9/20/12 - (The Owl) Bigger Than God - pt.2

"Switch," Martha says to Kaitlyn, who has about a half-second to duck down as best she can before her Aunt pivots on one foot, and cracks the hippie lady right in the nose with the other.

The lady screams and lets go of Kaitlyn, who rolls forward and flings the something she was preparing at the Imago. It looks like a golf ball, only full of black holes rather than divots.

And the second it strikes Orange and Grey in the face, it screams loud enough to shatter every window in the place.

The angry McMob of customers falls to the ground, holding their bleeding eardrums and wincing as their teeth rattle in their skulls. The Imago holds his ears and closes his eyes, taking a step back, but not getting out of the doorway.

And when Martha jumps up, and delivers an absolutely perfect kick to his head -- one that should, by all rights, break his face and send him flying back onto his metal-plated behind -- all she does is howl as her foot bends the wrong way, and she flops down to the ground in front of him.

"Aunt Martha!" Kaitlyn screams, running to her side and helping her up: "We have to leave! Now!"

The kid's right, and she knows it. She limps as best as she can, turning right around and high-tailing it for the area behind the counter, where writhing McDonalds employees are trying to hold their eardrums together. If her and Kaitlyn can lose themselves in the maze of ovens, heaters, and brick walls, hopefully they can forestall the Imago from being able to shoot them.

But halfway through the kitchen the Screechball cuts out, and they both know that's not good.

"How many more do we have?" Martha asks, trying to ignore the fact that her maimed foot is one bad footfall from becoming useless.

"That was it," Kaitlyn shouts, running ahead of her stricken Aunt: "Minimal armaments, remember?"

"Darn it," Martha sighs: "Okay. Car. Now."

They see the back door in front of them. They run faster to get to it, but suddenly Kaitlyn hears the strange, whiteboard noise again. She holds out her hands to balance her skiddering halt, and reverses course as quickly as she can, hoping Martha follows her lead.

They're both turned around by the time the Imago appears at the back door, and running back the way they came the second it walks after them -- too quickly for someone wearing that much armor.

"Hey, you can't be back here-" the McManager says, trying to get in their way. Kaitlyn ducks between his legs, slides for two feet, and leaps back up into a sprint. Martha punches him in the nose to try and get him down and out of the way.

"Stay down!" she yells: "This thing will kill you! Stay down!"

"What you talking about, crazy !@#$-" the manager says, getting up and looking at the Imago, who's walking straight towards him. Before he can get out of Orange and Grey's way, the thing has languidly waved his hand into -- and through -- his head, leaving a splattered, red ruin up against the white, sparkling clean tile wall. 

"Monster!" Martha howls, and grabs a basket full of cooking fries to hurl at the Imago. She doesn't slow down to watch it clatter against his chest, and isn't therefore instantly disappointed when it doesn't seem to bother him.

"You cannot escape me," the metal-plated juggernaut states, calmly and clearly, as it stomps after them: "You cannot outrun my eyes."

A familiar sound is heard -- like electrical swords clashing together -- and Martha understands exactly what that means.

"Darkness!" Martha shouts, but Kaitlyn's already figured that out. She closes her eyes as tightly as she can, and relies on her memory -- and echo-pings from her special earpieces -- to guide her through the jungle of angry customers and cheerful tables that awaits beyond the frontline.

The horrible sound comes again and again. Each time it does, Kaitlyn and Martha hear someone scream in agony, and then fall down.

"Why are you doing this?" someone shouts: "We're trying to help you!"

"We love you!" someone else cries: "Don't hurt us!"

"Punish me if you must," someone else says: "I know you know better than I do-"

And then there's the sound of electricity, followed by the feel of something uncomfortably warm shooting past Martha's cheek, and the sound of a body falling.

And the acrid smell of human meat cooking from the inside out.

"Run, you poop-headed idiots!" Kaitlyn shouts, hoping she can avoid opening her eyes until they're outside: "Run!"

But they don't. They cry and scream and beg, and simply do not understand why the beings that saved them from themselves are turning on them, here and now.

And when the eyebeams find them, they die.

Kaitlyn's through the door before she can really think about what's just happened. Martha's not that far behind her. Once outside, they open their eyes, hoping that the thing's being inside the building will stop its beams from finding their brains.

The girl looks back for just a second, just to see where the Imago is in relation to them. When she does she sees the broken-nosed hippie lady trying to talk to the thing -- maybe hoping that the sight of her jealousy-inducing Green and Yellow shirt will cause him to spare her life.

Orange and Grey picks her up by the neck and shoots his eyebeams directly into her skull. Her brains blow out the back of her head in a smoldering, ashen heap.

Kaitlyn turns her head away.

(Pillar of salt, she reminds herself: Pillar of salt.)

"Harcourt!" Martha shouts into her phone: "Motor on! Begin traffic override! Ready electronic camouflage!"

"Done, Martha," the AI responds. Across the parking lot their green SUV vrooms into life, its lights come on, and its doors automatically open. As they jump into it, they can hear honking and screeching as traffic lights that were green a moment ago suddenly go yellow and then red, allowing them to drive back the way they came without interruption.

Kaitlyn thinks to look back at the restaurant lobby, thinking that maybe some of the people in there would have gotten out. This time she resists.

(Pillar of salt)

* * *

"Do we have anything on board that can stop an Imago, Harcourt?" Martha asks, gunning the motor and flooring them out of the parking lot, barely missing a sportscar turning in for a burger.

"Oh dear, what have you gotten yourself into?" Harcourt asks. Additional panels drop down from the tops of the dashboard, one of which has two pairs of Owl Goggles. They quickly put them on and adjust them so that everything they see is filtered through cameras, hopefully blocking the eyebeams.

Not a moment too soon, either. As they get out into traffic, they can see Orange and Grey coming towards them from the parking lot, shooting eyebeam after eyebeam. The paired lines of deadly, orange light seek them, but do not find, and instead strike pedestrians and other motorists, killing them instantly.

"Is the electronic camouflage ready?" Martha shouts.

"It is, ma'am," Harcourt announces: "We don't know if it'll work on them, or not-"

"Turn it on. We're going to find out now."

"If I do, the goggles will be useless. And if the camouflage doesn't work..."

Martha thinks for a second, looking back at the metal-plated monster in her rear view mirror, shooting out beams of death with every step.

"Time it for the next shot, Harcourt," she says, taking Kaitlyn's hand and looking at her: "And then do it."

Kaitlyn nods, pulls the goggles off with her free hand, and closes her eyes, praying. Martha does the same, hoping no one gets in their way right now.

The SUV hums and slows down as its battery is almost overloaded with the strain of running the extra system. The computerized ads and street lights all flicker and go out, and the rain of deadly eyebeams stop coming.

Kaitlyn looks back at her rear view mirror. Orange and Grey is looking around, visibly confused. She allows herself a smile, and maybe half of a laugh, but then she sees him look up and speak.

And she thinks she knows what he just said.

"We have to get out of here," Kaitlyn says.

"I'm doing that, honey," Martha scolds her, banking hard to the right to avoid crashing into a compact that just lost its driver, but not its momentum.

"I mean the city, Aunt Martha," she says: "I think he just said 'prepare extreme measures.' That doesn't sound good. They'll probably bring everything they have to get us."

Martha turns pale, knowing full well what that might mean.

"Harcourt..." she starts to say, looking up at the sky: "I need you to... oh, !@#$. Please God, no..."

"Martha?" Kaitlyn asks.

Martha looks at her, deliberating what to say, and do. She looks at her still-fragile eyes, looking at her for guidance. And-

"I hope so," SPYGOD says, tapping her on the forehead: "But just remember. If you ever run out of tricks and toys, and the world's leaning on you? You have to go with the needs of the many over the few, or the one."

"Needs of the many," Martha says, looking back at the road. Tears are swelling up behind her eyes as she looks around, seeing the screaming, angry faces that she cannot save.

"Aunt Martha, what are you going to do?" Kaitlyn asks.

"Harcourt... put everything you have on getting us out of Los Angeles. Get the forward shields up. And make sure you're hardened against an EMP."

Harcourt doesn't say anything for a moment: "Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm not shielded for that. Luckily, there's a backup copy that is. You'll have to manually install it, though."

"Understood," she says.

"Aunt Martha...?"

"We have to leave, honey," she says: "It's the mission. We have to live for the mission."

"What-"

"These people are dead, honey," Martha explains, letting the tears come: "We cannot save them. There is nothing we can do. We have to get out of here but we can't save them and there's nothing we can do. Do you understand?"

"Sodom..." kaitlyn stammers: "Just like Sodom and Gomorrah..."

"Yes, dear. And we're Lot. And we have to get out of here because we have to live. Okay?"

"..."

"Okay? I need you to understand me, here, Talon."

"Yes, Owl," Kaitlyn snaps to attention in her seat: "I understand."

"Good. That's good. So... just hold on, and let me drive. And pray for these people, and for us."

And then she floors it again.

* * *

Martha's driving is merciless. She plows into anything and everyone that gets in her way. She tries to avoid hitting pedestrians, but by the time she's almost on the freeway, again, she just gives up, truly realizing the horrible truth.

They really are already dead. All of them.

"Martha!" Kaitlyn shrieks, horrified as an old lady gets clipped and goes flying back onto the pavement.

"Already dead," her Aunt says, more to herself than to Kaitlyn.

"Martha, I'm detecting a massive electronic pulse," Harcourt interrupts: "It's well past Lunar orbit, but aimed right at where we were about ten seconds ago."

"Keep the electronic camouflage up at all costs!" Martha shouts, forcing a slow-moving car off the on ramp and barreling past it, realizing that she's probably just killed everyone in the vehicle. Or spared them what's coming.

The SUV leaps onto the San Diego highway, heading North at over 120 MPH, alternating between the fast lane and the breakdown lane, and muscling past every car that doesn't get out of their way. Some have to be smashed off the road, causing accident after accident as they race away.

"Now, honey, this is really important," Martha says to Kaitlyn, who's almost on the verge of tears: "When I tell you to, I want you to put your owl goggles back on, and click down the shields."

"I thought they weren't working-"

"This is physical, not electronic. Bring down the shields, and when I tell you to, get down into the wheelwell and stay down. Do not look until I tell you to. Can you do that?"

Kaitlyn blinks, and looks out the window, and then up. The sky is getting a lot brighter, all of a sudden, and all the hair is starting to stand up on her head...

"Now!" Martha shouts, putting her own goggles on as Kaitlyn dons hers and dives in front of the seat: "Harcourt, drive! Fast as you can!"

"Will do, Ma'am..." the AI says, and takes the SUV up past 160. The engine howls and whines, clearly running low of precious fluids. There's a scary moment when Martha thinks one of the tires fell off, but that's just them hitting another car.

Kaitlyn is holding Martha's hand, and praying. Martha joins her, just as static electricity starts arcing around the inside of the car. Harcourt begins praying with them.

And then...

* * *

"It's our fault, really," their leader is saying to Martha, later, back at the command post's sickbay: "We didn't know that they'd implemented that law about ID for all transactions until we'd sent you out, into the field. And then we couldn't contact you."

Martha doesn't even nod. She lies there, on her hospital bed, the skin on her face and neck a red, sunburned mess -- except for around her eyes -- and tries not to think about what just happened. 

"Kaitlyn's alright, if you were wondering," the hooded, masked man says as he gets to his feet, grey robes swirling around him: "We're going to wheel her in here, as soon as we're sure. Good call, making her duck."

"Good kid," Martha says, her face hurting with the movement: "She's gonna be great, someday."

"She already is," the leader says, leaning in and taking her hand in his: "Just like her aunt."

"I don't feel great, right now," she says, looking up at him, wishing she could recognize his voice, somehow: "If we hadn't stopped.... if we'd just kept going..."

"Then they might have made someone else, some other time, when the mission was more urgent," he says: "You can't blame yourself for what the enemy does, Martha. All you can do is adapt, survive, and save as many of your own people as you can. That and thank God you lived to fight another day."

She closes her eyes and tries to smile at that. It doesn't work so well. 

She keeps thinking of what she saw when she got out of the SUV, after the blast had struck. 

She keeps thinking of how strange the air felt, and what it smelled like, and how electricity crackled between metal surfaces.

She thinks of the screams, and the moans, and the howling of the people who'd been blinded by the light, or burned beyond recognition by its heat.

She thinks of the elevated freeway she'd been speeding up, and how it ended less than twenty feet from the back of her vehicle -- burned to cinders by the same energy source that had turned a wide swath of northern Los Angeles into a deep, burned crater.

And she thinks of the sight that greets her, at the edge of that deep, smoldering crater -- a lone figure, some distance away, floating above the devastation, slowly rotating to better view it.

A lone figure wearing orange and grey metal armor, searching for any sign that his quarry had been destroyed by his "extreme measures."

"Pillar of salt," she told herself, then. And then she got Harcourt's backup out of the back, packed up their emergency kit, and got her and Kaitlyn as far North as they could before help arrived, praying every step of the way to not hear that terrible, crackling noise again.

"Who are you, really?" she asks the leader, trying to sit up a little.

"Really?" he asks, turning around: "You don't suppose I wear masks in front of unmasked heroes for no good reason, do you?"

"No. But I'm starting to wonder."

"Why?"

"Because you're being so calm about this," she says: "I'm putting up as brave a face as I can right now, but I'm broken. I can't even conceive of what just happened back there, and what I had to do to get out of it... those people..."

"And here I am, calm as rock before the storm," he says, walking back to her side and sitting down on the edge of the bed: "You're wondering how anyone could be so bloodless and beyond shock, or horror. You're not sure if you're dealing with a human being, right now."

"I wouldn't have put it like that," she tries to smile.

"I can't tell you who I am, yet," he says, leaning in to whisper: "But let me assure you. We have worked together before. When you last knew me, we were allies, and friends. We had our differences, but when the call was sounded, we would both answer the same call."

"And I have to trust that you're wearing that for a reason?"

"I am," he says, getting back up: "When I choose to tell the truth, you will be the first one who knows, even before SPYGOD."

"Why me?" she asks: "Why not him?"

"Well..." the leader says, and maybe he's chuckling under the hood and the mask: "Let's just say it's the only way that's going to work. Plus, you have to admit, it's kind of funny to be there on the one day that SPYGOD doesn't know everything. Hmm?"

She nods, tries to smile, and leans back. Someone wheels Kaitlyn in, and the little girl smiles and runs to her Aunt's side. They hug -- painfully -- and cry and laugh, relieved that this is all somehow over.

And in the midst of it, their leader slips out of the room, and goes somewhere private, where he can pray to God, curse the Angels, and weep as bitterly as he can with no one to hear him.

"This is bigger than you," he reminds himself, over and over: "Bigger than anyone. Bigger than history. Bigger than God."

And that does not help him in the slightest.

(SPYGOD is listening to Open Up (Leftfield, Zoo DJ remix) and finally getting that shake)

9/20/12 - (The Owl) Bigger Than God - Interlude

... Martha remembers:

She's twelve, and sparring with her father in the Owl's Nest. It's been a rough and bruising session, because they're trying something new, but she's riding high on adrenalin and pride, and not minding it at all. Not much, anyway.

Pain means she's alive, unlike her brother, Mathew.

"Okay, and stop," her father says, putting his hands down and smiling at her: "How are you doing? Do you feel like you can go on?"

"I can," she says, rubbing her arms.

"Are you sure?" he asks, raising an eyebrow: "I don't want to break you."

"I'm sure."

"Okay then. But first, a question."

She sighs, hopefully not too audibly. He always does this to her, between workouts. If she answers wrong then he makes her change, read something appropriate from the Bible, and then go do her homework for an hour or two.

"Yes sir," she says, standing up as straight as she can.

"You're in pursuit of a criminal, and civilians have mistaken you for the criminal you're after. They're all over you, and not listening, and he's getting away. What do you do?"

She blinks. That's not something they've ever talked about.

"Um... I'd ask them to let me go one more time, and then..." she stammers, unsure.

"He's getting away, Martha," her father says, looming over her and speaking in that scary, booming voice he uses when he's in uniform: "You don't have time to think-"

"I'd beat them off me, and then continue pursuit," she says, quickly: "I can't let him get away."

Her father looks at her, and sighs, and she realizes she's made a mistake.

"You can't do that, Martha," he says, putting a hand on her shoulder, and getting her to look him in the eyes: "We protect the public. If we hurt the public, then we're no better than the people we're defending them against. You want to get away from them with as little damage as possible."

"I don't know how to do that, yet," she protests, weakly.

"No, but that needs to be your first impulse, honey. I'll show you how the next time we train."

Her eyes fills with tears, and he pretends not to see them: "In the meantime, I think you should read... hmm... "

"I think she's right, actually," someone announces from across the room, walking closer. Someone she does not recognize, at least not right away.

Martha immediately assumes a self-defense stance, ready to attack the person who's somehow invaded the Owl's Nest, and wondering why her father isn't doing the same.

"Don't tell me you did it again?" her father says, crossing his arms as the stranger walks closer.

"I told you, Joe. I have the greatest respect for your mission, but your security system needs some serious !@#$ing work."

"Ahem," her father says, indicating Martha.

"Oh, sorry kid. I keep forgetting I gotta keep it clean in here."

The stranger walks closer. He's large, well-built, and wearing a black leather uniform. As soon as he gets into the light, she sees he's wearing an eyepatch over one eye, and has a glass eye in the other.

And then she remembers him. He was at her brother's funeral, for a time. They weren't introduced. 

"Are you SPYGOD?" she asks, relaxing her stance a little.

"That would be me," he says, smiling: "And I think I won my bet with your father, again."

"Is that the only reason you're in town?" her dad asks, walking up to him to shake his hand.

"Well, I wanted some real pizza, too, " SPYGOD answers, laughing and clapping her dad on the shoulder.

"Pie, (REDACTED)," Joe laughs: "It's pie here in Chicago. Someday I'll teach you that."

"Maybe someday," the glass eye winks: "And I did have a few other reasons for dropping by. I didn't get a chance to talk at the funeral, and it wasn't the right time anyway..."

Her father looks at SPYGOD, SPYGOD looks at Martha, nods, and looks back: "Still isn't," he says.

"Not here, anyway," her dad says, trying to smile: "But while I've got you here, SPYGOD, maybe you can help us reason out something."

"What might that be?"

"I presume you heard the entire conversation that Martha and I were just having about public safety and fleeing criminals," he says, walking towards his daughter: "If you were training my daughter the way you train your Agents, then how would you want her to answer the question?"

"You sure you want me to do that, Joe?" SPYGOD asks, putting his hands behind his back: "It's bad enough I showed up your security system. I don't want to make a hash of your ethics lessons, too."

"Try me," her dad says, clapping his daughter on the shoulders and walking off to the side: "I wouldn't be training her to be the Talon if I didn't think she could handle it."

"Well, okay," SPYGOD says, walking closer and looking down at Martha: "Dang, kid. You're four foot nothing and weigh about as much as that pizza... that pie I was going to have, tonight. You ready to kick criminal !@#$ for your hometown?"

"Ready, sir," Martha says, remembering the funeral they don't want to talk about, and her brother's face in the casket, and the oath she took not long thereafter. Somehow SPYGOD doesn't seem as sure of himself, anymore.

"Well, then let me give you some advice," he says, reaching to pull out a cigarette, only to be *coughed* at her father, and then abandon the idea: "You're pretty lucky. Unlike most people I oversee, you've got your whole family in on the team. There's someone there to pick up the baton if you fall, and, well... yeah., I guess I don't need to remind you of that, do I?"

(Martha tries not to tear up at that.)

"But there will be times when you may be all alone. There may be no assistant to come get you, no group to call for help, no wandering hero to team up with. There may be a time when someone's life depends on you catching that criminal, or maybe the whole city. !@... er, heck, the whole world might need you to save it, someday.

"And if you fail? If you fall? All your knowledge goes down with you. The answers are all down for the count, and even the best of your allies and friends might not be able to solve the case in time.

"And that means that innocent people pay the price. The bomb goes off. Hostages die. The water supply gets filled with cyanide. Whatever crazy garbage the idiots you're chasing have planned happen.

"And you're lying in a ditch, or a hospital ward, somewhere, and can't do a darn thing to stop it.

"So you need to remember that the mission comes first. Always. And if that means you have to beat down a few civilians who don't read the darn newspapers, and can't tell the Talon from the Troublemaker, then so be it."

"And what if they're policemen?" her father asks from across the room: "Two beat cops, late at night? They've got you in your sights, and if you try to beat them down, bullets are going to be fired, and someone is going to get killed."

"Then you overpower them as quickly as possible, and send them flowers in the hospital," SPYGOD says, without missing a beat: "I remember this one time-"

"Not possible," her dad says: "Bystanders are in the shooting zone. If you move, they fire. If they fire, they're going to hit innocents."

"Well, then you kill them before they can shoot," SPYGOD says: "Quickly, efficiently. You can apologize later."

Martha blinks. The two men look at each other, and her father nods.

"Martha, I need to talk to SPYGOD about something that's strictly between us, as men," her dad says: "Homework, and then... Colossians, I think. 3:12 to 17. It might help."

"Yes, sir," Martha says, nodding to him, and then looking at SPYGOD.

"Are you Christian, sir?" she asks.

"Martha!" her dad exclaims, shocked that she'd be so rude.

"The answer's classified, young Talon," SPYGOD replies, winking at her: "But if I might suggest some readings? Romans 13. Whole !@#$ thing."

"Sir?" Martha asks, looking at her dad. He sighs and nods: "Homework, young lady. We'll talk about manners later."

With that, Martha wisely heads off to shower and change, not stopping to look back for fear of seeing two grown men argue over the word of God.

Later, when her father comes up to her room to see how she's doing, she doesn't get the expected lecture. He asks her what she thought of the two things she read, and seems satisfied with both her answers, and her confusion.

"Well, let me put it to you this way," he says, sitting down on her bed and look at her: "Do you remember what I told you about how the government looks into what superheroes do?"

"Yes. They have them all under orders, and can come in and tell them what to do at any time. They can even tell them to stop."

"That's right. And you know that the man who was just downstairs is the person who makes those decisions?"

She gulps: "I... I didn't get us into trouble, did I?"

"Oh no," her dad says, smiling: "Everything's fine. We have a special understanding with him. We always have. It goes back to the days of my Grandfather, who you never met. You see, when SPYGOD was growing up, as a child, he was a big fan of The Owl. He cut clippings out of the newspaper when he made the news out East, and just loved him.

"So when they met during World War II, when my grandfather helped train him and the first superheroes America made, it was like a dream come true. And when they made The COMPANY, and put SPYGOD in charge, he promised him that we'd be a special case. Can you guess why?"

"Is it because we're Christian?"

"No. And you always want to remember that just because someone disagrees with you, it's not because they're not Christian. Being Christian is between you and the Lord, but what really matters is what you do with other people, and what's in your heart. So maybe we shouldn't ask people who they pray to when we disagree with them?"

"Yes, sir," Martha says, properly chastised.

"I think the reason he trusts us is because we're a family. Reading between the lines, I think he came from a big family, himself. And when you're in a family, you look out for each other, and keep each other on the straight and narrow. Because you love your family like yourself."

"So why is he willing to kill people like that?" Martha asks: "The whole world is one family."

"That's right. And I'm glad to hear you think of it that way. But he..."

Her father looks like he's about to say something, and then looks askance, and doesn't.

"Dad?" Martha asks, getting up from her chair and walking to him: "What is it?"

"He walks a darker path than most of us, honey," her dad says, taking her hands in his: "He sees things we pray we never have to see, and does things that we never want to hear about. I think it's changed him. I fear for his soul, sometimes. But he is a good man, under all of that. I just wish I could help him the way he's helped us."

"Maybe I can pray for him?"

"I think that would be a wonderful thing," her father says, taking her in his arms and hugging her tightly: "Just don't tell him, okay? He gets a little weird about that."

"Yes, sir," she says: "He goes right on the list, right after..."

She doesn't say it. She doesn't have to. He smiles and nods, and just knows.

The next time she sees SPYGOD is a few months later, when she officially puts on the uniform and becomes the Talon. He's there at the handover ceremony, at the Owl's Nest.

(This time he doesn't succeed in sneaking in.)

"So, did you think about Romans?" he asks her, shaking her hand.

"I did, sir," she says: "And I think I have to go with life rather than death."

"Really?" he says, kneeling down so he can look up at her: "Every time?"

"Well, the Owl Line can get me out of most pile-ups, and screechers can paralyze most policemen before they fire."

"I hope so," he says, tapping her on the forehead: "But just remember. If you ever run out of tricks and toys, and the world's leaning on you? You have to go with the needs of the many over the few, or the one."

She raises an eyebrow, just like her dad does: "You got that from a movie."

"That's classified, kid," he chuckles, slapping her on the shoulder: "Go make me proud."

As he walks away to talk with her younger cousin, Rachel -- who's clearly upset about something -- she wonders why she'd want to make him proud, rather than her father and family. But as the years go on, and they encounter each other again and again, she realizes that it's actually a good thing that he's proud of her. Good, but sad.

For she realizes that he's on the outside, in the dark, looking in at a brighter world that he cannot be a part of, anymore.

And now, at this moment -- with death staring her and Kaitlyn in the face, and not nearly as many tricks and toys as she'd like -- she realizes that the darkness has come upon her, and she must put the many over the one, or the few.

God forgive me, she thinks, wondering how she'll send flowers, and to what hospital.

And...

(SPYGOD is listening to Swan Lake (Tchaikovsky, by way of William Orbit) and having that shake, !@#$ it)

9/20/12 - (The Owl) Bigger Than God pt.1

It's just past noon on a Thursday, and the traffic on the San Diego highway (southbound) is surprisingly light.

On any other day, the trip from Modesto to Los Angeles would have taken at least six hours, given the tendency for accidents, rolling tailbacks, and sudden slowdowns with no discernible cause. But today, for some weird reason, it might just wind up taking the five hours and three minutes that various online mapping sites always promise, but can never deliver.

In a dull, green SUV, a young girl looks out the window as Van Nuys speeds past. She's spent most of this long trip in silence, having a lot to say but not knowing how to say it.

And as for the driver, the young woman at the wheel knows all too well what kind of storm is raging inside the girl's head, and has chosen -- perhaps wisely -- not to send a kite up into those clouds.

"I'm hungry," Kaitlyn Clutch suddenly announces, looking at the woman.

"So am I," Martha Samuels says, having a chug from her water bottle.

"Could we get something?"

"Sure. What do you want?"

"McDonalds?" Kaitlyn asks, perhaps with a little trepidation: "I know, it's junk, but..."

Martha smiles: "You know, I hate to say it, but I think I could do with some all-American junk right about now."

"Maybe just a cheeseburger."

"Oh, come on. If you're going to get a cheeseburger, you need to have fries. It's a rule."

"Okay. A cheeseburger and fries."

"And maybe a shake?" Martha teases her.

"Yeah," she says, her eyes lighting up for the first time in what seems like years: "A shake would be awesome, Aunt Martha."

"I think they'll do shakes in Happy Meals."

"No Happy Meal," Kaitlyn insists: "I'm too old for that, now."

Martha smiles, looking over at the kid: "You're never too old for a Happy Meal, kid."

The girl's smile falls away, and she becomes silent, again, and goes back to looking out the window. Martha bites her lip, realizing she probably should not have said that, but knows there's nothing she can do about that now.

"Harcourt, where's the nearest McDonalds?" Martha asks the car.

"There's one on East Noble, Martha," a friendly, fatherly voice replies from the dashboard: "I can get you there in about twenty minutes, provided there are no traffic jams or accidents."

"Works for me," Martha says, reaching over to tousle Kaitlyn's hair, hoping to get a good reaction. The little girl doesn't shrug it off, but she doesn't smile, either.

She just looks out the window, her eyes full of broken pieces that Martha doesn't know how to put back together.

* * *

Saying that the last six months had been rough on their family would be putting it pretty mildly. 

First, the Samuels were nearly annihilated by GORGON, right in their own home. Her cousin, Rachel, was killed outright in the invasion of the Owls Nest. Her father died during their escape in Owl 10. And her son, Thomas, was horribly maimed by a bomb planted in his motorcycle. 

(Their robotic butler, Harcourt, was also corrupted beyond saving, but thankfully they had an old backup file saved onboard the aircraft.)

That left only her, her brother-in-law, Mark, and his daughter, Kaitlyn, fit for duty. And by the time they'd reunited with each other -- in Wisconsin, of all places -- and gotten their heads around what they'd been through, 3/15 happened. 

And, after that, things really stunk. 

The good news was that, after a month of fruitless wandering in search of people they could help, help finally found them. Allies of SPYGOD brought them into the unseen army that was being assembled to fight the Imago, and they were taken to the West Coast to rendezvous with the main group. 

Once there, in an impossible town made by living cartoons, they were sent across a dimensional barrier to a parallel Earth.  And there, in the one place that the world's conquerors could not see, much less teleport into, they worked with others like themselves, and began to put together a plan that could conceivably win the world back from its new masters.

That was a little over five months ago. Since then, Martha has gone from being the resident superhero of Chicago to the unarmed combat trainer, stealth expert, and unofficial den mother to an often quite fractious group of freedom fighters. Strategic talents from all over the world stand alongside COMPANY Agents, mercenaries, Toons, former supervillains, SPYGOD SCOUTS, and even stranger beings, all working to free the planet, and all supposedly following the lead of SPYGOD -- wherever he might actually be.

(The mysterious, hooded stranger who'd brought them all together, and acted as the de-facto leader, claims to be following SPYGOD's wishes in this matter. Whether he's telling the full truth is as mysterious as his true identity, but if Chinmoku is willing to vouch for him, then Martha figures he's worth trusting.)

All in all, it was a pretty good deal -- especially when they agreed to pool their considerable medical resources to look after her son. The only downside was that Thomas needed to stay in B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4, and she was needed in the real world, which meant that she had to literally move heaven and Earth to see her boy. 

Not that there's much to see, anymore. He'd lost his arms and legs in the blast, and had suffered fourth-degree and third-degree burns over most of his body. Her handsome son was little more than a burnt and blackened stump, blind and capable of speech only with the greatest of effort. 

But when she comes to see him, and speaks his name, she swears she can see those dead eyes light up, somehow. And she thanks God every day for that one, small miracle. 

Another problem is that Mark was needed over there almost all the time, these days. She'd come to depend on him in the bleak, black days after the near-destruction of their family, and hoped that she could help him come to grips with the loss of his wife, so that he could, in turn, help his daughter with her grief. 

But the needs of the revolution came first, it seems. So he's over there, helping them build weapons against the Imago, and she's over here, teaching a mismatched army how to hurt and break (but not kill) attackers with their bare hands and feet.

That and tending to a little girl with a very bright future, and a terribly broken heart. 

* * *

The trip to the McDonalds is rather educational. 

Once they get off the freeway, they realize that all the road signs are flickering, and all the advertisements are live. Flat screens at bus stops, street corners, and on unused walls provide a constant saturation of happy news and cheerful ads, along with smarmy PSAs, all delivered by the Imago, or their spokespeople.

That and posters -- lots of them, all shiny and new, up on the walls. Almost all of them feature the "All American" Imago known as Green and Yellow. And every single one of them worries Martha, greatly.

"Did that one we just passed say 'We're Watching Out of Love'?" she asks Kaitlyn as she passes through an intersection, following Harcourt's sporadic directions.

"Yes," Kaitlyn responds, rubbing her eyes: "They're all like that, Aunt Martha. They want people to think they're good guys, like the police used to be."

"Do you think most people believe it?"

"I think people are dumb," Kaitlyn sighs.

"You can't believe that, honey."

"I wish I didn't. But everyone I saw in Modesto, they like the Imago. They should know something's wrong, but they don't. If that's not dumb, then what is?"

Martha has nothing on that one, and at the next stoplight she realizes something even more disturbing. They've passed at least three churches since they got off the freeway, but none of them are in use. Their doors have been boarded up, their marquees denuded of lettering and signs, and their names either taken down or covered up.

"Lord have mercy," she sighs, terrified that certain signs are coming to pass.

* * *

The McDonalds is busy, but not crazy busy. That means it only takes them one trip around the parking lot to find a space, and then only five minutes to be served by the terminally-peppy teenager behind the one working cash register. That's more than enough time for Aunt Martha to nudge Kaitlyn into going for a happy meal, if only by saying that she'll get one, too, just for laughs. 

"It'll be good for us both," she says with a wink: "And I will not tell your dad. Promise."

Kaitlyn's about to say something, but then she turns and looks at someone who's just come in. It's an older lady wearing hippie jeans and long, bangly jewelry, and wearing a t-shirt that has the smiling visage of Green and Yellow on it, but done up in the color and style of that one, famous poster of the last President. 

LOVE, it says.

"Oh, barf," Kaitlyn sighs, turning back up to Aunt Martha: "You sure I'm not right about people?"

Martha looks back at her, and tries not to scowl. The woman sees her trying not to scowl, and smiles, walking closer.

"No need to be jealous, honey," she says, pulling the front of the shirt down so Martha can appreciate the whole picture: "You can get them online."

"I'll keep that in mind," Martha says, turning to look away before-

-what's left of her son collides with her at frightening speed, knocking her back onto the floor and sending her sprawling. She tries to get up, but then realizes who she's been hit by. 

And when she sees that her son is little more than a charred and broken torso -- legs blown off, arms burned down to the elbows -- her training and discipline break down, and - 

 

-she does something she's going to spend a lot of time apologizing to God for, not to mention having to explain to their leader.

 

* * *

 

They get to the front of the line and smile. "Two cheeseburger Happy Meals, please," Martha says: "One with a vanilla shake, one with a chocolate shake."

"Yes ma'am," the peppy teen replies: "Can I see your ID, please?"

Martha smiles, remembering they're in California: "Oh, we're paying cash, today."

"I still need to see your ID, ma'am," the teen insists, sweet as honey. Her smile hasn't wavered a millimeter. 

Martha smiles just a little wider, and then takes her fake drivers license out of her purse. "Oh, not a problem," she says, holding it up for inspection: "It's me! Bad hair day, long line at the DMV-"

The teen smiles, swipes it right out of her hand, and runs it through her cash register before Martha has time to finish her sentence. Then she hands it right back, and looks down at the screen.

Then she stops smiling.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, there's something wrong with your ID," the McPerson says, taking a half-step back from the counter: "I'm going to need to call my Manager up here..."

"Oh, well why don't you run it again?" Martha says, holding it out: "I'm always having that problem."

"Um, that's not it..." the teen says, looking back at the grill and trying to flag down her manager: "Bill? Sir? I need you up here..."

"Maybe if you wrap it in plastic wrap and run it through?" Kaitlyn offers, looking up at her Aunt and smiling, but looking at the door. 

The message is clear: we need to leave. Now. 

Martha half-nods, realizing they've made a mistake, and reaches down into her purse to grab her cell phone: "Oh, excuse me. I have to take this call. Why don't you let this gentleman behind me go first, and we can jump back in later-"

"I don't think you should leave," the gentleman in question says, taking a step away from Martha, as though she'd turned radioactive. He's not the only one with that look on his face, here, now. 

"Ma'am, you need to stay here," the McPerson says: "It's the law. My manager will be here in just a second."

(The manager in question is clearly having problems with a screen full of drive-thru orders, and hasn't even realized he's being called for, even though the cook closest to the front bin's also trying to get his attention, now.)

"Sorry, I have to take this call," Martha says, putting the phone to her ear and gently -- but firmly -- bustling herself and Kaitlyn to the door through the clearly-disturbed crowd of would-be diners: "Yes, George? ... What? ... How many pills? ... Oh gosh, get her to drink a glass of water with a few tablespoons of salt in it, and I'll get there as soon as I can. Where are you?"

"Not that rock star again..." Kaitlyn sighs, playing her part in their practiced deception perfectly. 

"Well, honey, you know how it is-" Martha starts to say, but then stops short as a strange light appears between her and the door, and the weird, whiteboard sound of a teleportation goes off.

An Imago appears, there. Orange and Grey. Smiling brightly.

"Greetings, O Citizen," he says, taking a step towards them and holding up his hands: "Is everything alright, here?"

"Of course it is," Martha says, trying to adopt the biggest, most fake smile that she can: "I just had a little trouble with my Drivers License, and then I got a call from my assistant about one of my patients."

"Truly, O Citizen?" the Imago says: "But yet there are no signals going to your phone, and no sounds coming from it."

"Oh, well I think I lost reception," Martha says, realizing how much trouble they're in, right now.

"And I cannot help but notice that the contact lenses that you and this young lady are wearing are stopping me from identifying you."

Martha's thoughts at that second are unworthy of her, but she realizes that she's got to stick to the plan her and Kaitlyn agreed on, if they were ever caught. 

"Look, this has all been a big misunderstanding," Martha said, putting her hands up and taking a step back, getting ready to use a certain something hidden in that phone: "If I can just explain it-"

"Please, mister," Kaitlyn says, looking up at the Imago and starting to fake cry, also getting something ready: "We didn't want to run away. But my daddy gets drunk and hits us..."

"I knew there was something wrong with her!" the hippie lady with the Imago t-shirt declares, stepping forward and putting a hand on Kaitlyn's shoulder: "I bet they're dangerous persons, sir. There's something not right about them..."

"Yeah," someone else in the line says: "They acted like they didn't know about the safety measures at the registers."

The room goes ugly in a millisecond, as though someone flipped the switch marked 'lynch party.' And in that second, with Kaitlyn hampered by an innocent, and the room dynamic changing, Martha hesitates.

And is lost.

"Your facial structure is conclusive,"  the Imago says, balling up its fists: "You are Martha Samuels. She is Kaitlyn Clutch. You are dangerous persons, and must be eliminated."

"Oh, poop," Kaitlyn says, trying to get at what she was about to use, but unable to do so with the hippie lady trying to put her in a half-nelson.

And then...

(SPYGOD is listening to Open Up (Leftfield) and trying to have a chocolate shake)

9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 5

Keeping up, son?

I sure hope so. We can't !@#$ing afford to be caught out here by those metal-plated !@#$holes. Not only is it going to lead to a big !@#$ fight I'm not sure I can win, here and now, but the best weapon I got going for me, right now, is being dead.

And if they actually see me, well... there's that gun gone. Right before I really got to !@#$ing fire it, too.

Eh, don't worry about the security cameras and TV screens. That's what I was really doing, earlier, when I was walking around Beijing to clear my !@#$ head. I was really picking a safe route though the city, son. And I think I got the perfect one to get us to where we need to go, tonight.

Yeah, yeah -- alleys and tunnels and rooftops. Go !@#$ing figure. Kind of like Berlin after the War, minus the fog, supercommies, and pretzels.

And plus those Imago !@#$ers, which is really what we've been talking about all !@#$ night long, huh? Unit 731 plus Dark Star equals False Faces. False Faces plus Indonesia equals GORGON. And then GORGON plus the Object plus the city under the waves equals Imago.

And Imago plus 3/15 equals a big bag of !@#$ that we get to wade through for what may be a very !@#$ing short rest of our lives, unless we're careful, and !@#$ quick. And very !@#$ing lucky.

But that's me babbling like a !@#$ing brook, son. Let's get back on track here, while we wait for that Silver and Blue !@#$er I saw earlier to pass us on by, up here on this nice roof with its body-blocking, highly inefficient air conditioners.

Let's talk about The Object, itself.

What's the Object? Well, that's a good !@#$ question, now isn't it? Not a whole lot of people know it even !@#$ing exists, and no one's really been brave enough to try and study the !@#$ thing. And people who do tend to die.

And !@#$ing badly, son.

You see, it's one of those cosmically nasty kinds of things that really have no !@#$ing business even being in this reality. They come through and land here, and !@#$ up the landscape, and turn anyone and anything nearby into a mockery of what they'd been, before. And anyone smart enough to realize it tends to do anything they can to lock it the !@#$ away, if only to save others from !@#$, and possibly save the entire world.

Things like poor Gilligan's mask, if you want a more recent example. That god!@#$ed chunk of metal that turned him from a mild-mannered, decent man into a !@#$ing monster from beyond space and time. We thought we could control it, but we were wrong, and it took me decades to be able to !@#$ing deal with it.

Decades, son. And you don't want to know how much collateral !@#$ing damage I have on my plate from that thing alone-

Whoop! Duck.

...

Okay, think it's gone.

Now, that was Blue and Silver, again, but last time I saw him he was headed away from the center of town. Now it's gone back, again. Is it establishing a !@#$ perimeter?

Hmm.

Anyway, onward. Couple of blocks this way, I think... yeah. Keep it going, son. We're doing fine.

So anyway, this nasty thing that should not be appears, messes up the landscape for miles around, and attracts the attention of some !@#$ smart people. They realize it's a big disaster, and post guards around the edges of the zone of disruption. And it's so !@#$ing dangerous, they actually !@#$ing sealed it up.

That's right, son -- wise men in Africa invented the closed city concept ages before the Soviets did. They took their best, most dedicated soldiers, teamed them up with farmers and craftsmen, and saw to it that they lived, worked, and died inside a closed area of the jungle, just outside the distortion zone. They worked there, and never left, and had strict orders to !@#$ing kill anyone who didn't come to them with certain words and objects, for only they were allowed to see the Object.

After that, and a few sad but necessary deaths, there was only one man who knew !@#$ing anything about this thing, and he went so !@#$ far underground that most people today don't even know his real !@#$ing name. It's probably no small thing to say that we owe our lives to the Wandering Shadow and his family, because they kept that secret safe for thousands of years. He took the objects and words into his care, and then acted to stop or kill anyone who went looking for that !@#$ing thing.

And there were a lot of them, son. Too many to count.

You see, that's the weird thing about this thing. It sends dreams. People half the world away go to sleep and dream of strange cities, full of riches. And they just know, somehow, that the city is somewhere in !@#$ing Africa. They just have to go and find it.

Now, not every person out there that gets these dreams can do anything about it. But some can. And some of those dreamers are able to interpret what they see in their mind when they're !@#$ing konked out. So they stage expeditions, get money and helpers, and before you know it, they're trudging through the !@#$ing Congo, looking for gold pyramids and rubies as big as !@#$ houses, or something.

So what does the Wandering Shadow do? Intercept them. He does his best to !@#$ with their supply chains, send them down the wrong paths, mess with their maps, give them diseases. Anything this man has to do to stop them from getting to the jungle, and risk they actually overcoming the guards, he does. No matter how hard, how bloody, how brutal.

And when World War II happens, and the Nazis start searching the world for objects of power? The man figures out a way to trick the Allies into intercepting the Germans before they even get within 100 !@#$ miles of the edge of the disruption zone. He actually !@#$ing impersonates Field Marshal Harold Alexander to pull it off, and does it so well that no one knew what had happened until well after the !@#$ war was over. 

He's a man's man, this Wandering Shadow. I actually admire the son of a !@#$. All of them. 

Anyway, it gets to be the 1960's, and the world's gotten too !@#$ big to keep a secret like that, anymore. They can !@#$ing see the sealed off area of the jungle from space, now. Europe and Russia and America are all fighting over who gets to politically influence Africa, and it's only a matter of time before someone finds the distortion zone, and tries to exploit it.

And this time they might be more powerful than even the Wandering Shadow and his family to deal with.

So the current Wandering Shadow finally reveals himself to the right people in power in Africa. Then he goes to the ancestors of the guards of this weird-!@#$ thing, and shows them the proper objects and words. Turns out they're a hardy lot, these guards, and he takes the best of them back to civilization, and they become part of what eventually becomes the Organization of African Unity's strategic talents organization, BUSH. 

Oh yes, son. Them. The incompetent mother!@#$ers who didn't know what the !@#$ they were doing when it came to matters on this planet, but were amazingly expert on dealing with threats from outer space. There was a time when an ET couldn't even !@#$ing fart without them knowing about it.

But one of their primary jobs was to look after the blasted area of the jungle, and the Object within it. That job fell to the guards who'd come back from the edge of the distortion zone, and in that area BUSH did not !@#$ up. At all. They put more guards around the central guards, and locked the !@#$ing thing down like a champ. Missile banks, big guns, certain strategic talents whose only purpose was to watch the skies, the land, and what lay below...

Speaking of which? On your belly, now.

...

Him again? I wonder what the !@#$ he's up to? Is this a regular patrol?

Well, never mind. Let's keep going, son. 

The Object was secured for more years, thanks to BUSH. But, eventually, that organization turns into a !@#$ing textbook case of just about everything bad about modern Africa. Political infighting, political incest, naked aggression, and dumb mistakes cripple their credibility, but given the complicated !@#$ing web of loyalties and statures of those involved, you can't just get rid of it. It takes a massive !@#$ing thing to do that.

That massive !@#$ing thing happens in 2002, when the African Union supersedes the Organization of African Unity's. At that time, a number of things that people didn't like come under the microscope, including BUSH. So, web of loyalties and simmer conflicts be !@#$ed, they get partially replaced by NGUVU.

I say partially because some African countries still liked those !@#$ing idiots, and helped keep them around. Sadly, that included the current Wandering Shadow, who had a nasty feud going with the family of the man who was tapped to run NGUVU. And you can imagine this makes it difficult to deal with questions about what to do with the Object.

So what happens? NGUVU !@#$ing take the thing from where it was, and put it into a new facility. But people can't know what it is, or why, because that would be really !@#$ing bad. So, to ensure that no one knew what was really going on there, the only people who did, including the guards, were subjected to a very !@#$ing dangerous neurochemical treatment, the Seyoum treatment.

What's that? Well, it's pretty !@#$ ingenious, son. It buries the information so far down in your brainmeat that no one, not even the best psychic you can get your hands on, can !@#$ing get to it. The only way to unlock it is to take a drink of this nasty, top secret concoction that will probably turn your brains to goo rather than get the secrets out.

So you know you know something, but you can't remember it for the life of you, and what you'd have to do to remember it would probably !@#$ing kill you. How's that for secrecy in the modern world?

Well, we saw how well that worked, anyway. The head of BUSH gets taken into custody after I smash them for what they did to my kids. Then NGUVU lets him !@#$ing escape, just to see what kind of a weird deal he had going with and against GORGON. Then he winds up dead, with his brain wiped, and we find out the hard way that Dark Star can crash though the Seyoum Treatment with no !@#$ problem whatsoever.

And that's that, right? So much for !@#$ing African unity, and score one for the bad guys. 

So where do we come into all of this? Well, that's an interesting !@#$ story. How about we hide in this alley while I tell you?

Yeah, this smells !@#$ing great, son. Rotten cabbage and burned wet cardboard. Or maybe it's the dinner special. !@#$ if I know. There's places here where they pickle eggs in urine and sell them to you.

Anyway, me. Having this eye in my !@#$ing head, it opens up my mind to a whole lot of !@#$ that really doesn't make a lot of !@#$ing sense. At least not at first. Maybe later, after a few beers or some thought, or maybe !@#$ing years later, it'll finally hit me.

And when I finally saw that that city in the waves looked like? I got hit, son. Hard.

You see, when NGUVU moved the Object? I was !@#$ing there.

Oh yes, son. I was. They didn't know it then and they sure as !@#$ don't know it, now, but I got wind that something really big was on the move, in that one spot where BUSH had people on guard. So I figured there had to be something in there worth guarding, and kept an ear open for big projects around the continent.

After that, it was just a matter of being in the right place in the right one at the right time to see what all the !@#$ fuss was about. Sure enough, I laid low long enough, and was rewarded by being in the chamber when they !@#$ing brought it in. Three remote controlled robots trundled it in, carrying it in a clear plastic case, treating it like it might !@#$ing explode at any moment. And then they left it there and scooted out as fast as they could, leaving me all alone with it.

I saw it, son. I saw the Object, itself, and it was a strange, shifting piece of thin, coppery metal. I saw how it waved and curled at the edges, like it was a flag caught waving in the breeze, and slowed down. I heard it singing with a voice like a hyena crying, distorted and warped underwater, and then echoed across the stars.

And in my mind, I saw the same !@#$ thing that all those explorers and conquerors and treasure seekers must have seen. Temples and pyramids and towers, columns and slabs, arches and aqueducts. All time periods, all civilizations, all places lost and found, reflected within it.

The genius of all lost cities, there in my minds eye. Maybe the lost archetype of all great human settlements, sending out ideas to architects and artists throughout the ages, informing their hands as they shaped clay and drew plans.

And it promised me wealth and power if only I could get there and take it.

So I left that chamber as quickly as I could, son. I knew that, whatever the !@#$ this was, it was something best left alone. Something that should not have !@#$ing been on our planet at all.

I was !@#$ing petrified, son, and I still am.

But I wasn't so scared that I couldn't realize what I was seeing. It wasn't just some weird thing sending out dreams, son. It was the key to that fantastic city, and, more importantly, it was the map to get there.

And my eye told me where that map was leading, son. The Pacific Ocean. Not that far from where we had it out with Gorgon, back in February. 

And if I hadn't been !@#$ing distracted and second-guessing myself, back then, I would have known the !@#$ we were about to stumble into, down there.

So yes, son. That city that's risen above the waves? GORGON found it a long time ago, but they needed the key to really unlock it. And once they had the Object, they needed only get the rest of their plan into action in order to wake it the !@#$ up.

Which means that Dark Star wasn't !@#$ing lying about there being a treasure trove of weapons and tech down there. It just means that maybe she wasn't an alien, after all.

Maybe she was out there at sea, capsized, and her power picked that traumatic moment to wake up. Maybe she ran into one of the aliens from that city. Maybe she drank down his memories and became him, or her, and knew all that he knew.

And maybe she's been doing everything possible since then to wake that city up, somehow.

"Maybe." I !@#$ing hate that word, son. It's so !@#$... diffident. Uncommitted. It just says that you don't know something really !@#$ing important, and that you're left with guesswork and hunches.

But it's not a hunch to say that GORGON was connected, all along, to something !@#$ing alien, there under the waves. And they've been working towards getting that alien city up here since then, and finally !@#$ing succeeded.

And now... now we see what they're really !@#$ing up to, now don't we?

...

Okay, and this is our stop, right here. I am going to go into this building, and meet with someone I really !@#$ing need to talk to. And you are going to wait right here, in this nasty-smelling trash can, until I !@#$ing come out.

Yeah, yeah. It stinks in there. Better than being found by the Imago, right?

I thought so. Try not to throw up, son.

(SPYGOD is listening to Walking with Shadows (Gary Numan, extended mix) and having something with someone you don't want to meet)

9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 4

You hear that, son?

Yeah. That. The silence, out there, late at night in this city. Curfew's from two in the AM to six in the AM. No one's supposed to be out on the !@#$ing streets, much less looking out the !@#$ windows.

Me, I don't have to risk !@#$ing vanishing. I can just sit here and listen, and hear more than I really !@#$ing want to.

I can see the lights flickering, here in this !@#$ room. But I can hear the power being diverted. A steady, electric river, leading right out of town to that !@#$ing facility the Imago built, over in Luanping.

Yeah, son. The big, white box no one wants to !@#$ing look at. The one with a five of those metal-plated !@#$ers floating above it like angels on a !@#$ing Christmas tree.

The one that lights up like there's a big !@#$ rave going on, there, every night. Two in the AM to six in the AM, it's weird-!@#$ lights and strange !@#$ing noises.

And as for what goes on there, well... I can't hear everything, but I can !@#$ing hear enough. 

...

This world needs to be free, son. Soon. And as soon as I get the !@#$ing power, I will by God be the one to free it from these !@#$s.

Anyway. Beer. Swig it down, and let's consider the power we do have, so far. And that would be information, courtesy of the People's Republic of China, and their tendency to not know what to keep and what to throw down the !@#$ing shredder.

(Lucky for them old SPYGOD helped them out with some well-placed incendiary devices, huh?)

So now we've got proof positive that, unbeknownst to us previously, there was a definite connection between Japan's nasty body horror science facility, Unit 731, and GORGON, by way of Dark Star, the memory-eater.

We know that Dark Star has a really interesting !@#$ing story, including tales of having escaped from some water-logged spacecraft in the middle of the !@#$ing Pacific. A spacecraft filled with tech and weapons that could put Japan miles ahead in the !@#$ war, and maybe even win them the !@#$ing world, too.

Now, it later turns out that this might not have been completely !@#$ing true, courtesy of some digging on behalf of the whore-mongering officer who found and recruited her. But the truth comes so !@#$ late that the Japanese can't do anything about it before a certain Fat Man and Little Boy come around to !@#$ up their !@#$, and end the war.

But we never find out about this, do we? We arrange to have General Shiro Iichi, and some of his other Unit 731 alumni, hidden from view and shielded from postwar prosecution for the sick !@#$s they are because they had such well-documented information about spreading diseases, amongst other disgusting things. And to his dying day, he never !@#$ing says anything about this sick !@#$, and what she was doing there.

Now, the real question is, did the Soviets ever learn? They rounded up a bunch of fleeing Japanese scientists, put them on trial for the deaths of their Chinese allies, as well as their own people, and sent them off to work in a !@#$ing katorga. But they confiscated every !@#$ thing they found on those people, and we know they !@#$ing "debriefed" them, before and during their stay at the Siberian Sheraton.

And we know about the Anthrax outbreak at Sverdlovsk, in 1979. Boy do we ever !@#$ing know about that.

So do the Russians know a little more about this than they're letting on? Well, maybe. And maybe I should !@#$ing look into that, when I have the time...

But, important things first. We now also know that the first False Faces were made at Unit 731, by Dark Star, with Shiro Iishi watching and loving every !@#$ing moment of it. Which fits with the timeline I had before, after other Strategic Talents came back from the War and told me that they !@#$ing ran into !@#$ False Faces in the South Pacific, during that time.

Now, since that predated the existence of GORGON by about twenty !@#$ing years, we were never sure if it was a coincidence, or if maybe GORGON had stolen its considerable tech from someone else. After all, these were primitive ones, comparatively speaking. They didn't have replicator masks or bionic eyes, back then, and their suicide charges were shoved up into their !@#$ing guts, rather than in their eyes.

We also weren't sure if they were working for the Japanese or not. And now we know why. The High Command had no !@#$ing idea that Dark Star was sending these people out into the field. Everything they did was done for her.

Point of interest: most of the time my allies ran into those !@#$ers, it was in and around Indonesia. And where do Dark Star, Thunder, and Lightning vanish into the jungles of, just two months before the end of the War?

That's right. The Irian Jaya, better known as West Papua. Gold star, son. Have another beer.

So, time goes !@#$ing by, and then GORGON shows up in the 60's, along with a few other groups of science terrorist !@#$holes. We think they're just another such group, at first, but then we find out how they recruit people, and what their driving forces are, and we realize that we've got a real !@#$ing problem on our hands.

But, thankfully, we've got a system and they seem to stick with it. We spy on them, they spy on us, we all spy on each other at Outland, and things don't get too !@#$ing out of hand too often.

At least until I change the rules of the !@#$ing game by refusing to play, anymore. And then they get really !@#$ nasty, really !@#$ quick.

And when I do encounter them, after I !@#$ over ABWEHR, and decide to go after them, next, rather than HONEYCOMB, I make two interesting discoveries. The first being that they somehow managed to turn Deep Ten into their communications hub, which brings up a whole lot of nasty !@#$ing questions I didn't have the heart to ask Director Straffer.

And the second is that their False Faces are using gauss rifles that are just !@#$ing magnificent pieces of work, and unquestionably alien in manufacture. At the time, I figure they made a deal with some !@#$ing bunch of squidgy ET salesmen at a previous OUTLAND, and go back to defending my fine, gay !@#$ from certain doom.

I just barely !@#$ing get that fine, gay !@#$ out of there. And, after what happens, we eventually get back to tracking them down, and find out that the !@#$ers swarmed out of the bowels of West Papua, and evaced into submarines of uncertain make and model.

Alien-looking submarines, son. And they vanish into those !@#$ing tunnels that riddle certain parts of the floor of the Pacific Ocean, making tracking them !@#$ing impossible. Oh, and they're full of DEROS, too, so there's that.

A whole bunch of other !@#$ happens, and some of that does not need to be retread over. But, bottom line, we finally get up and go after their !@#$es, and we get ours handed to us. They've been down in those tunnels forever, it seems, and they have total !@#$ing control over the DEROS.  And I'm left with a broken Flier, a crew on the edge of mutiny, and a President who decides that now's a good !@#$ time to bench me.

More !@#$ing things happen that we don't really need to retread over. Have another !@#$ing beer, son.

Now, jump ahead to 3/15. GORGON has !@#$ing infiltrated everywhere, especially in America, where a whole generation of high-tech, anonymous soldiers called Specials turn out to be !@#$ing False Faces.
Then they cripple all world governments, using a worldwide collection of useful idiots who thought they were being handed the keys to their respective kingdoms.

They take over Deep Ten, and use it to blow the !@#$ out of anything that could be used as an air or space based weapon. And then, finally, the !@#$ Imago show up, displaying powers of teleportation and near-invulnerability to weapons. And everyone in those surviving governments gets told they were saved, except in America, where they're actually willing to be !@#$ing honest, since there's nothing the former Administration can do about it but look brave.

For all the good that !@#$ing does them.

...

And then, out of the middle of the !@#$ing Pacific, not too !@#$ far from where we fought that one, sorry battle against them, and lost, a strange city comes out of the waves...

Now, son. I know you remember my concerns about the Object, over in Africa. Remember when I found out that NGUVU more or less let its location slip to persons unknown, and how I just !@#$ing knew that GORGON was behind it?

Well, son, I am one of the few people on this Earth who actually saw the !@#$ thing, and knew where it !@#$ing was. And that just about cements my understanding as to what actually !@#$ing happened, here, with Dark Star and GORGON and that !@#$ing city.

And like I said, son. We had no !@#$ing how bad GORGON was. Not until now.

...

Come on, son. Grab a beer. We're gonna go break !@#$ing curfew, you and me, just for laughs.

That and I think we'll talk better on the go. I suddenly have a bad !@#$ing feeling about all of this.

And I know it's not a good idea to ignore any of that.

(SPYGOD is listening to Coming Up (The Cure) and having yet more Beijing Gold)

9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 3

Loving that Beijing Gold, son?

I sure !@#$ing hope so. It'd be nice if you saved a case for me, there. I mean, it's my drunk you're infringing upon, after all...

Relax, son. Relax. I'm !@#$ing kidding. It's cool. It's not like the Imago are rationing beer in the cities, after all. We could !@#$ing drink Beijing dry as a jaded, 90 year old hooker's !@#$ and they'd just make more.

Beer's a simple thing, after all. Water, hops, and barley, maybe some flavorings. That and time. And before you know, you can drink the !@#$, and it'll !@#$ you up.

Now, people? That's a different !@#$ing story, son. We aren't chemical combinations or mathematical equations. There's no physics of the human heart or soul. What turns one young man into a go-getting role model might turn someone else into a !@#$ing thug on death row.

There's a great mystery going on between our ears, and it doesn't always lend itself to easy !@#$ing classification.

But we can make guesses, son. We can observe patterns and make observations. We can try things out and see how they work, or, if all else fails, just take a !@#$ing page out of history. 

And that's all we really need to turn a group of ordinary people into !@#$ing faceless monsters -- the simple fact that, if you take someone who's in a bad place, and tell them that you love them, and that all they need to be happy is to accept and return that love, measure for measure, you can mold them like !@#$ing silly putty.

You can march them across minefields, make them slaughter their friends and coworkers, betray their countries, threaten the world.

You can make them shave their !@#$ing faces off to prove their love for you, and undergo radical cybernetic implantation that gives them a technical advantage when it comes to infiltration and impersonation.

You can make them willing to kill, and be killed, for an ideal that would sound like a bad horror novel if you read it in a newspaper.

Love, son. Love and hope. The two most dangerous weapons in the world.

Dark Star understood that. God only knows where or !@#$ing how she got the memo, but she proved it without a doubt in that separate area in Unit 731, where her and General Shiro Iishi watched group after group of Chinese prisoners carve their !@#$ faces off to show their love and loyalty to the woman who'd saved them from !@#$.

And then they gave them masks, called them False Faces, and set them to work around the camp, and then the war.

I never ran into one of those !@#$ers. I was in Europe, kicking Nazi !@#$, at the time. But some of the Strategic Talents who operated in Asia told me some really !@#$ing nasty stories about these faceless assassins the Japanese were using.

Most of the time they wore a plain, white mask with eyeholes. But they had portable devices that could take a dead person's face off at the skull, and then place it right on the assassin, like it had always been there. If they were caught, they fought like !@#$ to escape, and if that didn't work, they activated a suicide charge and blew themselves to !@#$ing pieces, rather than surrender.

Odd thing was that none of them were Japanese. They were Chinese, Russians, Jews, even captured Americans and Englishmen. Anyone that fell into Dark Star's clutches at Unit 731 might be turned into a !@#$ assassin and sent out into the field.

And Shiro !@#$ing loved this. He had visions of Japan ruling the world through the slow but steady absorption of all world leaders and high functionaries. He thought Dark Star and he would be the best servants of the Emperor, and help establish a beautiful new world in his name.

Oh, yeah, by this time the two of them were !@#$ing. He loved how she took his shame and dark memories away. Maybe that's how he could mentally handle doing the sort of things that should have made a good man cry for !@#$ing forgiveness and then put a bullet through his brains.

(Or maybe he was just too !@#$ed up to begin with. It's hard to tell.)

But then, just as he's mapped out the plans for his dream home, there to live with his sweet little memory-eating !@#$ of a wife, something happens that changes everything.

You remember how, before Dark Star created the False Faces, Shiro Iishi was convinced there was something she wasn't !@#$ing telling him? And you remember how he confided in her handler, and how he said he'd look into it? Well, that wasn't an empty promise, because by that point he was wishing he'd never !@#$ing seen her. 

You see, being a handler for a strategic talent's a lot like being someone's talent agent in Hollywood. If you discovered someone, that's !@#$ing great, but you better !@#$ well hope that star keeps rising. Because the moment it cracks and falls the !@#$ down? So do you.

So yeah, this guy got some massive !@#$ brownie points by finding this !@#$ing powerful kid in that whorehouse for freaks. But then she came around and claimed that she had the !@#$ key to a door that unlock weapons and tech for Japan. Massively game-changing weapons and tech, in fact.

So now, every !@#$ time the war came a little closer to home, all his superiors would look at him and say "So why haven't we gotten these things, yet?" And they'd say it in such a way that it was clear that it was his !@#$ing responsibility, even if it wasn't.

After all, he found her. So what she did, or didn't do, after that was kind of his.

(!@#$ing sucks, huh?)

So he took a photo of her, drove up the East coast of the main island, went into administrative offices and police stations, and asked if anyone !@#$ing knew who she was. Of course, no one did, but he kept !@#$ing looking. And finally, just about at his wits' end, he gets all the way up to Kitakami-Cho, and shows the photo to the chief of police there.

The old guy looks at it, takes his glasses off, and starts weeping.

Turns out that this girl is his !@#$ing granddaughter. She went out on the fishing boat with her father older brothers, maybe ten years back, and they got caught in a terrible eastward-heading storm. The best they could figure was they either capsized and drowned, or got pushed so !@#$ far that they wound up stranded in the middle of the Pacific. !@#$, they could have wrecked in !@#$ing Alaska, or something for all they knew.

Did she ever act strangely, as a child? No, the old man says she was normal. Maybe a little boyish, which is why she was on the !@#$ing boat in the first place. But normal.

Did she ever exhibit strange powers? No, the old man says she was normal. And what kind of a !@#$ing question is that? When can he see her?

I don't know what happened to the old man, or what they told him. For all I know they said they'd get in touch and never !@#$ing did. But Shiro Iishi gets word from the mainland that the girl's a !@#$ing liar, and is no more alien than he is.

Now, given how !@#$ing powerful she is, they aren't going to punish her, at least not yet. But, obviously, her status as "hand behind the scalpel" at Unit 731 is !@#$ing over, and everything she was doing has to be stopped. They want him to concentrate on plagues, like he was before, instead, and remove all evidence of what she'd been up to.

"It must be as though she had never been there" ... I think that's what this !@#$ing translates to.

General Shiro Iishi is sad, of course, but, as we've seen, his job is to obey. He shoots the latest crop of False Faces, himself, and has their bodies burned. And he tells the high command that there may be other ones, operating out there, but of course they know where they are.

Then the penny !@#$ing drops. The High Command asks him what the !@#$ he's talking about.

They never ordered these "False Faces" into combat or espionage missions. Not once.

Ever.

Which means that everything she ever did with them was something she wanted done for her own !@#$ reasons. And God and the Emperor alone know what the !@#$ those might have been.

So Shiro Iishi is broken, sad, and borderline disgraced at this point. It's all he can do to make sure that everything she did is trashed, and if she comes back, she's to be arrested at the gates for treason. And that's an end to his dream home and her sorry, nasty !@#$ in his kitchen, making death baby soup, or whatever.

But, of course, she doesn't get back. This is late June of 1945, and she's off in New Guinea, supposedly looking for the Australians' secret supers base with Thunder and Lightning. They go in and never come out, and two months and two A-bombs later Japan's !@#$ing surrendered.

Shiro closes and scorches Unit 731 well ahead of the Soviets. They even ram suicide trucks full of explosives at the building, just to be sure it's a !@#$ing hole in the ground. But they don't burn everything, and some things get taken with, or left behind.

And this diary was one of those lost things, son. It's burned at the edges and some of the pages have been torn out, most of them from between the time she made her False Faces and when he found out what was really !@#$ing going on. God only !@#$ing knows what all went on, there.

You see, we got hold of General Shiro Iichi, after the war. General MacArthur okayed a deal where we got their cooperation and research, and they avoided prosecution for war crimes. It's sick and !@#$ing disgusting, and contrary to all notions of decency and justice, but it happens, anyway, and that's that.

(Maybe another reason you never !@#$ing read about this !@#$ in school, son. We're too disgusted to admit that we prosecuted men for experimenting on Jews in Europe, but let the Japanese have a pass for doing the same !@#$ing thing to the Chinese.)

But the important thing is that, no matter what we ask him, and no matter what he says, he never !@#$ing talks to us about her, or anything they did. Ever. It seems he took that !@#$ order about her never having been there very seriously.

Likewise, we take our side of the agreement seriously. We protect him from official reprisal, harm, and the Soviets, who want to grill his !@#$ on a !@#$ing hibachi along with the other ones they captured. He lives fairly well, after the war, and finally !@#$ing dies in 1959 from throat cancer. All that smoking and drinking, I guess.

Some say he was never in Japan after the war, though. They claim that he'd been replaced with a body double, and was actually in the states, working on biowarfare projects. But that's complete and happy horse!@#$, and you know well enough to know how I know that, so let's not go down that !@#$ing road.

But a couple years later, GORGON shows up, and then the real fun begins.

Yeah, son. Have another beer. Because this is where it gets really weird.

 (SPYGOD is listening to Cold (The Cure, live version) and having more Beijing Gold)

9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 2

And we're back, but really no !@#$ better.

I wound up taking a walk around the city, thinking that being around ordinary people would clear my !@#$ing head. But that was a big !@#$ mistake. Everyplace I went I saw signs of what the Imago have !@#$ing done to China, and the world.

And that just made me !@#$ing angrier.

I wanted to tear down all those !@#$ing posters on the walls, all gently demanding obedience and sacrifice. I wanted to kick in and !@#$ on all the video screens everywhere, playing endless propaganda loops and watching for "crimes against the people." I wanted to scream the truth at the top of my !@#$ lungs, especially now that I know a !@#$ of a lot more about that truth than I did before, or ever !@#$ing wanted to.

And then, just when I didn't think I could get any !@#$ angrier (at least not without !@#$ing exploding like a Halloween pumpkin) I actually saw one of the !@#$ers.

He was Silver and Blue, floating twenty !@#$ing feet above a busy intersection, slowly rotating like something on top of a department store Christmas display. The people who passed by him all nodded and half-bowed and moved past, like they'd run into a high party member or something. And he was looking down at the people, and smiling like an arrogant politician on a palm-presser, all smug and secure and knowing that he !@#$ing owned the !@#$ floor. 

That wasn't the worst bit, though.

The worst thing was that the corners of the intersection were piled high with !@#$ing offerings to the bastard. Fruit and flowers were heaped up in rotting piles no one dared to clean up or remove, and makeshift shrines had been made by them, with incense sticks lit from oil lamps.

And people were actually !@#$ing praying to the thing, like he was the shrine in a temple.

I stood there, wondering how high and hard I'd have to jump to grab his head and twist it the !@#$ off, and then someone half-punched me in the !@#$ing ribs and told me to bow and show respect. So I did, and kept moving, hoping the Silver and Blue thing didn't notice me, and just kept keeping the !@#$ on.

This is the answer, son. When you ask me how I can go on with this war, knowing that they could teleport into !@#$ing Southern Thailand and exterminate the whole !@#$ing population because they thought someone who'd hurt them had come from there, it's things like this.

The fact that humanity has meekly !@#$ing accepted these metal-plated monsters as their saviors, not knowing what they're actually capable of.

(Well, that and we're about to get !@#$ed by some weird-!@#$, big lethal Doom from beyond the stars, but that's another story for another time.)

So we're back to continue the big !@#$ true story of GORGON, son. But this time we are !@#$ing playing it smart. I am not even touching that baijiu !@#$, this time. Instead, I have elected to drink all the local beer I can, which means I made the grocers just outside this adorable guest house really !@#$ glad for the night.

And, two cases into my stash of Beijing Gold, I am finding that my brainmeat is less !@#$ed up, and I am better able to process and express the true horror that my highly-flammable fishing expedition uncovered. 

So, Dark Star, who's outed herself as a !@#$ing alien to General Shiro "Partyman" Iishi, is hanging around Unit 731 to see what makes us !@#$ pathetic humans tick, tock, and stop moving. This is all being done to supposedly help her help the Japanese make submarines capable to getting down to where her crashed spaceship is, so she show her gratitude to them (for rescuing her from a freaky gangster-run whorehouse) by loading them up with insane levels of technology.

That's what she !@#$ing says, anyway. But after hanging out with this girl with black, empty eyes for a while, and watching her suck the memories out of captives, and picking up on little things she says, and the things she doesn't say, Shiro gets the idea that she isn't being 100% honest with him. Of course, his job is to !@#$ing obey, so he doesn't make too big of a stink about it, but he confides his worries in his companion in trolling whorehouses (that happens to be her !@#$ing handler) and his buddy agrees to look into things for him. Somehow.

1941 comes and goes, and you know what !@#$ing happens then, son. The day that lives in infamy, and the end of our being able to sit on our !@#$ hands and support freedom in Europe with our money but not our blood. Things at Unit 731 reach a renewed pitch, now that they went and !@#$ed with the wrong hornet's nest, and the Imperial Army wants Shiro to give them more results, and faster.

Especially when it comes to that !@#$ submarine man thing, because if there was ever a time to get space guns and rocket ships from that spooky girl they "rescued" from the freakiest little whorehouse in Tairausuiso, now is !@#$ing it.

Dark Star isn't necessary to the program, seeing as how she's just observing and advising. So she isn't there as much, given that the Imperials are shuffling her around Asia and the Pacific to have her help make sure that places the Japanese have taken over stay taken over.

I've talked about the sick !@#$ she did, before, so we don't really have to get into that, again. Except that now she's got better ideas about how to hurt people, given how well she learned from watching us. 

...

That's what always !@#$ing gets me, you know? All these aliens and their weird tendencies to turn us into hamburger meat, or open us up and make us tick? So much of that isn't something they came up with on their own.

I mean, if you've got the power to fly across the !@#$ universe in realtime, then why do you have to get your tentacles bloody to see how we work? !@#$, most of them have medical scanners so precise they can see your !@#$ing DNA dancing around in your pancreas from ten !@#$ miles away. Our most sophisticated means of imaging the insides of the human body are !@#$ing antiques to them.

So all that !@#$ with them landing, collecting us like butterflies, and taking us to pieces like we're pigs in a butcher's shop? That's all !@#$ they learned from us, son. Either that or they're trying to scare us, because they're invaders and body horror is always a good way to strike fear.

(Or they're !@#$ing Spider People, but let's not talk about them today. I don't need another headache...)

...

Anyway. Dark Star. She's playing "I want your memories" with eligible bachelors on far-flung islands throughout the South Pacific with Thunder and Lightning, and Shiro Iishi is trying to develop ceramic bombs to spread the !@#$ing black plague. Then, one day, in 1943, Dark Star comes back with a wicked !@#$ing gleam in her eyes, and has a new idea.

It's not merely enough for us to be physically modified to withstand great oceanic pressures, she tells Shiro. We also have to be mentally modified. Our minds must be fused with discipline, determination, and will, or else we'll get down there, see a !@#$ing whale skeleton, and !@#$ ourselves to death.

Of course, Shiro Iishi's all about discipline (when he isn't out drinking and whoring) so he approves of this. And he lets her set up a new regime of testing within the pingfang compound. He gives her some guards, lets her have first crack at his supply of "logs" (that's victims, son), and asks her to have some promising results by, say, the end of a month.

And at the end of that month is where his diary stops being a clinical but !@#$ing disgusting read, and really goes over Niagara Falls in a barrel full of !@#$ and monkeys.

You see, the Japanese have this weird thing about self-harm as sign of devotion. Samurai would !@#$ing stab themselves in the guts to redeem themselves if they'd failed big time. Their gangsters still slice off their fingers, one knuckle at a time, if they screw up. And people are always throwing themselves in front of subway trains if they think they've screwed up, enough, just to say "sorry."

Well, it's not like she was experimenting on Japanese people, but you have to remember that her understanding of our culture was pretty !@#$ limited. What she got in the whorehouse, and was told when they inducted her, and what she saw at Unit 731, and out in the field? That's all Dark Star !@#$ing knew about us, at the time.

And it's not like the Imperial Army went out of their way to tell her otherwise. Not when she's doing such good and creative work, and has promised them the !@#$ing stars if they can get her back down to where she !@#$ing came from.

So she gets a group of healthy male prisoners together, and sequesters them from the rest of the population. She gets them to see her as their protector, and then she tells them things, together. And she tells them these things night and day, over and over again, until they believe them heart and soul.

And then, once she's convinced they really do believe it, totally and completely, she challenges them to prove it. She tells them to show her they have changed. Show her they have become something entirely new.

Show her they reject the life they had before, and with it the one thing that truly identified them from that life.

She gives them a small amount of powerful painkillers, a mirror, and a knife.

Not all of them live through the !@#$ing thing, as you might expect. But by the time the first experiment is done, she has two men who are so !@#$ing loyal that, once Shiro Iishi tells her to take it one step further, they gladly slit their own throats at her command.

He !@#$ing loves it. So they do it again, and again, each time changing things a little. And while they find that their prisoners respond to threats, and appeals to loyalty, the best results they get are by finding broken people and making them feel loved.

And that's how the first False Faces were made, son. Chinese prisoners of war who listened to an alien who told them that she loved them, and wanted them to change themselves for her.

There's still more, here, son. This diary goes !@#$ing bat!@#$, shortly thereafter, and you'll just love what happens when Shiro's party friend gets back to him.

But before we get to that, you are having a !@#$ing drink. Trust me, you're going to need it.

Down the hatch, son.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cold (The Cure, remixed by Denny JT) and having a !@#$-ton of Beijing Gold)