12/25/44 - Le Réveillon - pt. 2

* * *

premier cours

oie rôtie avec farce orange et gelées de pommes de terre

* * *

"Oh man, this is !@#$ing incredible," (REDACTED) says, ripping off a hunk of the massive, fragrant roast duck for himself, just before Faust -- who's risen to carve for the others -- can get to it. The others just roll their eyes and laugh, somehow knowing that's just the way he is.

(Though how they know is not any more certain than this place, here, or how two groups of sworn enemies are willing to sit and eat a meal with one another.)

"Good of you to wait, my friend," Faust says, smiling as he forks him some potatoes and stuffing to go with his duck: "I presume all would care for some?"

"Oh please," Major Force says, making a show of being polite, and realizing that his subordinate just does not care: "You're the one who carves at home?"

"I am," Faust says with a smile, making sure the man gets a good measure of what's on offer: "Well, it's been a while since I've had that pleasure. I've been rather busy, these last few years."

"Same here," the Major admits, waiting until all others are served before having some of his own. Faust serves Lightning, then Heimdall, then Nacht-Maske, and then himself. 

"Should we say grace?" Lightning asks: "I feel like we kind of skipped that part."

"I don't remember whether we did or not," Nacht-Maske agrees, looking around: "We just sort of were drinking, I think. And then the waiters brought the food."

"Well, if no one has any objections?" Faust asks, bowing and looking around -- especially at (REDACTED), who's scarfing down his plate. The man realizes all eyes are on him, stops chewing, and then nods.

"Sorry," he says: "Big family. If you waited you starved."

"I think we are in no danger of that," Nacht-Maske says, bowing his head and delivering it. 

The prayer is a simple one:

Vater, segne diese Speise
Uns zur Kraft und dir zum Preise.
Hilf, Gott, heut und allezeit,
Mach uns bereit fuer die Ewigkei

Amen

"Amen," Major Force and Lt. Lightning echo. (REDACTED) has already tucked back into his food, which -- as the others soon discover -- tastes as amazing as it looks and smells.

* * *

"I just think I've had much of a choice in things," Major Force admits, his mind reeling from the taste sensations he's enjoying: "I was in the Army before the war started. Everything since then's just been a big blur." 

"Why did you join the Army?" Nacht-Maske asks, pushing his plate away, as he plans to save room for dessert. 

"I just felt it was the right thing to do, though... if I'm honest? My father was in it. And so was my grandfather. And his father before him. We've had an unbroken line of men in uniform in my family, all the way back to the Civil War." 

"Which side?" Lightning asks, smiling a little. 

"The right side," he replies, clearly not wanting to elaborate. 

"You know, we'd get along a !@#$ of a lot better if you'd !@#$ing open up more," (REDACTED) says, shoveling down a succulent piece of duck, stacked high with gooey potato: "That's the one !@#$ thing that's bugged me since you joined up with us. It's like we're holding out our hands and you're just batting them away."

"It's not a leader's place to be friends with his men, Sgt," Major Force rebuts: "I have to be alone and above. If I come down to you, then it becomes harder to rise above you when I need to. And I can't lose that edge. Not in peace, not in war."

"I cannot disagree," Nacht-Maske says.

"I can't disagree more," Faust replies, getting some more duck: "I think you need to know when to be steel and when to be skin, yes. But a leader can be both. Especially when men are demoralized and uncertain."

"I'd love to see you ask Der Fuhrer to be soft and meek," Heimdall snorts.

"We don't need him to be. He is our symbol of our nation, which should be the rock upon which we stand. But though we lead for him, we can still be human beings. That's how I do it, anyway."

Lt. Lightning smiles, thinking of the last pieces of advice his father gave him before he went off to Boot Camp. General advice any man might give his son, along with the most important ones at the time -- how to take orders and how to give them.  

And how to lead from behind. 

* * *

les treize desserts

* * *

And then comes dessert: deceptively simple at first, and then more complex.

Plates full of crisp nuts and dried figs give way to succulent, fresh fruit -- the first some of them have seen in months. The apples, oranges, pears, and grapes are eagerly devoured, and then replaced by further delights, most notably black and white nougat, warm spiced bread, and light thin waffles.

Finally, a yule log, which everyone seems to have just enough room for a slice. Coffee, tea, dessert wines, warm milk...

"So..." Nacht-Maske says, barely able to think from all the food he's eaten at this table, this night: "After the war?"

"I'm going back home, finding the best woman I can find, raising a family, and telling my kids to go be better than they started out," Lightning says, patting his chest and wondering how they made this amazing coffee.

"That is all that's important to you?" Heimdall asks.

"Well, let me put it this way," Lightning says: "I get out of this war, I got another one waiting at home. Same one I left, really."

"Is it really that bad for you at home?" Nacht-Maske asks: "We were told you and those like you were all over the place. It's what we're supposed to tell our men, anyway."

"Oh we are, but we're treated like dirt under your foot. Basically, most folks would rather we just stayed invisible.

"Like, for example, back in town? You all are fighting us, and our men are stretched tighter than a bed at bootcamp. But you know what all the soldiers like me are doing right now? Driving !@#$ cars and cleaning up mess halls. They trained us to fight when we joined, but they won't give any of us guns and tell us to go fight now, because the rest of the men won't have it."

"A tragic waste of resources," Faust says.

"That's what I said. So yeah, I want my children to be better than this. I want them to earn their way, but I want them to be allowed to earn it."

"Hear hear," (REDACTED) says: "My people got the same !@#$ when they came over. No one wanted any Italians doing a !@#$ thing for them-"

"Or the Irish," Major Force chuckles.

"Yeah, well, maybe if they got sober enough to work," (REDACTED) shorts: "But at least we could pretend to be something else. My friend Rob, here? Good !@#$ing luck with that."

"So you may win a war here, only to have to fight another one at home," Faust says: "A sad thing. I wish you well in that."

"Not that you're going to win, of course!" Nacht-Maske quickly adds, which makes everyone laugh.

"I do not think the war will end for me," Heimdall says, still working on his spiced Christmas Bread: "I see myself fighting for Der Fuhrer until the day I die. I imagine it will be overseas, perhaps in your streets in America. Or perhaps in Asia, when we finally turn the tables on the Japanese."

"And what happens there?" Nacht-Maske asks.

"I think I will finally meet a worthy adversary, and he will best me. I will die happy to have met him, knowing my death will be avenged."

And he goes back to eating, hoping no one realizes all that was a lie. 

"Ah, that's !@#$ing crazy," (REDACTED) says, cutting some more Yule Log for himself: "I'm gonna kick !@#$ until they say we're done and then go back to New York City. And then..."

He thinks for a moment, and then shrugs and goes back to eating.

"And then you don't know?" Major Force asks, disbelieving.

"I haven't !@#$ing thought that far ahead yet," he admits: "I guess I'm too !@#$ing much in the here and now, you know?"

"I know how you feel," Nacht-Maske admits: "I keep thinking I'll get home to Berlin, and party like there's no tomorrow. I say I'll burn down the officers' clubs with my antics, maybe get disciplined, busted back down to corporal. But I just don't see it."

"You think you're going to die?" Lightning asks.

"No. Maybe. I don't know," the man sighs: "It's hard to see, you know? Ever since I got the power, the more time I spend in the darkness, the more it calls to me. Sometimes I dream I've died and gone to hell, but then I wake up and realize I went into the darkness when I slept, even without my mask on.

"One day, I'm afraid I'm going to forget to wake up."

That sours things a little, and there is silence for a time.

"I don't see a future for me, either, " Major Force admits: "Maybe that's why I can't open up to people, (REDACTED). I feel like I'm just passing through. I don't want to weigh you down with a memory."

"Too !@#$ late for that," (REDACTED) says, and there's some laughter at that.

"My wife will never worry, and my children will never want," Faust says, gesturing for one of the waiters to bring him some more coffee: "I will be the best father they could have. The best husband. And hopefully, in the future, they will remember that everything I did, I did for them."

"I'll drink to that," Nacht-Maske says, and all glasses of dessert wine or coffee are brought together for that.

It helps him forget that his fears are even more bleak and terrifying than he's willing to say.  

* * *

assiette de fromages

* * *

 "So this is the Reveillon?" Heimdall asks, helping himself to a slice of something gooey and tart.

"I guess so," Lightning says: "I had some people back in Paris tell me I had to go to one, when Christmas or New Years' rolled around. Now I see why."

"What the !@#$ does that mean?" (REDACTED) asks, not sure about some of the cheeses the others are enjoying.

"Well, it's a traditional feast amongst the French," Faust explains: "Reveil means 'wake,' which they use because they eat so !@#$ late. You gather your friends and family, and eat a wonderful meal, and stay up as late as you can."

"Does that mean we're friends, now?" Nacht-Maske asks.  

"Aw !@#$ no," (REDACTED) snorts: "I mean, no !@#$ing offense, but as soon as we're done here, I plan on killing your kraut !@#$es. I don't know how this happened-" 

"I've been wondering about that, myself," Faust says: "This is like a dream, isn't it? The sort where you're having lunch and suddenly your first school marm makes you a sandwich, and you talk for hours about something you never had in common, but yet you did." 

"The waiters all have the same face," Heimdall announces, looking around: "The stones are the same pattern, over and over again. The torches make the same swirls of flame, every minute, like the workings of a clock." 

"And you didn't tell us this before because...?" Nacht-Maske asks, to which Heimdall shrugs and has some more of the gooey cheese.

"So this is a dream," Lightning says: "Not a bad one, really. But !@#$ if I know what it means-" 

"It means we're family," Major Force answers: "Brothers in arms, I think. No different than any other soldier, just different sides of the war."

"I like that," Faust says, clinking his glass to the Major's: "But it still doesn't explain what we do next."

"Kill or die?" Heimdall asks, maybe a little too eagerly. 

"Fight and live," Lt. Lightning says.

"Maybe learn something to take back with us," Nacht-Maske hopes.

"Maybe go get some !@#$ing answers," (REDACTED) says, getting up from the table and, once he remembers how to walk, heading for the area where the waiters are bringing the food and drink from: "I'll be back. Gotta take a !@#$."

He wanders all the way down the hall, growing smaller and smaller as he does. How far down does the hall go? 

(And would anyone stop him if he just !@#$ed up against the wall?)

"He's quite a fellow," Nacht-Maske says to the others, once (REDACTED) is no longer visible.

You have no idea, a voice says to them.

They all turn to look at the being that spoke those words. The shock and surprise on their face is a palpable thing.

"How..." Major Force asks, looking around. They are no longer alone: all the waiters that have been serving them have appeared from nowhere.

And they all know them -- every single face is totally familiar. 

"Mien Gott..." Faust says, suddenly realizing something.

In a sense, yes, Werner. But that's not important now. We have other things to talk about, you and I.

Heimdall inexplicably starts to scream, reaching for his eyes. And then- 

* * *

 Der Faust die Vaterlandes and Sgt. Shatter stand in front of each other, shaken by what has just occurred. 

The blonde man's silver hands are gone. Sgt. Shatter's blade is also missing. And everything around them is dust and ashes.

It is as if they were in the center of a bomb blast. The trees are on fire, the snow is turning to steam, and everything around them for a mile is flattered and smoldering.

(Including the tanks they'd come to destroy.)

Lt. Lightning is cradling Major Force, saying things that (REDACTED) can't quite make out. Heimdall is knocked out cold, and Nacht-Maske is picking him up and spiriting him away, back into the darkness.

For a second, the only things in the world are those two men. There's no hate or anger on their faces -- only puzzlement and shock.

They know each other, somehow. Did they meet once? Did they have dinner together, somewhere?

Do they actually know each other's names?

They take a step back from each other. As they do, Faust's hands reappear, as does (REDACTED)'s sword.

The two men look at one another, and their extremities. And then they look back up again, and slowly nod.

"Merry Christmas," (REDACTED) says, reaching out a hand to shake.

"Froliche weihnachten," Faust says, taking it in his and giving it a firm and friendly pump.

And with that -- slowly, and with many looks over the shoulder -- they both walk away, back to where they came from. The war can keep for the night. 

It's Christmas, after all. 

* * *

The Battle of the Bulge went on until the 25th of January, 1945, but Bastogne was the turning point. When Hitler's primary offensive was shattered on the weight of the Allies' air and ground power, it was all the Wehrmacht could do to stumble backwards in an orderly fashion.

It's been said that was one of the major turning points of the European Theater. But maybe that's just how we deal with the fact that 100,000 Americans died to make that happen.

One other good thing: faced with incredible odds, certain people got their heads out of their !@#$es and let African-American men take up arms and fight, which led to the desegregation of the American armed forces. And about !@#$ing time, too.

Nacht-Maske was recalled to Berlin following the American breakthrough on the 25th of January. It's said he had a private meeting with Hitler, but no one knows what was said or ordered during it. All that's known is that, after that meeting, no one ever saw Nacht-Maske again. Not even ABWEHR, after the war.

It's like he vanished into thin air, or maybe something else.

Lt. Lightning survived that battle, and kept on going. After the war, he went back home, got a good job, got married, had kids, became a superhero, got divorced, wrote a best-selling autobiography, got remarried, had more kids. He died happy, surrounded by friends and family who loved him and thought the world of him. He was a veteran, he was a super hero.

He was a man. 

Heimdall surrendered to the Allies after Germany's surrender. Unfortunately, he surrendered to the Russians, rather than the Americans, and they scooped his eyes out with a rusty spoon before his trial. No one's really sure what happened to him, but rumors of a blind German prisoner in a Gulag made for "Super War Criminals" persisted up until the late 70's. That could, of course, be bull!@#$.

No one's sure what happened to his magnificent gun. 

Major Force died at the end of the Battle of the Bulge. He strode into a column of enemy soldiers and knocked them down until a bullet finally returned the favor. He was the last member of the Camp Rogers crew to die in Europe, and would later be recognized as America's first strategic talent.

He never told his fellow STs his real name. They had to find out by visiting his grave.

  

Der Faust die Vaterlandes disappeared into the war, shortly before Germany's surrender. He was last seen defending Berlin on the west, as the Soviets approached, and may have simply been annihilated during their advance. Or perhaps he saw a chance to get away, once he realized all was lost, and went back to Dusseldorf to find his wife and children. One can only hope he found them alive.

Rumors persist of his possible involvement in West Germany's postwar, anti-Soviet Strategic Talents program, but no one from that organization (or what remains of it, today) will confirm or deny anything. 

Sgt. Shatter may or may not have won the war in Europe for the Allies, depending on who you listen to. He went on to do several secret missions in postwar Europe, taking on both ABWEHR and the Soviets. He should have died several times -- due to both the odds and his own recklessness -- but somehow kept on going, as if someone was watching out for him.

Which is why, in the early 50's -- when it was decided that having superheroes running around with military ranks they hadn't earned was bad for morale -- a certain Warrant Officer from New York City was sarcastically codenamed "SPYGOD" by his handler. By all reports, he didn't like it at first, but, by the time he became the handler, the name had become as well-weathered as an old glove, and he kept it.

But why he doesn't use his signature superpower -- the basis of his wartime codename -- is not a subject he cares to bring up, these days.

(SPYGOD is listening to Le Huron Overture (Andre-Ernest-Modeste Gretry) and having more of that god beer)

12/25/44 - Le Réveillon - pt. 1

December 25th, 1944
Bastogne, Belgium
21:45

At night, in the forests surrounding Bastogne, there seems to be nothing but darkness.

The moon's waxing gibbous, and the skies are clear -- thanks to Patton's prayers, or so they say. But in the trees there is still snow, and when a good, strong gust of wind blows, the world turns into a dark and grey void. A cold and utter emptiness, within which nothing exists but the self, and one's thoughts and fears.

And the sound of terrible battle -- raging even on this night.

Moving silently through those trees are three men, all dressed in winter camouflage. They're some distance behind the front lines, stealthily advancing on the German flank. They have orders to deal with the tanks that the Allied bombing can't quite dislodge, after which they're free to deal with any other targets of opportunity that happen to wander into them.

Like the group of soldiers they just quietly dispatched, here in a slight depression they stumbled right into.

"That was scary," Lt. Lightning says, shaking his still-crackling hands in the cold: "For a minute there I thought they had us cold."

"You had to !@#$ing say that, didn't you?" Sgt. Shatter laughs, making his sword glow a little less.

"Laugh if you want, (REDACTED)," Major Force says, looking at what was left of the three men he battered without even having to touch them: "I told you to look where you were going. We should have died, here."

"Speak for your !@#$ing self, sir," Shatter replies: "Mama's angioletto's getting back in time to carve up some !@#$ Christmas rations tonight if I have to !@#$ing kill every !@#$ kraut in the valley."

"That's not on the menu tonight," the Major says, not really caring for his subordinate's tone, but not caring to yell at him about it here and now: "Where are we, Rob?"

"About a mile away from the target, sir," Lightning answers, looking around: "This direction, I think."

"Must be great to be your own !@#$ compass," Shatter says, making his sword go completely dark as he takes point, again: "I'll signal if I see something."

"That'll be a novelty," the Major hisses: "I swear, (REDACTED), it's like you're blind in one eye or something."

And the Sgt. -- really a Warrant Officer, same as the rest of them -- chuckles and moves forward, wondering how many more Germans he can "accidentally" stumble upon before his CO gets suspicious.

Or how many more it'll take before it's just him and Lightning, again. 

* * *

Halfway up a hill, overlooking the Strategic Talents' objective -- a group of tanks, hidden under camouflaged tarps -- a trio of black-clad men stand and watch.

"How close are they, Heimdall?' asks a tall, blonde man with silver fists.

The small, balding man with the large, complicated rifle looks through the scope again, and then over it, focusing his glittering eyes on the target: "A mile and a half away, Faust. There are three of them, in the trees."

"Can you recognize them?" the third member of the party asks, a smooth, black mask hiding his face -- with two bright stars for eyes -- and an officer's cap on his head.

"They do not appear to be wearing their uniforms under their coats, Herr Nacht-Maske. But one of them is the madman with the sword. The two behind him I am not certain."

"Can you get them from here?" the man with the silver fists asks.

"I can. And with the bullets I have, I can kill them all with one shot."

"Your command?" Der Faust die Vaterlandes politely asks the man in the dark mask.  

"I must admit I am torn, dear Faust," he replies, walking towards them with his hands behind his back: "On one hand, I wish to fight them, and test our mettle against these American heroes. I think it would do our men a great deal of good to see that they can die like any other soldier."

"And on the other?" Faust asks, trying not to smile.

"On the other, I would very much like to get out of this cold and back into the officer's mess. The meal they have prepared for us this night will be a splendid thing, and I do not wish to miss it."

"Are you more worried about the meal or morale, Herr Nacht-Maske?"

"Both, in truth. It would do the officers well to see us amongst them, do you not think?"

"I think I can make out one of the others," Heimdall says, squinting his eyes: "And if so... Herr Nacht-Maske, I am thinking the one in the back is the schwarze."

Faust raises his eyebrows, and the bright stars in the other man's mask narrow and burn colder: "Are you certain?"

"I am," he replies, wondering if the man truly doubts his abilities.

"Well then," Nacht-Maske says, bringing his hands out and rubbing them together: "We have no choice. Your bullets would destroy them all, and Der Fuhrer has ordered that, if possible, we are to bring that one back to Berlin, alive and in chains."

"Really?" Faust says: "What of the others?"

"Oh, them we can kill and arrange any way we wish, though I think our scientists would like at least some of the parts for study. But after the last Olympics..."

No more needs to be said. 

So Heimdall gets up from the ground and, in a few speedy movements, has broken down his fantastic weapon into something a lot smaller and sharper. Faust has unclenched his hands, feeling the waves of force emanating from them.

And Nacht-Maske -- the primary political officer for all of Germany's Ubermenchen -- reaches out to take their shoulders, and then leads them into the dark spaces between worlds.

And then, hopefully, to victory.

* * *

Sgt. Shatter feels it before he sees it. Things get a lot colder, and the darkness ahead of him isn't because of snow.

"Duck the !@#$ down!" He shouts, leaping backwards and igniting his sword for all its worth. Lt. Lightning runs to the Major's side, hands as bright as fire as he gets ready to hurl his namesake at whatever enemy's on the way. And Major Force turns and looks right behind them, knowing that's where the enemy's actually going to attack from.

His instincts save them all from instant death. When Heimdall leaps from the darkness, wielding something sharp enough to slice through the trees on either side of them, it's only a burst of kinetic energy from his outstretched hands that deflect the blow, and send the short man hurtling back the way he came. 

"Wilkommen Sie bei Bastogne, Amerikaner!" Nacht-Maske announces, striding from an impossible angle and hurling burning, black globs of night at everyone he can see. His shots go wild, but they're not intended to hit their quarry -- just keep them off-balance.

At the front, Sgt. Shatter gets out from behind the tree he ducked behind and gets ready to kill someone -- anyone. This is hardly the first time he's gotten to throw down with these super-krauts, and it won't be his last, either. He just needs for the !@#$er in the mask to stop sliding in and out of shadows, that's all.

Before he can get good angle on the man throwing the dark, he hears something right behind him. He turns and sees a tall, blonde man with silver hands -- gauntlets of some kind. And the smile on the man's face makes it clear that he's been his intended opponent all along.

"Guten Abend, Schwertkampfer," he says, hands up and ready to box. 

"Let's !@#$ing do this," (REDACTED) spits, and spins around, ready to test this man's metal against his. 

(REDACTED)'s sword is his will, made manifest by something that even the people at Camp Rogers could never figure out. Faust's gauntlets, by some weird coincidence, are the exact same thing -- taking the place of his crippled hands.

And when they collide-

* * *

"Okay, I know from beer," (REDACTED) says, holding up a pewter tankard in the direction of Faust's: "And this is !@#$ good beer."

"You Americans know nothing of beer," Faust laughs, but clinks his against the man's anyway.

"Are you kidding me? I got enough bathtub brewers in the family to know a good dark when I drink it, you dumb !@#$."

The blonde man raises an eyebrow, and then laughs uproariously. So do the other four at the table in the long and cavernous, torch-lit stone hall they've been drinking in since...

Since they can remember, really.

"I forgot, you all got rid of your alcohol for a few years there," Nacht-Maske says, looking somewhat plain and ordinary without his strange mask: "How could you have done this?"

"Bad mistake," Major Force sighs, having a sip of his own.

"Well, I don't know," Lt. Lightning says, swirling his around: "I think the temperance movement had a point, but it should have been voluntary. You should have had a choice. Not made it law."

"It's always the place of those who know more to see that those who do not are called into correctness, though," Heimdall says, putting his empty flagon down so one of the passing servers can fill it for him: "This is why we have moral leaders, to make us follow morality. Otherwise, we become nothing more than beasts."

"But Helmut, they took away their beer," Faust insists, waving his flagon: "We didn't even do that to the French."

And there is laughter from all parties on that note.

* * *

Hors D'oeuvre

huîtres à la sauce échalote

* * *

"We came up with Patton, when he !@#$ing got to town," (REDACTED) says between bites of oyster: "Mostly just doing damage control at the !@#$ front line. You know, 'this far and no farther.'"

"Further, Sgt.," Major Force chides him: "We'll teach you how to speak English someday."

"Mangiare merda, mafanculo," he replies, making a gesture that's unquestionable in any language. The Germans all laugh at this. 

"I did some time down in Rome, so I think we're on the same wavelength," Faust says.

"And since then?" Major Force asks.

"We were sent to the frontline in order to bolster morale, and provide a counter to your activities," Nacht-Maske admits, still picking around his course: "Der Fuhrer is counting on this being a decisive blow."

"Well, too bad our General knows how to pray," Lt. Lightning says.

"Yes, I heard about that," Faust says: "Did your Patton really make all your fighting men pray for good weather?"

"He did, and it worked, Fist of the Fatherland."

"Well, that's quite the claim Lt. Lightning."

"Oh, !@#$ it," (REDACTED) says between bites of oyster: "It's (REDACTED). I had enough of this codename bull!@#$. (REDACTED) from New York City."

"Werner," Faust says, raising a glass: "From Dusseldorf."

"Helmut," Heimdall admits, his eyes glittering like diamonds: "Strassfurt."

"Heinrich," Nacht-Maske states as he also raises his tankard, smiling as if enraptured by the brew: "Berlin."

"Robert," Lightning says, also raising his tankard: "Small town outside of Lexington with no name."

"How does your town have no name?" Major Force asks.

"Someone burned down the sign on account of it was full of people like me," he says: "So, way we figured, if they don't know what our town's name is, they can't come looking for us. So we stayed incognito."

There's laughter at that. And then the subject changes once, then twice, and yet again, and still no one's gotten around to asking Major Force his name.

And he does not offer it.

* * *

Soupe

soupe de haricots et de jambon

* * *

"I really didn't want to go, to be honest," Major Force admits, his face looking somewhat eerie under the flickering lights of the torches on the walls: "When they told me I was special, well, I sort of looked them in the eyes and asked 'what do you mean?' And then they said that I had one-of-a-kind physical qualities. The kind they were looking for. The kind that could help win the war."

"That's never a good thing," Faust nods, understanding all too well.

"So they ordered me to report to Camp Rogers, and next thing I know I'm getting injected with this stuff, along with five other people. I'm the only one who lived through it, but once I did, well, they fine-tuned it a little, and then brought in more people-"

"That's us," (REDACTED) says, slurping down his soup and hoping for more, provided he can flag down one of the mayfly-like waiters in this joint.

"And everyone's looking at me like I'm their older brother, or something. And all I want to say is that I don't know any more than they do, but the camp commander tells me I'm the leader, so... I lead."

"And a fine job you do of it, too," Nacht-Maske says, raising his tankard: "I've heard of your exploits. Every one of us has. You and that one fellow, Colonel USA?"

"Oh yes," Lt. Lightning says, tipping a wink to (REDACTED).

"I don't know why you always !@#$ with me about him," the man sighs: "He's a good guy, (REDACTED) is. You know he's got your back."

"There's something about him I just don't like," the Major says, shrugging.

"Jealousy?" Faust asks: "Sometimes I find I dislike people for the wrong reasons."

The Major shrugs again and goes back to his soup.

"They call him 'The Death Who Runs For You' on the frontlines," Heimdall intones, seemingly awestruck by the thought: "They say he killed Der Totenkopf at Normandy with just his little finger, just by poking it into his head."

"Eh, not really," Lightning says: "They had a knock-down and drag-out up and down the emplacements, once we broke through. By the time it was all over, neither of them looked all that good. But our guy was still breathing, and your guy wasn't."

"Maybe that's when he used his little finger," Faust offers, taking a sip of his beer: "Sort of like giving a good beast the mercy of a quick death when you bring it down."

If the thought mollifies Heimdall at all, he doesn't show it. But then, his eyes don't show much of anything.

Not to others, anyway.

* * *

Entree

pâté de foie gras en champignons forestiers

* * *

"The way I !@#$ing see it, it's a matter of standing together," (REDACTED) says: "It's like of like family, you know? You might !@#$ing hate your older brother and want to kill your younger brother, and maybe your sister's a stupid !@#$ on top of being a !@#$ and a !@#$."

"He's got a way with words," Lt. Lighting says, winking at the Germans. 

"Just because I went to school," he says, knuckling his friend in the shoulder. "But anyway, your family's a bunch of !@#$ in pants and shirts, and you know this. But if some !@#$er comes around and starts something with one of them? You forget all of that, and you grab a rock or a brick or a broken bottle and you start something right the !@#$ back."

"Because they're family," Lightning says, smiling because he's heard this story a million times before, and because it's true.

"!@#$ straight. Because they're your flesh and blood, and that means something. !@#$, it means everything."

"So you can hate them and hurt them, but no one else can?" Nacht-Maske asks.

"Give that man a prize!" he says, smiling and going for a shot of beer: "When your family's in danger, you put up your !@#$ fists."

"I can see that," Faust says.

"I would follow Der Fuhrer into Hell," Heimdall says with all due reverence: "Before him, our country was lost. We had nothing. No pride, no character, no will. We had forgotten what they meant. And then he came to us, and he spoke, and he showed us the meaning of these things that we had forgotten. And then we rose from the dust of the weltkreig, and became a proud people again. A proud nation. I gladly serve our leader, and our people through him."

There's a moment of silence, and then Nacht-Maske snorts: "Hitler is an imbecile."

"I beg your pardon," Heimdall tries to say, but he's quickly waved down.

"Helmut, you don't get summoned to meetings in the middle of the night and told that everything you understood to be true a day ago is no longer true at all. You don't look at battle plans and see the disasters he makes after the Generals give him sound advice. You don't have to listen to the group of freaks and circus people he calls on for occult advice. I do, because I am your political officer. And I can tell you, the man is insane."

"So what do you fight for, then?" Lightning asks: "Me, I want to be worth something. A lot of folks look at me and think I'm less than they are. I want to walk back home in my uniform, right down the !@#$ main street in Lexington, and say that I came here and fought for you, and !@#$ but you are going to show me the respect I'm due. Not as a black man, but as a man."

"I fight for Germany," Nacht-Maske admits: "I will fight to keep the Fatherland safe and strong, no matter who is ruling it. Hopefully, when that idiot we call a leader gets deposed or put out of the way, whoever takes over will keep it safer and stronger than it already is. But until then, I must be a patriot. It is all I ever ask of those who fight under me. It is all I can ask of myself."

"I'll show you what I fight for," Faust says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a billfold, tucked into which is a photograph. It's of a woman and two children, all pretty and smiling.

"Oh, hey," Major Force says, looking at it: "You're a family man, too?"

"Indeed I am. I've been married for six years, and I have two daughters. They're four and three. And when the first one was born, I looked into her eyes and I said that I would throw myself at a thousand bullets, just to keep her safe. Before then, I just moved through life, even through marriage, as good as it is-"

"Which he never stops telling us about," Nacht-Maske laughs.

"But when you make a life? It's like you had this wheelbarrow of money, all the time, and you finally bought something with it. You finally made a mark in this world. And whatever happens to you, or what you do, or what you think, this mark must continue on. And that's why I'm here, doing this."

"That and the hands," Heimdall says.

And Faust smiles and lets the others laugh it off. But anyone who knew him could see that his teammate had touched a real nerve, just then.

Not anything he cared to admit, though.

(SPYGOD is listening to Zemire et Azor Overture (Andre-Ernest-Modeste Gretry) and having the beer of the Gods)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 4

"Then here are our needs, and our conditions," Doctor Power says to the presence, here with them. Floating outside their bodies. Amulet held high, eyes crackling.

(Strength is gathered. New strategy formed. Confidence is high)

"This body needs to be reanimated. It must be reanimated so as to look like it did in life. It must be reanimated to act as it did in life."

(The terms are spelled out exactly. Nothing left unsaid. No room to wiggle.)

"The deception must be so good that even its own family cannot tell that anything has happened. It must not do anything suspicious. It must not say anything suspicious."

 (Further clarifications are always necessary. The Abyss is full of rules lawyers. That's how most got to Hell in the first place.)

"The body will be reanimated until such time as we say we no longer need it to be. After that, you will retain no further hold upon it. After that, you will seek no further hold upon it."

(Because the Fallen rarely leave well enough alone. Always another deal. Always an attempt to make one.)

"This is what we require of you. In return, you may require of us one thing. It must not be permanent, nor spiritually, mentally, or physically damaging."

(They always start with souls. Then they want your mind, hoping to cause insanity. Then your body, hoping a handicap will force another deal.)

"Those are our needs, and our conditions. They are fair and just. Will you agree to them?"

(A long wait. It seems like hours go by. And then-)

* * *

"Let me explain what's really happened, here," Myron says, looking at each of the tall beings in turn: "You made three big mistakes, throughout your time on this planet. And as a result, you're not in any position to Attend to us."

"You overstep yourselves!" the one with the torch hisses: "We have no time to hear this nonsense-"

"You have all the time in the world," Myron insists: "We heard your story. You will now hear ours."

"And if we do not?" the One Who Attends asks: "We can stop this at any time we choose-"

Myron quickly pulls his gun out of his holster and holds it to his temple: "Then I tell these people, here, to do what I'm doing. We will die, here and now, and you will have failed to Attend to anything. Will your code forgive you for this?"

The trio take a step back, and Myron smiles, and continues:

"You see, your first mistake was coming to this planet. You picked a world where there was no real life, true, but you didn't count on evolution. And you, of all people, should have realized that a planet like this would eventually get life back on it. Maybe you should have picked Venus or something-"

"Um, there are people on Venus," one of the team members says.

"Oh, sorry, forgot," Myron shrugs: "Well, !@#$. You should have !@#$ing picked Mercury or something. It'd get a little hot but hey, nothing you people can't fix, right?"

He smiles, but the smile is not returned.

"Please continue," the One Who Stands Between insists: "I would hear more of this."

"I will, but first I want to hear you say that you agree with my reasoning," Myron says: "I want you to understand and recognize that I have a point, or this means nothing."

From the expression on their faces, he can tell the trio realizes he's turned the tables on them.

"I agree with your reasoning," the one with the Torch says.

"As do I," says the One Who Attends.

"And I," the One Who Stands Between says: "Please continue."

"Alright. Now, your second mistake you've already admitted to. You underestimated the Imago and how hard they'd fight to get out of here. They sacrificed themselves to create enough energy to help one of them escape, and it did. And everything that's gone wrong on our world over the last year is because of that."

"We have admitted to this, true," the one with the torch says: "But what is our third mistake, then? Being powerless to help you in your time of need? Confronting you for your crime, here and now? If so, we will reject these so-called mistakes out of hand-"

"Neither of them," Myron interrupts, the handle of the gun slick with his sweat: "Your third mistake was the worst of all. You had the perfect opportunity to make up for those two mistakes by doing one simple thing. And while I think we all know you could have done it, you didn't do it.

"You didn't tell us what had happened."

* * *

I have considered your request, the Fallen responds. Her voice is like a foghorn in their souls. It promises doom.

(Vibrating painfully. Eardrums breaking. A speaker full of glass shards.)

Before I say yes, I would know why she is so important. What is she to you, this person? Why would you risk so much to deal with us?

(A sensible question. But a hint of menace, there. A beehive in the treehouse.)

"If you can look into our hearts, you know the answer," Doctor Power insists: "We came here to save her. We failed, and so we are desperate."

(The truth, yes. But not the whole truth. And he knows she knows this.)

But you fear failure, in this case, the demon says. You know that, should this battle be lost, the war would end. You know that all depends on total success, for all of you.

(And there's the truth. Failure would have many consequences. Many of them for him.)

"That is true," Doctor Power says: "Many things hinge on her returning to the world, safe and alive. But you will have your payment, either way, so why is that important to you?"

(The wrong question, at the wrong time. The Knight leaps off the board. Failure.)

Because it means that I may now ask whatever I want, the demon coos, growing large enough to envelop the four of them: Should you refuse me, you fail everyone. And no one else will deal with you, now. 

(A slap in the face that shatters bones. The feeling of falling. And when she speaks again, it's like ice in the brain.)

 

* * *

"What do you mean?" the one with the torch asks: "We had no way to contact you-"

"Bull!@#$," Myron spits: "You could have found a way to talk to us at any time. All you would have had to do was get one of your guards to initiate contact."

"Guards?" the One Who Stands Between asks.

"Yes. The things you have prowling the inside of this place. The things you have outside, keeping people from getting too close. We called them DEROS, and we've known about them since World War II. But they were out there earlier, weren't they? Looking for your escaped prisoner?"

The trio are silent, and then the One Who Stands Between nods, solemnly: "This is true. We sent our servitors out to find our charge, and bring it back. We searched until we could search no more, and then, thirty or so of your years after the breakout, our charge took control of our servants, and came back to free the others."

Myron nodded, tightening his grip on his gun: "And everything that happened from there... well, you were all powerless, and I can't begrudge you that. But if that !@#$ got out of here in the 30's, and you got taken over in the !@#$ing 60's? Well, that was thirty years you could have found a way to contact us. You could have told us what was coming, and what we were up against-"

"And what would you have said?" the one with the torch snorts: "You forget, we know how you are, as a species. The best you would have done would have been to ignore us. But you would have wanted our technology, and when we offered you friendship you would have betrayed us-"

"Maybe," Myron admits: "But you should have tried. !@#$ you, you should have tried! And now... Jesus Christ, how many are they saying now...?"

"Maybe two billion," the team leader says, seeing where he's going with this: "Between who they killed before, all the people who died on 3/15, everyone they got rid of during their rule and all the people who died when we took the planet back. Israel. Yeah, two billion. At least."

"That's one person in three, dead," Myron says, shaking: "Parents who won't see their kids anymore. Kids who are orphans, now. Whole cities and towns wiped the !@#$ out. 

"And... you know? I'm a smart guy. I'll admit it, no shame in it. But even I can't visualize a billion. A hundred? Sure. A thousand? Okay. And maybe even a million I can figure. A million dollars buys an artificial island the !@#$ Gulf off the coast of Dubai if you talk to the right guy. 

"But a billion?" he says, shaking his head: "I can't conceive of a billion anything, much less a billion people. But now there's two billion dead.

"And all that?" he asks, pointing at them with his free hand: "That's on you. All of you. Because you could have told us what was loose in our world, and you didn't even try.

"And now? Now here we are, trying to salvage something... anything from this !@#$ing place, just so we can have some kind of a silver lining from all this? Just so we can understand more about our enemy? And you're !@#$ed off at us because we had no idea you were down here? 

"I mean, you let us go, right now? I make a phone call, and we leave, and no one comes back. No one. We can do that. I can !@#$ing guarantee it. Look in my mind if you don't believe I can, or will-"

"I know that you would," the one with the torch says: "But there is still the issue of-"

"The Lesson of the Lost Money. Yeah yeah. !@#$ you. How about the Lesson of the Three !@#$ Big !@#$ing Mistakes You Made That Cost Us A Third of Our !@#$ing Population?"

He shuts his mouth at that point, and just looks at the One Who Stands Between. The barrel's at his temple. His finger's on the trigger. 

And then, without him having to say anything, every other member of the team does the exact same thing. In solidarity, they show that they would rather die, here and now, than be administered "Attending" by such a hypocritical bunch of teachers. 

Together, they stand as one.

Waiting.

* * *

"So... what happened?" the psychologist asks. He's leaned up against a wall, on the other side of the room from Myron. 

"Well, I'm here..." he says, shaking his head as the fuzz finally leaves it. 

"I know that, but-"

"We reached an understanding," Myron says, looking up at him and smiling: "I think that's the best way to say it. The !@#$ put something into the body. In return, she took something from us, and then we went back into ours."

"What did she take from you?"

"I don't know," Myron sighs: "None of us did. I got the sense she wanted the most precious thing we had, but... !@#$ if I know what that was."

The man nods: "And then what happened?"

"Well, while we were all lying there, writhing and puking like we were coming down from a !@#$ fever, Doctor Power whammied our heads so we wouldn't !@#$ing remember any of this."

"But that didn't last."

"No. I don't think it was meant to, so if something went wrong we'd remember in time to fix it. Or maybe it was supposed to last, but he didn't have the power to make it permanent. He was running on !@#$ing empty by that point, to hear him tell it."

The psychologist nods: "And, of course, we can't ask him, now."

"No. We can't."

There's some silence, then. Myron coughs and tries to lean back, and then winces as he cuts his !@#$ on a fresh patch of broken bottle.

"So you know," the psychologist says, steeping his hands in front of his face: "I've been thinking. You said you think she wanted what was most precious to you? There's a lot of things that could be, and I'm not discounting your soul-"

"Gee, make me feel better, why don't you," Myron sighs.

"But if I had to guess? I think she took your personality away."

Myron blinks and sits up a little: "What do you mean?"

"Well, all your files? Everything I've ever read about you? I can see that you've been down, before. And with good reason, from time to time."

"Oh Jesus, I've been down before," Myron says: "You should have seen me after Zalea Zathros escaped, down in Costa Rica. I was a !@#$ing mess for days."

"And what happened?"

"SPYGOD kicked my !@#$. What else?"

"Did that help?"

"Well, maybe a little. But I think..."

The psychologist smiles: "Go on, Myron. You think."

"I think... I know. I got given something to do. Something important. And as soon as I was doing it, I was back on my feet again."

"Right, exactly," the man says, pointing to him: "And from what I've read of you, since then? When things go bad, you dive into some major project, and then you're good again. You feel good about yourself again. Having a challenge makes you feel like you have a purpose, a place in things."

"Yeah..." Myron says, blinking: "You know, that's right."

"But this time? This time, you haven't challenged yourself. You've just fallen down. And when people have tried to give you something to do? You just tell them to !@#$ off and leave you alone.

"And now..." the man gestures around the room: "Here you are."

Myron nods, some vestige of himself coming back into his eyes: "So what did everyone else lose?"

"Well, that's a !@#$ good question," the psychologist answers: "Maybe you should find out?

"How do I do that?"

"Well, maybe you could start by getting up off the floor?" the psychologist asks, taking his own advice: "Take a shower, have some coffee? When's the last time you got something to eat?"

Myron blinks and looks around: "You know, I don't... what day is it?"

"Tuesday. The day before Christmas?"

"Oh, !@#$," Myron says, and starts laughing. The laughing turns to tears, and then laughter again. And then nothing but deep sighs and shaking his head.

"You know, after all that !@#$?" he says, looking down at his hands: "After all that, I told myself this was going to be one !@#$ of a Christmas. I was going to have turkey and all the trimmings. Go see my mom, invite over Winifred and her family, get Randolph and his kids. !@#$, get SPYGOD there, too, if we could. Just have a big !@#$ blowout.

"And instead, here I am," he snorts: "Drunk in broken glass."

"Well, sounds like you got your work cut out for you," the man says, grabbing his briefcase: "I'm heading for my family, Myron. I suggest you find what remains of yours and see what you can do. After that shower, of course.

"And then? I suggest you meet up with everyone you were with, that day in the Ice Palace, and see if you can't figure out what you lost."

"Yeah," Myron says, knowing all too well what remains of his family, real and otherwise, and having a bad suspicion of what his comrades have lost.

"And thank you," the man says, looking back before he leaves the apartment: "For finally telling me."

"And to all a good night," Myron replies, waving goodbye. As soon as the man's out the door, he turns the wave into the bird.

"!@#$er," he sighs, wondering where the !@#$ is phone is, and who's left to call, and who would listen. 

Outside his window, it's started to snow. He looks outside at it, and remembers the last thing the One Who Stands Between told him, just before the one with the torch (whose proper name he never even learned) let them go.

"I think you, too, stand between," he'd said. But before Myron could ask if that was good or bad, they were all up in the chamber, where they'd began. All the other teams were back up there, dazed and confused for their ordeal.

And the hole in the floor was gone, as though it had never been.

"Never been..." Myron says, thinking of what he'd had with Winifred. Thinking he knows where the phone might be. Where she is. If he should call.

The snow keeps falling, even after he makes his decision. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Reach the Beach (The FIXX, dub remix) and having an Anchor Steam Christmas Ale)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 3

There's silence from the trio of tall aliens, for a time, as they look intently upon them. Every so often, Myron gets the feeling like something's rooting around in his head -- moving mental furniture about to look at the carpet, perhaps -- and then nothing. 

"If you've got a plan, now's the !@#$ing time," the team leader whispers to him.

"I do have a plan, yes," Myron says, looking up at the one with the staff's face as he looks back at him: "But let's hold on for a second-"

"Very well, then," the One Who Stand Between says, looking at them: "Let us be clear. You, like those who have come here before you, have transgressed against us." 

"You have come to this place to take what is ours," the one with the torch hisses.

"We realize you did not know that we were here," the one with nothing in her hands explains.

"But that means nothing," the one with the torch cuts in: "The Lesson of the Lost Money."

"So you should reflect upon that, in your time here with us," the One Who Stands Between says: "That is what will decide how long you must be attended to."

"By attended to, you mean imprisoned," the team leader insists.

"No," the One Who Stands Between says, putting his head at a weird angle: "Your concept of prison is a cruel thing, meant to keep those who do wrong to others from doing more wrong to others. It does not teach that those things were wrong, except through punishment. It does not redeem, except by accident. You would be ill-served by prison."

"You will be taught," the one with nothing in its hands says, holding them up in a welcoming gesture: "Please come to us. Come to me. Let us begin your attending to."

"And then I will decide if you have learned enough to leave," the one with the torch states.

"How long will that take?" one of the other team members asks.

"Time is meaningless inside of the Attending," the one with nothing in its hands explains.

"But if you need to know how long you will be here, with us... that depends on how well you learn what the One Who Attends has to teach. It may be only five of your years. It may be fifty. Five Hundred."

"Um... we don't live to be 500 years old, sir," Myron points out.

"You will not age with us," the One Who Attends explains: "We will be patient. We will be kind."

"But you will learn," the one with the torch insists: "And until you do, here you must remain."

* * *

"I don't know you..." Doctor Power says. Holds spirit image of amulet up, between his face and hers. "Where is Niginaza of the Basalt Bed?"

(Figure of red light. Dark markings on eyes, eyebrows, cheek, chin, lips. Foulness.)

What will you give me to know? The voice mocking, hissing. Laughter just below it, like heavy coins dropping into a terrible, slimy pool.

(The feeling of being roped into a bad transaction. Evil salesmen. Dirty uncles.)

"You will tell me what I wish to know," the magician insists, his eyes crackling with energy: "I speak with the authority of the planes, and the angles, and the words which must not be ignored. Answer me!"

(Thoughts like fire. Images in the mind. Power and will and perfect authority...)

Very well, though you will not like it, the red-litten woman says. Leans forward, as if to kiss the amulet: The social structure has changed, O mortal man. Those who led now serve, and those who served now lead. 

(... which shatter like ice on the hard, frozen ground. A drop into the chasm. The abyss licks its lips)

"And where is she?" Doctor Power insists, seemingly not phased by this news: "When the structure changes back she won't forgive your rudeness towards me."

(One more step in this direction, then a jump to the right. Strategy change. Chess in Hell)

She is nowhere you will find on a map, and in no shape to answer your calls. A black grin hangs in space. You will deal with me, now. And I desire much from you.

(Four minds are as one, floating in Hell. "We're !@#$ed, aren't we?" "Yes, I think we are.")

* * *

"Myron," the team leader hisses as other members of his team starrt to panic: "A plan would be !@#$ing nice, right about now!"

"Wait," Myron says, talking a step forward and holding up his hand: "So let me get this straight. We're guilty of having trespassed against you by coming here, even if we didn't know you were here."

"Yes," the One Who Stands Between says, patiently: "The Lesson of the Lost Money."

"Alright then. Who are you, and how have you come to be here?"

The three beings look down at him: "Do you truly not know this?" the one with the torch asks.

"You were in our heads. You tell me."

There's the sensation of mental chairs being tossed around the room, again, and then nothing.

"You do not know," the one with the torch says: "Not fully. And we see this."

"But, again, the Lesson of the Lost Money," the One Who Stands Between insists.

"!@#$ the lost money," Myron says: "You owe all of us an explanation for this bull!@#$, and you are not going to pass any kind of judgment on us until we have it."

"The choice is not yours to make!" the one with the torch hisses.

"Don't you have a parable saying that a fool can't judge a wise person?" Myron asks

"Yes, but I do not think that you think we are fools," the One Who Stands Between says.

"Maybe not, but you haven't proven it to us. And until we know for sure that you aren't some vindictive !@#$ers who'd rather be angry at us for exploring your empty place, instead of being angry at yourselves for letting it get empty in the first place, your Attending isn't going to mean a !@#$ thing to us. And then we'll be upset and unwilling to learn, and this whole thing's going to take longer. Won't it?"

There is silence amongst the three tall beings, and after a few seconds Myron repeats his question: "Won't it?"

"There is wisdom in what you say," the One Who Attends says.

"He's playing for time," the one with the torch insists.

"But we have already told him that time is meaningless, here," the One Who Stands Between admits, holding his head at a different, but also strange angle: "Very well. We will prove ourselves to you. We will tell you our story."

And so they do.

* * *

Doctor Power nods, doing his best to not show his fear. The others are not fooled, though. They know this is not what he was expecting.

(School friend's house full of unfriendly strangers. Grandma after a month in the rest home. End of security. One less possibility.)

As he prepares to speak, their minds all touch. They see him as a young man, ambitious and driven. They see his willingness to do anything to command the powers of the past.

(Late nights in dark, hidden libraries. Forbidden books read by the light of ill-made candles. Each one a step on the stairway to Heaven, or Hell.)

They see him as a hero, starting out. He makes a name for himself, with what little power he has. Power attracts power like moths to the torch, and soon he gets offers.

(Questionable suitors and strange deals. One bad idea leads to another, each one paying for the last. Digging a hole.)

In the end, too many hands ask for too many things. He cannot be a hero and do what they ask of him. He pours over his books, looking for a solution.

(One final deal, superseding all others. One entity to belong to for all time. Scanning the want ads, stomach sour and falling.)

And then, he finds her. Old book of forgotten names and misunderstood beings. Niginaza of the Basalt Bed, queen of all sorcerers. 

(!@#$-queen of magic, known to the proto-Sumerians. Buried all traces of her out of fear. Best left alone.)

He gathers noxious and mewling components. He learns a dead and blasphemous language. And at the black of the moon on the last of the year he brings her forth to make one final deal.

(Terrible deeds done in secret. Too much blood to wash away. Almost a relief when he thinks it doesn't work.)

Of course she listens to her story. Of course she agrees to what he wants. Of course he agrees to hers, terrible as they are.

(And now he is !@#$ed, completely and irrevocably. His soul bound to hers by magic. A chain on the heart.)

And so he has served man for decades while secretly serving her. Dark deeds, here and there, where no one saw. Sacrificed supervillains, cast live into the abyss. 

(No one would miss them, anyway. Better treatment than in prison. Had it coming, all of them.)

And SPYGOD? He knew. All along, he knew. He let this happen because he needed that power. 

But made it clear that it was to be kept under control, or else.

(And now, here in this moment, a chance to show him. To thank him. To prove himself.)

And it's all gone terribly wrong.

* * *

The story takes some time to relate, given its length and intricacy. Each one of the three beings tells it in equal measure, picking up in the middle of a sentence from the previous speaker, in wave after wave of tranquil, beautiful prose. 

They tell of how they lived, and the things their civilization had done, and observed, and endured. They tell of how the Imago came as conquerors, not understanding how poorly-outmatched they were. They tell of what happened, then, and the steps they took to ensure that their Attending would be safe for all parties involved. 

They explain how the Imago were to be observed, over the ages, and eventually considered rehabilitated. They admit that their charges were able to break one of their number free, after a time, and that this one eventually came back to free the others. They acknowledge that, once this happened, they were powerless to do anything but sit here, in the dark, as their former charges used their facilities powers (and external guards) for their own uses.

And they explain that theirs is the last outpost of their kind, now that their own civilization has ended. Only the three of them remain, and their duty -- a sacred thing in their culture -- is all they have left.

Not long after that is said, the story is done. The three are silent for a time, as if meditating on the weight and gravity of what they have said. 

And then, the One Who Stands Between strikes the ground with his staff. Once, twice, three times. 

"Our tale is told," the One Who Attends says.

"Our truth is proclaimed," the one with the torch declares.

"You have heard our ways, our past, and our reasoning," the One Who Stands Between says.

"Thank you for that," Myron says, nodding: "I speak for all of us when I say that we appreciate knowing this."

"It is what the situation demanded," the One Who Stands Between says, holding his head at the first weird angle: "We could do no less if we desired to be open and honest. But now, you must also be open and honest. Tell us, can you honestly wonder if we are fit to decide what happens next?"

"No," Myron says, standing up: "I think you are fit-"

"Myron!" the team leader shouts, getting in the man's face.

"But I don't think you have a legitimate claim to Attend to us," Myron continues, staring the man down and then looking up at the tall beings: "If anything, I think we should be Attending to you."

"What do you mean?" the one with the torch says, stepping back as if gravely offended. 

"Do you have a lesson for leaving an exploded bomb in a field?" Myron asks.

And, before the One Who Stands Between can respond, Myron steps forward and saves everyone.

(SPYGOD is listening to Parabol/Parabola (Tool) and having a Final Absolution)

12/24/12 - Myron - Run Until You Drop - Pt. 2

10/22/12

"What the !@#$ are we looking at, sir?" the leader of team 11 asks as their rocket sleds descend into the hole, marveling at the sides of the tunnel they've entered.

"I don't know, but it's beautiful," Myron says, resisting the temptation to reach out and touch what he sees.

The sides of the rock tunnel were smooth and featureless, to begin with. And then, all at once, carvings blossomed out: an endless, spiraling procession of giant, epic figures with interlocking hands, looking out at them. Tall humanoids dressed in simple, hooded robes, all shining under the lights from the damp and the wet.

"Are they supposed to be the Imago?" one of the other team members asks: "I heard the inside of the Flier was one big museum piece."

"I don't think so," one of the others says: "From what I heard, those were all nasty looking. Kind of like if the Nazis had been around back in ancient Rome, and made temples and gardens proclaiming how !@#$ cool they were. This seems... kinder?

"Yeah," Myron says, looking at the smiling eyes on the figures: "Definitely. Gentler, too. Almost welcoming."

"Which doesn't reflect the fact that we're in a prison," someone points out.

"No, it doesn't," Myron says, looking at his scanners. The tunnel continues down as far as the probes can see. Still no sign of the other teams.

And that worries the !@#$ out of him.

"Can we slow down a little?" one of the people on one of the other sleds asks: "I'd like to get a better look at these statues."

"No, the clock's ticking," Myron says, looking up from the scanner: "When we find the others, we'll send up probes and have them do a visual map, okay?"

The other person's about to protest, but then shouts an alarm. Myron blinks and looks back at the scanner.

And then he realizes what happened to the other teams.

* * *

The first clue Myron has that She's coming is when something licks him, right behind the ear.

It's nothing, of course. Just a trickle of sweat, making its way from his scalp down to his neck. Only to be expected, given how hot and stiffling this room's become, all of a sudden. 

And cramped, too. Now that the lights are getting dim, and all he can hear is the sound of Doctor Power muttering prayers over the amulet, it seems that the four people standing over the dead body are the entirety of the world. 

He's never heard prayers like this, before. He's never done anything like this, before. He's trying to concentrate and not think of anything other than his "Intent." 

And trying not to think of the fear and hopelessness he saw in Doctor Power's eyes when he told them what they were going to do...

He looks up for just a second, wondering if that man's face is still contorted with the weight of what they're embarking upon. When he does, he sees that the room has gone completely dark, except for the four of them. He cannot see the walls, he cannot see the light from the adjoining room, where the others are. 

And in the darkness between, he can see things moving...

* * *

When he wakes up, Myron is disorientated and wracked by a nasty headache -- the sort you get from hanging out with SPYGOD for the evening, and trying to keep up.

He slowly opens his eyes, and looks up at an expansive, domed ceiling. It's easily a hundred feet above him, and dimly lit. He can just make out movement, up there, but the details are unclear. 

He rolls over, wincing at the brain behind his eyes, and sees that the other members of his team are nearby, dealing with the same discomfort.

"Everyone okay?" he asks, and gets a staggered series of grunts and moans in return. Someone vomits by way of an answer.

"Everyone here?" he asks, trying to get to his feet.

"I think Smith tried to jump out of the sled when he saw what was coming for us," the team leader says, holding his head with both hands: "I don't know if that thing got him or not."

"What the !@#$ was that thing?" someone asks, getting to her feet: "It looked like a giant ball of Jello."

"It was," Myron says, shuddering at the memory. He looks around the large room they're in, and sees no trace of the massive creature that rushed up to catch them on the way down -- its bulk large enough to cover the diameter of the tunnel, itself.

He also sees no trace of their sleds, or the equipment that was on them, which worries him. But they still have their personal belongings, which include their transponders, recorders, and weapons. And he'll take that as a positive development.

Especially when he hears something coming towards them.

Three somethings, actually: tall, robed beings that look exactly like the statues they saw in the tunnel. One carries a staff, one a tall, burning torch, and the third appears to have nothing at all.

And as they come closer, they seem to get larger -- much, much larger.

"Everyone up," Myron says, putting a hand on his pistol -- but not drawing it -- "We've got company."

* * *

There's a trickle of sweat, again, right behind the ear. Only this time there's pressure behind it. Rasping. Flicking.

A terrible smell, like the breath of a sick tiger at the zoo.

Myron gasps but keeps thinking of his Intent. Doctor Power was very insistent that they keep that at the front of their minds. If they didn't, this might not work.

If they didn't, what was coming might enter the wrong body.

The rasping continues. It's at his other ear, now. Then the back of his neck, his knees. Alternating, then all at once, as if he was being molested by tongues, or a cruel octopus.

I know you, a voice whispers in his ear, slimy and wet: You thought no one saw you, that time in the shed. You were eight. How old was she? Five?

Myron closes his eyes, trying not to think of that. One of those things that happen as a child that no one wants to admit to, but everyone knows everyone does.

Oh yes, just harmless fun, the voice goes on: Just kids' stuff. That's what you told yourself. But you never talk about it to anyone, do you? You don't tell your friends about the times you played doctor when they ask what you did as a child, do you?

Every really wonder why?

His intent. He keeps saying it to himself. Over and over and over-

She's dead now, Myron, The voice accuses: Prostitution. Heroin. That afternoon in the shed changed everything. She's dead, now, and it's your fault.

And she'd like to thank you.

And then-

* * *

The one with the staff strides well ahead of the other two. Its yellow, slitted eyes are large in a vaguely-reptilian, blue head, and its hands have opposable claws. As it comes closer, they see that it's at least fifty feet tall. 

"Holy !@#$," one of the group whispers. Someone else starts crying. A few of the team are clearly afraid, but hold their ground as best they can.

"I mean you no harm," a voice sounds out -- its measured tones interspersed with a strange, sibilant hissing that starts before it, and ends some time after it. 

The being gets within a few feet of them, and then stops, resting its staff on the ground. The other two beings halt where they are, and wait.

"I am the One Who Stands Between," it says, the movements of its mouth not matching the sounds that they hear: "It is important that we understand one another, so that what happens is understood, and accepted."

"What's going to happen?" the team leader asks, stepping to the front of the group.

"That has yet to be determined," the alien says, looking at him: "The others who preceded you are being attended to. You may be attended to, as well. But first I would know you."

"What do you need to know?" Myron asks, stepping beside the team leader: "We come in peace, if that means something."

"That we understand, my pouchling," one of the other two aliens -- the one with nothing -- says.

"But we would know why you have come at all," the one with the torch says, the flames making its face appear stretched and grotesque.

"Please let me ask them," the One Who Stands Between insists: "Remember your place."

The other two say nothing in reply.

"I apologize for their rudeness," it says, softly: "But please understand our position. We have not performed our duties for millions of your years. And now, here you are."

"We apologize if we've trespassed," Myron says, cutting off the team leader before can respond: "We expected this to be a deserted place. The beings that came from here have committed an act of war against us. We were seeking to understand where they came from."

"You also sought to steal what we have,' the one with the torch announces: "Admit this, and we can begin."

"Can it really be stealing if they expected this to be a deserted place?" the One Who Stands Between asks: "The Parable of the Shuttered House."

"Yes, it can," the one with the torch replies: "The Lesson of the Found Money."

Myron looks between the two of them: "Are we... we're on trial, here, aren't we?"

"No," the one with nothing in its hands says, holding them up towards the group: "You are being attended to."

"But first, we would know why," the one with the torch says, holding it up higher and angling it towards them: "Attending means nothing if all parties do not understand why it is being done."

"Yeah, we're on trial," the team leader says, taking a step back.

"Actually, I think we already lost," Myron sighs.

* * *

-there is a horrible pulling sensation. The egg that drops from the broken shell. The eye that's eased from its socket. 

The drawing forth of the soul from the body, entire and complete. 

(Roughly, oh cruel octopus.)

Myron sees himself from outside himself for the first time. Like a video of him sleeping an old girlfriend took for her art project.

Him but not him, somehow.

(Haven't talked to her in years. Bad breakup. Weirdness.)

Swimming in the tide of the air. Trying to get back to himself, if he can.

A silver cord, leading from his soul to his navel. 

(Must protect it. Read that issue of Adventure Comics.)

The others are also outside themselves. Myron sees Doctor Power, Mr. USA, Yanabah. 

Sees their true selves, recoils without knowing why. 

(Protection. Things we're not meant to know. Masks have power for a reason.)

Things beyond the four of them are clear now. Great black things, like lizards with too many legs, but no beginning or end. 

Spiraling endless, over and over, slithering and wet.

(Trapping them. Keeping them from leaving. The plan all along.)

Sees the body, between the four of them. There is nothing inside of it, and nothing outside. 

Dead and dark, on the floor.

(A light patch floats by it. The phantom footprint left when her soul leaped away.)

 
Something is coming. The smell of tiger breath. The onrush of foul thoughts. Red, hazy light from all angles.

(Heady, chittering laughter. A flock of insane birds. Cockatoos.)

You have called, the voice he heard announces, as something forms in the red. I have come.

State your desire, and I will name my price.

(SPYGOD is listening to Reflection (TOOL) and having a Hell Hath No Fury)