9/30/12 - Bodies In Motion - Pt. 3 - Toys as Tall as Men

The room is dark -- lit only in patches -- and full of strange things, all promising pleasure and pain.

A naked, pudgy man hangs from the ceiling, suspended by straps and chains. An older woman stands in front of him, wearing a one-piece suit so white it almost has a light of its own. 

"Listen to me," the woman is whispering into the man's ear, while holding his !@#$ so hard that it's a wonder it doesn't explode in her hand like a ripe, pulpy tomato: "What we do is secret. What we do is safe. I will show you things you can never believe, but must never reveal. And in return, you will do what I want, whenever I want, so long as you may live."

She squeezes his manhood just that much harder, and blood begins to dribble from it: "Do you understand?" she hisses.

"Yes..." a much younger Wen Boxiong says, lost in the ecstasy of this one moment-

* * *

It's morning in Beijing, and an older, much larger Wen Boxiong wakes to find a hauntingly familiar scent in the air.

He blinks and rises, wondering if it's just something from a dream. But then he inhales deeply, and realizes that the smell isn't something he's imagined. It is all too real.

It is her.

He looks over at the table by his bed, where he keeps his glasses and teeth. A small, delicately-folded note sits there, tucked right under his glasses.

He puts them on and opens it up without hesitation, and with all due haste. As he reads the words he gasps, and holds his hand to his mouth. His eyes close tightly, and he knows fear and arousal in near-equal measure.

The Botanical Garden, the note instructs: Noon. Alone. 


She doesn't need to sign it. He knows her handwriting and style of delivery all too well. And if that wasn't enough, the scent of her perfume is unique in the world.

The Lady of Pain has come back to see him, and tonight he will either know love or death.

* * *

On a day like today, there is no time to be hesitant.

He changes his entire schedule, including his after-dinner meeting with the American President in disguise. He tells his security detail that they will accompany him on a tour of the city, but that they are to leave him after a certain point, and yet continue to radio in that he is with them. He will rejoin them at his residence, later, and they are to tell no one of this.

He picks out a suitable disguise, like the American President taught him to. A reversible coat, a ballcap, and bad shoes will make him look like an entirely different man, and the special contact lenses he pockets will confuse any optical scanners. 

(He mulls bringing the small, boxlike emergency communicator his new allies have given him, but decides to leave it back here; if she finds it on him, it's unlikely he will survive the encounter.)

He makes certain that various things are seen to, around his official apartment. There are some secrets that may come to light after his disappearance, or death, and he cannot control them. But there are other secrets that he can control, and these are hidden in such a way that his new allies will find them. Hopefully they will know what to do with these things, but if they don't, then it will no longer be any of his concern.

All that done, he takes his leave of the place -- possibly for the last time -- gets into a waiting car with his security detail, and prepares himself to do something he thought he'd never have to do again.

Not since she spurned him, anyway. 

* * *

The hasty plan goes better than he had hoped. 

He ditches his security team on cue, in a place where he knows the security cameras are broken and the advertisements old and useless, and they do not so much as blink an eye. He slips into a public restroom that isn't used that much, locks himself into a toilet stall, and changes his clothing. He puts the contacts in, hating the sting of them, but consoling himself that having red eyes will make him just that much less recognizable to others.

The change done, he goes out into public a different man, unworthy of special attention. He strides meekly and humbly through the crowded streets of the city, pretending to marvel at the new devices being installed on streetcorners and tall buildings, and be reverent to the Imago who float nearby, watching.

It's an educational journey. He almost gets pickpocketed waiting for a light. Older women make eyes at him and younger men sneer in his direction. When he gets onto the bus for the gardens, he only sits for two stops before he's impolitely urged to rise and remain standing so that some other, high party people he knows only by reputation can sit down.

(He amuses himself with how funny it would be to reveal his identity to them. It doesn't quite make up for how rude their minder is, but that can be dealt with another time. Hopefully.)

After all that, the actual ride to the gardens is quick and tidy -- almost anticlimactic. He gets there, pays to be let in just like any other person, and walks through the new, large security gate they placed there. No one calls or shouts after him as he walks through it, so it would appear the contacts work exactly as advertised.

But somehow that does not make him feel very secure.

* * *

The Lady did not tell him where they would meet, but he has a good idea where to find her. 

The tomb of Liang Qichao and his wife is in the northeast part of the garden. It's as much of a tourist attraction as any, but people tend to go there in small knots and clusters, if at all. It makes it a good place for two people to meet and have a quiet conversation while pretending to be admiring the scenery.

As he approaches, for a moment he finds himself hoping that she will not be there. Part of him hopes that this has all been a mistake -- maybe some kind of weird joke on his other ally's part -- and that he will get there, and be surprised to find that man instead, perhaps dressed as a woman. Or maybe this is some practical test on the American President's part, both to see how Wen would react to such a thing, and to ask him about that one, black secret in his new contact's somewhat-checkered past...

But no. He doesn't need to get more than halfway to the pavilion before he sees her there, resting up against a structure and looking right at him. She's dressed in a white coat with a long, round hat, and smoking a black cigarette on a long, white stem.

And she is as beautiful and terrible as ever.

He smiles. She does not smile back. He drops the smile and walks towards her, hoping this will be over quickly.

"You are late," the woman says as soon as he gets within earshot, her accent betraying a German heritage.

"The bus took longer-"

"No excuses, Wen Boxiong. I expect promptness, or have you forgotten?"

"I have not forgotten," he says: "But you told me never to expect to see you again."

"That is still no excuse for being late," she says, tapping her cigarette out. The smell of it excites his senses -- sweet, earthy tobacco with just the slightest hint of something else.

"No, it is not. I am sorry."

She smiles, puts her cigarette holder away, and pats his cheek: "I accept your apology. I am sure you were just confused, after all these years. You clearly have forgotten a few things."

"And some things I have not forgotten," he says, holding his hand to where she touched him: "And never will."

"I am glad to hear that," she says, taking his other hand in hers: "I am sure you were hurt by how I ended things."

"Yes," he admits.

"And I am sure that, being hurt, you were angry."

"I could not be-"

"Do not lie to me, Wen," she says, squeezing the hand in all the right spots to create an intense flare of pain: "You never could then and you cannot now."

"Yes," he admits, yanking his hand away and holding it: "I was angry. I still am."

"But you came, anyway."

"If I did not come, then the next time I saw you there would be no chance to talk."

"No," she says, smiling: "I suppose not. Do you still fear me?"

"Yes."

"Do you still want to fuck me?"

That word. The way she says "!@#$," like it had just been invented and unveiled for the first time. A million sense-memories exploding in his mind, like fireworks. Pain and pleasure, completion and rejection, love and hate. 

Having it all and then watching it leave him.

"Yes," he breathes, closing his eyes and letting her scent overtake him.

"Well then," she says, turning and indicating that he should follow: "That's a start, at least."

* * *

They walk in silence, for a time, until they are all alone on a path.

She lets him kiss her, then -- hard on the mouth. She places his hands under her coat, revealing that she's not wearing anything under it. She lets him explore her, there, under her coat, his hands and heart building to an amazing crescendo of desire.

And then, just as he might be wanting to pull out his !@#$ and put it inside her, she jabs a very long, very thin, glass needle right under his breastbone, and into his heart.

He gasps in surprise, but not pain. Oddly enough there is no pain, any more than there is blood.

But the look in her eyes is terrifying. There is no love or warmth there, anymore. Merely hate.

"You betrayed me," she states, simply: "You took the thing that I gave you and gave it to another."

"Yes," he says, knowing that it would not be a good idea to lie, right now.

"You told an outsider about what was locked down in those files I gave you dominion over."

"Yes... I did-"

"I want you to tell me why you did this."

He hesitates for a moment, and she nudges the glass needle ever so slightly. The pain it produces is explosive, and for a second he almost screams. But she clamps her other hand over his mouth before he can, somehow holding him up and in place with just one arm.

"No lies," she says: "Nothing held back. It is not yet too late for you to live through this. But I want you to tell me everything, even if I do not ask for it. Do you understand?"

He nods. Oh yes, does he ever understand.

And as soon as she takes her hand from his mouth, he tells her everything she wants to know.

* * *

Later, when Wen Boxiong gets back to his apartment, he only gets as far as his living room before he falls to his knees and vomits. He does this for what seems like hours, wracked by horrible chest pain as he does. And when he has thrown up everything in his gullet he cries and sobs for what seems hours more.

He told her everything. He told her about the American President. He told her about SPYGOD. He told her about their interest in Unit 731. 

!@#$ him to !@#$, he even told her why they wanted to know.

And when it was all done, and there was no more left to tell, she just looked at him, pulled the needle out of his heart as swiftly as she'd pushed it in, and left him to writhe in pain on the path.

"You will never see me again," she said, licking the blood from the needle: "I won't bother to kill you. You have done a good enough job of that already."

"Please..." he whimpered, holding out a hand: "I love you..."

"You do not even know what that word means," she hissed, stamping her foot onto his chest. He screamed and collapsed into a ball, mewling in pain. And when he finally came to, she was long gone.

No, he will never see her again. He knows this. And it would have been kinder if she'd just killed him.

But she might tell the Imago of what she now knows. She might want to do a deal with them. She may want to bring the entire arrangement crashing down around Wen Boxiong's head.

Can he tell the President? Should he? Does he dare risk SPYGOD's anger?

He doesn't know what to do, now, except to cry.

And so he does.

* * *

On the outskirts of Beijing, late that night, a woman in a white coat looks up at the sky, focusing on the stars.

Inside the city, you can't see a !@#$ thing, up above all the reflected light. Even out here it's hard to make it all out, with the clouds and smog. But at least it's a better view than in there, and even that's a better view than she'd have ever gotten back home.

Home. It seems a million lifetimes ago, now. She thinks of everything about it that she's missed, and tried to replicate here, and finds herself tearing up a little.

So she closes her eyes on her tears, and opens her mind up.

Are you there, my love? she asks her partner, who, though he may be halfway around the world from her, is always just one directed thought away: (REDACTED), are you there?

I am, Geri Yesterday, comes the languorous reply: I am a little busy, though. The three toys I brought back to my room are proving to be most distracting.

I'm sure, she says, luxuriating in the sensual backwash she's getting from the edges of his mind: But please, lover, don't call me that, anymore. That role is done, now. 

As mine should be-

Not quite, she thinks, feeling his pleasure as he watches the life slip slowly from one of his "toys": I have just learned some disturbing things from one of my old tools. 

Let me guess, lover, he replies: my damn twin is still in play, after all?

Yes, she says, somehow not surprised that he knew this, or kept this knowledge from her: And he's learned about the connection between the people we bargained with and the information that was hidden here, in China. 

I think he's learned about the Object, too, he says, sensing her curiosity at his motives, and doing his best to block them from her: He may have an idea on how they all fit together.

That could be a problem.

I don't fucking think so. So what if he destroys these metal-clad aliens? We'll still get what we need-

I'm not convinced. They may not have told us everything we need to know to make the device work. And if he manages to destroy them...

... then we won't know for certain until we activate it at home, he finishes her thought: That is a concern.

Especially since, once they're gone from this world, we won't have anywhere else to go if the device doesn't work.

You know, you really do know how to ruin a perfectly good artfuck, love, he sighs, killing the other two without much panache or pleasure: Where is (REDACTED)?

I do not know where your twin is. 

Find out for me?

I think you can find that out on your own, lover, she says, smiling: Consider it due payment for not telling me what you knew, before.

A fair price, he chuckles: Are you going to tell those metal fucks what you've learned, then? 

The line goes dead in his mind, and the SPYGOD from Alter-Earth shrugs, knowing that the !@#$ he's been sharing a mission -- and occasionally a bed -- with for almost an entire century will do whatever the !@#$ she's going to do.

As for him, he'll get on the trail of his unknowing enemy in the morning. But for now, there's art to make of these three, dead toys.

And he's not going to stop until he's convinced the most horror-hardened member of Capetown's police force will cry for hours after seeing what he's done with them.

(SPYGOD is listening to Splintered In Her Head (The Cure) and having a Naale Stoutbeer)

9/29/12 - Bodies In Motion - Pt. 2 - As the Man Slipped Away

In the dream, she's running. 

She bolts down corridor after corridor, following an uncertain trail of opening doors. Her muscles ache. Her feet hurt. Her eyes are so wet with tears it's a wonder she can see where she's going. 

And every time she looks back she sees more and more things coming to catch her. 

So she runs, going from door to door in an endless maze of long halls. Sometimes she wakes up just before they catch her, and sometimes just after. Sometimes she gets out, and sometimes she doesn't.

But this time she's actually gone full circle, and has run right back to where she started running from. 

This time, she remembers. 

* * *

As soon as Myron wakes up, that morning, he knows it's over. 

In the couple of weeks since they started sharing a bed, he's become quite accustomed to Winifred's nightmares. He knows that, after they fall asleep, she will sleep soundly for quite a while, but then, sometime before dawn, she will start twitching and moaning. This will go on for at least a half hour, maybe longer, and then she will either awake with a harsh gasp, or else stop twitching, and slowly open her eyes. 

If she slowly opens her eyes, he knows it's okay to put his arms around her, and let her ease back into his embrace, and possibly fall asleep again. If she awakens with a gasp, he knows that he needs to back off for a bit, and let her be the one to come to him. If she opens her eyes, she might want sex, eventually; if she gasps, she'd better not even think he's got morning wood.

It was a little touch-and-go at first, but eventually they figured it out, and made it work. She forgave his early, fumbling mistakes, and he got to the point where he actually woke up just before she went into a nightmare, and was able to be there for her when she came out of it. It was a small, little secret they shared (much like this affair) that added to the intimacy between them. 

And that's why he knows something has changed, that morning. Because for the first time since they started sleeping together, he did not wake up before she went into a nightmare. 

For the first time since then, he's actually woken up with the alarm, and the sun's rays coming in through the window.

She's sitting on the bed, nude, with her arms wrapped around her chest. She's facing the window, and either look out of it, or at the floor. And she's clearly been crying, but not any longer.

He reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. She lets him, but she does not turn and curl into him, the way she normally would. 

Myron doesn't know what to say. Thankfully, she does.

"I remember, now," she says, her voice hoarse from sobbing: "I remember everything that happened."

He closes his eyes and tries not to cry. 

* * *

It's five before Ten PM in Lakeside, Ohio, and the small waves lap at the shoreline. The New Moon hangs overhead, dark and unlovely, and the stars are wispy, unimpressive things tonight. 

A perfect night for a break-in.

Winifred checks her neoprene suit one more time, ensuring that everything she needs is on her person, somewhere. With that, she puts on a hooded scuba mask, grabs the bodyboard she brought with her, and slips into the water, as quietly as possible. 

It's less than five miles from here to Kelleys Island. If she's careful, she can make it there just around Midnight, which is when certain things stop happening on that small chunk of land, if the information she's received is correct. And then it's a similar swim back to shore, or maybe faster if she can steal a boat.

She may have to, depending on what shape poor Dagworth is in. 

"Do not come looking for me," he had insisted. Well !@#$ that. You don't just write a final letter like that and then say to stay away. The big-boned boy has a lot to answer for.

And Winifred is going to make certain he does. 

* * *

"We were trying to find out where they'd !@#$ing taken all the special ed kids," Winifred explains to Mark and the Fist, as they talk out on a small veranda, up near the top of the treehouse: "Dagworth and me, I mean."

"Special ed?" The Fist asks, not certain of the term's meaning.

"Special education" Mark says, taking a drink of the iced tea they've been using to stay hydrated: "Students with mental handicaps, mostly. They put them in separate classes so they get better attention and don't fall behind."

"All the mental ones were taken someplace," Winifred goes on, nodding, her eyes hollow: "Supposedly to make sure they got better schooling. Maybe even healed, from the way they said it. But that sounded like bull!@#$."

"So you looked into it."

"Yeah, but all the bus drivers could tell us was that they dropped them off at a state border, or somewhere. Then the Imago took 'em, but they had no idea where they went, then. Didn't !@#$ing care either, the jerks."

"So you and Dagworth figured out where they went?"

"He learned that the ones from Ohio were taken off to Kelley's Island, close to Cedar Point."

"What's that?" he asks.

"!@#$ty amusement park," she says, scratching her hairline: "Do go there. The rides suck."

"Good to know," Mark chuckles, glad for a moment of levity.

"So he went up there and find out what happened to them. He tried, once, but the cops caught him and took him back. So he went up there again."

"I know you've said that, before," Mark says, leaning in close: "And I know that you couldn't remember what happened past a certain point."

"I remember it all now," she says, staring off into space: "I remember everything."

And as she starts to talk, she wishes that Myron was here with her, to hold her. But she knows that if he was, she'd just retreat into his embrace, and go no further. She'd decline to remember, and begin to truly forget, and what she had to say would be left to rot in her mind along with other old wounds, long since fading and forgotten.

No more retreating, then -- there's been more than enough of that. 

It's time to go forward. 

* * *

As she swims towards the island, she focuses on the one light that's on, there.

It's a large, strange structure, not far from the southern shore. It looks like a conglomeration of white cubes, all stacked on top of one another in asymmetrical, almost gravity-defying patterns. The light pulses and shifts, vacillating between light pastel pink, green, and purple to become a weird and unwholesome new hue. 

She thinks of an old Lovecraft story, and shakes it from her head. She doesn't have time for spook stories, now. She has to save her friend, and then find out what the !@#$ has been going on, here.

Invigorated, she paddles faster for the shoreline, certain that she can get there on time. 

 * * *

"I got there a little after Midnight. The guys I was in contact with told me that's when the lights in the !@#$ing building went down, and stayed that way for a few. I thought that might be when they changed guards, or something."

"Did you see any guards?" The Fist asks.

"Yeah, but they weren't Imago. They wore dark one-piece jumpsuits and mirrored helmets. Carried huge guns, too. The kind you see in Anime all the time."

"Gauss guns," Mark surmises: "So they were probably False Faces. Specials they took the armor off of, probably."

"Maybe. I didn't see any of them up close, so I didn't see if they had skull faces. I didn't hear any of them talk, either. They just marched around the !@#$ buildings and houses, patrolling."

"And, of course, they did not see you," The Fist says, smiling and tapping her hand close to Winifred's: "You were too clever for them."

"!@#$ that. I think I was lucky," Winifred sighs, uncomfortable with the complement: "I think I had help."

* * *

The white building's base is the center of a parade of guards, all going this way and that, scanning the brush and buildings endlessly as they flock like birds. 

Hiding between two buildings, Winifred's heart sinks to see that many of them, there. She wonders how she can possibly get past them and get in. And then, how is she supposed to get back out, again...?

With little or no warning, a group of them break off from the main bunch and begin to walk in her direction. She shudders, and then slips into an open side door in the tourist shop to her right. She closes it and locks it behind her, but knows that it won't hold them off too long if they were actually looking for her.

As she scrambles for a place to hide, she notices that the same light that's coming from the building is coming from underneath a door in the back of the main room. She goes to it and flings it open, finding a rude stairwell going down into a basement. The pulsing light is strong, down there, so she closes the door behind her and tiptoes down the stairs, hoping she's found a way in. 

As it turns out, she has. In the basement is a large white box, very much like the ones the building is made of. It's about six feet to a side, and pulsing as if lit from within.

When she reaches out to touch it, her arm goes through the material as though it wasn't there. She puzzles over this for a moment, wondering what this could be. But when she hears the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked in, upstairs, she follows through into the cube.

In the cube is nothing but the light, and it's so bright she can barely see herself within it. She cannot hear anything from upstairs, so she hides there for a time. When she hears nothing for ten minutes, she decides she's been here long enough, and tries to go back the way she came, but cannot -- a heavy, dull wall lies between her and freedom, now.

She moves her hands along its surface, trying to find a way out. She follows around to the side, and then almost falls through the side opposite the one she came in. 

And when she moves through it, she finds herself in a long, white, rectangular corridor, leading to a white wall that looks cracked like an eggshell. 

* * *

"I think it was a teleporter, or something," Winifred says: "Maybe an emergency exit. Why it wasn't guarded, I don't know. But I went through it, and when I went into the hallway on the other side, I realized that the cracked wall at the end was a door."

"Did you go through it?"

"I did. It opened into another hallway, kind of a T-junction, and there were doors at both ends. I decided to go right, because its door was closer. That and I thought I heard someone coming the other way."

"What was behind the door?" Mark asks, seeing that Winifred's becoming very pale. 

"A... a room..."

"And what did you find in the room, my dear?" The Fist asks.

Winifred hitches a breath.

* * *

Inside the large, square room are many white cubes, maybe four feet to a side. Inside each cube is a person, standing up -- coming right out of the top of the cube as though it wasn't there.

They're all naked and alive, these people. Their eyes are closed, and they are clearly asleep. The air smells of unwashed skin, strange chemicals, and human waste. 

Winifred moves amongst them, wondering what this is. Hopefully it's a prison of some kind. If it's anything else...

Eventually, she moves with a purpose. She looks for Dagworth, hoping she can recognize him from the old photo she found in that back issue of  FC. She also wonders how many rooms like this there are, and how long she can remain lucky enough to not run into any Imago before-

She hears them coming before she sees them. She drops behind a cube and holds her breath, hoping they didn't catch a glimpse of her as the wall opened up just as she ducked down.

"How many are suitable in here?" one of them asks the other.

"I estimate twenty are suitable for transference," the other says: "The remainder are too intelligent or strong-willed to make good vessels."

"Then they can go to the Overmind."

"Yes, I think so," the first one says: "We shall process them, and then see to our recharging."

"That is an excellent idea," the other replies. 

They walk away, but the wall does not close behind them. Instead, the boxes in the room begin to move of their own accord, all heading for the open space in single-file lines.

She moves with the one she's behind, desperately hoping to stay under cover as all her available hiding places go into a large, white area, filled with many strange lights and sounds.

And hoarse, sudden shouts.

* * *

"... the boxes moved in two different directions," Winifred continues, becoming as pale as one of the boxes she is talking about: "I went with the one that led away from the Imago. They were all over on the right side of the room, receiving boxes. I couldn't see what they were doing at first, but..."

She stops, and is silent for a time. The Fist reaches out and takes hold of her hands, looking her in the eyes.

"You do not have to continue, if you do not wish it, sister," she says: "We can talk more later-"

"If I don't say this now, it won't !@#$ing get said," Winifred insists, gritting her teeth: "I've sat on it long enough. You have to know what we're !@#$ing dealing with."

"One word at a time, then," Mark says: "What happened in that room?"

* * *

The line of boxes Winifred's hiding behind makes a sudden, 90-degree angle turn to the right, and she leaps to a different side, so as to have the box between her and the Imago at the other side of the room.

As she leaps, she sees what is happening over there.

Each box going that way is looked at by an Imago, who holds up a large, metal ball, maybe twice as large as a basketball. Each ball is striped with two colors. 

The Imago looks at the person in the box, and does one of two things. It either gestures, and then the box moves out of line, and heads over to the boxes where she is, or else holds the ball forward, and touches the person's chest with it.

The second the ball touches the chest of the person in the box, that person wakes up, and shouts as if surprised. A half second later, the ball unspools into metal ribbons, which begin to wrap themselves around the person's body like bandages. A two-colored, metal exoskeleton is created -- its lines and contours as distinctly different as a fingerprint.

At the center of the ribbons is a white, pulsing ball of light. It latches onto the chest of the person, and then leaps up into their mouth. Their eyes, nose, and mouth flare up with its bright light, and the body shakes and shivers.

And then, the body is still, and the person takes a deep breath, extends out their hands, and greets the Imago that made them. The white cube they stood in evaporates as they step out, and get into the group of Imago on the other side of the room. 

And then they get right to work making even more Imago, pulling metal spheres from a large, white cube that's just full of them...

Winfield sees this happen three or four times as she moves along with her line of boxes. But then the boxes start and stop in their motion, as the line has reached a wall, and the wall opens to admit only one person, and then closes, and then opens to admit another.

In the room beyond are terrible smells -- blood and bones and guts. They're the kind of smells she associates with the dis-assembly line her family created when it came time to harvest her grandparents' chickens.

The wall opens one more time, right in front of her. She can see the box that went in before the one that's being let in now. White, disembodied hands float around it, holding strange lights and sharp instruments. 

The person who was in that box no longer has the top of her head. Blood is spraying from the freshly-cut wound and the cap of the skull is being dropped down into the box. The wet and pulsing brain is being placed into a small, white cube.

Winifred screams.

* * *

"I couldn't !@#$ing help it," she says, holding her head in her hands: "It just... it took me by surprise, that's all."

Mark has turned white and is biting into his knuckles, trying not to scream or be sick. He has no idea how The Fist is doing, given that she covers, but she's gripping Winifred's hands so tight it's a wonder they don't break.

"I just ran," she continues, eyes screwed shut and voice shaking: "I !@#$ing screamed and I ran. And I couldn't run back the way I came so I ran ahead, right into that room where the hands were..."

"Oh dear God," Mark says, having the horrible feeling he knows what's going to happen next.

* * *

She gallops right past the hands, which are clearly too busy with the person they're carving up to deal with her.

She runs ahead of the line of white boxes, all carrying a dying body that bleeds and bleeds but cannot fall down dead. 

The boxes all go down a small, white corridor that gets smaller as it goes along. 

As it gets to the end, boxes allow the bodies to fall down into them, and then the corridor is only as tall and as wide as a box, and Winifred has to crawl behind one, weeping and screaming as she does.

The boxes go along for a time in that tight and claustrophobic area. The only light is coming from the boxes, themselves. 

Winifred thinks she hears noises, ahead, but isn't sure what they could be. She also smells something truly terrible, and realizes that it's the smell of decay.

And then she's falling into space, behind a box that's gone right out of a door and is plummeting onto a pile of dead bodies at the bottom of a square, earthen pit.

The box she's following evaporates as it falls, and then there's nothing but a bloody, naked body in front of her. It turns ever so slightly, showing her that the skull is missing above the nose, making it truly grotesque. 

The corpse thuds atop the steaming, wet pile of similar cadavers. The other half of its head strikes a second later, and bounces off and away, heading for the bottom of the pile.

Winifred thuds right into that body, and begins to slide down in the blood and other unwholesome fluids that make it glisten.

And as she falls, and vomits, and tries to scream but finds she can no longer draw in that much breath, another body falls right onto her.

Everything goes a merciful, quiet black. 

* * *

"I was there for an entire day," Winifred says, after a rather lengthy pause: "I woke up the next night because I heard the !@#$ machines going again. I don't know why they didn't come after me. Maybe they figured I was dead, or wasn't !@#$ing getting out again, anyway.

"The place was deep and full of !@#$ing corpses. A lot of them were rotten. No flies, though. Just decay. !@#$ weird, but I didn't notice, then.

"I got up and started looking for a way out. It was a white cube, like the other buildings, it just had a dirt floor with a huge pit dug. So I crawled up and out of the hole, and started banging the walls, looking for an exit.

"And as I was crawling up and out, that's when I saw him."

"Dagworth?" Mark asks.

"Yeah," Winifred says: "Dagworth."

* * *

It takes her a moment to realize that the person whose body she's crawled up to get out of the pit is the person she's come to find. He doesn't have anything above his nose, anymore, after all. 

But she recognizes his chin. She sees the mole there. And she sees his portly body, and the emergency appendectomy scar he talked about. The dogbite on his left knee.

(His tiny, shrunken !@#$ he joked about.)

She sees these things and howls, too far gone to !@#$ing care if anyone hears or sees her. 

Let them come. Let them try and lay a hand on her. She will kill them with her teeth, her fists, her fury.

She will kill them with hate.  

* * *

"The next thing I remember, I'm back in Lakeside," Winifred says: "I think I got back two days after I !@#$ing left. The people who found me say I was walking about buck-!@#$ naked, white as a sheet. No ID, no money, no nothing."

"And you don't remember how you got there?" The Fist asks, still holding onto her hands.

"I don't remember swimming. I don't remember how I got from the building to the shore. I don't !@#$ing remember any of that. But..."

"What do you remember?" Mark asks. 

"I think I remember... when I was trying to get out of that room with the bodies, and running my hands over the walls, one of them just opened up."

"Really?" The Fist asks.

"Yeah. Just opened up. And I... I don't know for sure? But I think I heard Dagworth's voice. He told me to run."

"An angel, maybe," Mark says: "Or a ghost-"

"Or maybe I !@#$ing imagined it," Winifred says, leaning back in her chair and wiping her eyes: "Or maybe it came from a speaker in the wall. And that's what I think happened. They grabbed him for something called a !@#$ing Overmind and now he's part of it, and he saw me and let me go."

Mark and the Fist look at each other, and then they look back at her.

"I'm okay," she says, closing her eyes: "I know what I'm saying. I hate leaving it at that, but that's all I !@#$ing remember."

"That's more than enough," Mark says, getting to his feet: "I need... I have to tell the leader about this. This changes everything."

"You do that," The Fist says, looking up at him: "I will look after her."

"I don't need you to look after me-"

"I need to look after you," The Fist insists: "I do not want you to be alone, now."

"I said I'm !@#$ing fine!" Winfield screams, but she can't get up. The Fist is too strong, even without her powers. And as Winfield struggles to be free, and The Fist stops her from even getting out of her chair, her facade cracks, and -- tired of arguing and remembering and being so !@#$ing brav -- she finally breaks down in The Fist's arms, and allows herself to fall apart.

Mark leaves just as Winfield really starts crying. As he does, he almost trips over Myron, who's been waiting out in the hall the entire time.

"Is she okay?" he asks, somewhat sheepishly.

"She's gonna be fine," Mark says, clapping a hand on his shoulder: "But I'd really like you with me on this one when we report in, Myron. It's... well, it's pretty bad."

"I heard most of it," Myron replies, putting his sunglasses on, maybe so no one can see the look in his eyes: "That's going to make some things more difficult."

"Maybe a little easier, too?" Mark says, and then explains. And it's to Myron's credit that, as he explains, he's able to think more and more of what needs to be done, and less and less of the Winfield-shaped hole that's just formed in his heart.

But he knows it's over, now. He knows tonight he will be coming home to an empty bed. He knows the next time he sees her, she will look at him differently, and talk to him differently, and that their small jokes and code words and promises are all gone, now -- evaporated like those white boxes in the Imago surgery.

He realizes she has slipped away from him, now. This was only ever going to be temporary, and maybe he knew this and maybe he didn't. But now it's been proven, and he's living it.

And !@#$ the world for letting it happen like this.

(SPYGOD is listening to La Ment (The Cure) and drinking tears.)

9/28/12 - Bodies In Motion - Pt. 1 - Descent

The train from St. Petersburg to Moscow is swift and sure, not to mention filled to the brim with people that SPYGOD would rather not be talking to, right now.

He and the ex-President of Russia are sitting in their well-furnished cabin, trying to relax after a rather trying day. Not only did they have to avoid all police, emergency workers, soldiers, surveillance cameras, television screens, and advertisement boards, but the nature of their disguise meant that the captive had to appear to be guiding the captor the entire time. Which necessitated a very long, slow, and complicated route to the Red Arrow station, taken almost completely on foot. 

It's just as well that the daily train doesn't leave until a half hour before Midnight, then. And now that they're en-route, they can finally rest, if only a little. SPYGOD's still a little worried they may have been made at the station, and is half-expecting a metal man to appear from nowhere and ask for their tickets.

(He's also wondering when a certain effect is going to wear off on his captive, which could make for some interesting complications, come the morning when they arrive in Moscow.)

Still, the last time he rode this train he was disguised just like this -- a blind and elderly veteran -- and very fearful of being discovered. So this is not only nothing new, but something of a nostalgia trip for him.

"How are you doing, Valentina?" He asks his companion, who sighs and adjusts her headscarf.

"Nauseated," 'Valentina' says, her voice a strange, squeaky amalgam of genders: "Also very achy and sore in uncomfortable places. Did we have to use that !@#$ing gun?"

"No, we didn't," SPYGOD says, dropping his thick, medicinal sunglasses and winking: "But I gotta admit, I was always wondering what you'd look like with !@#$s and no !@#$."

"Please tell me you are joking."

"Yes. Well, mostly."

'Valentina' sighs, closing her lizardy eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose: "I wish you would take this seriously."

"Oh, I am. You see, the transpistol also changes your !@#$ genes, which means they won't !@#$ing identify you on a retinal or DNA scan."

The ex-President blinks: "I did not know that."

"And it also heals up most tissue damage, which is why no one's going to ask me why I've been !@#$ing beating my lovely, young wife."

"Not so young," the wo/man sighs, looking out the dark window as the outskirts of St. Petersburg hurtles by.

"No, I guess not," SPYGOD says: "Not so lovely, either."

"No."

"But at least it'll keep people from asking too many !@#$ing questions, which I'm sure you can appreciate?"

The ex-president looks at her captor, nods, and then leans back in her seat, perhaps trying to get some sleep.  

SPYGOD gets up and checks the door one more time, then he looks around using his other senses, and only then does he allow himself to relax just a bit more. He plops down on his seat, puts his feet up on the table that divides the cabin, and looks out the window.

"Nice !@#$ing night for it, anyway," he says: "We'll be in Moscow by morning, and then we can see about taking the Express."

"And getting out in Yekaterinburg," she says, eyes still closed: "Unless I can persuade you that this is not a good idea."

"You tried."

"I did, yes-"

"And it hurt."

"Yes... it did."

"And that's only a tenth of what you !@#$ing deserve, 'Valentina,'" SPYGOD says, pointing a finger in her direction: "The way I see it, you're getting off !@#$ lightly."

"Really."

"Yeah. Be glad I don't have any !@#$ing polonium around. I'd shove it up your !@#$ and leave it there while you change back. Gods only know where it'd wind up, then."

"You know, you really must stop this," the ex-President says, opening his eyes and looking right into SPYGOD's.

"Stop what?"

"This useless posturing. These threats. Do you really feel that they make you appear fearsome, or frightening?"

"It !@#$ing works pretty well, I think-"

"Yes. You think it does. Others? They are not so generous."

"Says the man who sang like a !@#$ing canary when I threatened his-"

"Any man worth that name will do what he has to when threatened just so," the wo/man says, leaning forward and steepling her hands over her lap: "You should understand this well, given how much you think and act with it."

"I wouldn't know, pal. It just !@#$ing grows back."

"Yes, I had heard," she says with a subtle smile: "And being immortal, within certain limits, you must forget how it feels to be so small, and so limited. You forget that it is not necessary to make a million large and unwieldy threats towards a person. You need only make one, provided it is the right one."

"Something you're !@#$ing intimately familiar with."

"Indeed," 'Valentina' says: "And you as well."

"Oh, we are not playing this game-"

"What game?"

"The 'we're the same' game, you stupid !@#$. I am not you."

"Aren't you?" the ex-President asks: "How many of your enemies have you killed, over the years?"

"A !@#$-ton. But they were enemies, you leering !@#$stain. They weren't dissidents and journalists. They weren't kids who didn't know any better. And they sure as !@#$ weren't political rivals-"

"You say 'political rival.' But you are a man who lives in a country where, if two persons want the same position, it is a strange and terrible thing if one kills the other. In Russia, it is a strange thing if you do not have to put the other man out of the way, one way or another. Because if you will not do it, he will."

"Oh that's !@#$-"

"Is it? You know our history. Always we have been ruled by a man with an iron fist. The only difference is what authority he claims to pick it up. We have been ruled by Tsars, Premiers, and now Presidents and Prime Ministers. All of us have had to kill to get to where we are, now. All of us have had to use that fist."

"And that makes everything you ever did alright?"

The woman looks askance, and then leans back and shrugs: "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I have prided myself in that I am nowhere near as bad a man as some of the people who could have ruled instead of me."

"I'm sure your victims feel soooo !@#$ing good about that."

The ex-President shrugs again, and looks out the window as another train rolls by: "You know, sometimes, in my dreams, I find myself on a train, like this. I am a small child, and I look across the way as a train goes in the other direction.

"And at every window, looking at me, there is the face of someone I have hurt. Someone who died because of me, either because I killed them or let them be killed, or because I could have held out my hand and stopped their death but did not.

"All these people, on that train. So many cars. So long a train. And I know that, one day, when I die, it will be the dream, only I will not be on another train.

"I will get on to that train, and I will have to walk through it, and be re-introduced to all of them.

"I have done many things. Terrible things. But I always judged them necessary. And one day, when I have to answer for them, I will say-"

"Oh !@#$ off," SPYGOD hisses, leaning across the table and jabbing the ex-President in the left eye with his finger. The woman gasps and holds her hand to her face, astonished at how much that actually hurt.

"This is the deal, pal," SPYGOD continues, hoping he didn't damage his young, lovely "wife" more than necessary: "There is no !@#$ing answering. There is no explaining, no tribunal. You do not get up to the pair of pearly gates and try to weasel your way into the nightclub like some twink who forgot the !@#$ing dress code.

"You do not get to talk to anyone.

"What happens is this -- you die, and you go where you're supposed to. And maybe it's someplace nice, and maybe not. And maybe you come right back, and maybe you stand in line for a hundred years or so. And maybe you transcend all this, and maybe you !@#$ing wink out of existence like someone turned your !@#$ lights off.

"But you don't get to explain !@#$, 'Valentina.' What you did and why you did it is all the explaining anyone needs, and it's all you get, too."

With that, SPYGOD goes back to his seat, scowling and staring a ragged, hot hole through the middle of his traveling companion's forehead.

The ex-president eventually stops gasping in pain, and tries to examine the damage to his eye as nonchalantly as possible. It's going to be red and nasty looking the next day, but maybe the next shot from the transpistol will fix that, too.

It's certainly done its job, so far.

As for SPYGOD, hopped up on glass after glass of strong, tooth-eroding tea, he stays awake all night long, alternating between looking out the window and looking at his captive. At some point he becomes aware that the transpistol's effects have reversed, and that she is now he, once more.

"You're a really ugly woman," he says. His captive snores a little louder at that.

Every so often, when another train goes by, SPYGOD can't help but wonder if there's a train full of angry ghosts out there, waiting for him, too. But then, he knows how that really works, now. After what happened on that strange, parallel Earth's future, just after he used the ultimate weapon, he saw what truly comes after.

And what he saw there...

"You'll all get your due," he says, closing his eyes for a moment: "But you're just gonna have to !@#$ing wait. This world comes first, and then you."

There's no answer, but then he wouldn't expect there to be.

And he has another glass of tea, waiting for the sun to cry morning, again.


(SPYGOD is listening to Descent (The Cure) and having some good, strong tea)

9/27/12 - You Talked Until Your Tongue Fell Out

Well, it took a lot of doing, and a lot of !@#$ excellent arguments, and a lot of hits to the face, chest, and groin. But I have at long last secured the full !@#$ing cooperation of the ex-President of Russia, who is going to be very !@#$ happy to take me where I need to go.

Just as soon as his face heals enough to go out in public, anyway.

Not one of my prouder moments, son. Bad enough I had to blow that ex-President's metal-skinned bodyguard's !@#$ing brains out on my way into his so-called safehouse...

Well, that was actually fun. And long overdue. I kind of owed the first Soviet Steel some revenge for having been replaced by a !@#$ing spoil-sport, a shifty user, and a !@#$ shady character, respectively.

But bad enough I had to threaten to tear pieces off of that ex-President's dead, metal-skinned bodyguard, melt them down on his super-expensive stove, and pour a molten stream of it down his gaping !@#$hole, or right down the shaft of his open !@#$, before he finally caved in and told me he'd help.

He's resting comfortably in the other room, right now. I duct-taped some ice bags to his !@#$ face and wrapped his head up like a !@#$ing mummy. Then I put him in front of the television, tied him to the chair, and popped in a DVD of "Pink Flamingos" that I'd been saving for just such an occasion.

And I figure, him being a hard man and all, he'll make it as far as the dog turd scene before begging me to turn it the !@#$ off, and then find out that he can't !@#$ing talk, right now.

(I !@#$ing hate John Waters, but his !@#$ does make good coercion material. Just don't tell him that. I really don't need to inflate that sorry hack's !@#$ flaccid ego any further than it already is.)

Now, son, I know you're a kind-hearted sort of person. I know you're sitting there, listening to me go on about torture and physical coercion. And I know you're !@#$ing wondering "SPYGOD, what the !@#$ is wrong with you?"

And I'd say "What the !@#$ do you mean, kid?"

To which you might reply "Using torture to get information? That's un-American. And self-defeating."

And I'd say "You know what, son? You're god!@#$ed right."

And you would be, too.

What's with the open mouth, son? Stop !@#$ing looking at me like I told you I'm Mother Teresa in drag. I agree with you. You're right. Torture is self-defeating, and that's why I never !@#$ing use it to gain information.

I mean, seriously, son. If you got some guy locked up, and you need to know what he knows, and the way you get it out of him is to !@#$ him up and make him hurt, then maybe he'll tell you what he knows. Sooner or later he'll probably !@#$ing tell you everything he knows, just to make the hurting stop.

Now, is what you want to know among the things he knows? Well, maybe it is and maybe it isn't. But the answers and information you're !@#$ing looking for don't just magically appear in his brain because you tore his !@#$ing fingernails off, or waterboarded him for ten whole !@#$ing hours. If he doesn't know, he doesn't know.

But if you keep it up, he'll talk. !@#$, sooner or later he'll !@#$ing tell you anything you want to hear, as long as you can make the hurting stop.

It just might not be true, is all.

And that's why torture is next to useless as an interrogation tool, son. Because we're not !@#$ing stupid. Sooner or later we realize that if the only way to make the !@#$ pain end is to tell the person with the hammer and nails that we do know where so and so is, or that yes, the bomb's going to be on that plane, or that Al Qaeda does have a presence in Honolulu, in fact they run the local roller disco, then we are going to tell you that.

We'll tell you anything you want to hear. Anything you want to know. Just stop hurting me.

Please just stop.

So what the !@#$ happens? You get your info, go check it out, and sure enough your special guest lied to you. So you pull out the rest of his fingernails and make him eat dog !@#$, and then he tells you more things you want to hear. And then you go and find out that wasn't !@#$ing true, either.

And sooner or later you either kill the poor SOB, because he lied to you, or you realize that he never knew anything in the first place, and just lock him up, somewhere, and hope those wussies in Amnesty International don't start writing him !@#$ing letters in prison.

End result? One physically and mentally damaged prisoner in a cell, one !@#$ of a lot of wasted time and effort on your end, and the potential that, one day, you will find yourself in a cell, too, for gross human rights violations. 

And the thing is that it's so !@#$ing unnecessary, especially in this day and age.

The best kind of torture is purely psychological, son. Like the blindfold-meatball-eyeball trick I play on people. You scare them enough, and make them think they're !@#$ing dealing with some !@#$ crazy son of a !@#$, sooner or later they'll do anything to cooperate. Especially if they think you're going to flip out and start removing body parts, or stick nasty, caustic substances in orifices that really weren't !@#$ing meant to take them.

Either that or you get someone who's so !@#$ good that they get you to !@#$ing spill everything you know without even realizing it. This only works if the person actually knows something, of course, but even then it's a good thing to have that sort of skilled interrogator around. At the very least, they can usually corroborate the fact that your prize captive is a !@#$ing know-nothing, right from the get-go.

And if you don't have the presence of mind to do mind tricks, and you want information out of someone bad enough to wipe your !@#$ with the Geneva Conventions, then just bring in a !@#$ing telepath! Have them root around the person's noggin for a little while, and then you'll have all the !@#$ information you wanted in the first place.

Of course, that's provided you got a good telepath, rather than somebody who's got the power but none of the talent. It's also provided your chosen target for telepathic invasion isn't skilled in psychic defenses, or doesn't have !@#$ing brainbombs stuck in their noggin, ready to blow their skulls apart if they detect some serious, directed digging through their memories.

And that's also provided you want to skirt the !@#$ Geneva Convention, anyway. Because, believe it or not, son it turns out that using telepathic powers to interrogate someone is just as bad as torture, at least in their eyes.

(I don't think the people who wrote those conventions have been been !@#$ing waterboarded, or maybe saw that !@#$ing Scanners movie too many !@#$ times.)

 Of course, if worse comes to worse, you can always bust out a !@#$ N-Machine on them. And I know we've talked about that, son. Several !@#$ing times, I'm sure.

But even that's not a sure-fire solution. For one thing, do you know how much !@#$ing information your brain holds? It could take months to find out the answer to a simple, single question, using the tape you get from an N-machine. Maybe even years, if you're really !@#$ unlucky.

And if you're !@#$ing desperate enough to sic one of those things on someone, then you usually don't have the !@#$ing time to wait for some tech to find out which !@#$ string of numbers you've memorized is the abort launch codes for the nuke, now do you?

So no, son. Torture is no way to get information out of someone. It's useless and counterproductive. You can't be sure you're getting the right !@#$ing answer, and sooner or later there's going to be one !@#$ of a bill to pay.

And I can hear you asking me "Well, if that's true, SPYGOD, then why were you beating up the former president of Russia?"

And I'll gladly say "Well, son, that's different."

"What the !@#$ do you mean, SPYGOD?" you may well ask.

And I'll happily tell you that I was torturing him in order to get him to !@#$ing cooperate with me, which is an entirely different thing.

Sure, son. You see, you torture someone to get information, then you're stupid and they could be lying, and maybe you have enough time to find the answers a different way. But if you torture them to get them to cooperate, that's because you're in a tight spot and you really !@#$ing need them to hop to and do what you need. You need them to open the !@#$ door, turn off the !@#$ bomb, show you how to get in... whatever.

And since time is tight and you don't have time to !@#$ around, you punch them a few times and threaten more, or else threaten them with abuse from someone powerful enough to throw a !@#$ tank on them.
 
Now, for some weird !@#$ reason, that's okay. I'm not allowed to put elephant-strength laxatives in your food, or stick a glass rod up your pee-pee hole and smash your !@#$ with a brick, or anything like that to get you to talk. But to get you to walk, as long as I'm not choking you with your own !@#$ing intestines, it's good all-American fun, and Amnesty International has no !@#$ing problem with it.

Go !@#$ing figure, huh?

So that's why it's okay for me to have the former President of Russia getting an extreme makeover in the room next door, son. Because I need him to take me somewhere and show me something that, if we're all !@#$ lucky, will stop me from having to go through with a really !@#$ed-up plan to save the world from the Imago.

And I really, really need to be able to trust that he's not going to do one of his stupid !@#$ing lizard-person doublecrosses on the way there. Because I do not have the time for that !@#$ right now, son.

And, more importantly, neither does the world.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Exploding Boy (The Cure) and having some tasty Russian tapwater)

9/26/12 - Like Falling Angels the World Disappeared

You know, son, I was having a little think to myself, in-between smacking the ex-President of Russia around, in his own safehouse no less. And between punches to the face and appeals to reason, and the occasional trip out to the kitchen to have some more of that fine vodka I got at the museum, yesterday, I realized that it's almost hard to believe that it's been just a little under a !@#$ year since Colonel Khadaffy bit the !@#$ing dirt.

I mean, it's not like the people of Libya have really had a !@#$ing chance to enjoy their freedom, now has it? The Colonel gets his sorry !@#$ planted in late October, after one last, really !@#$ stupid attempt to save his regime, and then it isn't more than half a year later that the !@#$ing Imago take over.

So now, instead of rebuilding their !@#$ing lives, and putting their !@#$ country back together, again, they're having their lives and their nation rebuilt for them, and not exactly by the nicest !@#$ing people around, either.

Of course, if you didn't know any better, and believed everything you saw on the !@#$ing internet, you might think they got lucky, there. And that's because if there's anything that history tells us, and like I've told you at least once before, revolutions are a bloody, nasty !@#$ing business. Everyone who thinks they're oppressed wants one, and then when they get it, they get as !@#$ oppressive as the regime they just !@#$ing toppled.

Now, to be honest, we did see a little of that early on. Any stupid people who were pro-Khadaffy didn't really want to stick their !@#$ necks out and open their mouths after their beloved leader stopped !@#$ing breathing, or they'd have been following him pretty !@#$ quickly. No one likes a !@#$ing spoilsport, you know.

But then, they didn't really have to !@#$ing say anything, either. Most of their friends and neighbors knew who the loyalists were, and you can bet your !@#$ they were kicking in their doors !@#$ quick, not long thereafter. Wanted to have a little word with the people who'd been informing on them, all along, or else just making it harder for them to grumble.

And a few people who weren't loyalists probably got the same !@#$ treatment, because someone wanted revenge, or had a !@#$ score to settle, or just wanted dibs on their car. Which is !@#$ing sick and wrong, but is going to happen whenever people who are nasty as !@#$ and venal to the core see an opening and decide to !@#$ it for all it's worth.

And then the people who got !@#$ed will want to !@#$ the people who !@#$ed them. And then the people who got !@#$ed in return will want to !@#$ them right back. And the longer the !@#$ing Revolution's been overdue, the longer the cycles of revenge will be, and the bigger the ultimate bodycount.

...

So yeah, you might think the people of Libya escaped the whole !@#$ bloody cycle of revolution, provided you didn't know just what evil !@#$ers the Imago actually are. But every revolution's got its winners and losers, son.

And like anyone else, they're usually just standing around, minding their own business, when the world they knew just drops out from under them like the trapdoor under a hanged man.

I've had some cause to think about those folks, in the last couple of days. Mostly thanks to Randolph Scott, you know, my little reporter pal?

Well, since I saved his !@#$, right before everything went right down the !@#$ing toilet, he's been coming quite into his own. Finally learned to use a !@#$ing gun, for one thing, and he and our kids are actually going out and making some news for a change, rather than just reporting it.

I'm pretty !@#$ proud of him, actually, but I'm not telling him. And neither are you, son.

(Not if you know what's !@#$ing good for you, anyway.)

So one of the things that Randolph's been doing is running something of an atrocity archive. Essentially, he's making sure that the stories of ordinary folks who got ground the !@#$ up in the revolution's bloody gears aren't forgotten, or paved over by the brave !@#$ new world the Imago say they're trying to build.

And the other night, when I finally got a reason to report in, I mentally downloaded what he's got going so far. I read a few on the way from Thailand over to St. Petersburg, and I have to tell you, son, they sobered my !@#$ up better than tjbang sticks.

I mean, I like to think I'm a hard man, but when it comes right down to it...

...

Oh, you want a few? Well, I don't have Randolph's way with words, but I guess can tell a story. That and it gives me an excuse to hang out here and pull on this extra tasty vodka while my friend Vladimir tries to figure out his next move.

(!@#$ing idiot still thinks he can talk his way out of this one. Poor him.)

So let's talk about poor George Smith for a while. That's a good !@#$ place to start. It'll get us on the ground floor, anyway.

George is what you might call the God of traveling salesmen. His company's one of the few big electronic parts suppliers that's survived the budget cuts of the last couple decades, and he's been with them for ten years.

He lives in Chicago, or at least that's where he calls home, and where his wife and kids reside most of the year. But if you called home, any old night, chances would be good that he was out of town, somewhere. Maybe selling electrical connectors in California, or resistors and capacitors in Maine.

And if that sounds funny? Well, son, like I said, he's the God of traveling salesmen. If his company needs something closed, or the local reps aren't getting the numbers, they put his !@#$ on a plane and he's out there, making the deal.

So it isn't unusual that, at a certain time on Thursday, March 15th, George is driving his car from the northern suburbs of Chi-town down to O'Hare, ready to catch a flight and go show the local boys why he makes the big bucks. He's got his e-book reader full of the latest magazines, just had a great cup of coffee from the fancy maker he and his wife bought themselves as an anniversary gift, and is looking forward to a couple hours in the air in first class.

And he's driving and smiling, and thinking "this is !@#$ing awesome," and turning off the tollway onto the road that takes you into the airport, and wondering who the !@#$ the idiot is in front of him who really wants to vote for the President a second time...

And that's the last thing he ever sees again with his own eyes, son. A !@#$ing election bumper sticker for a man he really doesn't want in the White House.

The particle beam strikes the main tower at O'Hare, first. A few other ones go off, here and there, but that's the only one he sees. The glare blinds him instantly, and he thinks maybe a nuke went off, and it was the end of the world, because he can hear the booms and screaming and feel the heat.

Yeah, he !@#$ing panics, son. But at least he survives the !@#$ impact when his car runs off the road and into the concrete wall. And then the only reason he stays alive is because the guy who'd been in front of him, and had been lucky enough to be changing his !@#$ hippie Democrat idiot CDs when the flash hit, sees that George is in trouble, and gets him out before his car gets plowed into by even more blind drivers.

So George Smith's one of the lucky unlucky ones of that day, thanks to someone he'd have been !@#$ing sneering at come election night. He actually gets into a !@#$ing hospital, instead of one of the makeshift morgues.

The doctors look in on him, between all the other !@#$ and human wreckage they have to deal with that day. And they determine that, yes, his eyes are gone, and they aren't !@#$ing coming back. But at least he's !@#$ing alive, right?

(And yes, son, at least he has really !@#$ good medical insurance.)

So they get him back with his wife, and yeah, it sucks, and maybe his job's over, now. But at least she's !@#$ing alive too, right? They have money saved up. They have health insurance and life insurance. And even if all else fails, and everything goes down the !@#$ing toilet, they still have each other.

Of course, a while later, it turns out that the Imago are actually repairing anyone who was blinded in the !@#$ attacks. They say they can give you a new pair of eyes for free! Who could !@#$ing say no? That and, as the god of electronics salesmen, he's really !@#$ing curious to see how they work from a users' perspective.

So of course he's first in the !@#$ing line to get himself some new peepers. They wheel the Imago-wagon right up to the nearest hospital, guide their patients in one by one, put them under with soft music in the background, and BOOM, he can see again. All over in ten minutes.

How's life with prosthetic eyes? Not perfect, really. It's kind of like when you look into the sights for an old digital camera, and what you see on the screen and what's really going on is disconnected and slow. You can't really drive with them, reading causes headaches, and watching TV is a !@#$ing pain.

(They do, however, have a plug-in adapter in one temple so you can get electronic impulses right into your !@#$ing brain, so you can watch tv, read off your e-book, and all that stuff. It's just weird is all. And kind of creepy.)

But George can see again. He can walk around and look at things. He can know what he's wearing when he gets dressed. He can watch the sun rise and set, and see the moon, and watch the clouds blow across the sky.

He can see the look on his wife's face when she says she loves him.

That and, a week after he gets his eyes back, his job calls up and wants to know if he'd like his position back, too. Things will have to be a little different, but they're willing to pay him for time lost, and maybe get him some more perks to make up for things.

And of course he says !@#$ yes because he's sick of sitting around the house and pretending he's got a purpose, when he should be out there making deals and shaking hands. And while his old bosses seem a little stand-offish, George just puts it down to how !@#$ing weird his new eyes look, and goes back to work to prove that he's just as good a salesman now as he was before.

So he's got his wife, his life, his job, and his eyes. All things are as they were, minus his old, fried peepers. Things are now well again. 

And all would have been well, too, except that George Smith has a brother named Fred, and if George is the god of the traveling salesmen, then Fred is the god of !@#$ing conspiracy nuts.

Now, as you might have guessed, George is conservative. So while he isn't sure he buys the whole thing about been going on in Washington, he's smart enough to know that if any President was going to !@#$ things up that badly, it'd probably be a !@#$ing Democrat. But Fred, he's got all kinds of other ideas.

And, unlike George and his wife, Fred does not watch TV on the internet, and as a result he has not had his brainmeats scrambled into submission by the constant "relax" commands the Imago are sending out over the screens. So he can still think, and he can still question, and he can still ask those questions because no one's !@#$ing turned that part of his brain off.

Of course, you can imagine the time around the !@#$ dinner table gets a little heated and strained, what with George thinking the Imago eat problems and !@#$ gold. But Fred's convinced there's something !@#$ stinky in the kingdom of Denmark, and keeps promising to find proof.

This goes on for a few weeks, and then Fred just up and !@#$ing disappears.

At first, George things Fred's being a !@#$ing !@#$, again, and expect he'll call when he's feeling more social and less frazzled. But the !@#$ call never comes, and George's calls to Fred go unanswered. And when, after a week of not hearing a !@#$ thing, Fred finally has his wife drive them up to Fred's place in Wisconsin, out in the !@#$ing boonies, he finds that the doors are locked, the house is empty, and the car is still in the garage.

His neighbors haven't seen Fred in about a week. They have no !@#$ idea where he could be. But they confirm that the old boy's been a little fired up, lately. Something about how the Imago aren't to be trusted.

And who would !@#$ing think something like that?

So George calls the cops, puts out a missing persons report, and does everything you'd expect someone who's !@#$ing worried about their sibling to do. And he goes back to work because there's really nothing else he can do, and does his usual !@#$ magic with sales. His bosses are happy, people are happy, all good.

But while he's out and about, he realizes that some of his clients are of the same mind about certain things that Fred was. I guess a lot of electronics folks tend to be !@#$ paranoid conservatives, too? And they drink and they smoke and they talk about certain interesting irregularities they've run into, especially on the internet, what with speeds being weird and emails sounding off and the like.

Now George, he drinks and smokes and listens politely, and all the while he's thinking "Aw, !@#$, not more paranoid bull!@#$." But he's a professional, and part of being a professional salesman is that you don't !@#$ing argue with your clients, but pretend to agree with them even if they're !@#$ing Nazi scumbags.

So he smiles, and nods, and laughs at the appropriate moments. And the deals get made and everything's !@#$ing cool and everyone's !@#$ing happy. Tra-la-la.

But then, after a while, his !@#$ clients go missing, too. He gets told by his bosses that he's going to be meeting new contact people for some of the companies he helped handle, and that some of the smaller companies just !@#$ing went under all of a sudden.

They were fine, and then they weren't fine, and then they weren't. At all.

Now, by this point, George is realizing that something is !@#$ing weird. The cops are being really strange about his brother's disappearance, and telling him it's not his concern, and to just back off and let them do their !@#$ job. And when he looks into the vanishing of the people he was making deals with, he's essentially told to back off, again, only this time by his own company.

But how the !@#$ do they know?

So one night, after taking a long weekend at his employers' insistence, he gets an idea. He hooks up some of his testing gear together, sticks a lead into the port of his eye that you normally put a TV plug into, and see what all's going on in there.

And while what he's got in his eyesockets are pretty !@#$ advanced, and more than a little beyond what he's used to dealing with, it's not to hard for him to realize that some of the circuits he's got in there are eerily similar to signal transmitters.

At which point, George Smith !@#$ing realizes that the eyes he's had in his head for the last few months have been acting as surveillance devices for the Imago. Every sight and sound has been recorded and sent off to them. And that's probably why his brother and his mouthy clients have just up and vanished.

And no sooner does he realize that than he gets a phone call. It's from his wife's employer, and they tell him that one of the Imago that lurks around Chi-town just showed up and teleported his wife away. Apparently, she was involved in terrorist activities or something...?

Randolph found George in the hospital of a homeless shelter, down in the city. He'd ripped his eyes out and left them on the table, tossed out everything that could be used to identify him, and wandered out in the hopes of being splattered by traffic. Some kind soul found him, instead, and brought him there, and that's how his story's known to us.

"You tell them the truth," George demanded: "I heard the truth and didn't want to believe it. I had eyes and I was blind to the truth. But now I can see everything, and all it cost me was my life. Don't let this happen to others."

And the next time Randolph went back to check on him, the shelter was deserted. The Imago had been by, looking for terrorists.

Apparently they'd found them.

And that's the sad life of George Smith for you. He didn't have it all, but he was happy and going places, and then the world just got pulled out from under him.

And I could tell you about the man who was Army special forces, and was then retrained to do something so banal and beneath him that he snapped. They say he went berserk, and was brain-fried by an Imago for supposedly holding his own wife hostage, but the truth's a little stranger.

They just needed an example, is all. Another reason why we shouldn't have handguns. Gosh, how nice of them to point that out.

And I could also tell you about the guy who had his chain of gas stations go under because all cars run on water, now, and no one's going to pull over and spend three bucks for a gallon you could get right out of the tap.

He's working at a !@#$ing fast food joint, now. Broke as !@#$ and miserable as !@#$. Maybe they'll use him as an example, too, someday. Or maybe he's not really important enough to !@#$ with. Just another guy who lost out when the economy was remade around him. 

!@#$, son, I could tell you about America's favorite conservative radio host, who was essentially neutered and turned into a mouthpiece for Green and Yellow, herself. And when he finally broke down on the air and told the whole story, and told everyone that the Imago had been using him as a !@#$ing sock puppet, he found out that they'd been running a fake show right beside him the entire time, and just let him keep going to see when he'd crack. And now that he had...

...

Never liked that fat bag of !@#$, especially after he called me SPYFAG "by accident," that one time. But what they did to him, son.

What they did to him...

...

I could tell you about those people, and a !@#$ of a lot more. But the truth is that the story of poor George Smith just keeps coming back to me.

He didn't do anything wrong, and wound up killing a whole !@#$ of a lot of people just because they "fixed" him.

And meanwhile, in the other room, Vladimir's insisting that he's the victim, here.

Speaking of which, I'm going to go show him what being a victim means, for a little while. And then, hopefully, I'll be able to get a little more cooperation out of the !@#$er. Maybe enough to be able to get him to realize my aim, as the song says.

Because I've got a world to save, and I've got a plan, but that plan just !@#$ing sucks. And the only person I can really get to help me find a better plan is in that room, wondering how many of his teeth he's going to get to keep today.

So if you'll excuse me? Cause this is really going to get !@#$ing messy, son.

Thanks. Here, have some vodka while you wait. It's good stuff, and you're free to enjoy it, which is more than I can say for far too many people, tonight. 

Far, far too !@#$ many.

(SPYGOD is listening to Siamese Twins (The Cure) and having some more Rusky Standart Platinum )