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

10/4/12

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

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

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

"That's a terrifying weapon."

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

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

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

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

10/5/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIOLET DEMON: You mean Doctor Kyklops?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: What do you mean?

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And he is trapped in it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: That could work. 

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: When would that be?

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And when will that be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: I would like that very much. 

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

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

10/6/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the other matters?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

 

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

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

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

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

"We did indeed, O SPYGOD."

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

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

"Wen talked, didn't he?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why are they being so !@#$ cruel?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is an escape."

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Unless...

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is essentially correct, O SPYGOD-"

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

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

"I !@#$ing doubt it-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

And then...

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

10/04/12 - I Will Never Be Clean Again - pt. 2

Of course, walking for "some time" turns out to be a long time. Several miles, in fact -- all done along a very old, very unsafe length of underground tunnel that seems ready to all come down at a moment's notice.

The walls writhe and pulse with generations of strangely-colored spiders the size of a young boy's hand, none of which care to skitter out of the way of the flashlight beam the way such things should. The ceiling and walls have collapsed in some areas, especially around the center of the city above, necessitating close squeezes and careful crawls around the falls.

And this means getting up close and personal with the legions of arachnids, leading to bites that they only hope aren't poisonous, or worse.

Along the way there are revelations -- broken doors and collapsed walls revealing treasures from a bygone age. Old soviet powersuits rust in the damp, awaiting a war that will never come, now. Rack upon rack of fully-grown clone soldiers rot in their jars, the preservatives having long since ceased to be worth the name. Harvested psychic brains still kept alive after all these years feebly whisper of missile launches yet to come, unaware that no one has listened to them for almost a quarter of a century.

"Ah, Sverdlovsk," SPYGOD says as he regards the ruins of a captured alien spacecraft more jellyfish than saucer: "You guys really had some weird !@#$ going on here, back in the day."

"You should know," the ex-President of Russia says, itching a very bad spiderbite at his neck: "You penetrated the defenses enough times, you and your men. Did you not stop to look? Or were we chasing you too swiftly?"

"Mission specific maneuvers, Valentina" he says, casting his flashlight back on the path ahead: "If you come for the crown jewels you don't have !@#$ing time to grab the Rolls Royce, too."

"Unless you can escape in it."

"Spoken like a true professional."

"And you would know, wouldn't you?"

"Says the man I caught !@#$ing napping in his safehouse," SPYGOD snorts: "How much were you paying that poor metal !@$ to be your human shield? You should get your money back."

"Perhaps I will," the ex-President says. And something about how he says it -- and how he reacts to SPYGOD's silence at the end of that reply -- tells SPYGOD that he knows what's coming next.

Which makes him just a little more dangerous, now. But it's not like he can get away from down here, now is it? All SPYGOD needs to do is step on the flashlight, and he's !@#$ing dead.

And the more he thinks of it, the more he thinks he might just do that.

* * *

The President of the United States of America breathes slowly, trying to enter the slow, grey space he needs to be in to make this shot work. He imagines the rifle as an extension of his own body: his eye the scope, his finger the barrel and the trigger.

The bullets his will to see this man dead.

He blanks his mind of any thoughts of that man. They did not work together, or talk together. He did not teach the man how to blend in better, and shake his security detail. They did not share confidences as one leader to another. They did not laugh at jokes or have that one meal, at a corner noodle place that the man liked to visit incognito.

He is not betraying him now, even though he is. 

But it is one betrayal for the freedom of the world. One death to save billions of lives.

"I'm sorry," the President says, wondering how true that really is. But it's now or never, never or now.

And then he takes a deep breath, compensates for the wind, and makes ready to pull the trigger back as soon as the target -- no longer deserving of a name -- comes into view.

Any second now.

* * *

"This is it," SPYGOD's captive says, gesturing to a sealed door to his left. It's a big, green, metal thing, with a keypad attached to it, and what looks like a rifle sight attached to that.

"The room containing all the !@#$ files on Unit 731," SPYGOD says: "That and all the equipment you had up there, trying to replicate their results. All grabbed and shoved down the memory hole after that little accident with the !@#$ing anthrax. Just like this city's old name, huh?"

"That would be correct," the man says: "But as always, the memory hole is not always final. We keep some things alive, just in case."

"And boy is that !@#$ing good for you," SPYGOD sneers: "Open it up. Let's see what's been keeping your sorry !@#$ alive for the last few days."

"But let me ask you this," the ex-President turns to look SPYGOD in the eye: "Do you really think you will have the time to find what you need to? There is a lot of information in there. Files upon files, in Japanese, Chinese, Russian... you would need an army to sift through it, and another to decode its many secrets."

"So you're saying it's too tough, and I should just !@#$ing quit?" 

"I'm not saying you should quit, but I am saying-"

A crack across the face with the butt end of a gun ends his sensible talk, and he holds his hand to his cheek, wondering if it's broken.

"You need to hear what I am saying, Valentina," SPYGOD says, getting right in his face and putting a finger right between his eyes: "Right now, you are looking at a desperate man. I have a planet to save, and so far the only way I've found to do it is to do something that is so !@#$ing terrible, that even I couldn't !@#$ing live with myself if I had to do it. And if anyone ever finds out that I did it, I'd be !@#$ing tossed in a cell and thrown into the !@#$ Sun to roast like a human marshmallow. 

"Now, do I look like I want to be turned into a !@#$ing human marshmallow, Valentina? Because something tells me you know the answer to that is 'no.' And that means that if the only way to find a solution to this problem is to go in there, get on my hands and knees, and root around like a pig to find out if there's something about GORGON that wasn't in the files in Beijing, then by God I will !@#$ing get on my hands and knees and root around like a !@#$ pig. I'll even !@#$ing squeal and roll around in mud if it'll help.

"Now are you going to help me save the world, or am I going to jam your !@#$ing skull into that retinal reader and guess at combinations until I get the right one?"

The ex-President looks at him, and then at the reader, and then goes to the door. He puts his eye up to the sight and types in a six-digit code. A light shines from inside the sight, and he steps back, squinting at its brightness.

And then, with a foul, metal-and-oil smell and a satanic hiss, the green metal door slides out, then in, and then to the left, revealing a dark hole beyond.

"On the third wrong try you would have triggered a bomb," he says, rubbing his zapped eye: "One that I think would have even killed you."

"Well, guess we'll never know, now," SPYGOD says, hoisting up his gun and looking inside.

* * *

At last, the target steps into view, and he's all alone. 

Wen Boxiong walks into the kill zone, looking like a condemned man on the way to the gallows. He's going slowly, as if he was in no hurry to get to work. And maybe he isn't.

The President adjusts his aim. All he needs is one good, clear shot, right through the medula oblongada, and this can all be over. The explosive ammunition will turn the man's head into a red cloud of smoke, wiping away all chance of the enemy finding out what he knows.

Wiping away all traces of there ever having been a conspiracy against their evil order. 

He hesitates for just a second, trying to rationalize this. Wondering if there really isn't any other way to do this. Couldn't they just talk? Can't they disappear together? Would that be so bad?

(SPYGOD screaming in his face. Hitting him repeatedly. Telling him he !@#$ed up everything. Never seeing his wife and daughters again. The world ending. God telling him he !@#$ed up the whole planet. Hell waiting just for him.)

Yes, it would be that bad.

He takes another deep breath, compensates once more for the wind, and again makes ready to pull the trigger back. The man, the tool, and the weapon, all united in purpose to do one swift and terrible thing, here and now. 

But just before he can, there's a weird light, all around Wen. He stops in his tracks and looks up, and suddenly he is surrounded by four Imago, who float around him like metal angels.

And one of them is blocking the President's shot.

* * *

SPYGOD roughly pushes his unwilling companion into the dark room ahead of him. Then he stalks in after, gun up and ready to fire, scanning it from left to right as he slowly puts one foot in front of the other.

The room is large and circular. It is lit with passive lighting systems that come on as they enter, creating a dull aura of visibility that's just enough to see by, but not much more than that.

But he doesn't need it, or his eye, to tell that there's nothing in this room.

Nothing at all.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$..." he says, turning in a circle, astounded by this.

"It is empty, my friend," the ex-President says, shrugging: "Even you can see that?"

"There's nothing here."

"That is what they mean by empty-" the man starts to say, but is quickly silenced by a rough blow to the face, sending him sprawling across the floor, teeth falling from his mouth as he goes.

"Where is it?" SPYGOD screams: "Where the !@#$ is the information, !@#$hole? Where are the files? Where is the !@#$ you got from the Japanese?"

"Gone," the ex-President says, struggling to get to his feet: "Destroyed."

"What do you mean, gone, destroyed?"

"I mean gone, and destroyed," he says, slowly rising and fixing SPYGOD with a look: "I saw to its removal and burning not that long ago, actually. A little over six months ago, in fact."

"Why?" SPYGOD hisses, stomping over and shoving his gun under the man's chin: "Why the !@#$ did you get rid of it?"

"In case this happened," he says, still giving SPYGOD the look: "And look, it has. I guess we deduced your moves correctly, my friend."

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you think that it was too convenient that you actually found me?" the ex-President says, smiling with more than a little contempt in spite of the gun in his face: "You should have known me better than that, SPYGOD. I've been playing this game long enough to stay hidden, should I want to."

"So you wanted me to find you, and bring you here, to an empty !@#$ing room," SPYGOD says, getting ready to punch him again: "Why?"

"So they could have you."

"They who?" SPYGOD demands, but he already knows the answer to that question.

They're teleporting in, even now.

(SPYGOD is listening to Collision (Front 242) and having a Stary Melnik) 

10/04/12 - I Will Never Be Clean Again - pt. 1

Wen Boxiong does not get out of bed to turn his alarm off. He never does.

The piercing noise wakes him up, yes, but he does not leave his bed to be done with its annoyance. Instead he lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to catch the last vestiges of his dreams before they leave him. To let the final, fleeting strands of them play out as they will, before they are gone forever.

As a young boy he was saddened that his dreams were so quickly forgotten, shortly after waking. He did not want to leave the warm cocoon they had spun around his mind at night., but he could not catch them like this, then. He had to go to school, or to work, or to attend his mother's endless needs, and she was not one to let him lie about dreaming in his bed.

After one memorable occasion, in which the sweetest dream imaginable was shattered by her screaming in his face to wake up, he swore that when he was older, and no longer under her roof, he would not let a single dream go unresolved. He would watch them leave as gently as they came, and only then -- when their edges had blurred and plots had fallen to pieces, and there was no more joy to be had from them -- would he rise to meet the day.

And so he did.

This extended arrangement with his dreams has not always been easy. He has had to rise from slumber earlier than he would like in order to have the time to let the visions leave of their own accord without being late for his responsibilities. He has never had anyone stay the entire night with him, as their presence there would complicate his sleeping and waking. And this lack of total togetherness has all but ensured that his liaisons have been short and one-sided.

(Except for the time with her, but that was strenuous and strange, and left him erotically inspired and politically elevated, but broken inside.)

But he is happy with this. His dreams are his own, now and forever. No one can take them from him. And they come and go at his choosing.

Which is why, when his alarm goes off today, he lets it ring and ring for a full hour, until it shuts off by itself. He watches the dreams until they are shambling parodies of what they were when he first opened his eyes. And he cries to see them leave at last.

Because he knows this is the last day. The last morning. The last dream.

Today he will look in the mirror and see a man condemned.

* * *

SPYGOD doesn't so much wake up as crack himself back into motion, as though someone flipped a switch in his skull. He stands straight up, tenses and relaxes his muscles, cracks every joint in his body in one loud wave, and grunts. He blinks one eye, does a 360 scan with the other, and farts loud enough to wake the dead.

He's spent all night sitting in the corner of the underground bolthole he's sharing with the ex-President of Russia, hovering over the ridiculously-opulent vodka he appropriated for the revolution, yesterday. Why it costs three million dollars a bottle he'll never know; he's had a lot better for far cheaper. He figures it must be all the gold and gems on the outside of the glass, rather than what's sloshing around inside of it.

(Which probably explains everything anyone ever needed to know about life, quite frankly.)

SPYGOD has to be very !@#$ careful when looking at himself in the mirror. If he looks at himself straight on, the Chandra Eye creates an infinite and baffling series of reflections. Its much like being between two mirrors in a fancy hotel elevator, only without the eventual curve into grainy dissolution; he can literally see into the far, deep pit of the eternity inside him, one slightly-more-warped reflection at a time.

The first time it happened, not long after he put the eye in his skull, he stared at himself for days on end, and had to be roughly pushed out of the way to break the spell. Since then, it's only happened a few times, and he's usually been able to pull himself out of it after an hour or two. So he closes his eye to shave, doesn't bother with rear view mirrors when driving, and if he has to argue with himself, he does it while looking into whatever he's drinking at the time.

And he is almost always drinking something.

* * *

The President of the United States of America drinks water as he stands before the bathroom mirror. Two glasses a day, every day, right after he gets up and before he takes his shower. It re-hydrates, gets the digestive system working, and makes sure his vitamins get absorbed correctly.

And, recently, he's been using it to center himself, and hold onto his true identity in spite of everything that's happened. 

He looks at himself in the mirror as he does this, observing the false Asian face he's been wearing since he got to China. He does not like it. He looks like a weird amalgam of his own features and something else. Maybe someone he could have met in his childhood, in Malaysia.

Sometimes, he imagines that he's not the one doing these things, here. All the questionable things he's done since he teamed up with SPYGOD to save America -- to save the world, for that matter -- have been done by this strange character he sees in the mirror. It's been his hands shaking hands with the most powerful man in China. His lips making poisoned promises.

His fingers to be around the trigger of the gun that kills him, today.

He doesn't like having to do this. He knew it was a possibility -- possibly even an eventuality -- but he'd allowed himself to hope that, when it was all over, they could all just go their separate ways and say nothing of it. What would it matter if the leaders of two nations worked together to save the world from an invasion? What did they really do that was so terrible that it might later turn into blackmail or extortion?

But no. I would appear that the Imago have found out what he knows, somehow. They know that he told them about the lockup of information gleaned from Unit 731. They know why that's relevant, and why SPYGOD is in Russia, right now. They have even tried to kill SPYGOD, there, to stop him.

And if they choose to press their hand, Wen might tell them that the President of the United States is in the country, working alongside him. And that would be very bad for everyone involved.

Especially the President.

So today, when the man walks from his apartments to their house of government, as the President knows he will, he will be waiting for him, with a very powerful gun. He will assassinate him from a few football fields away, and then get as far away from Beijing as he can.

And hope it's enough.

He looks at this strange man in the mirror. He remembers the time that, when he wore his own face, he ordered young men and women to go and kill in the name of their country. He wonders if they, too, had some kind of similar ritual, or if they took full personal responsibility for the terrible but necessary things they did for their country.

The man in the mirror doesn't have an answer. Just an alien expression that's going to haunt his wearer for the rest of his life.

* * *

The Ex-President of Russia does not look at himself in the mirror. Not once. Not ever.

* * *

"Alright, President !@#$face," SPYGOD says at some point, pretending to look at his watch: "It's time."

"I suppose it is," his guest says, getting to his feet. He looks terrible, frankly: puffy and red-eyed, with some nasty bruises around his face. Too many transpistol shots over too many days have turned his muscles brittle, and liable to snap and bleed. 

But that part of the journey is done, now. No more reverse gender assaults on his person. He needs to be who and what he is for this next bit to work. 

"Do you remember how to get there?" SPYGOD asks as they step out into the corridor of the unlit tunnel, apparently not worried about all the large, nasty-looking spiders that crawl over the damp and crumbling walls. 

"I do," the ex-President of Russia says: "We go left at the next junction, then right, and then left. And then we walk for some time."

"Any security we need to worry about?"

"No. Not down this deep. The only things you could find down here without someone like myself along would be supply closets and empty rooms."

"Well, good thing I've got you, huh?" SPYGOD smiles, gesturing with his flashlight: "You first."

"I would like a flashlight."

"I would like a billion rubles, ten ladyboys, and a steak the size of a card table. Start !@#$ing walking or I'll drag your sorry !@#$ behind me."

 

"Very well. But if I slip and fall-"

 

"Listen !@#$-o," SPYGOD hisses, grabbing the man by the lapel and yanking him uncomfortably close: "All I need to get into this room is directions and one of your eyes. I got the one, and the other doesn't need to be in your !@#$ head, now does it?"

 

There's a moment of silence as the two men look at each other, and then the ex-President nods, and, as soon as SPYGOD lets go of him, walks forward into the darkness, doing his best to stay in the splash of light his captor's flashlight provides.

 

There is nothing to do but walk, now. And if he knows he's going to his death, he's doing it rather bravely. 

 

But that will not deter his killer -- not one !@#$ bit. 

 

* * *

 

In Beijing, not too far from the houses of government, there's a building. In that building is a room with a window that, if you strained your eyes just so, you could almost see a decent amount of a certain walkway from. 

 

And if you had a high-powered rifle scope, you could see that walkway perfectly, and have quite a decent amount of visible space to set up a good killshot.

The President of the United States of America sits there, in that building, in that window, with the rifle in his hands and his eyes in that scope. 

Thanks to the emergency call box they gave Wen Boxiong, all that time ago, he knows that the man is on the move. He knows he and his small security detail will be in sight in a minute or so. And he knows that, with this gun, and the ammunition in it, he only needs one good shot to destroy the man from the neck-up, robbing the Imago of the ability to use his dead brain for any information.

He knows these things, but he does not like them. He also does not like that he planted a bomb back at his apartment that will not only destroy his rooms, but might also cause a fire that will bring the whole building down. He likes that he only needs to press a button to set it off remotely, but he knows that when the moment comes, he'll probably hesitate a few seconds, wondering if he should call in a threat first so that the building is evacuated.

 

He does not like knowing that, in spite of that hesitation, he will press it, anyway. His training is too strong for moral objections, now. What they have to do is too important to waste time or sentiment over. 

There is nothing to do but kill, now. And as he waits for the General Secretary of China to step into his field of fire, he feels like a !@#$ coward.

But that will not deter him. Not in the slightest. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Figurehead (The Cure) and having a Толстяк)

10/03/12 - Bodies in Motion - Pt. 6 - The End of the Line

So no, son. We're not !@#$ing dead. Not yet, anyway.

They tried, though. I'll !@#$ing give them that. A big !@#$ station platform full of !@#$ing Specials armed with !@#$ing alien gauss rifles, and all of them aimed at the express train. I bet that was the !@#$ing highlight of their year, shooting a bunch of unarmed civilians who couldn't have shot back if they'd wanted to.

All just to get me.

I could go on, son. I could talk about how it's a bad !@#$ing thing that they know I'm back, now. I could talk about how they probably know why I'm here, and might even know who I've got along for the !@#$ ride. And if I really get !@#$ing wound up, I might be able to talk all about how this has essentially !@#$ed my plan right in the !@#$ eye, and out the !@#$ ear.

I could, but I'm too !@#$ tired right now. Too tired, too drunk.

Too angry.

...

Mostly, I'm angry at myself. I really should be angry at the President for not handling his Harold better. He should have been !@#$ing watching him more closely, and making sure he didn't come into extended contact with the enemy, or anyone we couldn't !@#$ing identify.

But maybe I didn't really cover the finer !@#$ points of this kind of work with him when I brought him up to speed. Maybe I was too busy teaching him to shoot guns and dodge knives, and forgot how much of what we actually do gets done before you draw steel and throw the !@#$ down.

Maybe I was having too much !@#$ fun getting to smack my former boss around to really teach him what he was going to need to know for the big !@#$ plan I was making.

But you know what they say, son. A bucket of maybes ain't worth a !@#$ fact. And the !@#$ fact is that the Imago know I'm back on Earth, alive, and on the move. And that's going to make all this a lot more !@#$ interesting, and maybe a lot !@#$ing quicker than I'd like.

Still, nothing to do now but wait. They probably figured out by now that I was not on that train when it pulled in. They probably also figured that the ex-President of Russia was not amongst the poor human kibble they scraped out of what was !@#$ing left of that train. So they're probably combing the city, looking for us. And that means that it's not safe to stick our heads up, right now.

Fortunately, Yekaterinburg, being a former closed city and Soviet military hot spot, has big !@#$ secrets buried under its more obvious secrets. And one of those big !@#$ secrets is that there's underground tunnels running all over the !@#$ place, most of which they probably !@#$ing know about, already, but some of which no one has any !@#$ing idea exist at all.

And that's because the people who knew about them aren't really !@#$ing around to talk about them, anymore. All courtesy of the Soviet Union's rather heavy-handed way of dealing with secrets, loose ends, and potential loose lips.

So of course, the man I've been dragging around since Moscow knows, seeing as how he's one of the people who dealt with the other people who !@#$ing knew. And I know, because I'm !@#$ing SPYGOD and that's my !@#$ job.

But just imagine that, son. It's the !@#$ing end of the Soviet Union, the military that isn't involved in the coup or the counter-coup is falling apart like river ice in the springtime, and there's a !@#$-ton of secrets that need to be kept forever. And because of that, a whole lot of files have to be shredded, a lot of computer tape unwound and burned, and a lot of people made as quiet as the !@#$ grave.

Literally.

Stone cold? !@#$ right, son. Any time something like that happens you have to be, or else all you worked for is going to go up in smoke.

Of course, they'll all say they'll never !@#$ing talk. But that's bull!@#$, son. Sooner or later someone always !@#$ing talks. They need money, or they want recognition, or fame. Or maybe someone gets a hold of them or their families and !@#$ing make them talk, which is never a good thing for anyone.

And that's why half of having a Harold is knowing when to violently end the working arrangement.

I mean, let's put it this way, son. You remember when I talked about Harolds? What I might not have made clear is that the only !@#$ way they're probably ever going to leave the spy game is in a !@#$ing coffin. And that's provided they can !@#$ing find enough of them to bury.

Not that it's an absolute, big !@#$ !@#$ing guarantee, though. Nothing in life is, other than death and !@#$ing taxes.

So there is just a chance that a Harold will never be activated. And if he is, there's nothing to say that it won't be just once or twice, and then he'll never hear from his !@#$ing handler again. And even if his handler decides to run him down like a !@#$ing farm nag, or get him to do something that's so massively illegal and career destroying that you'd normally have to !@#$ing pay someone a couple million dollars for it, he might just get away with it.

But it's a lot more likely that Harold's going to be !@#$ing stupid and pay for it. He'll talk in his sleep, or try to fess up to his !@#$ boss. He'll try to sell his !@#$ story for cash, or he'll blab to his !@#$ wife or his !@#$ing girlfriend or the part-time leather weasel he sees for some down-low action on the side, and they'll sell him out. Or maybe take too much !@#$ing initiative, or try and change the rules, and get noticed.

!@#$, son, he may just manage to hold it together long enough to do what you need, and then get sloppy, or just get caught.

And after that? He's !@#$ed.

If you're !@#$ lucky, then he'll just got shot, stabbed, poisoned, or drowned in a river while trying to !@#$ing get away. And if you're not !@#$ lucky, he'll get caught, which will mean he'll be !@#$ing tossed in a hole, somewhere. And then they'll start !@#$ing interrogating him. And maybe they'll be straight-shooters and try and talk sense to him, and make him promises about seeing his wife and kids, and maybe getting him life in prison instead of shot, hung, or gassed like a !@#$ rat.

But it's more likely they'll start what you might call "enhanced interrogations," which is a nice way of saying "do everything short of leaving a !@#$ physical mark." Waterboarding his sorry !@#$, or putting him in "extreme stress positions." That kind of !@#$.

And if that doesn't work, then they'll hit him in the face, just to show him they mean business. And then they'll pulling his !@#$ fingernails out, zapping his !@#$ with a taser, or going at his knees and knuckles with a steel baseball bat. Maybe even ship his !@#$ to some other country that specializes in doing even worse things, especially if they don't want his !@#$ blood on their kid gloves, much less their floor.

(And yes, son, I remember what I said about torture being a !@#$ ineffective way of getting information from people. But that's me. Other people are not so !@#$ing enlightened, which is why so many intelligence agencies are a !@#$ing contradiction in terms.)

And that, son, is where Harold is going to !@#$ing wind up, in the end. Either dead trying to escape, or dead in a dungeon in some rathole in a country no American can find on a !@#$ map, much less know the name of. And if he doesn't die there, after a few years, he'll be !@#$ing begging for it.

Which is why every handler should be ready, willing, and able to do his or her Harold the supreme favor of ending his or her life as cleanly and humanely as possible. Preferably something really !@#$ quick and !@#$ing explosive, both so they won't feel it and the enemy won't find out what he was up to, courtesy of a lack of eyes and brains. 

I mean, I hope the President didn't have any mealy-mouthed, liberal illusions of us all going our separate ways, waving goodbye like a family going on a boat to America, and leaving China in that guy's hands after we were !@#$ing done with him. Especially that !@#$ing worm. Sooner or later he'd try and get leverage over us, and blackmail us with what he knows, and what we asked him to do.

And if he didn't the people who !@#$ing replaced him sure as !@#$ would.

I hope he didn't think that, but I'm !@#$ sure a small part of him does. Thankfully, I've taken certain steps, just in case he can't do what's necessary, or just won't.

And with any luck, he won't have to tell me, and I won't have to know.

Just like he won't have to know about what's going to happen tomorrow, when the ex-President of Russia and I go to where we're going, and get what we came for. Because when I am done there, and have what I need, this sorry son of a !@#$ing !@#$ is going to get ended as unclean and slow as time will allow.

Not because I don't trust this piece of !@#$ wrapped in stolen human skin to not betray me, but because I owe Boris that much, as well as a lot of other people.

And I'm not going to lose any !@#$ing sleep over it, either. He's had this coming for a long !@#$ing time.

But then, so have we all, son.

And !@#$ me, so have I.

(SPYGOD is listening to Carnage Visors (The Cure) and having a bottle of Billionaire Vodka he stole from dead Russians. Because !@#$ you.)

10/02/12 - Bodies in Motion - Pt. 5 - I Always Feel Myself Becoming Him

All around the world, and in a few places beyond it, the shadow people are moving.

They take time of from work, and let their friends and family know that something's come up. They tell their butlers and personal assistants to hold their calls for the next week or so. They disappear into the crowds, or the quiet, lonely places where anything could happen, and often does.

For the shadow people are coming home. 

There, they open old trunks and high-tech closets, hidden bases and dimensional pockets. They put on old costumes and new armor. They change their illusions or reveal their true selves. Renew old bargains with the hidden powers or make new ones.

The shadow people are becoming something else.

They take up their tools and trappings of unseen office. Items of power and words of wisdom. Secret formulas and magic words. Puissant relics that shook the world, once, and subtle, sly things that escaped notice, but changed the course of nations.

Supercars and flying carpets. Capes and cowls. Guns and gauntlets. They summon them all into service, this day.

For the shadow people are here, again.

They have been silent too long -- absent from view. Watching from the darkness while conquerors strode the land, and made it theirs. Quiet in the shade as the invaders spoke their lies, and spread their poison. Seemingly serene as the world was remade into utopia, but all too aware that paradise was perched over a black and soul-destroying nightmare.

The shadow people have waited long enough.

Armed with new information, they stand tall once more. Given marching orders from the leaders of the revolution, they make themselves ready. Prepared to fight for the nation they call home, they leave their lives behind for battle.

Prepared to die for the world of their birth, they step from the shadows at last.

Bright heroes and dark vigilantes. Old soldiers and new supermen. Aged sidekicks and teenage subordinates.

Harsh gods and loveable monsters.

The shadow people have come, and they have brought the light with them.

* * *

MRS LIBERTY: So what exactly is the plan?

DOCTOR POWER: I'm not 100% certain. But I think it's going to require a couple different things going off at once.

AMERICAN SHIELD: We have to get Deep Ten off the playing field first. If we start attacking and they start firing, it's all over before it even starts.

DOCTOR POWER: That's not going to be a problem.

FREEDOM BELLE: Are you sure? I know what you said about Alpha Base Seven, but that's one !@#$ big thing to 'not going to be a problem.'

DOCTOR POWER: I agree. But he says he can deal with it. And given who he is, I trust him.

AMERICAN SHIELD: Fair enough. So that leaves the Imago, the False Faces, that city in the Pacific, what used to be The Flier, and God only knows what else to deal with.

RED ALCHEMIST: The DEROS, too. Don't forget them.

MR CHAOS: Not to mention every co-opted public servant, soldier, and police officer who thinks we're the criminals, courtesy of the mass media.

THE VISIONARY: I have it on good authority from Old Ben that he's got that in hand. They'll be confused at first, but I think they'll be on our side when it goes down.

MR CHAOS: You mean that creepy sex addict who claims to be a founding father? I'm surprised we have anything to do with him. 

MRS LIBERTY: He is who he says he is. And yes, he's a little eccentric. But when it comes to dealing with things like this, he's the best man we have. Especially since we don't have Dr. Yesterday on our side, anymore. 

AMERICAN SHIELD: !@#$. I forgot all about him. What do we do about him?

DOCTOR POWER: Antarctica will be dealt with, and him along with it. 

LIBERTY BELLE: What do you mean by 'dealt with.'

DOCTOR POWER: I mean that I have been told that, when it starts, drastic measures are going to be taken. I don't know the full scope of what that means. But I think SPYGOD's cat is involved.

MRS LIBERTY: Oh my god. That's... I have no words. 

MR CHAOS: I do. 'Awesome.' Best kind of work for that !@#$ thing. 

LIBERTY BELLE: Do you have no soul, young man? Even an enemy does not deserve that.

MR CHAOS: My soul doesn't factor into it. You all know how I see things. This is an example of putting the right resources at the right problem. And I think we all know that cat's best left off the field, or somewhere where it can do a lot of damage and then go cough up a hairball or something, somewhere far from us. 

RED ALCHEMIST: I can't disagree with that. But what about the other part of the plan that's got the big question mark on it? The white boxes?

AMERICAN SHIELD: The energy generators SPYGOD was talking about? Apparently, we may have to destroy them all. Without them, the Imago will lose a lot of their power.

RED ALCHEMIST: So why the question marks?

DOCTOR POWER: According to the Leader of the Resistance, SPYGOD is still looking into whether it's a good idea or not. And if that sounds like it's not a lot of information, the Leader of the Resistance agrees. But that's all he got from SPYGOD, and until he finds out what he needs to find out, we're not touching them.

LIBERTY BELLE: What is it with the Leader of the Resistance, anyway? He seems to be deferring to SPYGOD an awful lot.

MRS LIBERTY: SPYGOD is the one who's in charge, dear. And I know that sounds weak, but I've found it's best to trust him in things like this. Besides, if the Leader of the Resistance didn't trust him, he wouldn't be following his lead.

THE VISIONARY: Speaking as an illusionist, that's silly. We don't know who we're following, here, and that's part of what got us into this mess in the first place. 

LIBERTY BELLE: And speaking as someone who's dealt with SPYGOD's mess for too long, I don't think we're going to be following his lead for too much longer after this. The drunk idiot more or less bungled our planet's security because he decided to attack things we'd had at bay. The President died under his watch. These things invaded. He has a lot of blood on his hands, and a lot of explaining to do.

DOCTOR POWER: Oh, stuff it. Please. I think we know why you're really angry at him, and it has nothing to do with this.

MR CHAOS: Woah! No flame wars, people. We have a world to save, here. 

MRS LIBERTY: Agreed. We can puzzle out who the leader is later. What's important now is what we do once the shooting starts.

LIBERTY BELLE: Fine. But don't complain when you're left holding the bomb, again. And I think we all know that's going to happen. We should be solving mysteries, not serving them. 

RED ALCHEMIST: The mystery is the mystery itself, LB. 

LIBERTY BELLE: Oh !@#$ you.

* * *

"My God," Martha Samuels says, putting her hands to her face as the man in front of her puts his mask and hood back on. They're all alone in the sick bay, but he clearly doesn't want to be uncovered for longer than necessary.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," the masked leader of the resistance says, adjusting his cape: "But for the next few weeks, I'd appreciate it if you didn't let on that you've seen my face."

"I don't think they'd believe it," she says, sitting down on her hospital bed: "How... how long have you...?"

"Decades, more or less," he says.

"More or less?"

"Well, some of it's been linear, some of it's been jumping back and forth, and some of it's been backwards. I've just gone where I've needed to be."

"And you can... do that? Just like that?"

"Not me, no. Someone else has been helping me."

"Who?"

He holds up a hand: "I can't tell you that, Martha. I'm sorry, but that needs to be a secret, at least for now. But if it helps any-"

"I know him, and I've fought with him, and we answered the same call," she sighs: "Is this secrecy, again?"

"It's prudence," he says: "And actually, I don't think you ever met him. not really. He was on the way out when you were on the way in. But you have heard of him. And I think you heard good things."

"I haven't ever heard too many bad," she says: "I'm sorry. I know this must be difficult for you."

"More than you can imagine," he says, sadly: "I've been a prisoner to history, Martha. I've been working in secret in its corners and grey areas since just after World War II. I've seen friends grow old and die, all over again, and been unable to change much of anything. 

"But I've done this because it needed doing. We're up against something truly terrible, here, Martha. The Imago aren't even the tip of the iceberg of what's coming. They're just a bad wave ahead of it.

"So I've done what I can, when I could. I've protected people from things they had no idea about, and threats no one else could see. I've pulled strings and woven threads, put people together and kept them apart. It's been a heck of a ride, at times, but it's always been done with sadness, because there's some things I could never change. And believe me, I wish I could."

"Like my father," she says, looking up at him.

"Your father. Your brother. Everyone we ever lost before their time. I've had to watch it happen all over again and do nothing. And that's been... terrible. I just wish there was some way I could prove this to you."

"It's okay" she says, taking his hand in hers: "I knew you. And I trusted you. My father looked up to you immensely, and so did I, even if we never worked together all that much. So I still trust you."

"Thank you," he says, extending his other hand to help her up off the bed: "And I think I can trust you with something in return."

"What's that?" she asks, standing up.

"With what's coming, I might not have time to explain everything. If something should happen to me, there's a letter I left in my quarters."

"Where?"

She thinks he's smiling behind the mask: "You'll know where to find it. Wait a month, just to be sure I'm really dead, and then read it."

"Is it the whole story?" Martha asks, a little amused.

"It's enough of it," the man says: "It'll explain everything you'd have a question for, anyway. Will you do that for me?"

"Anytime," she says, hugging him: "My god, you brave man. You brave, brave man."

"More lucky than brave," he says, hugging her back: "And I'd do it all over again, Martha. I hope you know that."

"I do," she says, and they stand there for some time, just holding each other. 

In an hour, once the doctor gives her a clean bill of health, she will leave here. She will then get Kaitlyn, and talk to her about what's happened, and what's to be done. An oath will have to be made, along with a prayer, and then the cycle that has ruled her family for the better part of a century will repeat itself. 

The battle that's coming will need heroes, and the Owl will need her Talon.

* * *

In a train station in Yekaterinburg, not far from what little remains of a train, a young girl hides next to a trash can and tries not to think of what's happened to her.

Her name is Katya,and she has just turned five. She was traveling from Moscow to Omsk on the express, to see her grandparents for her birthday. Her parents were cross with her, because she was so happy to be going to see grandpa and grandma that she was bouncing all over the place, and getting in the way.

When the train stopped in Yekaterinburg, she was told she had to stay in their room. She had been bad and was being punished, which made her cry all the more because it was the day before her birthday. Her father said if she was good and stopped crying he might relent, but she couldn't stop the tears, so in the room she stayed.

Was that what saved her? She doesn't know. All she knows is that as soon as the train stopped, there was a terrible noise, and the entire train went to pieces around her.

Her mother was sitting in front of her when it happened. She didn't have time to scream and then she was in pieces too small to see. Wood and metal and plaster and bone and flesh and blood flew everywhere, and the noise got louder and louder.

The last thing that Katya saw, she was looking at where the noise was coming from, and saw a line of metal men with large guns, firing them at her. Then one of the things they fired went right into her eyes, and everything went black.

When she woke up, it was a day later. She was lying on a pile of bodies, off to the side of what was left of the train. The men in metal suits were walking around, talking with each other, and then to the Imago who watched over Omsk (Orange and Gold). He seemed to be approving of what they'd done, though it was hard to understand exactly what they were talking about.

She thought to tell him that the bad men had destroyed the train, but realized that if she did, they'd shoot at her again. So she crept away from the pile of bodies, and hid until most of them were gone.

It wasn't until a few minutes ago that she realize that she'd been lying on top of her father. Her mother had come apart like a roast, right in front of her, but her father was still recognizable, even with half his head gone. But somehow she didn't realize it until just then.

And somehow she kept herself from weeping too loudly, because she knew they'd hear and come to hurt her.

She does not know how she is still alive. She does not know how she could have made it through what happened to the train and not even have a scratch. Her clothes are ripped and torn and full of holes, but she is just fine. She's not even hungry or thirsty, and hasn't had to pee since what happened.

This is strange, but she cannot bring herself to process it. All she can do is sit by the trash can and wonder what has happened, and hope somehow that her grandfather might come. He would know what to do.

She hears a strange noise, like what you hear when someone opens a door and it's a windy day outside. And then there is a young boy, standing next to her. He's just a little older than she is, and she remembers him from the train. He got on in Moscow, too.

"Are you alright?" he asks, looking around and then crouching behind the trash can, along with her.

"Yes," she says: "My mommy's dead. She fell apart in the train. Daddy, too."

"Mine too," he says. His eyes are still red from crying, but he seems to be moving past that, somehow.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Petr. What's yours?"

"Katya."

"Katya, we need to get out of here," the boy says: "I... I don't know how I can do this, but if I think about it, I can go somewhere that no one can see me, but I can see them. It's weird, but I can do it. It's how I lived through what happened."

"My grandpa and grandma are in Omsk," she announces: "He'll know what to do. We need to get there."

"I think we can do that," Petr says, holding out his hand: "We might have to walk there, though. You okay?"

"Yes," she says, getting up and taking his hand: "I'll walk with you."

He smiles and closes his eyes. So does she. And when they open them up, again, they're somewhere that none of the men who destroyed the train can find them.

They have entered the shadows, now. And it's a long walk to where they're going, but they're going to get there.

Somehow they just know.

(SPYGOD is listening to Possession (The Cure) and having a Superhero IPA