we've had happen in a while. They knew we were coming, they prepared for it, and they saw to it that no one would be in any shape to tell us anything, dead or alive.

Have I said, recently, how much of a terrible, utter bastard The Big Man is? This is it. He'd kill dozens of his old cohorts rather than let them fall into our hands, afraid that we might learn more about how he had them operating the current system of Legion operatives from their hiding places, disguised as normal old folks. 

Of course, I still have a few tricks up my sleeves. I'm not beaten yet. But I'd be lying if I said I was as sure about this operation as I was just one day ago. 

Here I thought we were playing for keeps, but Biggs has shown us what it really means. He's truly fearless about sacrificing his own people. That takes some real !@#$; !@#$ that I might not really have, after all. 

But I'm adding those deaths to the list. I may have wanted most of them dead, anyway, but at least I was !@#$ honest about it. These folks thought they were on their way to safety, and he turned them all into human chili. 

Cue the dictionary. Here's the face of The Big Man, right next to "Monster."

(SPYGOD is listening to Open (The Cure) and having a mystery drink)