10/11/12 - Iron Demons, Metal Angels - pt 1

South Sumatera, perhaps 150 miles Southast of Pontianak. The sun comes up on a smoky and shimmering landscape of shattered glass and burning trees.

The remnants of the Space Elevator cover a wide, westward swath from ground zero. Its gargantuan base is still on fire. Every so often, it sends up a curling tendril of what little remains of itself, trying to commit to self-repair. Those delicate fronds of matter quickly blacken and burn, but there will be many more where they came from.

The glass is actually transparent metal. It twitches in the morning sun, thinking it should be larger, more complete. But like someone caught in a bad dream they can't escape, it can only lie there, waiting for the signal to awaken.

It may be waiting a long time.

The battleground is eerily absent of corpses. The victors have recovered their dead, and harvested all but the most badly-damaged of their foes for study or cannibalization. Only trace elements remain: here a gaudy green metal hand, there a sheared-off slice of gold shoulder or azure leg.

No flags have been raised, here, and no garrisons left. This was not a battle to take ground, but to deny the enemy its clearest signs of superiority and dominion.

And if the terrorist attack of last September showed that the Imago could be hurt, then today's battle shows they can be beaten -- and badly.

But for how long?

* * *

"So what should we expect from this meeting?" the President whispers to SPYGOD as they walk into the Heaven House Tokyo, following the young lady who greeted him at the ferry the other day.

"Let's just say you should leave the talking to me," SPYGOD whispers back, adjusting his hologlasses and hoping the disguise holds. 

"Because that worked so well the other day," the President sighs, reflexively adjusting his own. He doesn't like the fact that his hologlasses can see through the disguises generated by others. It means anyone else that's wearing a pair now knows a dead President is walking though Tokyo. 

(Not that there were a lot of people out on the streets. The city was uncharacteristically deserted, today. People were staying indoors out of fear of what was happening around the world.)

"Hey now, you don't know those !@#$ing people," SPYGOD says, raising a ringer as they enter a dark, long foyer just large enough for them to walk through side by side: "If we didn't do good cop, bad cop, nothing would have !@#$ing gotten done."

"Did anything get done? As far as I could tell we got a non-committal commitment to have them get in touch with what's left of their governments, and then you made them all !@#$ in their pants by telling them about the FDOS."

"But we got them !@#$ing scared," SPYGOD says as they come to an inner door, guarded by two large, burly men in white suits, also wearing hologlasses: "And with them? That's all they need to get their !@#$es in motion."

The young lady shows one of the men something from her purse. He looks at it, looks at her two companions, and grunt-nods. He pulls out a phone and calls someone, and then, nodding at whatever he hears, puts the phone away and opens up the doors. Behind it is a blindingly-bright room, through which only the subtlest shapes can be discerned.

"Shi Heya," he announces. 

"Room four," Hanami translates, indicating that they should follow her into the light beyond the darkness.

* * *

All around the world, white hot battles are being fought for its future -- skies burning as angry, grey iron demons rage tooth and claw against brilliant metal angels.

London and Seattle lose their tallest buildings as combatants whirl and twirl around themselves like warring flocks of birds. Moscow and Sao Paolo lose entire neighborhoods as the war in heaven touches the ground. New Delhi catches fire as smoldering pieces of the wounded fall to the ground, stately Rome has already been abandoned and left to blaze.

And Paris watches in horror as the Eiffel Tower falls down -- shattered like a child's toy by the ferocity of what's happening around it.

Both sides would seem to be evenly matched: the Slaughterbots' lasers and railguns merely bounce off the Imago's shields, and the Imago's death-stare is good only against those with eyes, and a brain. As such, hand-to-hand combat is the only recourse, and all parties are strong and savage fighters in that regard.

But the Slaughterbots were ready for this battle, having trained and prepared for this war for some time. The Imago apparently had no idea it was coming -- no conception that anyone might dare to challenge them in these numbers, and with this ferocity. And while they can teleport away from a losing battle, their foes seem able to track their movements through space, and reposition their forces accordingly.

So are their losses staggering. And everywhere, in the cities and fields, as the broken pieces of the Imago fall to the ground, they are quickly snatched up to build yet more Slaughterbots for the fight.

The afterlife may have a revolving door, in this war, but so far it only seems to be working for one side.

* * *

Heaven is a large, white room with bright lights, crystal fixtures, and shiny metal furnishings. A central bar serves only clear or white drinks, all poured from silver bottles with no markings. Loud, clanging techno beats echo around its walls, but there's no room to dance.

Everyone in the bar, itself, is wearing the brightest white they can, complemented by brightly-polished silver and clear glass. Most of them also wear white masks: skull masks, blank masks, dominoes, and the like. Those who are not are wearing hologlasses, and those all appear to be employees.

No one notices SPYGOD and the President coming in. They are all watching video screens, listening to the sober delivery of a topless, female newscaster as she talks of horrible fighting in China, Korea, and Taiwan. As the due follow their guide, the screens go over to an amateur's footage of what looks like a block of flaming, metal birds tearing itself to pieces over what is clearly Hong Kong. 

"That's that, then," SPYGOD says, gesturing: "It's gonna get !@#$ing messy."

"How are they seeing any of this?" the President asks: "I'd have thought the Imago would be keeping this off the internet."

"They are, I bet. But that's not the internet."

"Oh?" the President asks as Hanami gets them to a door, over by the left wall. There are a number of doors, all with numbers. Between three and five is a door with no number. 

"Room four," their guide says, opening it up and gesturing that they should go inside: "Please be seated. I will get Ju San."

"Thanks, hon," SPYGOD says, poking his head in, and only then allowing the President to follow him on in to the small room. There's a round, white table, silvery metal chairs, and a light fixture, and that's it.

"So if that's not the internet-" the President starts to say, but SPYGOD holds up a finger, and quickly looks all around the room. Then he puts the black cube he used at the bar last night on the table, and turns it on. 

"Okay, really !@#$ing quick," SPYGOD says, watching the door: "This man we're about to meet is one of the most !@#$ing dangerous people you are ever going to work with in your life. If we thinks we're not on the level, we're !@#$ing dead."

"You're kidding me," the President says.

"No. I am not," SPYGOD replies, gesturing for him to sit down: "The Japanese government's had a !@#$ weird relationship with organized crime since the 80's, and the Organization is one of the fruits of that. The sort of things Mister 10 looks after is the sort of things that no government should really be allowed to have, so he keeps them safe."

"What sort of things?"

"The sorts of things that could have stood toe to !@#$ing toe with the sort of people it took the Backers and Rappin Ronnie to get rid of in America."

"And safe from what?"

"The Japanese government, primary. But also us."

"Us?"

"Yes, Mr. President. Us. We don't !@#$ing allow them to have a !@#$ing military worth a !@#$, so any crazy and powerful !@#$ they come up with's likely to fall into our hands. And given how we were playing with our toys, back in the 80's, that could have been !@#$ bad."

"And that's why they formed the Organization?"

"Yes. And this is one !@#$ing scary organization that has led to the creation of one !@#$ing scary man. Mister 10 has killed government officials with his bare !@#$ hands to keep their secrets. He's strangled diplomats and even shot a foreign dignitary or two.

"And forget about !@#$ing convincing him you're not out to steal his !@#$. Oh no. As far as he's !@#$ing concerned, he doesn't have the time to be sure or make sure before he acts.

"He is unreachable, untouchable, and only accountable to one person in this whole !@#$ world. And the Imago mashed his head into a !@#$ wall when he told them to go eat fish, a few months back."

"So what happens if we don't measure up?" the President asks.

"If we're lucky? Two to the head with a gun that shouldn't even exist in this timeline."

"And not?"

"He'll just !@#$ our brains through our eyesockets," SPYGOD says, sitting down: "And that, Mr. President, is why I'm doing the talking today."

"By all means..." the President says, sitting up and trying to not look scared out of his !@#$ mind. 

* * *

The battle continues on, but now the Slaughterbots are causing real damage. 

By the major cities of Europe and North America, there are large, white boxes -- each as large as a sports stadium. They are supposedly there to help regulate the flow of energy and supplies to the people of those regions, but an exact accounting of their purpose and functioning remains elusive. And anyone who gets too close is usually met by an Imago, who is happy to either gently turn the interloper away, or roughly remove him from the human race. 

The Slaughterbots, however, are not so easily moved.

It takes some doing, for the boxes are well-shielded, and quite impervious to the sort of firepower that even the heaviest of war robots might carry. But with long bursts of concentrated fire, followed up by caustic explosives and other, exotic weaponry, the walls eventually give way just wide enough to allow something small and explosive to be tossed in.

And those small explosives pack a very large blast, as several cities in Mexico, Canada, and Russia soon find out. 

The boxes are being taken down in a pattern: one after the other, city after city, all leading to the interior of their continents. The fighting in the skies subsides as the Imago rally around those boxes, ready to give their lives rather than allow them to be destroyed. 

But as they battle, they become aware that many of their new foes are wearing old friends: Slaughterbots created from the remnants of fallen Imago are taking the battle to them, and when they fall they are simply snatched up, taken behind the lines, and put back together again.

Box after box falls. City after city goes dark and silent. A wave of blackness threatens the Age of Imago. 

Something will have to be done. 

* * *

The door takes a long time to open up again. The President knows the man is out there, but he's stopped right at the door and hasn't come in yet. It's like he's waiting for something.

The President wants to stand up, somehow. He wants to go and open the door. But the second he so much as twitches, SPYGOD shoots him a look and points his finger at him, and then down.

He doesn't so much as twitch after that. And a full sixty seconds later, Mister 10 is in the room.

(The President swears he didn't even see the door open and shut.)

He's a big, beefy man with a short, salt-and-pepper haircut, and very heavy-lidded eyes. He wears an off-white shirt with a floral paisley pattern, white leather pants, and heavy boots. When he walks over to the table, he does it without directly looking at them, and when he puts his hands on the chair he intends to sit in, the President notices he's missing a few finger joints.

He's sat in enough meetings with the FBI to know what that means -- Yakuza. 

The man notices the President noticing, and half-nods to him. Then he looks at SPYGOD, and half nods as well. Only then does he sit down, full and thunderous, and put his hands on the table.

When he sees the black box he snorts, and points at it. SPYGOD nods, turns it off, and puts it away.

The girl, Hanami, comes in and sits down next to him. She smiles and puts her hands down on the table, mirroring the man's stance.

"Ju San understands English, but does not care to speak it," she says: "He says that it is distasteful language, easily perverted by foreign words that have no business within it. As such, I will translate his half of the meeting for you. Speak as fast or as slow as you like."

"That's funny," SPYGOD says, leaning forward in his chair: "The sign on the door says 'Heaven House Tokyo,' in English. Is that for the visitors, then?"

When Ju San speaks it is soft-spoken but firm. A few seconds after he begins speaking, Hanami translates.

"Your impudence is noted, but you have a good point. I am not permitted to change the outside of the building. It has been like that since the time of the original Organization. To effect such a change now would be to alter the building, itself. And that would be a bad thing."

"How bad?"

"I do not think it would be a good thing for Tokyo to be blasted off the island," Ju San replies, though Hanami, and not without a smile: "Especially since we have spent so many years keeping it safe."

"You mean this building is one of the things you've been protecting?"

"It is. But you do not need to know what it is. Not if you wish to leave this room alive."

The President gulps. SPYGOD rolls his eyes. Ju San smiles.

"May I offer you a drink?" the man says, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes: "I find negotiations of this sort go much better with alcohol. It takes a bit of the edge off the blade, so to speak."

"Sounds like a !@#$ fine idea to me," SPYGOD says, offering him a light: "I don't like signing any bargain clean and sober. Do you?"

"Not at all," Ju San replies, graciously accepting the flame: "If we can save this world, that is worthy of celebration. And not every celebration should wait until victory is achieved.

"After all," he continues, leaning back and exhaling smoke at the ceiling: "What happens if it never comes?"

* * *

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, above the risen city, the faces of the powers that run the Imago are in deep consultation with one another.    

What is happening in North America? the hidden leader demands, her voice hollow and wet: How can we have lost so many links in our power chain this quickly?

The deployment is clearly not working, leader: the former head of the CIA -- now The Sight -- says, chiming in from his cocoon of stolen brains and internet connections: We have clearly been outmaneuvered.

We have not been outmaneuvered! Doctor Yesterday -- now The Motion -- angrily responds from the Antarctic redoubt: We have merely been taken by surprise. And if you'd been doing your !@#$ job we wouldn't be having this problem, now!

Don't you dare put this on me-

Please be calm, my children, The leader says: Do not let the heat of the moment overwhelm your judgments. Remember that if they continue to attack us in this fashion, we will be crippled. Worse still, we will lose time in our effort to leave this planet. We need sound decisions, now. We can worry about what has gone wrong later.

The problem is that we do not know our enemy's plan, the writhing, cyclopean mass of neural circuitry that was once The Dragon says: We do not know this plan because we do not know the enemy. Once we know the enemy, we will know the plan.

Um, we know who the enemy is, Dragon, The ersatz Director Straffer -- now The Fist -- says as he gazes down from Deep Ten: It's that Dr. Kyklops fellow, remember? He took credit for the attack, yesterday.

And I know what robots those are, The Motion says: Those are Slaughterbots. I should know. I've repaired SPYGOD's pet enough times.   

I do not think you understand me, The Dragon says: I meant to say-

Don't you have a fortress to run? The Fist says: I say we don't worry about who or why until we've won. I can pick them off from here, if you'll let me. 

If you do that, then you'll be firing a lot of blasts down on the planet, the Sight says: And while we've been able to blame those on our enemies so far, sooner or later the people will start asking too many questions.

At least they'll be alive to ask the questions, the Fist replies: I'm seeing what those robots are doing to any humans they come across. This doesn't look good-

There is another question, here: The Dragon says, calm and serene:  I find it hard to believe that what happened in Neo York City yesterday has no connection to this. The city throws us out, just as a powerful enemy attacks? I would suspect the origin of our troubles lies within the city.

I say the origin of our troubles lies with Dr. Kyklops, the Motion says: Once we take him out, we've got half the battle won. 

And I am very ready to take him out, The Fist adds.

And I can use this as a means to redouble people's loyalties to us, and this increase production, The Motion says.

These are good things to hear, the leader says: Dragon, I understand your concerns. Please apply your brilliance to finding the true meaning behind this attack. 

I will, The Dragon replies, and falls silent.

The rest of you? The Leader continues: Prepare to counter-attack. This has gone on enough, and harmed our efforts enough. And remember that we do these things for love -- love for one another, our people, and our cause. 

Soon we shall be free. Never lose sight of this. 

And then there is silent assent, and the sound of the world remaking itself in their alien image.

(SPYGOD is listening to Commando (Front 242) and having a Mukune sake)

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

10/10/12

In an undisclosed location, a young man comes into his darkened workroom, bringing a cup of morning coffee with him. The mug says EVIL GENIUS.

He sits at his cluttered desk, and wakes up his computer. Once it pops into life it gives him all the information he'd told it to watch for, and he smiles at what it tells him.

His phone rings, and he answers it: "Yes? ... Yes. I think we are. ... I'm pretty sure. I'll get in touch with her and see, but I think she's taken what I said to heart. 

"Okay, good to know. Let them know I'm ready when they are-

"Oh, that quickly? Well !@#$, Ben. I'm impressed.

"Okay, will do. You can count on me...

"Yes, I do know what you said about hanging separately. No worries, here. I'm all in.

"You too. Talk to you soon, old man."

He puts the phone down and smiles.  His eyes glow purple as he sips his coffee, and violet sparks jump from his teeth to the cup.

"Let's go change the world," he says to himself. 

* * *

"... still reeling from the events of yesterday afternoon. We're not entirely sure what's happening inside Neo York City, today, Wolf, but one thing's for sure. Something just changed, here and now. And the world we thought we knew has been turned upside down."

"What do you mean, Bob? Can you at least tell us what's happening where you are?"

"I can. I'm by what's left of the west end of the Queensboro Bridge. It's... well, as you can see behind me, it's a mess."

"You mean the Ed Koch Bridge, Bob?"

"Well, Wolf, no one here calls it that. It's Queensboro to the people who used it every day to get back and forth from Queens to Manhattan. And now it's a mess of twisted metal and broken concrete. Dozens of civilians dead, hundreds wounded."

"And you're saying this was done by the Specials? The rapid response troops the Imago have been using as security worldwide?"

"That's correct, Wolf. There was a massive car chase, all the way up 25 from the Eastern outskirts of Queens. A lot of armed men who have been identified by the police as being suspected of Mafia involvement were chasing a white van, shooting and trying to run it off the road. It got as far as the west end before coming to a halt, and then they got out of their cars and started shooting at it-"

"Right, and we have some amateur footage of that. A commuter named Ed Jones was kind enough to film it on his phone and post it to his youtube account. This footage you're seeing has not been retouched, and, Bob, I'm presuming you can see this, too?"

"Yes I am. Now, what you're seeing is all these armed men firing at a white van. We're told by the authorities that these men chased it all the way from Queens because they were after the masked vigilante known as The Black Card-"

"Okay, and that's the body they found at the scene, right?"

"Well, Wolf, that's going to be hard to say, for reasons you'll see soon enough. But he had an accomplice, and that's the woman you can see in this film, shooting back at the men."

"Do we know who she is?"

"No we do not. As you can see in the film, she throws a smoke grenade, right about here, and then high-tails it down the bridge. About five seconds later the van catches fire. The police are saying it was an incendiary device, which is what's made it hard to really identify the Black Card, if that was indeed him."

"And then... well, they take off after her, and then we see the Specials teleport in. There's a lot of scared people in cars, and they're trying to get out of their way, and... what are we seeing, Bob? Is that what we think it is?"

"It is, Wolf. The Specials marched across the bridge and turned it into a giant kill zone. They shot everything moving. The suspected mobsters, the people in their cars, everything. And they kept marching and firing, chasing after the female accomplice as she ran to the other side of the bridge."

"Okay, and you can actually hear people screaming and crying for them to stop. I think that Mr. Jones is screaming for them to stop."

"He is, yes. And then this happens."

"That's Bronze and Blue, right? One of the Imago from New York State, right?"

"Yes, it is. He looks right at Ed, and you can hear Ed screaming at him to stop them. To just stop them from killing any more people. And then there's that flash of light from the eyes of the Imago, and we hear Ed scream. Then the camera's falling down, and looking up..."

"And then that boot, coming down on it."

"That's right, Wolf. We just saw an Imago execute an American citizen without trial, right on the spot, for filming their Specials killing civilians while trying to quell an armed riot."

"Alright, so, as difficult as it is to process that, and just setting the reality of what this means aside, what happens next? You've been talking to people who were watching at the time, and people who are there, now?"

"Well, the Specials didn't stop, Wolf. They kept marching across the bridge, firing and firing. And then they chased her down the off-ramp. But the moment they actually got onto the ground, something happened. People who were there said it was like the first few times the city woke up, and the people who were there were all snatched up by force fields and moved out of harm's way. Only the Specials were all picked up and flung right out of the city, just like the planes that one time those terrorists tried to fly planes into them, back in 2001, and the last time the city was attacked, last year."

"And has it done that before?"

"Not that anyone knows. And it didn't just hurl those Specials out, Wolf. The reports I'm getting say that all of the ones in the city were tossed out. And any that have tried to teleport in since then have been flung right out again."

"What about the Imago?"

"The same, Wolf. They're not even on the ground a second before they're up and flying away."

"And what's going on in the city? Are there riots? Crimes of opportunity?"

"No, Wolf. No one's doing anything violent, at least as far as we can tell. There's a makeshift memorial for the people who were killed and a lot of people are there, putting down flowers and wreaths. The police have called for calm and order, and I think the mayor is going to make a public statement sometime today."

"Now, I did hear something that sounded a little weird. There are apparently reports of street people setting up portable televisions in public places, all over?"

"That's true, Wolf. In fact, I even saw one. I asked him what he was doing and he just smiled at me and said 'turn on, tune in, drop out.'"

"Well, that's a blast from the past. But I thought televisions weren't working any longer, Bob?"

"I thought so, too. But there's something being broadcast on them. I'm just not sure what, yet."

"And what about that woman who was being chased by the Specials? Do we have any news on her? Is she still alive, or...?"

"That's another unanswered question, Wolf. Eyewitnesses say that she was wounded but still running when the Specials were being flung away. No one's seen her since. We have no idea who she was, but we figure that the whole world saw her on that video. It's only a matter of time before her identity is made known."

"Alright. Thank you, Bob. We're going to go back to the Situation Room, here, for a moment..."

* * *

They say that Japan is as close as you can get to being off the planet without actually leaving it. If that's true, then the world-famous Harajuku district, in Tokyo, must be the launching pad.

The real blastoff doesn't happen until Sunday, when every grey-faced wage slave with a few Yen to scrape together for a cool costume will be down at the park, pretending to be something they're not. But until then, there's always the crazy fashion shops and unique boutiques, selling their wares to the dedicated and curious alike.

And there's also the bars and cafes, each dedicated to a different subsect: bars where everyone dresses like anime characters, coffee houses for "blackface" players, rockabilly diners -- anything you could imagine. There's even a bar that caters to people who like to dress up like the Imago, though the clientele are being a little circumspect, today.

Which is why it's not so outrageous to find a SPYGOD PLACE, here, in spite of everything that's happened in the last year.

It's a dark, 50's-style bar, serving drinks and food they stole from the menu of the nearest rockabilly establishment. It's full of posters of SPYGOD, the COMPANY, the Liberty Patrol, and the Freedom Force in action, and features fairly decent replicas of their costumes up on the walls, and special gadgets and weapons under glass behind the bar. The staff dress like COMPANY Agents from the 50's, and the clientele dress as Strategic Talents, supervillains, science terrorists, famous enemy agents, and the like.

(Their number one selling t-shirt has a freeze frame of SPYGOD shooting the President, with the phrase GET YOU THE HOT BULLETS TO DIE!!! on it. Available in white, black, and pink; sizes S, M, L.)

Tonight, the bar is quite packed. There's a party going on at one of the central tables, and the normal customers are quite in awe of how good their costumes are. If they didn't know any better, they'd swear that SPYGOD, himself, was sitting at the table, along with the President he shot. But that's just impossible, surely.

(Conversely, they have no idea who the other people at the table are. Two Indians, some scruffy-dressed big guy with a large beard, a black man in a nice suit, and some insane-looking old, white guy in weird prescription eyeglasses? It must be some international group from a nearby university, out for a drink or something.)

"You always take us to the nicest places, SPYGOD," Mikhail grunts, downing what must be his third bloody mary: "Are you certain we are safe here?"

"Safe as !@#$ing houses," SPYGOD replies, knocking down a beer and gesturing to the server to set everyone up again: "Everyone here just thinks we're !@#$ing re-enactors. And that big !@#$ black box in the center of the table's scrambling our conversations and turning them into Japanese conversation. So far as anyone outside the table knows, we're talking !@#$ about our professors."

"Clever," Khalil says, wishing he could remember what he needed to tell SPYGOD: "Is that one of your devices, then?"

"It's courtesy of our friends at Ju Kikan," the President says: "And before anyone asks -- no, they will not be joining us, tonight. They're willing to do a deal with us, but I think they're not sure about you all, yet."

"Feh," Dosha Josh says: "It's not unusual. The leader of Ku Kikan hardly ever came to our little meetings, either. I don't think he trusted us. Not completely."

"The infamous Mister 9," Mikhail says, raising his empty glass to his memory: "The Tsar is dead. Long live the Tsar."

"So what are you wanting to talk to us about, then?" Dr. Krwi asks, regarding his straw-wrapped bottle of barenjager: "Is there something we can do for you?"

"Yes, there is," the President says, looking at each man in turn: "SPYGOD tells me that each of you is still in touch with what's left of your countries' real governments. And that some of them are in touch with what's left of their allies. I'm going to want to talk to them, fairly soon, about what we're going to do once the Imago are done."

The men all fall silent, look at one another, and then look back at him.

"You have to be joking," Dosha says: "With all respect, sir... do you have any idea how far underground they are right now? I'm barely in contact-"

"No one in Poland is worth a !@#$," Krwi sighs: "Worse than the Communists at this point."

"I'm not even going to get into how bad things are in my country," Khalil sighs. 

"And as for Russia, well..." Mikhail says, casting a look in SPYGOD's direction: "We still do not have a full understanding of what has happened there."

"Neither do I, come to think of it," the President says, giving SPYGOD a look.

"Look, you all !@#$ing knew it was coming around," SPYGOD says, getting his beer and smiling at the ersatz Agent who gives it to him: "And after everything we've learned and done, recently, it's got to be sooner rather than later. !@#$, it's starting now, in case you didn't see the news from Neo York City. And right now, we're the ones who are spearheading this !@#$ing thing."

"Which 'we' do you mean?" Dr. Krwi asks: "We at this table? We and our countries?"

"He means we, as in America," the President says, pointing to the two of them. 

"It is always nice to know the Americans are in charge," Khalil sighs.

"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "And do you know why we're in charge? Because we're the ones who are !@#$ing getting !@#$ done. Always have been, in case you didn't !@#$ing notice. You all are too busy !@#$ing arguing and debating, and by the time you've got a !@#$ idea hammered out we've already beaten back the !@#$ thing and taken its skull. And then you complain our troops are getting fresh with your hookers-"

"I might just be leaving, now," Dosha says, gesturing to Anil, who nods and makes ready to teleport them out of there.

"That's not the point, here, Dosha," the President says, leaning forward and raising a hand: "We don't want this to be unilateral. We want this to be a group effort. It has to be. If we take the point on this, we might win the war, but we're going to screw up the peace and the reconstruction really badly. Especially if we have to do some of the things we may have to do."

"Such as what?" Dr. Krwi asks.

"I think you know," SPYGOD says, having a pull on his beer. 

Dr. Krwi looks at the President, and then SPYGOD. Then he puts down his drink, and crosses himself. The others look at him funny, but no one cares to elaborate.

"So are we all gonna share the !@#$ responsibility, risk, and reward on this, or are you all gonna make !@#$ing excuses about not being able to find your leaders and their friends, and then complain that America !@#$ed it up, again?" SPYGOD asks: "Because I don't have the !@#$ time to hear excuses, gentlemen. We're !@#$ing meeting with Mister 10 tomorrow. We're !@#$ing putting the final big !@#$ plan into action not long thereafter.

"And when it goes off, we're gonna need everyone on board for what happens next."

"Especially after you do what you're going to do," Dr. Krwi says.

"What I might have to do," SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "I'm hoping we can !@#$ing circumvent that."

"Does someone want to say what this something is?" Mikhail asks.

"Not really, no," the President says, looking at SPYGOD: "If we're lucky, it won't come to that."

"My people swear they can knock them out without having to do it," SPYGOD says: "But there is something we are going to have to do, gentlemen. And it's a doozy."

He holds up a piece of paper and shows the whole group. Dr. Krwi puzzles over it and shrugs. Everyone else's jaws drop to the table.

"You would not," Mikhail says.

"I did not think it existed," Khalil says: "I thought it was only a myth..."

"It is no myth," Dosha says: "it is very real. And if you press it-"

"When I press it," the President says: "It will deprive the enemy of their greatest asset on this planet. It will give the people their freedom and their minds back."

"And it will set this planet back decades," Mikhail sighs: "Mister President, there must be another way."

"Then talk to your leaders, tell them what we're up against, and ask them to find another solution," the President says, taking the paper from SPYGOD and thumping it down on the table: "Because from where I'm sitting? It's an unavoidable casualty of war."

And then there is silence at the table in the SPYGOD PLACE.

* * *

Ladies and gentlemen of the world, your attention please.

I am a man of few words, and so I shall keep this message short and to the point.

You may not remember me, though I am something of a legend amongst certain circles. 

But from here on out, when you hear the name Doctor Kyklops, I hope it will be held in the highest of esteem.

The reason for this is simple. I am about to conquer the world.

Now, I am certain you may be asking yourselves "What of the Imago? Do they not now rule?"

And you would be right to ask that. 

But I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: "What of the Imago?"

Oh, they may seem scary. They may have the numbers and the power. They have have taken control of certain key services and the like.

But I? I have decades of experience in this sort of thing, whereas they only just arrived.

I also possess an army the likes of which they have never seen, nor ever reckoned with.

And finally? I have the iron will necessary to do this. The will to take on the entire world.

The will to power.

Before that, their might is nothing.

And so begins the war. 

As you hear these words, my army is flying towards their space elevator, and will tear it from the ground and fling it at them. All who stand before them shall be crushed. All who stand with the Imago will die.

Your best chance to survive is to stay inside. You have my word that no one who submits will be harmed in the slightest. 

My rule will be fair but firm... but we can speak of this when victory is mine.

For now, stay indoors, and pray to what gods you call yours. Today is the war. Tomorrow, the victory. 

And after that, the world is mine.

(SPYGOD is listening to SEQ666 P.U.L.S.E. (Front 242) and having a Scorpion Death Rock)

10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 3

10/9/12

"Just leave me," the Black Card says, groaning in the passenger seat of the van as he tries to keep his insides from plopping out into his lap: "That's an order, kid... leave me..."

"Like !@#$ i will," Whisper says, gritting her teeth and swerving the vehicle any which way it will go to keep just ahead of the bullets. The good news is that, at this time of day, 25 going into Manhattan isn't chock-full of commuters. The bad news is that it's far from deserted, and there's going to be a rolling tailback any second now, coming back from the bridge.

And even if it doesn't materialize, there's still the !@#$ bridge, itself.

She isn't even bothering to look in the rear view mirror, anymore. She knows what she'll see there: every black car in Queens -- all full of angry goombas, all armed to the !@#$ teeth and beyond, and all wanting a piece of them for what they just did.

"Stupid," she mutters for the tenth time since the op they went on this morning ended in a monumental !@#$-up. Stupid for not planning this better. Stupid for not having a real exit strategy. Stupid for not doing a million different things, or making a million different decisions.

Stupid for getting sloppy and soft, and trusting too much in chance and luck, and believing that they couldn't even be scratched by their enemies.

Stupid, pure and simple. And now she was going to die, and take the whole !@#$ world with her.

* * *

All she had to do was fail to kill someone. How hard could that be?

The five Families were having a meeting, that morning. They were going to be deciding what to do about this Imago situation. They tried to hand out an olive branch, back in May, after the President was executed, but were told that they were an "unfortunate anachronism, and one that would shortly be rectified."

At least, that's what the sole surviving member of their delegation said that they said. There may have been more things said, but after what they did to the four other people who accompanied him, this rather hard fellow -- well-known for his barely-checked brutality -- would rather sit in his room and drink himself into oblivion than elaborate.

And that said all that needed to be said about their attitude towards the Families.

So, after a few months of having only a black market to work with, and finding it hard to compete with various other organizations, they were hurting. The money was drying up, and -- between those other organizations fighting for turf, and the efforts of "that crazy !@#$ing vigilante" --  the body count was getting high. The soldiers were scared, the lieutenants were grumbling, and decisive action was needed to maintain order and discipline.

Hence the meeting, which was held in a back room of the best-protected home of the oldest and most powerful member of the most influential Family, who was also the least rational of the bunch. There, behind strong walls and sound-baffling devices, the five men of influence would have a good meal, and debate whether to throw in with their rivals, serve them up to the Imago, or pursue other avenues of revenue.

(They were also going to talk about the crazy vigilante, though that might wait until dessert turned to drinks. No one wanted to talk about him sober.)

Such a meeting was supposed to be hit-proof. The special room was in the best reinforced house that millions of dollars in blood money could buy, complete with total surveillance packages. They had all their muscle -- some enhanced, some just !@#$ good, some both -- inside and outside the house, watching for anything out of the ordinary. They had a secure perimeter, with armed men walking around the trees and bushes in an endless circuit. They even had a psychic or two, lounging outside the secure room and waiting to feel the build-up of negative vibes that would indicate a bullet about to be fired their way.

But nothing ever truly is hit-proof. Not in this day and age, anyway.

Not when you have a very special sniper rifle that fires straight and sure up to a mile away. Not when you have bullets that can go through mega-armored alien spaceships, to say nothing of wood, brick, and steel. Not when you have a sight that can see though such things as though they weren't there.

And certainly not when you have, as a last ditch effort, a remote-controlled car bomb that can turn an entire city block into dust and toothpicks, to say nothing of someone's fancy estate house.

So that was the plan, at least as far as Black Card understood it. Sit a little under mile away, shoot the five heads of the lesser families, one by one, and then drive by to shoot out their cars -- just to say "!@#$ you," and leave no doubt in anyone's mind who was responsible.

That was the plan, at least as far as Black Card understood it. But Whisper had a different understanding.

And now he's dying because of it.

* * *

A hail of bullets fly through the back of the van, shattering the windshield. Thankfully, the walls behind their seats are armored against such things, but having flying glass rake across her face, followed by rushing wind, makes driving just that much more interesting.

Black Card's gone unconscious again, so she punches him in the shoulder, right at a nerve cluster. He shouts at the pain and starts forward, and then goes back to holding his insides in.

"No sleeping, soldier!" she commands, hanging a quick left and trying to get over to the inside lane: "You're staying with me, got it?"

"Let me just take them out with me..." he begs: "I'm not gonna !@#$ing make it..."

"You will."

"I won't."

"!@#$ that !@#$. You are living though this."

"Honey, I-"

"It's Whisper, you son of a !@#$," she hisses, trying not to cry: "It's Whisper when I'm working."

"You call this working?" he says. It's a moment or two before she realizes it was as close as he comes to a joke, but by then he's started laughing. It's dark and unsettling, and there's blood coming from his nose as he does.

And that's when she realizes that this old, barely-sane soldier she made the mistake of falling in love with is going to die, after all. 

* * *

"How are we on time?" he'd asked as they lay atop the van, just over a mile east from the house they were aiming at. There's a special tarp draped over them: one that keeps them cool and masked from electronic surveillance. 

And, given the power of the weapon they're about to use, they don't even have to have the barrel of the gun poking out from under it.

"Just fine," she'd said, delicately adjusting the sight, and smiling to see how clear the targets were: "This is a really nice !@#$ing piece. Where did you get it?"

"Friend of an enemy of an ally," he says, putting a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes: "These came with it. I can see what you see."

"Now there's a scary thought," she says, chuckling to avoid cursing. This changes things, and not for the better.

"I like to see things through your eyes," he replies. And she knows what he means.

She smiles and snuggles a little closer to him, in spite of it all. He doesn't move closer, but he doesn't move away, either. He just stays there, solid and warm. 

Comforting in his trust. 

And she realizes that, in less than ten minutes, she's going to break that trust open like a stepped-on egg. That makes her wince, just a little, but she does her best to mask it.

"All five of them in three seconds," he says: "Can you do it?"

"Oh yeah," she says, watching them all come into the room and get ready to sit down: "Just waiting for the first course to be served. I always wanted to blow someone's brains into their caprese..."

* * *

The muscle is ramming the back of their van, now. Another car is trying to move alongside, either to get ahead of them or slam them into the side of the road, which is the risk she took getting over to the left. But at least now she doesn't have to worry about two vulnerable sides.

The car to her immediate right is a massive, green SUV with a clearly panicked family inside. They can't get out of the lane they're in to save their lives, and every time they speed up or slow down Whisper matches their speed, just to keep them from giving the car behind them the opening they need to get alongside.  

She feels bad for the family (mother, father, two children in the back) but cannot help them; they have to stay where they are or else the bastards will have an open field of fire on the right side of the van. And if they do, they'll hit Black Card.

The old man wakes up with each jolt, cursing and growling at the pain. She'd hand him a gun to fire back but he'd need both hands, and then he'd unwind all over himself and bleed out faster. 

And she needs both hands on the wheel.

"!@#$ it !@#$ it !@#$ it !@#$" she curses, wishing she could toss a grenade out the back, or shoot back, or anything.

The bridge looms ahead. There may be a tailback coming their way. If they stop, they are both dead. 

But even if they make it over the bridge, there's no guarantee they won't be dead, there, too. She has no idea if the people she's really been working for, all this time, are going to uphold their end of the deal.

All that she knows is that she's got a mission, and there's more than just her life at stake, here.

* * *

"It's really simple, Whisper," the masked and hooded man had told her, not long after she woke up from that coma and escaped from that hospital: "We need you to do something for us."

"What's in it for me?" she'd asked, doing her best to not act scared by the man or his weird friend. She didn't feel like she was succeeding, though. The fact that they'd just teleported into the hotel room she'd gotten was one thing, but the fact that they'd apparently traced the virgin fake ID she'd rescued from her New Jersey drop box made her distinctly unnerved. 

(She'd only been using it for 24 hours, and already they'd found her? What was up with that !@#$?)

"For you, not a whole lot," the man had said, gesturing that she should sit down in the chair by the bed, which she did. (She'd hidden a gun nearby, after all.)

"My life, then?" she'd asked, smiling at him.

"No," the weird fellow had said, his voice sounding like it came from deep underwater: "That is not ours to give or to take."

"Well, that's a !@#$ comfort-" she'd started to say, but then the masked fellow had handed her an old photograph, and her face fell to see it. 

In the photo was an older man. He was square-jawed and grizzled, and had a look in his eyes like the best parts of his humanity had been torn out of him with pliers. He looked as though he was going to murder the camera for the sin of merely existing.

And she knew that man all too well.

"You worked with the Black Card once," the masked man had said: "Italy. Ten years ago. He was taking out certain illegal business interests, right at the root. You were part of the team he put together to do it. And you two were the only survivors."

"Yes," she'd said, handing the photo back: "We worked very well together. And if you want me to kill him, then you just !@#$ off-"

"That's not what we want," the man had replied, sitting down on the bed and looking her in the eyes: "We want you to go to where he's holed up, in Neo York City, and join him in his crusade. He's taking full advantage of the bad spot the Imago have put organized crime into, and it's only a matter of time before he overextends himself and they get him. We want you to keep him safe, and keep him grounded."

"Why?" she'd asked, looking between the man and the other one: "Do you approve of his war?"

"We need him to keep being successful," the man had replied.

"And when the right moment comes, we need it to fail," the strange one had commented: "We need you to make it fail."

"Why the !@#$ would I do that?"

"To save the world," the masked man had told her. 

And then he'd explained how.

* * *

A tailback. !@#$. She has no choice, now. 

She moves the van over exactly half a lane, pushing the SUV out of the way as she does. There's a crash and a smash as it hits another car in another lane, followed by the accusing sound of someone's horn blaring. It fades away as she leaves the scene of the crime, reminding her of a little brother threatening to tattle as he runs home.

And as she gets past the smash-up, she accelerates the van as fast as it will go, honking her horn and hoping that the big cars and trucks get the !@#$ out of her way, because she's coming right up the middle. 

The first hits are the worst, and actually slow her down. For a terrifying second, she thinks she's going to stop, anyway. In spite of all the weight and reinforced metal this van is packing, it might actually stop. 

But then the muscle behind her slams into her back bumper, forcing her forward into the mashed up crunches of metal, plastic, and glass that used to be a Civic and a Firebird. And then her forward momentum is carrying her on to the next two cars. 

And the next.

And the next.

And the next...

Before long, the people up ahead see what's coming their way and do their best to squeeze out of hers. This makes things go a lot better, as well as faster. And now the muscle has to follow her in a single-file line, down the highway, and they can't shoot over or through each other.

She realizes she's on the bridge, now. She's almost to the island. Almost home. 

She might just make it. This just might work. 

* * *

"What the !@#$ do you mean the gun jammed?" Black Card had shouted as they leaped from the top of the van and ran into it.

"I don't !@#$ing understand it, either," she'd lied, knowing full well that she'd tampered with the fifth bullet so that it wouldn't fire. She'd waited until the five targets were lined up in such a way that she could go from left to right, killing each one in turn until she got to the last one, and then leaving him alive.

That was the real plan, after all. 

"Well, get the !@#$ car bomb moving," he'd said, strapping himself into the passenger seat and getting his gun ready to go: "Have it follow us about a block back. I'll fire at the guards and toss the cards. And then the bomb'll take care of the survivor."

"That it will," she'd lied, knowing full well that the bomb was a, like the last bullet, a total dud. 

The real plan was that she'd leave the least sane and rational Family head alive. They would drive by, shoot them up, and speed away. And rather than be sensible and stay back, the head would most likely order all his muscle to chase after them -- right into the !@#$ing city if necessary -- because he was that sort of guy.

And that is exactly what she was counting on, as that was what the plan called for. 

What she didn't expect, however, was that when they rushed past the mansion, and Black Card put his mask on, opened his sliding door, and started firing at the muscle as they scrambled this way and that to look for the snipers, that someone would be ready and waiting to shoot back.

But there he was, right at the front door: Giuseppe "Madman" Mandino, head of the Mandino crime family, and total sociopath, covered in his fellow heads' brains and blood and holding the sort of gun you don't see every day.

And aiming it right at her partner. 

Before she knew what was happening, the old, !@#$-eyed mobster was firing back at her partner. And then she could see daylight through the back of Black Card's abdomen.

The only reason the bullets didn't kill her is because they went right through her window, trailing bits of his intestines and kidneys with them. And when he collapsed into his seat, holding what was left of his variety meats with his hands, she realized how badly she'd !@#$ed up.

And how badly they needed a miracle.

* * *

"!@#$ yeah!" she shouts, riding a spike of pure adrenalin as they get halfway across the water: "Almost there, hon! Almost there!"

"What's waiting...?" he asks: "Get the doc, yet?"

"Not yet," she says, wondering why she didn't think to call their favorite blackmailed sawbones, yet. Was she just that busy dodging black cars and brutal thugs, or did she realize there was no point?

(He looks terrible. He's not going to make it. She knows this, and it's breaking her heart.)

From somewhere in the distance, she can hear a police siren. Is it for them? Is it up ahead or following behind?

A couple more shots are fired into the back of their van. The metal behind them takes it. The windshield's already gone. The bullets will reach Manhattan before they do.

"Just a little more," she begs the van: "Please just-"

More shooting. A bang. The sick lurching as the wheel decides to do something that she doesn't want it to, and they almost ram right into one of the cars that's gotten out of their way before she gets it under control.

The tires. They've finally done the smart thing and started aiming for the tires.

"!@#$!" she screams, wishing she could toss that grenade out the back, but knowing if she does then the plan fails and this is all for nothing.

She has to get to the island. Manhattan. All she has to do is get there and-

Another shot. Another bang. The other tire.

The wheel lurches the other way. Now she doesn't have to fight to keep it in a straight line, anymore. But they're shredding rubber and running on the rims, and their momentum is slowed down to half of what it was.

If they hit another car they're going to stop. If they stop they're dead.

If they stop, they've failed.

* * *

Italy, ten years ago. It was her and Black Card in the burning warehouse, backs to a wooden crate and down to half a clip apiece. 

The other three mercs were dead. The people who killed them were out there, in the fire, and not afraid of it. In fact, they were !@#$ing laughing. 

It took the two of them a second, but they realized their breathing was synchronized. They also realized that they were holding hands.

He looked at her. She  looked at him. 

"Thank you," he said.

"What for?"

"For this."

"You're paying me for this."

"Not for all of it."

"No,"  she said, smiling: "Not all of it."

They leaned in and kissed, then -- full and deep. A warrior's kiss. The last mark of love and respect two such persons can give one another before the end. 

"I'll go left," he told her, between kisses.

"I'll go right," she told him, biting his lip as he pulled away.

"If you're not at the boat in ten minutes..."

"I'll leave without you."

They looked at each other, and smiled. And then they got up and did what they said they would. Perfectly.

All the way to the mainland, on the boat, she wondered if he'd died, back there, or if he'd just drawn their fire so she could get away. 

She watched the island burn until the dawn.

* * *

"Come on..." she growls, stomping down on the gas as hard as it will go and laying on the horn. Some !@#$head in a jeep isn't getting the message. He's on his cell phone and not paying !@#$ing attention.

"!@#$ you," she mutters, knowing that the burning rubber smell isn't just coming from the back wheels, but from the vents, too. The engine is overheating. When's the last time they changed the oil? Will it hold together?

The jeep isn't getting out of the way. They're so close, yet so far.

"!@#$ you!" she screams: "!@#$ you!"

"Love you, too..." Black Card whispers, eyes closed and drooling blood. He has no idea where they are or what's going on.

She reaches out to take his hand. He squeezes it, and maybe his eyes flicker open for just a second.

"It was worth it..." he whispers as something snaps under the hood and the engine starts juddering: "All of it."

"All of it," she replies just before they hit the jeep.

And then-

(SPYGOD is listening to Juanita/Kiteless/To Dream of Love (Underworld) and having a Moretti)

10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 2

10/7/12

"I do not believe this," Man of Steel hisses at Mark Clutch, his outburst temporarily halting everything going on in the crowded workshop: "Have I not been a good ally? Have I not earned your trust?"

"You have, sir," Mark replies, putting his tools down and turning to fully regard the metal-skinned man who's been berating him for the last few minutes: "The Lion has vouched for you, and I'm willing to accept his trust in you-"

"Then why the secrecy? Why will you not tell me this one simple thing?"

"Be quiet!" Skyspear says, putting a hand on the man's shoulder and trying to usher him to the door: "You are embarrassing us in front of our host!"

"He is embarrassing me," Man of Steel replies, not turning to look at her: "He is embarrassing all of us! He won't tell us because we're outsiders. Can't you see that?"

"I can't tell you what I don't know," Mark calmly says, holding up his hands: "I'm sorry that you feel that I'm withholding information, but that is not true. As soon as I know where SPYGOD is, and what he is doing, and I can tell you, I will tell you. But until then, please believe me when I say that I have no more of an idea that you do-"

"You could ask your leader," Man of Steel insists, getting right back in Mark's face: "Does he not know? What kind of a revolution is he leading if he does not know where is leader is?"

"The revolution we've got," Myron says, hardly even looking up from his work, nearby (though one could assume he's staring daggers from behind the sunglasses he's taken to wearing, again): "Now will you please !@#$ off and let us work in peace?"

Man of Steel takes a step towards Myron, but suddenly Winifred is in his way, brandishing a laser lance.

"Back. Off," she insists: "You're making a fool of yourself. Stop it before someone stops you." 

"And you will be stopped," Skyspear says, putting her hand back on his metal shoulder: "The work going on here will win this war. We do not have time for you to smash it to pieces to get an answer to a question you clearly do not deserve."

Man of Steel scowls at her, and then, slowly, turns and leaves the room. If it had a door he probably would have slammed it hard enough to break it.

"I am very sorry for his behavior," Skyspear says: "I will speak to the Lion and Crocodile about this. It will not go unaddressed."

"What's gotten into him?" Mark asks, shaking his head: "He was so quiet and jovial, and now...?"

"Maybe something's eating him up," Winifred suggests, going back to what she was doing and trying not to look at Myron, who may or may not be looking at her: "Worried about family, maybe."

"Maybe he's an !@#$hole and we're just finding out now," Myron opines, putting down his tools and leaving the room rather abruptly. Mark sighs at that, shrugs, and puts down his own things.

"Maybe we could all do with a break," he says: "The schedule we're on is pretty punishing. I guess it's just a matter of time before tempers flare up."

"I thought you American heroes were all calm and rational in a crisis?" Skyspear asks, smiling at him.

"Now that is just not true..." he laughs, walking out with her, leaving only Winifred, who goes back to what she was working on and keeps at it like a woman possessed.

Every once in a while she stops, bites her lip, and stifles a sob. But that does not make her stop working. It just makes her work even harder, as though she had something to prove.

Or something to avenge.

10/8/12

"Ma'am, he said he didn't want to be disturbed," the security guard tells the Base Commander, but she's not taking no for an answer. She gestures for him to get out of her way, and he sighs, nods, and steps aside, letting her enter the hatchway to the communications array.

"Acting Commander Barbara Martin," she says, and the light goes from red to green. There's a hiss and the door slides open, and then, once she's through, it slides shut again. And she walks down the length of the hallway like she had a purpose, wondering just what she's going to say to the man who's effectively dethroned her.

When Alpha Base Seven was attacked, along with the rest of the world, on 3/15, the actual Commander was obliterated along with half of the installation, and almost three-quarters of its crew. As chief engineer, Barbara was down in the secondary reactor core, attending to a faulty pressure valve -- a malfunction that saved her life, and saw her instantly promoted to Acting Commander once they'd ascertained who'd lived and who'd died.

The first few decisions she had to make were critical, and the answers were not promising. They could not communicate back to Earth without risking being attacked again, they could not send up any spacecraft without taking the same risk, and they didn't have a hope of fighting back against Deep Ten, itself. All they could do was pool their resources and knowledge, rebuild what they could, and find a way to survive on what little remained.

It was touch-and-go for a few months, but eventually enough of the wounded and maimed died to stabilize their life support requirements. The hydroponic gardens were brought back up to full production, again, and they were able to find a way to ruin the reactor "quietly," so that Deep Ten might think that any energy they detected from the base's ruins was merely background radiation, and not a working base.

Once the base was put back together as best they could, they dug in and prepared for a long haul. If Deep Ten had been compromised, then it might be years before they would be rescued, so the best thing they could do was stay quiet, stay hidden, and survive. 

But then, one day, there came a knocking on their outside airlock. They opened it to receive the last visitor that anyone could have imagined, and once they had him secured and stabilized he told them the truth about what had happened. And he exercised his authority to demand certain changes and provisions, the better to deal with the situation at hand.

That was months ago. Since then, Barbara's had numerous chances to regret having opened the airlock door, and letting the maimed cyborg into their lives.

As she enters the remnants of their secondary communications array, she sees that he doesn't even turn around to look at her. Like a man made from sticks, he toddles from one open box of circuits to another on spindly limbs, and picks and chooses what he needs like an old woman deciding what chocolates to eat next.

"Director Straffer," she says after a tense minute: "I need to talk to you."

"Ah, Barbara," he says, turning around to look at her: "I was wondering how long it would take you to come down here."

She smiles, trying not to concentrate on his grotesque appearance: a bloated, stapled-together torso held up by steel hips and skinny, metal legs, with arms more metal than meat above them. Only his head seems to have escaped the horrors of his long fall through space, but his eyes are dark and sunken, and every so often he has to wipe blood from his nose and ears.

(His blonde hair is perfect, she notices. He's made every effort to make it look as lovely as he can. It's the only thing he can fully control, she figures. And that makes her incredibly sad, but no less angry.)

"I need to talk to you about the parts requisition you just made," she says, speaking as slowly and calmly as she can: "It's going to take most of our last stores of resistors. We need those to be sure that our controls for the reactor stay functional."

"After this, we won't need those," he says, patting the controls he's working on: "Once this is working, and we have our go, we won't be staying here for much longer."

"Is that what your friends told you?" she says, remembering the day the magician arrived, just under a month ago: "Are they really going to be able to teleport us all out of here?"

"Maybe," he says: "Or maybe they'll just send up some rockets on autopilot. I don't know for sure, Barbara. All I know is that we have a chance to help win the war, here, and you're worried about the reactor not having enough parts to have a triple redundancy."

"I realize that you have your priorities, Straffer. But I have mine. The safety of this moonbase is my first priority. I cannot allow you to jeopardize it-"

"Do you understand what you are saying?" he interrupts, stalking over to her quickly than she thought him capable: "I'm trying to save the Earth after an invasion, lady. And you're worried about safety margins?"

"If the reactor goes critical-"

"Then we're all dead. But if we don't knock Deep Ten out, then the things who took over the Earth will just zap the revolution from orbit, all over again. And that's not something that we can let happen."

"But-"

"How about you be honest for a change?" he asks her, taking a step back: "This isn't about parts and safety margins at all, is it?"

"No," she sighs: "It isn't."

"It's about the fact that the moment we turn this thing on, it's going to make us a target, and there's a good chance that we'll be fried by a particle cannon before the device does what it's supposed to."

"Yes," she says, looking him square in the eyes: "My duty is to these people, Straffer. They depend on me to keep them safe."

"And what about your duty to Earth?" he asks: "What about your duty to fight for its freedom?"

She grits her teeth, scowls, and then turns around. He smiles and goes back to his work.

"This will work, Barbara," he says, getting ready to put some more components together: "If there's one thing I know how to do, it's hack my own weapons platform. And there is no !@#$ way the fake me up there's thought about what I'm going to do. So we fire this up, we knock out their cannons, and then you come home a hero...."

He turns to look at her, and sees that she's long gone.

"Well, I guess some people don't give a !@#$ about heroics," he says, and goes back to what he was about to do.

About halfway through the board, he realizes that he hasn't thought about SPYGOD in over an hour. He allows himself a quick moment to reminisce of better times -- the times that kept him alive and sane as he fell from the stars to the Moon -- and then gets back to work.

This will work. They will win. And if they're lucky, they'll all live to celebrate it.

And if not, well, at least he'll leave behind a pretty corpse -- won't he?

(SPYGOD is listening to Never Lost (Front 242) and having a Full Moon Beer )

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

10/4/12

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

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

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

"That's a terrifying weapon."

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

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

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

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

10/5/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIOLET DEMON: You mean Doctor Kyklops?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: What do you mean?

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And he is trapped in it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: That could work. 

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: When would that be?

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: And when will that be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCARLET FACTOTUM: I would like that very much. 

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

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

10/6/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the other matters?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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