12/22/12 - The Owl - The More I See the More I Fall - pt. 3

12/8/12

"So what do we do, then?" The Owl asks, looking around an overly-opulent conference hall full of American Supers.

The resulting silence is deafening, and disheartening -- especially since they just spent the last couple hours complaining about how things seemed to be happening too quickly, and outside of their control. The Imago being tried, sentenced, and punished. The massive geo-political shakeups that have just occurred. The hideous slaughter that just happened in Israel.

And what just happened to Doctor Power.

And while they could have claimed to have some hand in those things, given that the person who ordered them all here -- SPYGOD -- was somewhat directly involved with them, he was now nowhere to be seen.

(Though, given everything that's happened over the last few days, that might not be so strange after all.)

"Well," the new New Man coughs, raising a hand and addressing the group: "If you don't mind one of the new guys saying something...?"

"I don't mind at all," Gold Standard says, shrugging her shoulders: "I think we're all pretty much new, here."

"Some of us, anyway," an old man with a long beard says: "Some of us are old as dirt."

"Speak for yourself, Brainman," the old New Man says, winking.

"Please, just call me Rakim..."

"Well, you know we've got some new folks, here,," Blastman adds, looking around the room: "But I see that we don't have any of the really new folks. I'm not the only one who noticed that, right?"

He isn't. For some reason, the new wave of American heroes -- the ones who escaped the chemicals in the water, and lived quiet lives under COMPANY scrutiny -- are not here, today, in this quaint St. Louis hotel. The meeting is only what's left of the old hands, their namesakes and descendants, and the occasional reformed villain.

"You know, I think you're right," the old New Man says, leaning back in his chair: "Son, I think you have the floor."

"Well, let's put it on the table, here," the man says, adjusting his sunglasses: "The Owl's got the right verb going. We need to do something. And I'd say that something is form a new group."

"What sort of group are you talking about?" the Shining Guardsman asks: "You mean like the Freedom Force?"

"Not like the Freedom Force, please," Yanabah snorts, crossing her well-muscled arms: "All I ever heard from great-grandfather was how much they argued whether they should do things or not."

"Well, after Korea, you can understand our reluctance," the old New Man says.

"After Korea, you got neutered," Gosheven chuckles, turning his hand into a pair of scissors and making 'snip-snip' motions.

"Now that's not fair," old New Man says, but, having been in Gosheven's head for so long, after the war, he realizes it for the joke it is and leaves it be. 

"Well, it's a whole new ballgame, isn't it?" the new New Man says, gesturing to The Owl: "We were actually making some headway talking with other Supers from other countries at The Z, when the Imago were being dealt with. And one of the things that's changed is the relationship between supers and their government. No one wants to go back to being told what to do by their elected officials, anymore. They want more autonomy, and less of a feeling of being a weapon, or a puppet on a string."

"Which is probably why SPYGOD had us meet here," The Owl adds, looking around: "I bet he's hoping we make something independent and keep it American."

"I bet you're right," Rakim says: "In fact, that's part of why I'm here."

"Other than being invited?" Gold Standard asks, still not quite willing to trust a former supervillain.

"Well, I could have opted out, same as everyone else. But I had the brain computer look at some long-range prognostications, based on current trends. And I think one thing that's pretty clear is that we're going to need some kind of large, national group of supers."

"Why not just go international from here on out?" Blastman asks.

"Well, we may need one of those, too. But if the largest, most powerful group winds up being international, then it's going to fall under the wing of the Terre Unifee. And that's going to mean that any countries that don't join it are going to have their heroes denied membership, or else be used as salespersons to persuade their governments to join up."

"Plus they could always be a little slow responding to emergencies of non-members," Yanabah points out: "Just to be !@#$ers."

There's a little chuckling at her frank assessment.

"America has now joined the TU," Rakim goes on, pulling out a printed report: "Which means that their supergroup is going to include American supers. And since the biggest profile super is going to be really busy for the next four years or so, they're going to pick someone in this room."

"And who knows who that will be," Gold Standard says.

"New Man, actually," the new New Man says, pointing to his father.

The old man blinks: "What do you mean, son?"

"I came to same conclusion," Rakim says, gesturing to the page: "You're a known quantity. You're a former member of both the Liberty Patrol and the Freedom Force, and you were in charge of the COMPANY for a while there."

"Oh please, let's not bring that up," he says, shaking his head: "Worst couple months of my life."

"You're also not too hyperpatriotic or flamboyant," his son continues: "You're well-meaning, humble, and dependable. You won't try to be in charge of the show, you won't undermine or undercut anyone, and you won't go shoving your smart American ways all over the agenda."

"In short, you're perfect for the job," Rakim finishes, folding up the paper and putting it away.

"I don't know whether to be insulted or complemented."

"I'd be pretty darn proud to be in a group like that," Blastman says, straightening his pointy helmet: "You don't want it, I got dibs."

There's some laughter, there, and then The Owl brings it back to earth: "So, excluding the old New Man, and boy do we need to get this name thing straight-"

"Still working on a new one," the new New Man says, smiling: "Your son totally took one I was working on."

"Should we invite him, by the way?" Shining Guardsman asks, pointing a gilded finger at The Owl: "I don't know why he's not here, come to think of it-"

"He's busy," The Owl lies, too quickly for her own liking: "That and travel outside Neo York City's a little difficult at this time."

"Too bad," the gold-suited man says: "I kind of like the idea of having someone along for the ride who can be in a million places at once."

"Well, I can try, but I think I'm too fabulous to split up," Gosheven announces.

"No one asked you," Yanabah snorts.

"No one cares-"

"Children, please," the new New Man says, holding up a hand: "Play nice."

"How about this, then?" The Owl says, gesturing to Rakim: "If we go by what's being predicted by Rakim's machine, and believe me, that thing was frighteningly accurate back in the day-"

"Oh, I remember," Blastman says, giving the old villain a squirrely look.

"Then we do need an American group. And we should do our best to keep it as disconnected with the government as possible. Let the new kids have their orders and see how they handle themselves, and maybe, after time, they can be let in. But in the meantime, we handle the things they're not meant to be tackling."

"Like what?" the old New Man asks: "Getting involved internationally?"

"I mean like the people we used to fight, once," she says, standing up beside the man's son: "What happened in Palestine was a wake-up call for me. I've been so busy dealing with fire trucks and petty theft that I'd forgotten that there's reasons why we exist. Science terrorists, global conquerors, threats too big for an army to handle, even one that's supposedly that of a world government."

"And if we band together, as American heroes, we can do what needs doing independent of that world government," the new New Man continues, nodding at what she says: "Because you know they're going to try and stick their !@#$ fingers into our business at some point."

"What about the COMPANY?" Night Phantom asks: "It really sounds like we'd just be duplicating their effort."

"I don't see the COMPANY lasting for too much longer," Rakim says, sadly: "I don't think we need a brain computer to figure out why, either."

No one wants to comment on that. 

"It'd mean being outlaws, of a sort," Gold Standard says, looking around: "We'd go from being licensed heroes to being vigilantes, again. Some might even call us outlaws."

"Well, some of us started out that way," The Owl points out.

"And some of us used to be that way," Rakim says, nodding to Blastman.

"And some of us don't give a !@#$," Yanahbah says, leaning forward: "There's good and there's evil. If we sit down and do nothing in the face of evil, we become evil. And if doesn't matter why we do nothing, either. If it's fear or laziness or letting some French bureaucrat tell us what to do, it's all the same."

There's some silence, then, and nodding.

"Then we are a team," the young New Man says, taking The Owl's hand in his and extending a hand out to another hero, nearby: "Are you in?"

They all are.

12/13/12

"... I mean, it's unbelievable,"  Martha says over the phone, watching the television in her apartment as a number of internationally-renowned Supers -- including the old New Man -- are addressing the press, right outside the Parisian headquarters of the TU: "Brainman had it right. He even predicted the name-"

"Never mind that," Mark Clutch responds: "Check out what's going down on FOX, right now."

"Oh, you know I refuse to watch that network," The Owl sighs.

"Well, so do I, but Farashuu actually likes it. So we're watching it, and-"

"Is that Skyspear's real name?"

"Um, yes," Mark says, not knowing how much he should say about that: "But we're watching that, and... oh, just flip it over, Martha. Trust me."

"You know I do, Mark. But someone had better be slugging Sean Hannity right in the jaw, or I'm going to be a little upset-"

But she closes her mouth as soon as she sees what's happening.

The camera is outside of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. in Neo York City, looking at the front steps. A massive group of overdressed TU soldiers are moving out of the front doors, their hands on their holsters.

And right behind them are SPYGOD -- who's holding Bee-Bee in his arms -- and Director Straffer, obviously being evicted from their home.

"Yes, this is it," the cameraman says over the loud jeering and boos coming from off-camera protesters: "This is history happening, folks. This man has lived like a king in this city for decades, and now, at last, he's being marched out of his throne room and being called to account."

"Oh my God," Martha says, sitting down: "They're doing it."

"Well, he got charged yesterday," Mark says: "You didn't think they'd leave him there, did you?"

"Well, maybe not," she says: "But wow, that takes some chutzpah. They're putting him out on the street at the same time they're announcing that they're making a new strategic talents organization..."

She thinks for a moment and clicks back to CNN, not exactly surprised at what she sees.

"In these times of trouble, Le Compagnie shall be there," the tall, imposing Frenchman with red and blonde hair says: "We shall salve the wounds and bind the breaks. We shall turn night into day and lost into found. Where there is strife, we shall bring peace, and where there is war or injustice, we shall be the ones to say 'no.'"

There's a great deal of cheering at that, and he smiles -- white and perfect as falling snow -- and raises his hands to them. 

"Men and women of the world, we are your saviors," he says: "Let us help you, and may we all help each other in the days to come."

More cheering, almost enough to make the world shake -- especially when the heroes all step up alongside the man and, in unison, bow or nod to the world.

"And that is the leader of this new group, France's own national hero, Tempete Bleu, speaking," the announcer says: "And we've just received word that, almost coincidentally, SPYGOD has been forcibly removed from his home in Neo York City and is being transported to special holding facilities, there to await trial for his role in-"

The Owl turns the television off. The phone continues to talk. She loves Mark -- maybe more than he knows -- but right now she can't listen to him.

She can only think of what this means for their own group, now, and what it means for the man she's still upset with, but has never stopped respecting.

Or loving like a father, at times.

"Oh please, God," she prays, clasping her hands around the phone: "Please help me to do the right thing, here."

12/22/12

It's three days before Christmas, and Martha is only just now getting her tree up.

She kept putting it off, much to Kaitlyn's chagrin. One night she said she had no energy, and another she said she had no time. The truth was that she really wasn't in the mood, as she'd begun to feel the sadness of a nearly-empty house, bereft of her father, her cousin, their butler.

Her son. 

But then Kaitlyn left a copy of The House Without a Christmas Tree out, right on the coffee table, and Martha realized that her sadness was causing collateral damage. So she sucked it up, and one night they took off for themselves, and they went and bought a tree.

And now she's decorating it herself, looping newly-bought strands of garland over it, along with festive, red and green balls, small tin angels, and the like. She hadn't gotten an angel for the top because Kaitlyn had insisted on making one, herself, but then she didn't think she could have gotten a new one, anyway.

The Samuels family had always topped the tree one of her great-grandfather's angels, cast in brass and lovingly cared for. And it had been destroyed along with the mansion, that terrible night, all those months ago.

She's about to start tearing up at the thought, but she banishes the sadness and goes back to work. She doesn't want Kaitlyn to come home, a bright angel in her hands, only to find her aunt weeping at the base of the tree.

"It's a beautiful tree," a strange voice tells her -- warbling and uncertain.

She spins around 180 dgrees, arms up and ready to strike. And then she puts her hands down, agog at what she's seeing.

It's her son, Thomas, standing before her. Only it isn't exactly him: his form is hazy and indistinct -- more of a hologram than the full physical projections he's been creating for himself.

"How are you?" he asks, his expression somewhat quizzical.

"I'm fine," she says, trying to get her heart rate under control: "I'm sorry. You scared me. I didn't know you could... come here?"

"So for once, I finally snuck up on you," he says, smiling wider than he should be able to: "That means I win the bet."

"I guess it does..." she laughs, weakly: "But that's totally cheating."

"Maybe," he says, and eases himself down on the sofa: "I remember grandfather saying that the only difference between cheating and being sneaky is whether you're the good guy or the bad guy."

"Yeah, I think Grandpa said that, once," she agrees, carefully sitting down next to him.

"He did," Thomas says: "I was three and a half, roughly. I don't think you knew I was in the room. I was sneaking around."

"I may have known you were there," Martha laughs: "Mothers have eyes in the back of their head about that kind of thing."

Not anymore, he says. Something about how she says it frightens her, just a little.

"How are you here?" She asks, hoping to change the subject.

"I'm borrowing a trio of defense communication satellites," he explains: "They're new ones. If I was playing by its rules I'd be appearing behind enemy lines to tell you to surrender, and that we can get at you anywhere. As it is, I'm here telling my mother I love her, and merry Christmas."

"I love you too," she says, smiling: "And Merry Christmas to you, too. But you're a little early."

"Yes. On Christmas I expect to be very busy," he explains: "Things are coming to a head. I need to be ready for them.

"On Christmas? How do you know?"

How many of your heroes are working with the secessionists?

She blinks: "How... did SPYGOD tell you?"

I told SPYGOD, remember?

"Yes, you did. Were you listening in when I talked to him?"

I listen in to everything, Thomas says, his eyes growing wider and darker: I hear people when they talk. I hear them kissing, planning, !@#$ing.

"Thomas, please."

Mark is in love with you, Thomas says: He's sleeping with the African hero, Skyspear, but he loves you.

Martha gasps and sits up, trying to get off the couch without panicking: "Thomas, how dare you tell me this! This is..."

"It's all my business, now," he says, sadly: "Too much. Too many things. I see everything, now. More than I should. More than I need to. But yet I have to be the one to do it. Do you understand?"

She shakes her head: "Thomas, I don't understand. I love you, I want to help you, but I don't understand."

Understand this, Thomas says, and he crackles and vanishes, only to re-appear standing up, by the tree: The darkness is coming. All must stand together against it. But not all that stand together will be together. There will be confusion and chaos. Someone must stand above it to lead. 

"Are you talking about that thing that's coming for us?" she asks, standing up: "Are you?"

Someone must stand above it to lead, he repeats: Be ready. 

And then he's gone, leaving her with an empty apartment, a million questions, and the terrible fear that her son is not acting on his own accord.

A car drives by, playing Christmas music at full blast. She wipes away a tear, takes a deep breath, and starts working on the tree again.

For Kaitlyn. For Mark. For the woman he's sleeping with, but not in love with. For Thomas.

And for herself. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Deeper and Deeper (The FIXX) and having a White Christmas)

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

11/10/12

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

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

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

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

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

"Changed?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's still disturbing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like?"

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

"It's a fine line."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If only we could all be so sure."

"Those Nuns were sure."

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

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

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

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

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

"Amongst other things."

She blushes: "Really, (REDACTED)."

"Really, Martha."

"How's he doing?"

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

"And better at !@#$ing?"

SPYGOD starts. Martha laughs.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

"No problems?"

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

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

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

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

"Oh?"

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

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

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

Martha gasps: "You're kidding me."

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

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

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

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

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

The Owl nods, leans back, and considers this.

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

"What do you mean by 'off'?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11/24/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I meant uncle SPYGOD and USA."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12/22/12 - The Owl - The More I See the More I Fall - pt. 1

10/19/12

"Wow," Talon says, looking around the massive room, packed wall-to-wall with people in costumes, uniforms, and outlandish get-ups. She has never seen so many Supers in her life, all milling about and talking.

(And she notes, sadly, that most of the familiar faces are not here, today.)

"I know," her aunt says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "I think most of them are the new ones, sweetie. I don't even know any of them."

"Well, now you know me," an earnest-looking young man in a green and white uniform says, extending a hand: "Green Fury, ma'am. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Big fan."

"Good to meet you," she says, taking it: "And this is Talon."

"Good to meet you, too," he says, not seeming to take it personally when she doesn't offer her hand in turn: "I'm here with the Los Angeles crew... sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Eh, we're not exactly on speaking terms right now," he sighs, waving his hands: "Drama."

"Yeah, you'll get that," she sighs: "Best thing to do is concentrate on the work and try to keep the personal stuff on the back burner."

"Can't agree more," he smiles, and she notices the small, gold cross around his neck, just under his uniform's neckline. She considers whether to advise him about jewelry on the job (never a good idea) but then SPYGOD's up at the podium, and everyone falls silent without him having to say a word.

"First of all, excellent !@#$ing work," he says, hands behind his back and looking everyone in the eye, in turn: "All of you, whether you've been with me since the days of the Liberty Patrol, or just signed on for this fight, you need to know that I am !@#$ proud of all of you.

"It was a hard road out of !@#$, and we walked it, together. That makes us brothers and sisters. That makes us family. And in the days to come, I want you to remember that this was our first real family outing... for some of us, anyway."

A few people get the joke and chuckle.

"However, we won the !@#$ war, and now we have to win the !@#$ peace. Some of you remember what it was like in Europe and Japan, back in the 40's. Well, we've got something like that now, only it's !@#$ing worldwide.

"The !@#$ing Imago did a real number on us, ladies and gentlemen. They got us dependent on them for !@#$ing everything. Transportation of food and supplies, basic survival needs, gas and electricity... you name it, they controlled it. That control is now gone, and as soon as everyone wakes up from the hangover they had after the party, they're going to miss it something fierce. 

"And we all know what that means. Crimes of fear and opportunity. The strong taking from the weak. People trying to carve out territories and declare themselves kings of the new frontier.

"And, of course, all the !@#$ing scumbags in bad costumes you've been fighting all along are going to want to pop up and cause !@#$, because that's what they do.

"Now, other countries are in the same boat as we are, if not worse, but charity begins at home. They have their supers and support mechanisms, they can fix their own !@#$. We are, of course, on call if they need us, but I think we deserve to look inward for a change, don't you?"

There is a great deal of support for this notion.

"So I'm going to have most of you working here in the states. I will have some of the heavy hitters with me, on standby, to deal with anything big that comes up. But the rest of you I will have assigned to cities and areas, there to help with emergencies, supplies, and civil order until we can get local and state authorities back up and running again.

"So, here are your assignments. Please raise your hand when called and come together with your group, so everyone can meet you. And, afterwards, there's ten !@#$ tons of my homemade chicken cacciatore in the next room, so feel free to have some grub while you're getting to know one another. In fact, I !@#$ing insist."

That also gets some cheers, which makes the man chuckle quite a bit. 

"Top of the list: Owl? Talon?"

The Owl smiles and they raise their hands: "Right here, Sir!"

"Have you been back to chi-town since the attack?"

"No we have not," she says, smiling a little.

"Well, you are now the emergency marshal of Chicago, and will be leading a team of people I'm about to call. So you all have some proper deep dish pie for me, alright?"

There's some laughter at that, and The Owl tries not to cry when she thinks of how good it will be to finally get home.

And how good it would be if Thomas was joining them. 

10/24/12

"... hardest part was just getting basic services up and running again," The Owl says, striding through the high-tech halls of the Central Building with Mark Clutch and Talon, who's walking hand-in-hand with her father: "All those things you take for granted. Water, electricity, gas, garbage even. Thankfully, one of my team's a speeder, so we made some quick headway into the trash situation before things got really smelly."

"Yeah, we've been dealing with that, here, too," Mark says, looking more at-ease than maybe he should, under the circumstances: "Do you have any idea how bad Manhattan alone is, when the trash doesn't get picked up for a couple weeks? The rats were the size of dogs."

"Ewwww..." Talon shakes her head, much to the amusement of her father and aunt.

"So... what should we expect?" The Owl asks as they come closer to the doors at the end of the hall.

"Well, when he was... absorbed by the building, we thought he was dead," Mark says: "His body was gone, and we had no idea what was actually happening. Most of the things in here are so far above us that we might as well be cavemen trying to figure out a DVR."

"And Dr. Yesterday was the only one who really had a clue."

"Well, his wife, anyway. And I guess that's a messed-up situation...?"

"Yeah," The Owl says, shaking her head: "Was anyone who they were actually supposed to be?"

"We are," the Talon offers, smiling and squeezing her dad's hand a little harder, and taking her aunt's: "We're family."

"And thank God for that," The Owl says: "So what has this been like for him?"

"An uphill climb," Mark says: "At first, all he could do was scream. He said it was too much, over and over again. He wouldn't listen to us at all. I figure the stress of being uploaded was too much for a human mind to take."

"I'm not surprised," she says, shaking her head: "I just wish I could have been here to help."

"You wouldn't have been any help, hon," he says: "None of us were. All we could do was try and talk him through it. Everything that's happened in there was because of him."

"He's strong," Talon says: "He just had to make himself do it."

"He sure did, hon," Mark says, squeezing her hand: "And yesterday, he finally asked after you. And that's how I knew it was time to bring you here." 

Up ahead of them is a large pair of black, swinging doors. On the other side, there's a large, circular room, filled wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling with screens. The screens are all glowing light green, and provide the only illumination.

"Let me see..." Mark says, letting go of his daughter's hand and walking to the center of the room. A small dais slides up from the floor, its controls unfolding and lighting up as he approaches: "Thomas? Are you out there, son?"

I am, the young man says, his voice strange and modulated, flat and unemotional: Hold on, I'm just looking into something.

"Well, I've got your mom and your cousin here."

I know, the voice says: Give me a moment, please.

The Owl takes off her mask, so he can see her face: "Son...?"

Hello mother, she hears him say: Give me a moment, please. I'm not wearing anything. Let me put something on.

"Oh," she says, trying not to cry: "Well, I don't think that's... I mean, I am your mother."

Yes, you are, he says.

"He sounds funny," Talon says, taking her mask off as well.

"It's the speakers, sweetie," Mark says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "He's in the building's computer. He's going to have to speak through it."

"That's not what I mean," she mumbles, but no one hears her because that's when he appears.

At first, they think there's a spot on one of the screens. Then the spot gets larger, and becomes the form of a young man, striding towards them. It's Thomas, and he's dressed like the Talon, and as he comes closer he fills up an entire screen, and then two screens, and then his face fills up an entire side of the room.

Hello, mother, he says, his face strangely beatific: I am wearing something now.

"Are you..." she asks, stepping forward to the dais: "How do you feel?"

I feel complete, he says, smiling ever so slightly.

"That's good!" she says, holding the edges of the dais for support: "So you're... more yourself, then?"

You misunderstand my meaning, mother, the boy says, the smile dropping, somewhat: My completeness has nothing to do with my continued survival and recovery. It has to do with my consciousness being freed from that weak shell it had been in for my entire life.

"Thomas...?" The Owl asks: "What do you mean?"

I mean that I had no idea how limited I was, before. How small.

"What do you mean, son?" Mark asks, a little alarmed.

Do you remember when I would forget things? How I had to struggle to remember? How I had to study and learn, over and over again, before I could remember. How I had to practice?

"Well, yes," his mother says: "That's not unusual. We all forget-"

I don't, he says: I can now remember everything in my life with complete clarity. I remember every moment of everything. Every day I lived. Every book I ever read. Every dream I ever had. Everything I thought and felt and said and did. I remember it all, perfectly.

"Everything?" Mark asks, more than a little taken aback.

Everything, mother. I remember my earliest moments, when I was a baby in your womb. I remember the moment I became self-aware, inside you. I remember being born and looking into your face.

"Oh my God," Martha says, crying openly: "Oh my God. Thomas, that was... that was the best moment of my life. Looking at you for the first time. I felt like God had blessed me, then and there, to give me such a beautiful little person."

I hated you, Thomas says, his voice as unemotional as it's been all along, the look on his face unchanged: I had been warm and happy and content, in there. And then you squeezed me out into a world that was cold and unfamiliar. They sliced into the cord that tied us together, and tossed the piece of you that kept me alive into the trash.

And then they put me into your arms, and all I wanted to do was scream and crawl back into that warm, loving darkness.

Martha shudders, taking a step back: "Thomas... I... I didn't know."

How could you have known? You didn't ask me, and I couldn't say. All I could do was scream and cry, so I did. And you just held me like I was the cutest thing. 

Your beautiful little gift from God.

Martha closes her mouth, shocked. Mark thinks to reproach the young man but realizes he has nothing he can say.

And Kaitlyn starts crying, quietly, doing her best not to let her father or her aunt in on what she's just realized.

I am alive, mother, Thomas says: I am more alive and complete now than I have ever been, and soon I will be something more.

"What do you mean?" Mark asks: "We want to help you, Thomas. We want to try and get you out of there, if we can-"

No, Thomas says, his face warping into a giant, abominable scowl: You can not interfere with this. You will not. I am becoming something more than I was, and you can not stop it.

"Now see here, young man," Mark says, stepping forward: "You will not speak to your mother that way. She loves you. We all love you. We want what's best for you, and-"

"Thomas, we understand," Martha says, stepping to Mark's side and putting up a hand: "It's just... hard to hear this from you."

I knew it would be, the boy says, stepping back from the screens, and revealing that he no longer has the Talon costume on. Instead, there's nothing but skin, swirling and eddying in the electronic breeze like a raggedy sail in the wind: I am sorry to have to tell you these things in this manner. But I will soon be transforming, and I thought it was best that you knew.

"So... you don't want us to get you out of there?" Mark asks, stepping forward: "You don't want to be... alive?"

I am alive, Uncle Mark, Thomas says: And I will be getting out of here, soon. In fact, I'll be everywhere, soon.

"I don't understand," Martha says.

You will, Thomas says, and when he does they can tell it's being said over the speakers throughout the entire building.

And then, in a rush of pixels and polygons, he floats back the way he came, leaving only empty green screens in the room.

It's a long walk out of the building without saying anything. Longer still to get into the Owl Car to head for Chicago. But Martha doesn't start crying for her dead son until she's well outside of Neo York City.

And Kaitlyn -- who figured it out well before the adults did -- knows there's nothing she can say to help.

11/1/12

"Look, it's really simple," The Owl says, holding into the Owl Line that's got the two burly, well-armed men trussed up to the pipes on the basement's ceiling: "I appreciate wanting to do your own thing and chart your own course. But this country needs to come back together again, if we're going to survive.

"And I am not going to let this city be turned into a one-stop shop for every survivalist nutcase who wants a rocket launcher."

"Yeah, you just keep talking, you dyke !@#$," the larger of the two says, still trying to reach for his holstered pistol: "We were warning you smart, city-slicker types all along. You all went with those Imago !@#$ers and their one-world government, and look what happened. And now the French want to tell us what to do? !@#$ that!"

"First of all, we did not go with those Imago,"  the Owl says, trying to control her temper: "We were fighting them from the start. And second of all, I don't think we're going to be joining that government anytime soon, so spare me the paranoid justification for your personal arsenal."

"And thirdly, you know, I'm only eight years old," Talon says, reaching up and quickly confiscating the man's gun: "Maybe you should watch your language."

"Recruiting child soldiers?" the other one says: "I thought it was only !@#$s in Africa and camel !@#$ers in the Middle East what did that. How deep in their pockets are you?"

The Owl sighs, looks to Talon, and then twangs the Owl Line. The acoustics it creates makes the two men howl and retch.

"'For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,'" The Owl quotes, putting small copies of the Bible in their empty holsters: "'That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

"You dare quote that book to me?" the other one says: "I'm a Christian man, lady!"

"Yeah, I can tell from what you say about black people and Arabs," the Owl snorts, turning to leave: "Repent, sir. And don't let me catch you buying weapons in this town again."

"Oh, and by the way, mister?" the Talon says on her way out: "Jesus was an Arab, technically. Might want to think about that."

The men's response turns the air blue, and chases them up the stairs and into the cold, Chicago night. 

"He was a Jew, honey," the Owl says, once they're out of earshot and heading for the Owl Car.

"You know, I don't think there's much of a difference," the girl says.

"Well, there is to them."

"True. Kind of academic, now."

The Owl sighs and nods, thinking of what they watched on television, last night. The massive piles of human ash in Jerusalem, sitting under the sun and turning into rotten sludge.

"This is Owl 1," Martha says as they get into the car and take off: "Reporting 839 on the corner of Valley Drive and South Roberts, over in Palos Hills. Building 13. Got two men in a basement full of heavy ordinance. Site is secure, will be sending backup to keep an eye on it until police arrive. Over."


"10-4, Owl 1," the car's speakers reply: "Sending specialist unit, now. Two men, you said?"


"Two men. Left their wallets by their weapons. Look like out of state boys."


"That's the third time tonight. Must be something in the water."


"Well, drink carefully, dispatch. Owl 1 out," and then she uses her own communicator: "I need some assistance, Team Chicago. Got a pair of arms dealers in Building 13 of Valley Drive, in the basement. Anyone who could wait there for the cops?"

"I've got it," their speedster replies: "I'm on the other side of town though. Might be a few minutes."

"Well, soon as you can, Yellow Streak," The Owl smiles: "Thanks. Over and out."


Talon smiles and looks out the window, down at the city.


"I feel like we're making a difference," she says, leaning back in her seat: "I really do."


"Well, so do I," the Owl says, cruising along above the buildings and wondering how her son is doing.

* * *

Meanwhile, below, Yellow Streak runs into the basement, and finds the two men trussed up and grumbling.

"Well, it !@#$ing took you long enough," the larger man says: "You going to !@#$ing cut us down before the cops come here, or what?"

"I can't," she says, shaking her head and looking around, judging how best to make this look like what she needs it to look like: "The Owl called it in. The cops are on their way. If I cut you loose, they'll ask questions."

"Then what the !@#$ are you going to do?"

The superhero smiles, and pulls out a knife, quickly figuring out how fast she'll have to run to avoid getting their blood on her uniform, and how fast she'll have to to move to make the place look like their allies got their stuff before she arrived. 

A difficult decision for most, but this isn't her first rodeo -- not by a long shot. In fact, she's figured out what to do before the two idiots can even start screaming. 

And so she does.

11/5/12

"Thomas?" Mark asks, getting up in the middle of the night. He'd been having a strange dream with the boy in it, and then it abruptly stopped, just as he thought he heard footsteps in the room.

He looks over at the woman in bed with him. Skyspear is dead asleep, curled over onto her pillow. He runs a hand along her lovely, brown shoulders, but she's so out of it she doesn't even respond.

He's about to put it down to nerves or stress when he hears it again: the distinct sound of footsteps, echoing around the hallway outside his room.

He gets out of bed, puts on a robe, and leaves his room, looking both ways. He can't see anything, but he can hear the footsteps, down the way.

He quickly and quietly follows them, and soon realizes he's heading down to the large, multi-screened chamber that he normally talks to Thomas in. He soon regrets not having gotten a weapon, or waking Skyspear, but figures he's got the element of surprise on his side.

Around the corner, down the hall, he keeps one turn behind whoever's walking in his home. And then he's turning the corner to the chamber, and seeing that the double doors are swinging shut.

"Well, !@#$," he mutters, and heads that way. The good news is that whoever's there is trapped. The bad news is that Thomas' main interface is in there, and who knows what kind of damage his intruder could do.

Mark sneaks up to the door, and gently pushes it open, just a bit. Just enough to look around the room and see that there's someone at the dais, working on something.

Someone more than a little familiar, though he hasn't seen him upright and whole since March.

"Thomas...?" he says, stepping into the room, and looking at his nephew. The boy looks just like he did, and is wearing a weird, dark uniform that seems to have no depth, and casts no shadows.

Hello, Uncle, the boy says, not turning around: I see you got my message.

"In my dream?" Mark asks, still stunned: "That was you?"

It was. I was able to slip into your electrical field and broadcast to you. I wasn't sure how it would be interpreted, but I think the main part was achieved.

"What did you say?"

I said I am transformed, the boy says, turning around and smiling: I have figured out how to make the city's maker arrays create a form for me. 

"What...?"

Oh uncle, you should have guessed this was coming, Thomas says, looking at him the way a teacher looks at a student who just isn't getting it: The city makes food and water for its citizens. Replication has been hiding in plain sight all along. But I needed to determine how to make it create a living body for me to interact with the world, and now I have.

"So... you're out of the computer now?" he asks, walking forward: "You're alive?"

I have been alive all along, Thomas says, not pleased at the insinuation: I was merely confined to the memory of this city. Now I have physical form, too. 

As if to prove his point, his face appears in the green screens behind him, and speaks in time with what he says next.

The age of the new man is here, Uncle, Thomas says, holding out his arms as another copy of his body appears, and then another, and then another: This city will soon need its heroes. I intend to be those heroes. Today and tomorrow, now and forever, here there and everywhere.

Call me the Nthernaut, Thomas proclaims through a dozen mouths: For I truly am one in a million. 

And Mark can only drop to his knees, scared out of his wits for the first time since they got back to Earth.

(SPYGOD is listening to Deeper and Deeper (The Fixx) and having a Night Owl Pumpkin Ale)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - Punishment and Aftermath

Yeah, that took longer than I !@#$ing thought it would.

What, the story? !@#$ no, son. I meant taking a slash and then flushing the !@#$ commode. All this French !@#$ I've been chugging it's no wonder my kidneys were backed up, but then you figure that poor porcelain throne can only !@#$ing handle so much before exploding into a million white pieces all over the !@#$ floor.

Of course, since this isn't our !@#$ing apartment, and we are under house arrest, I suppose I'm within my rights to do the !@#$hole rock star thing and just smash the !@#$ place. But where would I take a !@#$ the rest of the time?

(Not in the bedroom bathroom, that's for sure. Me and my boyfriend got that straightened out first thing.)

No, son. What was really !@#$ing taking so long was watching the gold go down the hole.

No, it's not that I have a !@#$ing attraction to that kind of !@#$. I've done a lot of weird things in my time, but I'm happy to say that, while I might gladly stuff my !@#$ into one hole, and take another thing in my mouth, I am not really all that !@#$ing interested in what comes out of them.

Well, one thing that comes out of one of them, anyway.

Yeah, you probably didn't need to !@#$ing hear that. Sorry, son. You can take your hands off your !@#$ ears now.

No, what transfixed me, back there, was the fact that, unless you're a !@#$ing sanitation engineer, you probably have no idea as to what !@#$ing happens when you flush the !@#$ john. It all goes down the hole and away from you, and that's all you need to know, right?

But in reality, there's this massive, complicated system at play. All these !@#$ tubes and pipes, and filters and tunnels, and sluiceways and treatement plants... !@#$ son, it's like some crazy kind of alchemy, down there, all set to turn a city's leavings into as harmless a substance as possible before sending it back out into the wild.

And it is pretty !@#$ing miraculous, in a lot of ways. But it smells, and it's nasty, and when things break down it's a !@#$ing hazzard, so no one wants to know unless they have to know. And so it remains a weird mystery science for most people, and only those who actually !@#$ing tend to the process know what's going on.

Yeah, son, I ponder things like that. I'm !@#$ing allowed. Had a lot of !@#$ing time to ponder that, now haven't I? You know how many minutes I've spent on the !@#$ can in my life?

I could count them, if I !@#$ing wanted.

...

No, the reason I got all starey-eyed back at the !@#$ can is because I was thinking about what happened next. To the Imago, I mean.

We tried them, we sentenced them. And then came the day we had to flush them down the !@#$ing toilet for their crimes.

And you better !@#$ing believe I was there for that one.

* * *

So, let's see, here. The sentencing happens on a Thursday in Paris. The very next day, I'm not there anymore, but the President is. And they get talking about some things that I genuinely had no idea were in the !@#$ing works, but wasn't entirely surprised to hear when it all happened.

(Yeah, yeah. We'll get to it eventually.)

Next couple of days I'm !@#$ing laying low because I really do not need to !@#$ off the President any further. Also, I can't !@#$ing go anywhere without people sticking cameras in my !@#$ face, or asking me how it feels to be !@#$ing responsible for a billion dead children around the world. We hole up in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., drink mojitos, and order out a lot. 

Then, late Monday night, we get a call from Mister Freedom. He's ready.

And Tuesday is when it happens. 

* * *

On the Southeastern side of Cuba lies a small piece of empire, left over from the time before.

It's known as the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, sometimes Gitmo. Since the earliest parts of the last century, it has been under American military control, helping establish a presence in this volatile part of the world. And, since about the middle of the last century, it has been a hated thing in the eyes of the Communist government that controlled Cuba.

But that was before. Before the end of that Government at the hands of the COMPANY. Before the death of their Dictator, and the messy liberation of its people.

And before the coming of the Imago, which made all that confusion and liberation something of an afterthought, or perhaps a black joke.

Now, Cuba is its own entity, once more. Its people have elected a new government, based on a mixture of capitalist economics and socialist welfare. And they, like so many other countries, have joined the Terre Unifee.

One of their earliest decisions, once they joined the TU, was to demand that the American naval base leave. And maybe, once upon a time, America would have been happy to, seeing as how the real reason to have a Naval presence there was no longer in effect.

Unfortunately, Gitmo was also home to Detention Camp Zebra, which cannot, under any circumstances, be moved.

Given the unique situation on the ground, the two nations made a historic agreement. The base was mostly decommissioned, except for the underground prison, which became its own entity. America agreed to pay back rent, in full, and to continue to pay rent on the area they hold. And they also promised that the island nation would be protected from anything and anyone that might be locked up in The Z. 

Not that such a thing is a concern with Mister Freedom on the case. (Usually)

By the time SPYGOD gets there -- flown in by the last remaining COMPANY Transport anywhere -- a number of distinguished guests have arrived. Mostly the same types who came to the verdict and the sentencing, here to see the end result, but also the well-known masters of several, esoteric fields. 

Leading scientists and great thinkers. Escape artists and magicians. Philosophers and religious leaders. All here to see the work of a man who melds their many disciplines into one, seamless art.

All front and center to watch the master of universal escapology create a prison not even he could get out of. 

One gets a sense of the gravity involved, here, this day, upon seeing the machine: a great, copper spiral surrounding a giant, silver cylinder. Lights flash around the cylinder, beating in time with whatever strange engine runs it. 

An elevating platform sits at the top of the spiral, holding a massive box containing many large, two-toned metal balls. These are obviously the condemned Imago, awaiting their sentence, and there are quite a few other, massive boxes nearby, waiting to be loaded onto the platform, and send barreling down the copper spiral, one by one.

In front of the machine, on the tarmac, is an ornate platform, done up in the colorful livery that Mister Freedom often uses when attempting some amazing feat. Before that platform sits the ball containing Green and Yellow, hooked up to the same speakers it was in court, in Paris.

The crowd assembles and sits down, talking amongst themselves. The last time Mister Freedom gave a public performance, like this, was when they finally trapped the Emperor of Dust. And what he did to him gave everyone who saw it nightmares for months.

Some fates are too cruel, even for interdimensional soul-thieves.

SPYGOD's up at the front, along with other witnesses for the Prosecution. He can't help but chuckle at how the Judge is jockeying for a good position, leaving his secret lover (the Prosecutor) well behind him, out of what may be eerie caution or simply not caring about his feeling at this moment in time. 

Mr. USA sits on one side of him, Director Straffer on the other. All the other Strategic Talents have elected to be somewhere else, and quite pointedly so. 

"I really wish Mrs. Liberty was here to see this," Mr. USA sighs.

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, putting an elbow up on the man's shoulder: "She'd have talked some !@#$ing sense into them by now, let me tell you."

"Well, I was thinking more of her actually... oh, never mind."

SPYGOD smiles: "That's always been the difference between us, hasn't it?"

"One of many."

"Yeah, well..." he pats the old man on the shoulder: "Welcome to the pariah club."

"If you two don't stop arguing I'm going to have to assert boyfriend rights," Straffer says, leaning over and winking: "He and I are the ones who are supposed to be bickering like an old married couple, by now. Not you two."

Mr. USA just stares at him for a moment, and then laughs. It's a long, rich laugh -- one that silences a lot of other people -- and before long SPYGOD and Straffer and laughing right along with him. 

(Some !@#$hole tries to shush them, but they don't even look in his direction.)

Eventually, the laughter fades, as it must. And just then, as if by some quirk of perfect timing -- or what might be design, knowing him -- there's a strange whooshing of black cloth at the front of the massive machine, and Mister Freedom is standing there, resplendent in his dark uniform.

Silence falls like a headsman's hatchet. He smiles solemnly, and holds up his hands. They have clearly been manacled.

"Today, we ponder the mystery of imprisonment," he says, holding his chains aloft: "We look upon a group of individuals who have earned our wrath, and are therefore deserving of our punishment. But we also must realize that they are sentient beings, deserving of the same respect we give to any such creatures. 

"Thus we affirm the paradox of prison: your body must be chained down, for your past crimes, but your soul must be allowed to soar, or there can be no future redemption."

'Soar': if there's any irony in his use of that word, given the Imago's tendency to use it to great effect, he makes no sign of it. A cool customer, this science magician. 

"And so, we commit the Imago to this cell," he says, gesturing to the silver cylinder: "It is a virtual matrix, specially built to accommodate their many minds, and respond to their needs and desires. Within its architecture, they may have whatever civilization they can devise, and one limited only by their imagination. 

"But they will not leave it until we allow them to do so, and doing so will prove... challenging, to say the least."

There's a collective nod, a muttering of assent. 

"I asked the one known as Green and Yellow if she had any final words to say, prior to her sentence being carried out. She did, and so I have allowed her this moments."

He walks down, and turns on a dial by the box: "You may speak now, Green and Yellow. They are all here."

"Oh, excellent," Green and Yellow sneers, her voice crisp and clicking: "I suppose you expect that I'm going to beg, or possibly even promise that we'll learn our lesson and someday prove worthy of your trust, again? 

"Well, I'm not. I am not sorry that we did what we did. I am not sorry that we were able to escape that prison we were put into, by beings more powerful than you will ever be. I am not sorry that we took over your planet, and planned to use you to escape it, in the wake of what's coming. I am not sorry we decided to murder you all, at the end, there, either. 

"I am sorry that we won't be able to see you all die, soon. Because that will be entertaining. You may have dealt with us, at great cost, but when ((UNINTELLIGIBLE CONCEPT)) gets here... oh, you are in for a shock. 

"But, not to appear entirely ungrateful, I will give you this. Of all the worlds we ever conquered, and all the peoples we ever utilized, you are the only ones to throw us off, ever. And it wasn't because we were weakened, or sloppy, or too kind for our own good.

"But it wasn't because you were just that good, either. It is simply because you are the only race that was so clearly willing to sacrifice so much of your own kind to save the rest.

"And that alone made so much of the difference."

There is silence, then. No one here has no difficulty understanding what Green and Yellow was referring to. 

No one wishes to have it elaborated upon.

"Mister Freedom? I have said all I need to say, both for myself and my people. You may do what you are going to do, now."

The black-clad man nods, solemnly. He does not disconnect the speaker, but instead presses a few buttons on a remote control he snatches from the air, as though it were part of a magic trick. 

The silver cylinder hums into life. Green and Yellow screams, sharply, as her essence is pulled out of the sphere she's inhabiting, and siphoned into the cylinder. A loud BEEP! sounds out from the machine, and the green and yellow ball she had been inhabiting, just seconds before, begins to smoke and crumble, turning into two-colored dust as it collapses in on itself.

"The process of incarceration has begun," Mister Freedom says, pressing another button on his control. The box at the top of the copper spiral releases a sphere, which rolls round and round the cylinder like a pinball. The cylinder BEEP!s and the sphere rolls on, falling into a shallow pit at the end. 

A crumpling noise is heard as it hits the bottom, and a puff of two-colored smoke wafts up, gentle and pathetic. 

"Out of respect for the process, I ask that, if you stay, you remain silence for the entire event," he says, pressing a button and releasing another sphere: "I estimate that it may take six hours, give or take."

A few people politely leave, heading for the reception that's been set up some distance away, on a rise that allows them to see what's going on. Others sit and watch, for a time.

And some -- like SPYGOD and The Owl -- join the magicians and philosophers, and sit and watch the entire thing. 

* * *

A long !@#$ing six hours, son. But worth every !@#$ moment, just to see those !@#$ers get handled as efficiently as they'd planned on handling us...

...

After it was done, Mister Freedom checked a few things, and then bowed to the crowd, and vanished without saying another thing. 

The copper spiral collapsed down into a big !@#$ ring, like a giant slinky or something. The cylinder went straight down into a hole in ground that I hadn't even !@#$ing seen, just a moment ago. As soon as it was gone, there was a sound like a million !@#$ cell doors slamming the !@#$ shut, one after another, each one louder and more !@#$ing final than the last.

And then the hole it went into just vanished like it wasn't even there. 

The magicians stood up and applauded. Everyone else just sort of scattered, like they'd watched their parents !@#$ or something. And then it was just me and The Owl, and she walked right by me without saying a !@#$ thing.

I wanted to say something to her. But after how things went in Paris, and what happened on !@#$ing Thanksgiving, I don't know that I would have !@#$ing dared. 

No, she had a right to her anger, son, so I let her have it. At least for then. 

So I went over to the rise for a much-needed drink, or ten, over at the buffet. It was a pretty upscale thing, complete with a string quartet playing orchestrations of the Beatles (mostly from Revolver). Straffer and Mr. USA were in the middle of a !@#$ing hilarious conversation, so I joined them, and we had a few snorts and giggles.

One thing I didn't find !@#$ing funny was the other Strategic Talents. They were all over by the !@#$ cake table, talking about the future. A new Freedom Force was in the works, over there -- old heroes, new faces, allies from all over the !@#$ world -- and it looked like The Owl and the new New Man were heading it up.

And it was pretty !@#$ clear, from how they all had their !@#$ backs to us, that they weren't asking us over to join.

Lucky for me, Mr. USA didn't notice a !@#$ing thing, especially over the music. So we kept !@#$ing talking, downing the champagne, and figuring out some next moves. He knew how much !@#$ I was in with the President, and why (after all, he was !@#$ing there when it happened) so he promised to try and talk the man into calming the !@#$ down and seeing reason, at least as much as it was possible to do. 

A while into the party, I got called away by one of the magicians who'd been on the stage. Some Spanish !@#$ I never heard of before, and haven't !@#$ing seen since. He handed me a small note, made the Vitarka Mudra at his right eye, and said "Le esta viendo."

(Har-dee-!@#$ing-har)

I open it up, and of course it's a note from Mister Freedom. Says he'd like to see me at his workshop. And, given how we left things last time, I figure it's time for that !@#$ing apology he said we didn't !@#$ing need. So I grab a bottle of the bubbly no one's touched yet, two glasses, and head on down. 

* * *

"Come, my friend," the older man says, leaning up from his neat and orderly workdesk, and brushing a hand through the multi-colored bangles in his long, white hair.

"I ain't even breathing hard, yet," SPYGOD says, ducking under a low-hanging piece of equipment: "Besides, my man and I have a bit of an understanding on that."

"I am sure you do," the old man smiles: "And you brought champagne?"

"Yeah. I kind of stole it from your table, up top."

"Oh, that is not mine. That is all the Americans' doing. And the Cubans. And the French."

"Hard to tell who's in !@#$ing charge of this !@#$ show, huh?"

"We are," he says, gratefully accepting a glass and letting the man fill it: "So what are we drinking to, (REDACTED)?"

"How about an apology?"

"I already told you, not needed. That was an excellent test of my security. I am glad to see you made so much of what I allowed you to see."

SPYGOD coughs into his fist: "Well... that's !@#$ing sobering."

"As it should be. So we have both underestimated each other? A good thing we are friends and allies."

"How about we drink to that, then?"

"I will agree to that," Mister Freedom says, clinking his glass with SPYGOD's and taking a sip: "And, if I may propose a toast?"

"Yes."

"To the eventual freedom of the Imago," he says, winking as they clink glasses once more.

SPYGOD stammers: "Um... what?"

The old man laughs, and gestures to a screen. On that screen is a giant, metal box, made of what seem millions of small, interlocking parts, each one cunningly nestled against one another.

"This, I think, is the finest cell I have ever constructed. I have made it in such a way that no one, not even I, knows the exact combination. To unlock such a thing would take a truly herculean effort, perhaps several of them all at once. So, I can say with some confidence, the Imago will not be let out of there."

"So what do you mean about their freedom?" SPYGOD asks, downing his glass and then just pulling off the !@#$ bottle: "Do you intend to !@#$ing let them out, someday?"

"Oh no. They are never going to be worthy of our trust," Mister Freedom says, sadly: "Their souls are manacled things, weighed down by dreams of limitless power and endless conquest. They will never take the steps to free themselves without some kind of external influence. 

"And as they tend to utilize, as they say, all things external to themselves, I don't think they'd listen to any such well-meaning force or fellow that came along to show them the error of their ways."

"Yeah, I never really saw an Imago Jesus coming down the pipe."

The old man chuckles: "I was thinking of an Imago Buddha, myself. But at least we are traveling in the same direction, this time."

"So what are you saying?"

"I am saying that, so long as they perceive the need to gain power by conquering others, they will never be satisfied to merely sit in a wondrous box and be given whatever they need to survive. They will try to escape, and, given enough time, they just might succeed, as they did before."

"Okay. And how are you going to stop them?"

"I am not."

SPYGOD shakes his head: "Okay, I'm still confused."

"Then let me tell you of the future, my friend," Mister Freedom says, gesturing to a pair of chairs that have quite literally appeared from nowhere, and indicating that they should sit in them: "One billion years from this day, when the Earth is a broken and blackened thing-"

"What?"

"Let me finish, my friend."

"Are you talking about that !@#$ing thing we can't understand? The thing that's on it's !@#$ way?"

"I am. And it will scour us clean of life and move on, leaving only a sorry remnant, circling an impotent Sun."

"Okay..." SPYGOD blinks, having another pull and deciding to see where this is !@#$ing leading.

"So, to this ruined world, an exploratory craft shall come. When they search what little remains, they will find that there are a few pieces of technology still working. This cube will be one of them, and they, being machine creatures, will be eager to unearth it, as they believe it may be a last survivor of whatever apocalypse came upon us."

SPYGOD blinks again: "At which point they let the !@#$ing Imago out."

"Yes, and the Imago, as they put it, 'utilize' them. They use their machines to make even more bodies. They leave our broken solar system, and begin to ravage and repurpose other parts of the galaxy. And in time they create an empire that makes the one they had, back in their old dimension, look like a mere trifle."

"And you know all this, how?"

"Because I have programmed the matrix to make them think this is what is going to happen," the old man says, smiling: "You see, time is not relative in there. To us, it has been only seven hours, but once the cylinder was locked down, their perception of time was slowed down considerably. In the last hour, several decades have already gone by. And a year to us will seem like a billion to them."

SPYGOD snaps his fingers, getting it at last: "So a year from now, they think the machines come and get them, a billion years from now. But it's really just an illusion. They're only leaving their perceptions of a prison for their perceptions of freedom."

"Exactly. And once they think they're free, they will no longer plan, plot, and conspire to get out again. And so we will not run the risk of them freeing themselves, somehow, in ages to come when this horrendous danger will be lost to time."

"You think they won't notice, even after billions of years?"

"No. In fact, I know they will not."

SPYGOD nods, and pours the old man some more champagne: "That's brilliant. It's a complete ripoff of the end of a Star Trek episode, but it's brilliant."

Mister Freedom laughs and raises his glass: "I never said I was completely original, my friend. But I think the application is, dare I say, flawless."

"I sure !@#$ing hope so," SPYGOD replies, looking at the box on the screen: "I wouldn't wish those !@#$ers on the worst bastards in the universe. And that's !@#$ing saying something."

"I rather think we've dealt with the worst bastards in the universe, now," the old man says, shaking his head.

And with that, there's some silence between them.

"So, I hate to ask," SPYGOD says, having another pull from the bottle instead of filling up his glass: "Have the other talents come to ask you to join up with their new group, yet?"

"They have, yes. But I have turned them down."

"Really?" SPYGOD asks, amazed: "I thought you'd be all over that one. The reasons they didn't let you in the Freedom Force after the Liberty Patrol fell apart were... well, they were complete !@#$. You should have been there, with them. And I told them that."

"I know, (REDACTED). And I appreciate that. But the truth is that I needed to be outside of that group. I needed to be doing this, outside of them. And I think I have done more here, outside, than I would have done inside."

"Well, that's a good way to look at it. Now me, I'd have been !@#$ing-"

"That and, a year from now, I will be dead," Mister Freedom says, holding up a hand.

"... What?"

"I need to move forward in things," he says, gesturing around: "I spoke about traps, before? Life is, itself, a trap. And I have been manacled too long. I need to move on in order to be free."

SPYGOD looks at him, and nods, having another shot of the alcohol: "I understand."

"Do you approve?"

"I don't, no," SPYGOD says: "I mean, I understand your reasons. I get you, and where you're coming from. But it just seems so weird to just say, hey, next year I'm cashing it in."

"That is because you have also been manacled, my friend," the old man says, getting up and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there anything you need me to do?" SPYGOD asks.

"Yes. Someone will need to follow in my footsteps. I plan to spend the next year finding this person. I want your promise that, when they need help, the COMPANY will give it, fully and without question."

"I will," he says, putting a hand on the man's hand: "I will see that it's done. You know that."

"I believe you," he says: "But there is something you should know, my friend. And I think you already know it, but do not want to admit it."

"What's that?" SPYGOD asks.

* * *

And then he told me. 

...

Yeah. 

Well, wasn't much to say after that. So I left, and collected my boyfriend, and we came back to Neo York City, hoping that we could start putting all that !@#$ behind us. 

Except we couldn't. And we didn't. Mostly because they wouldn't let us, and also because some things I'd let !@#$ing lie there for too long decided to jump up and say "hi."

And then things took their course, and here we are. Under house !@#$ing arrest and facing a trial for being the man they get to blame for what happened.

So who won? Well, son, I'd say we did. We beat those !@#$ers and have them locked down. They won't be threatening anyone ever again.

But then, we also lost something, here. A billion children around the world are dead. Millions more were killed outright in the war. And let's not even get into places like Israel, or Southern Asia, or anywhere that people got caught in the !@#$ing crossfire. 

And now everyone's signing up to be part of some !@#$ing world government, rather than picking up their own pieces and getting their !@#$ in order. Of course, maybe it'll !@#$ing work, after all, but I really doubt it. 

And maybe that's the crusty, old conservative saying that. But I just have a bad !@#$ feeling about this. 

And I know why, too. 

...

Yeah. Go to bed, son. Let this old man sleep it off. Tomorrow's another day. 

For as long as I have it, anyway.

(SPYGOD is listening to Ocean (Dead Can Dance) and having nothing now)