7:59 PM
"Man, who was that drunk !@#$?' Fred asks, helping his companion -- a brown, somewhat-dopey cartoon dog in a tuxedo -- put his face back together after the fracas on the dance floor.
"I think her name's Yanabah," an upright, blue dog in a porkpie hat drawls, watching her as some of her friends try to get her to sit down, well away from the Toons: "Never met her before now, though."
"Yeah, well, she needs to get her act together," Fred sighs, still trying to get his friend's eye in the right location: "Talk about bumming the party."
"Are rhey rhowing her out?" the stricken brown dog asks.
"No," the blue dog replies: "Why the !@#$ would they? We're just Toons."
"I don't think that's what they're thinking, Huck," Fred sighs.
"I do," the blue dog insists, having another drink from the cocktail glass he's almost always got with him: "I bet they don't even send anyone over to apologize for her bad behavior."
"Ruck 'em," the brown dog curses, patting Fred's hands away and tending to the last stages of his first aid himself. Fred puts his hands up and lets him, shoving his hands in his jean pockets and just staring at the drunk !@#$ as she tries to get up, only to have a fairly large and powerful woman put her right back down in her chair.
(Curious looking woman. Buzzed, pink hair and tattoos running up her neck into her hairline. Uniform of some kind, but not a costume.)
"Hey," someone says, walking up to the Toons. She's a squirrelly little thing, dressed in early 80's nerd, complete with a bad sweater and thick, black glasses: "Is he, um... okay?"
"Rhe's fine, thank you," the brown dog says, scowling.
"Sorry," she says, clearly embarrassed at the faux pas: "I don't talk to you. I mean, you folks. I don't talk to you folks that much. At all, really."
"Maybe you should start some other time?" the blue dog snorts.
"Sorry," Fred says, extending a hand to shake: "Do we know each other? I'm still getting used to what people look like out of costume."
"Yeah, and I'm still learning to talk to people," she says, shaking his hand" "I mean, outside of my costume. I'm still nervous. Really totally. Nervous."
"I know the feeling. I'm Fred."
"I'm Antonia Crisp," she says, not letting go of his hand: "I'm Gold Standard. Well, the new Gold Standard. I don't even think we've met in costume, yet, actually."
"Oh, okay!" he says, shaking her hand a little more enthusiastically: "Yeah, I guess the Reclamation War was kind of your debut, right?"
"Right, yeah," she says, glad she's being understood: "So I guess we haven't met, period?"
"No. I knew your father, though. Edward was quite the genius."
"That he was," she smiles, a little sadly: "Well, look, the others sent me over... well, no, I wanted to come over. And say sorry. I mean, that was totally... well, stupid. On her part."
"I can't tell you how warm and fuzzy that makes me feel," the blue dog says, turning his back, collecting the brown dog, and walking away.
"Sorry," Fred sighs, shaking his head: "He's gruff at the best of times, these days. This was not the best way to start the party."
"No," she agrees, releasing his hand and activating an e-cig: "I mean, what she did? No excuse. She's been !@#$ed up since what happened to her grandfather. So, this really should be no surprise."
"I see no one's escorting her out, though," Fred replies: "I think that's why my friend's really so angry."
"Oh!" she nods, getting it: "Well, something you have to understand? And this isn't an excuse or anything, but trying to push her out would just wind up with a lot of people busted up. Badly."
"Really?"
"Oh yeah. I mean, her and I are about the same age, but my dad always told me to stay away from her. He said her grandfather, Wayfinder? He told him some things about her that'd just make your blood run cold. She's not nice. At all."
"She looks like she's broken," Fred observes, watching as she withers under whatever the large woman is saying to her.
"She is, yeah." Antonia says: "I mean, you heard what happened to her grandfather, right?"
"I know he was killed during the Reclamation War, but no one wants to say how."
"Oh," she says, turning visibly pale: "Well, he didn't die well. That's what people don't want to talk about. Someone murdered him. Badly. I mean they chopped him up and.... well."
She shakes her head, not relishing the memory. Fred nods and holds up a hand: "Say no more. I got you."
"So yeah," Antonia continues, taking another drag off her silver stick: "She wasn't firing on all cylinders before? She's trashing her engine, now. Big time. All out of oil, rods thrown, doing five hundred in a school zone full of potholes. I think they're going to sober her up and get her out as soon as they can, but..."
"I got it," Fred says, extending his hand again: "Thank you for coming over and talking to us. I, for one, appreciate it. And I understand the delicate situation. We've got some interesting folks in our camp, too."
"I know!" she says, gushing as she takes it and shakes it: "Listen, I know you all don't like being treated like lab animals. And I wouldn't! I mean, not like that. But I would love to come and visit, sometime. I do mechanical engineering, you know. Just like dad, but obviously not like dad. He was a genius."
"But you'd like to come and see how we do things out in the Toon Nation?" Fred asks, smiling.
"Yes! Oh gosh, yes. I would. If that's okay? I mean, I know you all don't like it when people like me come poking around, but-"
Fred holds up a hand: "Antonia, it would be my honor to escort you around. Anytime."
She smiles like a child, and yet not. He smiles a little wider to see it happen, wondering what it might mean.
8:19 PM
"Not quite the kind of party you're used to, Faraj?" the Major asks, wondering if his superior's going to nurse the same drink all night long.
"Not quite, no," the man says, looking over the dance floor and smiling a little.
"Too much dancing?"
"Too many clothes," Faraj answers, dropping his subordinate a wink. Harvey coughs at that, and Brightstarsurfergirl giggles.
Hanami just stands there, smiling -- her eyes distant, as if fixed on something in the distance only she can see.
The Space Service folks up on the platform look extra sharp, tonight. This is the first time any of them have had a chance to roll out their star-white dress uniform, and the gold brocade is still fresh, the black piping still distinct. And while they've got hats, they're mostly for funerals and other, solemn occasions -- which this is mostly definitely not.
Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir turns suddenly, his long, silver, braided hair whipping around as he does. The object of his concern turns out to be a beefy Japanese man in dark sunglasses with buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. He's wrapped in a loud, Hawaiian shirt and dress slacks, and while he doesn't have a drink, he has clearly had a few.
"Ju-San," Faraj says, bowing respectfully: "I am pleased to see you again, my friend."
The man snorts and waves him aside, stumbling up the platform. He's only got eyes for Hanami, clearly.
"Friend, please," Faraj says, trying to put himself between them: "I know that Straffer promised you we would do what we could, but you know-"
"Shi ne!" Ju San hisses, waving him away. Before Faraj can say anything, the Major's taking him aside -- "I think we should be elsewhere, now" -- and Faraj is too stunned to say anything else.
And then it's just the wide-eyed girl, the drunk man, and Brightstarsurfergirl, who's either escaped the man's notice or is simply invisible to him -- ruby hair and all.
"(Hanami)," the man says in Japanese, reaching out to take her arm: "(Hanami, do you remember me?)"
"(I do, yes,)" the android says, turning to look at him and smiling: "(You are Mister Ten, leader of the Organization. You were my superior. I worked very closely with you for many years.)"
Her smile, her tone, and her eyes do not flicker as she says these things. She seems friendly and engaging, but anyone who knew her from before would know that something was missing. Something vital and warm.
Something real.
"(Was that all I was to you?)" he asks, almost on the verge of tears: "(Was I... not a friend? Someone you cared for?)"
"(Of course. I held you in very high regard. I still do, though I am now with the Space Service.)"
"(Would you ever want to see me?)" he asks: "(As something more than my former employee? As a friend?)"
"(I do not understand,)" she says, her eyes going a little vacant.
"(I love you, !@#$ it!)" he says, trying not to shout, but failing: "(I've always loved you! Always!)"
"(I know,)" the android says, her smile not wavering, her tone not changing.
"(You know? Is that... is that all you can say? Do you love me, too?)"
The android looks at him, cocks her head to the side and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship.)"
"(But do you love me?)"
She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side, and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship)"
"(Hanami... please... show me some emotion. Show me you care! Show me you're still in there, somewhere!)"
She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side again, and smiles -- shallow and automatic: "(Question not understood. Please rephrase?)"
The man looks at her eyes, and then closes his own. He drops to his knees and howls, holding her hand as though it's the only thing keeping him on the world, right now.
Hanami stands there, looking down at him, not realizing what's just happened. Brightstarsurfergirl walks up and puts a sympathetic hand on the man's shoulders, knowing that this couldn't have happened any other way.
And the party goes on around them, uncaring and loud.
8:45 PM
"So how you been, Underman?" Blastman asks, grinning like a bastard to finally find someone to talk to.
"Myron," the poorly-dressed, unshaven man says, wishing to !@#$ he'd stuck it out at the now-crowded bar and gotten a !@#$ drink: "It's just Myron, now."
"Ah, that's nonsense," the older fellow says, clapping the younger man on the shoulder: "Once you're a Superhero, you're always a Superhero. You can't quit the life once you've gotten a taste for it."
"Really?" Myron says, looking at the man: "Because I thought I did."
The old guy's about to make some snappy rejoinder, but the intense look in the young man's eyes turn it to dust in his mouth before he can get another word in. So he purses his lips, nods, and goes back to drinking his own. And Myron, for his part, scans the crowd.
"Sorry," Myron says, eventually: "Just... I've been dealing with a few things, lately."
"Say no more," Blastman says, patting him on the arm: "Last couple months haven't been all that great, really. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself?"
"Maybe."
"Ah, what do I know?" Blastman sighs: "Here I am, working with one of my old enemies and a bunch of new kids, and half the darn time the French jump in and tell us to go soak our heads somewhere else."
"Sounds like you need a career change," Myron says, looking over the man's shoulder, and then elsewhere.
"Maybe. You know anyone hiring fliers with a talent for smashing things with their head?"
"Some used car sales lot, somewhere," Myron replies, looking elsewhere: "All the other gimmicks are played out."
"Yeah. Who you looking for?"
"Oh, someone," Myron says, smiling a little: "I was hoping she'd be here, but..."
"But what?"
"But I keep forgetting, she's underage," Myron sighs: "Might not mean anything in this crowd."
"Probably not. Of course, there's some people who are old enough to drink that shouldn't be let near the darn bottle?"
"Oh?"
"Yeah, you remember Wayfinder's daughter, right?"
Myron's ears prick up at that: "Yanabah? She's here?"
"Oh is she ever! Poor gal got sloshed way early, got in a fight on the dance floor. I think Josie managed to calm her the heck down, but I bet she's up and at it again by now."
"Okay then," Myron says, looking for her in the crowd: "Sorry to dash, but I think I need to talk to her."
"Oh, okay," Blastman says, watching at Myron dashes off: "I'll just... stand here, then. Yeah."
He finishes his drink and wonders who else he can talk to, here. Across the room, he sees Brainman (now Rakim) over with some of the others, having what appears to be a lively and fun conversation.
And the old hero stays right where he is, grousing at the indignity of it all.
9:00 PM
Right at the stroke of the hour, the music abruptly stops.
Everyone dancing boogies one or more steps further, and then stops, looking around in curiosity. Someone starts laughing and it carries. The lights come on a bit, and everyone starts to boo and laugh, and then they go down a little darker than before.
Over by the far wall, a shimmering light appears. It resolves itself with a blue glow that takes the form of a young man in a dark blue, form-fitting uniform that gives off no shadows or reflection.
The Nthernaut smiles and waves, and the room applauds -- somewhat warily, though. It's as if, after what happened on Christmas, they don't quite trust what he'll do next.
As the applause dies down, he smiles again, and seems to step in two directions at once. When he does, there are suddenly two of him, which garners some more applause. Then one of the two does the same, forming a total of three figures, all moving in time with one another.
And then, after the applause from that "trick" dies down a bit, a further bit of legerdemain occurs: two of the figures blur and change, and suddenly SPYGOD and Straffer are standing there - dressed in identical white suits.
The crowd gasps, applauds, and goes wild. The two men step closer, hug, kiss, and wave to the crowd.
"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how you show up to your party when you're under !@#$ing house arrest!" SPYGOD announces. More applause and laughter, and suddenly there's a rush to get up and meet the hosts in their stolen, digital flesh.
"A nice trick," a suit-and-tie wearing Disparaître says to the shrouded person standing next to him as they observe from the back of the hall.
"Are you going to report it?" she asks, sipping at her cocktail.
"Of course not," he says, smiling a little.
"You are too soft on them," she snorts: "You could gain some major favors by being selfish, just this once."
"I do not care," he says: "Why would I risk promotion to anger a friend? I like where I am, now."
She smiles a little and goes back to her drink, wondering how to turn this to her advantage.
And the party goes on around them, unaware.
(SPYGOD is listening to Fascination Street (The Cure) and having a big bottle of Up Yours)
Friday, March 7, 2014
Monday, March 3, 2014
12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Green Fury)
Los Angeles, California
5:47 AM
It's a quiet, Christmas morning in Bellflower, out in the areas where there's nothing but block after block of apartments. The Sun hasn't poked over the mountains, yet. Joggers are just stirring for their morning run, the only vehicles on the road are those with extremely early commutes on jobs don't get today off.
And three people in fairly ratty plainclothes are standing in front of a drab, two-story apartment building, getting themselves ready to kill a superhero.
"We sure about this?" Duane Redman (aka Blue Diamond) asks, looking around a little nervously: "I mean, can we actually do this?"
"We talked about this, man," Charly Mendez (aka Red Thunder) says, poking him in the shoulder: "This is what it's all about, right here."
"But, if you want to walk away?" Xadrian Kowalski (aka Purple Fist) adds, looking down at him: "You could still go."
"I could?"
"Sure thing, brah. I mean, it's a free country. That's what this is about, right?"
"Well, yeah," Duane says, still nervous: "But-"
"And after today? No one's going to be around to care about everything we've been doing for the movement. They'll either be in jail or dead, right?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean-"
"Except that we'll have to tell them that, when the moment of truth came, you ran," Xadrian interrupts, putting a very large hand on Duane's shoulder: "And while I'm sure Charly and I can take care of this little faggot, ourselves? Well... that might not look so good, going forward."
"Oh," Duane says, wishing he'd taken the time to !@#$ before this.
"Yeah," Charly says, poking Duane in the ribs: "You talked the talk, bro. Time to walk it."
"Or start running," Xadrian says, squeezing the kid's shoulder just a little too tightly: "Because we will let them know what you didn't do, brah."
"Okay, man," the hero says, feeling a lot less heroic today.
5:47 AM
It's a quiet, Christmas morning in Bellflower, out in the areas where there's nothing but block after block of apartments. The Sun hasn't poked over the mountains, yet. Joggers are just stirring for their morning run, the only vehicles on the road are those with extremely early commutes on jobs don't get today off.
And three people in fairly ratty plainclothes are standing in front of a drab, two-story apartment building, getting themselves ready to kill a superhero.
"We sure about this?" Duane Redman (aka Blue Diamond) asks, looking around a little nervously: "I mean, can we actually do this?"
"We talked about this, man," Charly Mendez (aka Red Thunder) says, poking him in the shoulder: "This is what it's all about, right here."
"But, if you want to walk away?" Xadrian Kowalski (aka Purple Fist) adds, looking down at him: "You could still go."
"I could?"
"Sure thing, brah. I mean, it's a free country. That's what this is about, right?"
"Well, yeah," Duane says, still nervous: "But-"
"And after today? No one's going to be around to care about everything we've been doing for the movement. They'll either be in jail or dead, right?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean-"
"Except that we'll have to tell them that, when the moment of truth came, you ran," Xadrian interrupts, putting a very large hand on Duane's shoulder: "And while I'm sure Charly and I can take care of this little faggot, ourselves? Well... that might not look so good, going forward."
"Oh," Duane says, wishing he'd taken the time to !@#$ before this.
"Yeah," Charly says, poking Duane in the ribs: "You talked the talk, bro. Time to walk it."
"Or start running," Xadrian says, squeezing the kid's shoulder just a little too tightly: "Because we will let them know what you didn't do, brah."
"Okay, man," the hero says, feeling a lot less heroic today.
* * *
The sad thing was, it didn't have to be this way.
When the Reclamation War was over, and the Imago defeated, America had a choice. It could have gone back to the same, broken system it had before, or it could have gone a different direction. A direction in which the Federal Government was a small thing, and where the states had the real power. A direction where taxes weren't onerous, success wasn't punished, and meddling in others' affairs wasn't some kind of perverse virtue.
A direction where America was strong and brave -- just like the Founding Fathers had intended.
They could have gone that direction, especially now that -- thanks to the massive influx of costumed heroes that people like SPYGOD had been hiding for years -- the country no longer needed a massively-expensive military to safeguard its borders and interests. Why build tanks when you had men and women who could smash cities? Why create fleets of aircraft when you had flies to patrol the skies?
All you needed was a sensible body to keep them under control, and surely the states could figure that out?
But no. No sooner were the metal-plated aliens defeated than the President of the United States came back from the dead, speaking of one nation, one people, and one government all over again. He spoke of putting the whole sobbing, expensive mess back together, warts and all. He promised Federal aid, Federal oversight, and Federal meddling out the wazoo.
He promised a return to the old ways, and didn't want to hear about anything else.
Unfortunately for him, the Imago had done at least one thing right in their time as global overlords -- they left the independent types alone. All the neo-Confederates, off-the-grid folks, extreme survivalists, secessionists, and refusers had their persmission to take off for the wilderness and build their own, better societies. So long as they left their guns and didn't leech off the electricity, the Imago were happy to see them go.
And in those wildernesses, by themselves, they built their own heavens on Earth, free from Federal tyranny.
So when the President -- who was never their favorite person, anyway, having usurped the Oval Office -- returned from the grave, bringing a return to status quo as some kind of weird gift from above, it wasn't just a case of being denied a long-seated desire for independence. They'd already had their taste of true, total freedom. They'd supped long and deep of it.
Too long and deep to meekly hand it back over, now that the things that had let them be were defeated.
Fortunately, they weren't the only ones unhappy at this turn of events. It turned out they had allies they never even knew of: rabidly-angry patriots, no longer willing to trust a broken government to save them from threats from above, and former super villains from the Legion, eager to remain free and wild in this new, post-invasion world.
And -- most tantalizing of all -- young heroes within the new influx who were, for one reason or another, all too willing to sign up with the secessionists, and fight from within to bring down the resurgent American government.
So ideas were exchanged, hands were shook, and deals were struck. Guns and explosives were secretly shipped up to the areas where the survivalists and secessionists held sway, and when the independents sent their people down and over to get more, they did so with strategic talents riding along. And with each passing day, the ranks of the secessionists became larger, more powerful, and better-armed than what Washington had to offer.
But that wasn't enough. It never is.
You can have all the smart and sane preparations for a noble war that you want, but you need to have some kind of just cause for it, or else you wind up looking like belligerents when they write the history books. Imagine the Revolutionary War without the Boston Massacre, or World War II without Pearl Harbor.
After the "Moltz Lake Massacre," the anti-Federal movement had its just cause. Pictures of Captain Eben Harris went up everywhere. The story of how his compound -- containing entire families -- was destroyed by the Vice President, himself was circulated everywhere. Terrible photos were spread hand to hand, and broadsheets and underground newspapers circulated in every city and town in America, and as the Feds went crazy trying to tamp down on the "truth," they went and did the worst thing possible.
They played right into the Secessionists' hands by joining with the Terre Unifee -- on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, of all days!
Following that announcement, it was only a matter of time. Plans were brought forward. Reserves were activated. All the pieces and people were moved around the board, and made ready for go as soon as possible, while the anger and fury was still a white-hot, palpable thing. All they had to do was agree on the best, soonest day to do it.
And, as fate would have it, the next best day was Christmas, when everyone would be occupied with celebration, family, and mourning.
So the jobs were handed out. Some had to attack, some had to defend. Possible allies were listed, and people made ready to approach them just before the real fighting started. Definite enemies were also listed, and others prepared to detain or dispatch them before they could cause problems.
Amongst the chief preemptive targets were those new Heroes who would not side with the new order, to be dealt with by their own teammates.
And that, in a nutshell, is why three young men and women were getting ready to kill the person they'd been fighting alongside for about a month and a half. Not because they all hated him, though some did. Not because he was evil, though some considered him to be.
But because, for whatever reason, John Paulsen (aka Green Fury) was not at all sympathetic to the secessionist cause, did whatever he could to uphold Federal law, and had warned his team before that, the next time he had reason to suspect them of improper dealings, he was going straight to the top with proof.
For those offenses against the revolution, Green Fury was to die, here and now, before the conflagration he would have tried to stop could get off the floor.
* * *
They've practiced for this, the three of them. They've taken notes on his strengths and weaknesses, what he can and can't do, where he will and won't be looking. They've prepared themselves to do this, time and again. All they have to do is work as a team and it'll all come together.
That's the plan, anyway.
Charly's the teleporter. She'll flit into his apartment, faster than thought, and find out if he's in his bed or not. He's not a quick riser, as they know, so he'll most likely be there, still smacking the snooze button on his alarm.
Once she knows where he is, she'll teleport back down here, and get Duane (who can't be hurt by most things) and Xadrian (who can hurt almost everything). Then she'll flit them all up to his bedroom and take him by surprise.
With any luck, Xadrian will be able to smash the little !@#$er's head flat before he can realize what's happening. If he does, then Duane will just have to do his thing, putting himself between John and the others while Xadrian works to get in that one, lucky shot that will take his head off his neck.
Again, that's the plan. There's a few things that could go wrong, and maybe they would have been better off just planting a !@#$ bomb under his pillow, like their contact in the Revolution had suggested. But they were concerned about the other people living there, collateral damage, and the like.
They're supposed to be heroes, for God's sake.
* * *
"Yeah, they're here," John says into the small communicator, looking down at the street as his three "friends" make ready to come and kill him.
"No, I think I can handle it," he says, trying not to freak out: "I know this is bad, but I know how they think and how they fight. I think I'm good.
"Yeah," he says: "You're right. But if anything happens...?
"Okay, you got it," he finishes: "God bless you. Good luck to you, too."
And then he closes the communicator, puts it away, and checks his supplies one last time. He says a small prayer, hoping God will hear him, today.
"Man," he says, looking at the cross he's got around his neck: "Of all the days, why did it have to be your birthday?"
And then quickly leaves his bedroom for the living room, tossing something behind him as he closes the door and jams a damp towel in the crack with his foot.
* * *
Charly flits in, the air rippling around her, giving the reason for her name. The moment she appears at the foot of his bed, she sees a long, lanky form under a blanket, and smiles, assuming it's him under there.
She doesn't know it's just a body pillow and a bunch of wadded clothes under a sheet. She's not going to know, either.
She takes a deep breath, getting ready to teleport. But the moment she starts to exhale, she starts gasping and choking, as if she swallowed something too big to handle.
Knockout gas is normally rated 1 through 10. A 5 will knock out most normal adult humans. 8 is about as high as a normal adult human can handle without suffering extreme systems shock. 10 is what they use for rampaging zoo animals, inhuman monsters, and space aliens on a tear.
Charly just took a 12.
By the time she hits the floor, she's so deep in a coma that she'll need a team of doctors working on her skinny !@#$ for at least a month to bring her around. If she's lucky.
* * *
Xadrian and Duane stand ready for their teammate to return. But as the seconds pass by, they get increasingly nervous.
Finally, Duane looks at his watch, scowls, and spits: "Something must have gone wrong."
"You think?" Xadrian says, shaking his head.
"How did something go wrong?"
"No idea," the big guy says, pointing to the other window of John's apartment: "Guess we're doing it the hard way, then."
"Oh no."
"Oh yeah," Xadrian grins, grabbing his teammate by the belt and the back of his shirt and looking him in the eyes: "You know you want to do this."
"Not like this-"
"Too late, brah!" Xadrian shouts, spinning around and around faster than anyone has any business going, and then -- at just the right moment -- launching Duane right at the window in a demented version of a Fastball Special.
* * *
Duane goes right through the glass like a wrecking ball, just barely landing on his feet.
He takes stock of the situation really quickly. The bedroom door is shut, and the bathroom door is open. The room seems empty, except for furniture and books.
And a weird looking white rod, just sitting there on the table.
Give Duane this, at least -- he's not stupid. He does not walk closer to it. He knows what it is, and why it looks like an owl.
And he knows exactly what it means, too.
"Oh man," he says, about to shout to Xadrian for help, because if she's here then they are so !@#$ing !@#$ed right now-
But he doesn't so much as get out another word before the voice-activated sonic grenade goes off. And while his skin may be impervious to bullets, blades, blasts, and blunt trauma, his eardrums are not made of similarly stern stuff.
Every piece of glass in the apartment shatters. Duane screams as he holds his hands to the sides of his head, not liking how they've become bloody fountains under his palms. As he kneels down, a steady stream of vomit gushing from his mouth, the last thing he sees before he goes unconscious is John -- wearing a gas mask/earpiece combination of some owlish make -- walking from the bathroom to the bedroom door, opening it up, and then walking over to what's left of the apartment windows.
And if he'd been awake, he'd have seen John wave to Xadrian, and hold up a two fingers in a "peace" salute. Or maybe he's just saying "two," as in "two down."
There's a funny kind of irony, there, but whatever the sonic grenade hasn't shut down, the somewhat-dissipated knockout gas finishes off, and within seconds he's gone, daddy, gone.
* * *
"Son of a !@#$," Xadrian grunts, shaking his head as his teammate flashes him a faggy peace sign and walks back into the loud darkness.
He knows he should just run. He's got other things to do. They can write this off and just go ahead, really. What could he do to stop them, really?
But Xadrian does not run. People run from him, not the other way around. And he'll be !@#$ed if, after all this is over, they make jokes about how he backed down from a fight with this limp-wristed traitor.
"Alright, then," he says, taking a running leap and jumping up into the apartment, right through the same hole he sent Duane.
The sonic grenade's down to a whimper, so he steps on it, smashing the table as he goes. But then the knockout gas makes itself known, and he has to run back to the window to get a gulp of fresh air before going back in to find his teammate.
Of course, that's when he gets kicked in the !@#$ -- so hard he actually feels his tailbone crack.
He turns around to see John standing there, hands up and ready to fight, wearing some goofy facemask that looks like it came from one of those stupid Anime things that Charly was always going on about. That's clearly the thing to aim for, then, but as soon as he reaches out to take it John's ducked and punched him in the ribs, the breadbasket, and then the jaw.
The jaw was one blow too many. The second John realizes how much that actually hurt, Xadrian grabs hold of his arm and flings him up against the wall. He soars and crashes through the cheap faux-wood, and slumps to the ground.
Right about then, Xadrian realizes something is seriously wrong. He looks down and sees that there's something poking out of his stomach. It looks like a metal throwing star, only somewhat owl-like in design.
"Son of a-" he says, and then the Owl Bomb explodes, knocking him off his feet, back through the window, and out into the street.
John gets up, ever so slowly. He's sure nothing is broken. He's bruised all to !@#$, though. And when he walks over to the window to look down and see what's become of Xadrian, he's limping just a little.
Of course, that's when he realizes he's made a mistake. He doesn't see Xadrian's body lying in the street. Instead the man is hanging onto the ragged edge of the blasted hole by one hand, and is now swinging up with the other, reaching for the mask.
John leans back very quickly, snapping a kick to the face off. It crushes Xadrian's left cheekbone, but the large man's raging too much to let pain stop him. He's going to charge and smash forward until John's dead, and only then allow himself to collapse into the agony these injuries are causing him.
And that's when John realizes he's got to take it up a notch, after all.
* * *
"You see, John," Martha said, leaning over him for what seems the tenth time in five minutes: "The mistake you're making is that you're not surprising me."
"I'm not?" John sighed, trying to get up off the training mat. Martha smiled and offerd him a hand, but he'd learned what that led to, so he smiled and got himself up, which got a larger smile from his trainer.
"Nope," she said, putting her hands up into a defensive stance: "Every single thing you're doing? It's been done before. I've seen these kinds of moves a million times, so I know how to block them all."
"So what's the solution?" he asked, wondering what he should do here.
"Show me something I haven't seen," she said.
"You said no powers."
"I did. This isn't about powers. This is about what happens when your powers can't get you out of it."
He sighed. Since they'd struck up a friendship -- and he'd confided in her about his suspicions about his teammates -- she'd insisted on teaching him a few things, just in case. He'd been glad of the offer, but so far all he was learning was how to eat mat.
"So, I should just... improvise?" he asked, trying to spring his steps a little.
"That's a start," she said.
"You look like a chicken, doing that," the Talon said, over by her perch, doing her homework.
"Well, maybe that's what this is," he said, sproinging up and down like something from a silly fighting game: "Spring Chicken Kung Fu."
Martha smiled, ducked down, and made to sweep his feet out from under him. He jumped the sweep and brought his elbows down towards her head, which she ducked expertly, but not without some surprise.
"See?" she said as he got up from tasting mat yet again: "That's what I'm talking about. A little quicker and you totally would have hit me."
"I think my chicken's cooked," he sighed.
"I think we're cooking," Martha grinned: "Now, how about you try to duck me?"
And he did, however painfully. But day after day, he went down less and got up faster. Before long, he was able to surprise her once a day, rather than every so often. And then she showed him things that he didn't even know existed, in spite of the in-depth training he'd gotten in SPYGOD's hothouse program.
And he did, however painfully. But day after day, he went down less and got up faster. Before long, he was able to surprise her once a day, rather than every so often. And then she showed him things that he didn't even know existed, in spite of the in-depth training he'd gotten in SPYGOD's hothouse program.
So much so that, by the time she considered him "halfway decent," he was having a hard time concealing his new tricks from his suspicious teammates, just because they were so efficient compared to what they'd been using. Sometimes, when they fought crooks and criminals, he felt like he was wading through oatmeal, and felt almost guilty about pummeling skels with clumsy techniques when he could just turn them off with a few nerve strikes.
But deception was also a martial art -- and one that could pay off better than any combination of strikes and feints.
* * *
Xadrian screams and leads with his left fist, hoping to take John by surprise.
John slips to the "wrong" side of the blow, seemingly exposing himself to more damage from the other fist, and jams his left thumb right into the spot between Xadrian's jaw and his neck -- right into the lumpy bits.
John slips to the "wrong" side of the blow, seemingly exposing himself to more damage from the other fist, and jams his left thumb right into the spot between Xadrian's jaw and his neck -- right into the lumpy bits.
Xadrian's eyes go wide as dinner plates and he starts to stagger, bundling John with his right arm as he tries to take him down.
John goes limp and brings his right hand down onto his opponent's face, flattening his nose with his palm so hard that something breaks under it.
Xadrian reaches up with his hands and slams them onto either side of John's mask, splintering it and leaving a very nasty cut on one side of John's face.
John howls in pain and returns the favor, striking Xadrian in the temples once, twice, three times until the man's eyes start to bug out.
Xadrian tries to get his hands around John's windpipe, but the pain from the jab in the neck finally catches up to him and he finds he can't breathe too well. He can't really focus with a smashed maxilla and a mouth full of blood, either. And as soon as he realizes he can't see too well, on top of everything else, panic sets in and he chokes, stumbles, and falls down onto his chest.
John, for his part, does a perfect Spring Chicken Kung Fu stationary jump over his lurching opponent, landing right in the man's back and hearing something crunch under the balls of his feet. A vertebrae or two from the sounds of things.
Xadrian coughs, tries to say something -- "faggot," probably -- and then goes under from the pain and shock. He's still alive, but he's not getting up anytime soon.
"Oh God," John says, realizing how badly cut his face up. That's going to need stitches, maybe staples. Still, he's in better shape than Xadrian, and Duane...
"Oh no," John says, heading over to Duane, who is quite dead and still, having choked on his own vomit. The look on his face is horrific, and it's all John can do to kneel, say a tearful prayer, and close the man's eyes.
He fumbles for the communicator as he goes into the bathroom, looking for where he keeps the first aid kit.
"Yeah, it's me..." he says, weakly.
"How'd it go?" Martha asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
"Not good... I mean, I beat them. But..."
"Are you seriously hurt?"
"No," he lies, wincing at the bloody gash and wondering where the bottle of wound sealant is.
"Are they?"
"Duane... Duane's dead," he says, getting ready to flush the wound with antiseptic: "Xadrian is not getting up again. And I think Charly took the full dose of the knockout. She was breathing last I checked her, but..."
He grits his teeth as the antiseptic does its thing. He's aware that Martha's talking to him, but he can't quite make out the words, until she says "You did the right thing, John."
"Did I?" he asks, thinking of the look on Duane's face.
"You were under attack," she says to him, her voice as strong as steel: "You defended yourself. You did not seek this confrontation. They did. You did everything you could to protect yourself. And by protecting yourself you defended others, because if you're not there to defend them, who will?"
He nods, realizing it's the same mantra so many other heroes have told him.
"So, did you defend yourself?"
"I sure did," he says, drying the gash out and getting ready to spray it full of sealant: "But they might not see it that way."
"Well, the ones who survived can discuss that with the authorities," Martha says: "And I just heard that they're on the move in your area."
"Then I better get in costume, huh?" John says: "Are you moving, too?"
"Already did," she says: "Talon took care of our little problems for us. I'm moving on their customers as we speak. So you'll have to pardon me, but-"
"Martha?" John says: "Thank you. For everything."
"You're welcome," Martha says: "Next time you see me, we'll pray for them, together. But right now, you give them all the hell you've got to give. Got it?"
"I got it," he says: "Green Fury out."
And then he screams as the sealant turns his gash into fire.
* * *
Not five minutes later, Green Fury's out on the street in his uniform. The battle he fought in his own apartment for his own life is behind him, now. What's ahead of him is uncertain, but he knows he can face it for what it is.
And maybe he'll be able to surprise them, after all.
(SPYGOD is listening to Climbatize (The Prodigy) and having a Furious)
Thursday, February 27, 2014
12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 1
7:00 PM
They say that the secret to any good party -- other than having the right mix of people -- is the venue. And they would be right, which is why people are willing to pay a lot of good !@#$ money to have someone find the perfect spot, book it, and get everything ready for them so they don't have to do it themselves.
Does that seem like an extravagance? Then consider three things:
1) Finding the right venue is sort of like Goldilocks legendary home invasion -- a question of too much, not enough, or just right. Too much space and the party seems sparsely-attended, and people think they're bored and go home, but too little space and the party seems overcrowded, and then people get claustrophobic and angry and -- you guessed it -- go home. And while no one wants to party in a dump (unless they're hipsters, or something), if the place is too nice, everyone will be afraid to let loose for fear of breaking something irreplaceable.
2) This is Neo York City. Everything's expensive as !@#$ -- even the cramped dumps some people call party halls. If you want to get something decent for a lot of people, you either need an "in" or a lot of money. Sometimes both.
3) As this is Neo York City, everything is booked quite some time in advance, sometimes even years in advance, in fact. So if you decide to throw something impromptu for a few hundred people on a whim, you really need someone who can grease the palms and get a space in something other than an Elks Lodge.
So when Straffer told SPYGOD that he'd thrown together a New Years Eve party for a couple hundred people, out of seemingly nowhere, that is no small thing to have done. Especially since the amount of site-shopping, palm-greasing, and threats of bodily violence that must have occurred to make it happen had to have happened over the phone, while SPYGOD was either asleep or drunk in another room.
Having said that, one must also say that Lombardi's, out on 5th, isn't exactly what you'd call a great venue. Once upon a time it was a gymnasium, but then it fell on worse days and they had to sell. Whoever they sold it to had the idea to try and turn it into a restaurant, but that didn't work out too well, either, so it became -- in short succession -- a small concert hall, a large bar, and a large gay bar.
Finally, it was purchased by a trendy guy who bought it got it at a really good price to try and turn it into a dance hall. This sort of worked, though it's more of a multipurpose sort of place, these days. Banquets and Bar Mitzvahs, mostly.
So tonight, when the staff throws the doors open, there's muted orange and yellow lights shining down from the sagging, cracked ceiling, along with silver paper stars and disco balls. The walls are covered up with white curtains so no one can see what they look like, underneath, or hear the traffic from 5th Avenue. The bar to the side of the raised, "wooden" dance floor has been draped in white linens, and the upholstery on the seats and couches on the other side of the floor is also white.
(It's meant to dazzle and hide the reality of things from the guests, obviously. Given the professions of most of them, this is highly appropriate.)
But all cover-ups and cosmetic treatments aside, the venue is perfect. It's neither too small nor too large, too fancy or too foul. And while it might have been a bit pricier than one would have liked, given the state of the actual hall itself, the fact that it was open on New Years Eve is nothing less than a miracle.
(That the miracle was obtained by mentioning the organizer's ongoing relationship with the Space Service -- a group of people who can and will atomize things from orbit -- needs no mention, here.)
7:25 PM
Randolph Scott stands over by the bar by the dance floor, looking like an advertisement for sobriety. There's circles under the circles under his eyes, and the cybernetic jacks and ports in the back of his skull are looking a little ragged. Almost conversely, he's dressed as impeccable as he's been in weeks: black suit, white shirt, shimmering silk tie.
And clearly, horribly alone.
As he finishes his third mimosa and goes to call for another from the clearly-bored bartender, he realizes someone's walking towards him from across the otherwise-empty hall. He turns to look, not immediately recognizing the tall, scowling woman who's approaching.
(Long black hair, Native American features, turquoise and silver jewelry in her hair, muscles like a horse, a small purse that clearly has at least one handgun in it.)
"You know, there's always one !@#$hole who shows up early," she snorts, clearly uncomfortable in her off-color party dress: "Usually it's me."
"It's gotta be someone," he says, gesturing to the seat next to his: "I've got an excuse, though."
"What's yours?" she asks, pointedly taking the seat next to that, but not without scowling just a little less.
"You get there on time, sometimes you miss the real story," he says, turning back to take his new drink.
"Reporter?"
"For my sins."
"You look like you've got one !@#$ of a backlog, then."
"You noticed, huh?" he says, trying not to let her rile him: "Yeah, this hasn't exactly been the best time of my life."
"Mine either," she admits, pointing to the bottle of Jack behind the bar, and indicating that the bartender should just bring it and a glass: "I think I liked it better when I was !@#$ing fighting an enemy, you know?"
"Don't you have enough now?" he asks, finally recognizing her out of uniform: "Well, until Christmas, anyway."
"Oh yeah," Yanabah snorts, having a serious, broken-neck pull from the bottle instead of the glass: "And you were there covering that, weren't you?"
"I was, yeah," he says, watching her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand: "I was there when the compound fell."
"And I was there when they started handing .50 caliber retirement packages to those !@#$ing worms that were tied up with them," she says, shaking her head as her sinuses riot: "I handed a few out, myself. Not a nice day."
"You mean the heroes that had gone over to the secessionists' side?"
"You know what I mean," scowling again.
"Well, there's a quite a few people who died that day-"
"I'm not being interviewed, !@#$face," she interrupts him, putting a hand up in his face without looking at him: "You want a statement, you go !@#$ing talk to someone gives a !@#$. I'm here to get drunk and..."
"And?" he asks, looking around the hand.
"And... get drunk," she sighs, putting the hand down: "Maybe get drunk, while I'm at it. And then get drunk when I'm done with that."
"Sounds like a plan," he says: "That's what I was here to do, too. But you know me. I'm still a reporter. Can't turn off the brain."
"Maybe if you pulled one of your !@#$ plugs?"
Okay. That did it. He scowls, gets up from his seat, and hands the bartender a bill for his own drinks.
"I'm sorry," she mutters, but he's already gone. She knows she should go after him, maybe give a better !@#$ apology, but she knows it wouldn't do any good at this point, if ever.
"Oh, Grandfather," Yanabah sighs, putting her hand on the top of the bottle, as if to convince herself to stop drinking from it: "Why was it you and not me?"
The bottle doesn't have any answers. It never does.
8:00 PM
It's exactly one hour after the party started, and -- as if by magic -- everyone starts to appear.
The Shadow People are here, in singles and pairs and the odd half-dozen. The remnants of the Freedom Force, some in party clothes and some in costume. The new kids, all dressed in their smart dress uniforms, and wondering if they should try and mingle with their elders or keep to themselves. The heroes from overseas, trying to find people they actually know in this mess, or else sticking to themselves in small knots and whirls at various points on the floor.
(The brightest lights from the new Space Service -- just arrived in their gold-brocaded dress whites and looking as smart as possible.)
Ambassadors from Atlantis, resplendent and moist in their weird pressure suits made from lesser creatures, wondering who they should talk to. Visitors from the Toon Nation, glowing under the lights and oh-so-happy to be here, tonight. Strange beings that no one seems to know the provenance of, but somehow got an invite, and don't seem to be acting out of turn, yet. The occasional Gay Republican, most of whom don't know what to make of the strange fellow who claims to be Benjamin Franklin, himself.
(Superspies from a dozen or more countries, mostly keeping their own counsel.)
But no sign of the host, just yet.
Yes, he's under house arrest. He's under orders not to set foot from the apartment the Terre Unifee set up for him, until his trial. But since when does SPYGOD follow orders?
He'll be here, somehow. And they can hardly wait.
(Most of them, anyway.)
But in the meantime, there's the bar, the dance floor, and the DJ, who seems to know exactly what they need to hear right now. There's the lights and the bodies, the conversation and connections, and the thrumming and beat of the music that's become the soundtrack of their lives right now.
Now and forever, there is only the party.
8:35 PM
"So how are you liking the new deal, so far?" the original New Man asks Skyspear as they lounge over in the chair pile, watching people dance like mad.
"I am not certain," she says, looking resplendent in her new uniform: "I like the sense of belonging, but it's very... I don't know the word in English."
"I never do, either, honey," Gosheven says, wincing as a very drunken Yanabah stumbles through the dancers, almost stepping on the tail of an upright, cartoon dog in a tuxedo.
"Well, what's a time when you feel strange about it?" New Man asks, trying to not watch the resulting scuffle.
"Like when we need to go and do one thing, but then someone calls and tells us not to because someone else is going to deal with it," she says: "Or we should be dealing with something, but then we are called and told to go somewhere else. It is very confusing."
"I was going to say 'annoying,'" Mark Clutch says, returning with another drink for her: "But I guess that's life in the new reality for you."
"Well, it's not like we didn't have that before," New Man says, finishing his drink: "SPYGOD was infamous for telling us to do one thing and then changing course and telling us to do the exact opposite. It was like he was flipping coins, sometimes."
"It usually worked out, though," Gosheven offers: "From what I heard, anyway."
"Sometimes," Mark says, sitting down next to Skyspear and reflexively taking her hand in his: "Sometimes it was a big mess, too. I remember this one time-"
"Is it perhaps that the control is no longer coming from one of your own?" Skyspear asks, interrupting her lover: "That this is being done by a world government?"
"A French world government at that," Night Phantom says, suddenly appearing close to them. It's perhaps to their credit that his tendency to do this no longer startles them as much as it used to.
"Well, more people speak French than English," Skyspear says, winking at him.
"I think it's the nationality and not the language," Mark says, still a little stung at being run over in conversation (again).
"Yeah," New Man agrees: "SPYGOD may have been an insane bastard when he was in charge of our strategic talents, but he was our insane bastard. We knew what he was about-"
"Sometimes," Gosheven interrupts, snickering.
"And we knew where his loyalties lay," New Man continues: "Right smack under our feet. Flag, country, apple pie. No question. Now the Terre Unifee..."
He stops talking and looks askance. No one else needs to say anything more.
A young man in a green and white dress uniform (with a horrendous, still-healing scar on his left cheek) comes up to them, zeroing in on Mark: "Sir? Are you Mark Clutch?"
"I am, son," he says, getting up to shake his hand: "What can I do for you?"
"Green Fury, sir," he says, smiling a little: "Sorry to interrupt-"
"Oh, it's no interruption," New Man says: "Us old-timers were just grousing."
"At a party, no less," Gosheven chuckles.
"Well, that's what happens at your parties," Skyspear says, getting up and putting down her drink: "Pardon me? I think I will go and dance."
"Anyway, sir," Green Fury says, noticing how wistfully Mark looks after the woman walking away: "I was wondering... do you know if your sister will be here tonight?"
"My sister?" he asks, puzzled: "Oh, you mean Martha?"
"The Owl, yes," the young man smiles: "I had a few things I needed to thank her for."
"I'm not sure if she's coming or not," he says, his heart still hoping he's wrong: "Her and SPYGOD... well... there's been some friction. But you didn't hear that from me."
"I heard nothing," the young man says, putting a hand on his heart: "No, it's just that she really helped me out when some bad things went down, recently."
"Christmas?"
"Yes," he says, nodding sadly: "I guess we're all healing up from that."
"We are," Mark sighs, shaking the young man's hand again: "If I see her, I will send her straight to you, son."
"Thanks," he says, and leaves the old timers to their grousing.
"What happened to him?" Gosheven asks.
"Oh, he was from LA," New Man says, whistling: "Only honest guy in the bunch, apparently. It's a great day when your friends and teammates show up at your house to try and kill you."
"Is that what we've become?" Mark asks, sitting down and watching his lover dance to whatever weird disco-techno mashup the DJ's playing now (and looking oh-so-happy to be out there, alone).
"I think so," Gosheven answers, realizing the question wasn't necessarily about that young hero's predicament.
"I really prefer the original," the Night Phantom admits, not getting the subtext at all.
(SPYGOD is listening to Open (The Cure) and having a Sawtooth Ale )
They say that the secret to any good party -- other than having the right mix of people -- is the venue. And they would be right, which is why people are willing to pay a lot of good !@#$ money to have someone find the perfect spot, book it, and get everything ready for them so they don't have to do it themselves.
Does that seem like an extravagance? Then consider three things:
1) Finding the right venue is sort of like Goldilocks legendary home invasion -- a question of too much, not enough, or just right. Too much space and the party seems sparsely-attended, and people think they're bored and go home, but too little space and the party seems overcrowded, and then people get claustrophobic and angry and -- you guessed it -- go home. And while no one wants to party in a dump (unless they're hipsters, or something), if the place is too nice, everyone will be afraid to let loose for fear of breaking something irreplaceable.
2) This is Neo York City. Everything's expensive as !@#$ -- even the cramped dumps some people call party halls. If you want to get something decent for a lot of people, you either need an "in" or a lot of money. Sometimes both.
3) As this is Neo York City, everything is booked quite some time in advance, sometimes even years in advance, in fact. So if you decide to throw something impromptu for a few hundred people on a whim, you really need someone who can grease the palms and get a space in something other than an Elks Lodge.
So when Straffer told SPYGOD that he'd thrown together a New Years Eve party for a couple hundred people, out of seemingly nowhere, that is no small thing to have done. Especially since the amount of site-shopping, palm-greasing, and threats of bodily violence that must have occurred to make it happen had to have happened over the phone, while SPYGOD was either asleep or drunk in another room.
Having said that, one must also say that Lombardi's, out on 5th, isn't exactly what you'd call a great venue. Once upon a time it was a gymnasium, but then it fell on worse days and they had to sell. Whoever they sold it to had the idea to try and turn it into a restaurant, but that didn't work out too well, either, so it became -- in short succession -- a small concert hall, a large bar, and a large gay bar.
Finally, it was purchased by a trendy guy who bought it got it at a really good price to try and turn it into a dance hall. This sort of worked, though it's more of a multipurpose sort of place, these days. Banquets and Bar Mitzvahs, mostly.
So tonight, when the staff throws the doors open, there's muted orange and yellow lights shining down from the sagging, cracked ceiling, along with silver paper stars and disco balls. The walls are covered up with white curtains so no one can see what they look like, underneath, or hear the traffic from 5th Avenue. The bar to the side of the raised, "wooden" dance floor has been draped in white linens, and the upholstery on the seats and couches on the other side of the floor is also white.
(It's meant to dazzle and hide the reality of things from the guests, obviously. Given the professions of most of them, this is highly appropriate.)
But all cover-ups and cosmetic treatments aside, the venue is perfect. It's neither too small nor too large, too fancy or too foul. And while it might have been a bit pricier than one would have liked, given the state of the actual hall itself, the fact that it was open on New Years Eve is nothing less than a miracle.
(That the miracle was obtained by mentioning the organizer's ongoing relationship with the Space Service -- a group of people who can and will atomize things from orbit -- needs no mention, here.)
7:25 PM
Randolph Scott stands over by the bar by the dance floor, looking like an advertisement for sobriety. There's circles under the circles under his eyes, and the cybernetic jacks and ports in the back of his skull are looking a little ragged. Almost conversely, he's dressed as impeccable as he's been in weeks: black suit, white shirt, shimmering silk tie.
And clearly, horribly alone.
As he finishes his third mimosa and goes to call for another from the clearly-bored bartender, he realizes someone's walking towards him from across the otherwise-empty hall. He turns to look, not immediately recognizing the tall, scowling woman who's approaching.
(Long black hair, Native American features, turquoise and silver jewelry in her hair, muscles like a horse, a small purse that clearly has at least one handgun in it.)
"You know, there's always one !@#$hole who shows up early," she snorts, clearly uncomfortable in her off-color party dress: "Usually it's me."
"It's gotta be someone," he says, gesturing to the seat next to his: "I've got an excuse, though."
"What's yours?" she asks, pointedly taking the seat next to that, but not without scowling just a little less.
"You get there on time, sometimes you miss the real story," he says, turning back to take his new drink.
"Reporter?"
"For my sins."
"You look like you've got one !@#$ of a backlog, then."
"You noticed, huh?" he says, trying not to let her rile him: "Yeah, this hasn't exactly been the best time of my life."
"Mine either," she admits, pointing to the bottle of Jack behind the bar, and indicating that the bartender should just bring it and a glass: "I think I liked it better when I was !@#$ing fighting an enemy, you know?"
"Don't you have enough now?" he asks, finally recognizing her out of uniform: "Well, until Christmas, anyway."
"Oh yeah," Yanabah snorts, having a serious, broken-neck pull from the bottle instead of the glass: "And you were there covering that, weren't you?"
"I was, yeah," he says, watching her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand: "I was there when the compound fell."
"And I was there when they started handing .50 caliber retirement packages to those !@#$ing worms that were tied up with them," she says, shaking her head as her sinuses riot: "I handed a few out, myself. Not a nice day."
"You mean the heroes that had gone over to the secessionists' side?"
"You know what I mean," scowling again.
"Well, there's a quite a few people who died that day-"
"I'm not being interviewed, !@#$face," she interrupts him, putting a hand up in his face without looking at him: "You want a statement, you go !@#$ing talk to someone gives a !@#$. I'm here to get drunk and..."
"And?" he asks, looking around the hand.
"And... get drunk," she sighs, putting the hand down: "Maybe get drunk, while I'm at it. And then get drunk when I'm done with that."
"Sounds like a plan," he says: "That's what I was here to do, too. But you know me. I'm still a reporter. Can't turn off the brain."
"Maybe if you pulled one of your !@#$ plugs?"
Okay. That did it. He scowls, gets up from his seat, and hands the bartender a bill for his own drinks.
"I'm sorry," she mutters, but he's already gone. She knows she should go after him, maybe give a better !@#$ apology, but she knows it wouldn't do any good at this point, if ever.
"Oh, Grandfather," Yanabah sighs, putting her hand on the top of the bottle, as if to convince herself to stop drinking from it: "Why was it you and not me?"
The bottle doesn't have any answers. It never does.
8:00 PM
It's exactly one hour after the party started, and -- as if by magic -- everyone starts to appear.
The Shadow People are here, in singles and pairs and the odd half-dozen. The remnants of the Freedom Force, some in party clothes and some in costume. The new kids, all dressed in their smart dress uniforms, and wondering if they should try and mingle with their elders or keep to themselves. The heroes from overseas, trying to find people they actually know in this mess, or else sticking to themselves in small knots and whirls at various points on the floor.
(The brightest lights from the new Space Service -- just arrived in their gold-brocaded dress whites and looking as smart as possible.)
Ambassadors from Atlantis, resplendent and moist in their weird pressure suits made from lesser creatures, wondering who they should talk to. Visitors from the Toon Nation, glowing under the lights and oh-so-happy to be here, tonight. Strange beings that no one seems to know the provenance of, but somehow got an invite, and don't seem to be acting out of turn, yet. The occasional Gay Republican, most of whom don't know what to make of the strange fellow who claims to be Benjamin Franklin, himself.
(Superspies from a dozen or more countries, mostly keeping their own counsel.)
But no sign of the host, just yet.
Yes, he's under house arrest. He's under orders not to set foot from the apartment the Terre Unifee set up for him, until his trial. But since when does SPYGOD follow orders?
He'll be here, somehow. And they can hardly wait.
(Most of them, anyway.)
But in the meantime, there's the bar, the dance floor, and the DJ, who seems to know exactly what they need to hear right now. There's the lights and the bodies, the conversation and connections, and the thrumming and beat of the music that's become the soundtrack of their lives right now.
Now and forever, there is only the party.
8:35 PM
"So how are you liking the new deal, so far?" the original New Man asks Skyspear as they lounge over in the chair pile, watching people dance like mad.
"I am not certain," she says, looking resplendent in her new uniform: "I like the sense of belonging, but it's very... I don't know the word in English."
"I never do, either, honey," Gosheven says, wincing as a very drunken Yanabah stumbles through the dancers, almost stepping on the tail of an upright, cartoon dog in a tuxedo.
"Well, what's a time when you feel strange about it?" New Man asks, trying to not watch the resulting scuffle.
"Like when we need to go and do one thing, but then someone calls and tells us not to because someone else is going to deal with it," she says: "Or we should be dealing with something, but then we are called and told to go somewhere else. It is very confusing."
"I was going to say 'annoying,'" Mark Clutch says, returning with another drink for her: "But I guess that's life in the new reality for you."
"Well, it's not like we didn't have that before," New Man says, finishing his drink: "SPYGOD was infamous for telling us to do one thing and then changing course and telling us to do the exact opposite. It was like he was flipping coins, sometimes."
"It usually worked out, though," Gosheven offers: "From what I heard, anyway."
"Sometimes," Mark says, sitting down next to Skyspear and reflexively taking her hand in his: "Sometimes it was a big mess, too. I remember this one time-"
"Is it perhaps that the control is no longer coming from one of your own?" Skyspear asks, interrupting her lover: "That this is being done by a world government?"
"A French world government at that," Night Phantom says, suddenly appearing close to them. It's perhaps to their credit that his tendency to do this no longer startles them as much as it used to.
"Well, more people speak French than English," Skyspear says, winking at him.
"I think it's the nationality and not the language," Mark says, still a little stung at being run over in conversation (again).
"Yeah," New Man agrees: "SPYGOD may have been an insane bastard when he was in charge of our strategic talents, but he was our insane bastard. We knew what he was about-"
"Sometimes," Gosheven interrupts, snickering.
"And we knew where his loyalties lay," New Man continues: "Right smack under our feet. Flag, country, apple pie. No question. Now the Terre Unifee..."
He stops talking and looks askance. No one else needs to say anything more.
A young man in a green and white dress uniform (with a horrendous, still-healing scar on his left cheek) comes up to them, zeroing in on Mark: "Sir? Are you Mark Clutch?"
"I am, son," he says, getting up to shake his hand: "What can I do for you?"
"Green Fury, sir," he says, smiling a little: "Sorry to interrupt-"
"Oh, it's no interruption," New Man says: "Us old-timers were just grousing."
"At a party, no less," Gosheven chuckles.
"Well, that's what happens at your parties," Skyspear says, getting up and putting down her drink: "Pardon me? I think I will go and dance."
"Anyway, sir," Green Fury says, noticing how wistfully Mark looks after the woman walking away: "I was wondering... do you know if your sister will be here tonight?"
"My sister?" he asks, puzzled: "Oh, you mean Martha?"
"The Owl, yes," the young man smiles: "I had a few things I needed to thank her for."
"I'm not sure if she's coming or not," he says, his heart still hoping he's wrong: "Her and SPYGOD... well... there's been some friction. But you didn't hear that from me."
"I heard nothing," the young man says, putting a hand on his heart: "No, it's just that she really helped me out when some bad things went down, recently."
"Christmas?"
"Yes," he says, nodding sadly: "I guess we're all healing up from that."
"We are," Mark sighs, shaking the young man's hand again: "If I see her, I will send her straight to you, son."
"Thanks," he says, and leaves the old timers to their grousing.
"What happened to him?" Gosheven asks.
"Oh, he was from LA," New Man says, whistling: "Only honest guy in the bunch, apparently. It's a great day when your friends and teammates show up at your house to try and kill you."
"Is that what we've become?" Mark asks, sitting down and watching his lover dance to whatever weird disco-techno mashup the DJ's playing now (and looking oh-so-happy to be out there, alone).
"I think so," Gosheven answers, realizing the question wasn't necessarily about that young hero's predicament.
"I really prefer the original," the Night Phantom admits, not getting the subtext at all.
(SPYGOD is listening to Open (The Cure) and having a Sawtooth Ale )
Thursday, February 20, 2014
12/30/12 - Just Looking, Watching Your Love Action
If you asked me, years ago, what I !@#$ing thought about love, I'd say I didn't really have the time for that !@#$.
I mean, !@#$, I was busy. I had my !@#$ing duty, my guns, my booze, and my !@#$ country. And if I wasn't using one to perform another for yet another, I was using the last one of them to !@#$ing forget the nastier details, or get ready for yet another !@#$ round of it.
But it's not that I was really too !@#$ busy for love, son. It was just that I didn't have the !@#$ time for what it did to me. Because love will !@#$ you up, as I'm sure you know.
And love in the capes and tights set? Oh, son, the things I could !@#$ing tell you. The !@#$ crazy hookups and drama. The !@#$ing complications and plot twists. The big, weird !@#$ moment when you !@#$ing realize you're in love with the person who's been trying to kill you for decades.
(!@#$, you've heard me go on, right? Right.)
So I !@#$ing avoided it, son. I kept it the !@#$ away. If I needed to get !@#$ed, I could find all the !@#$ sex I wanted, anytime. But love, itself, was just some weird !@#$ing concept I didn't want invading my world and turning it inside !@#$ing out like a noggin-punched octopus.
And then Straffer came along, and as hard as I !@#$ing tried, I realized I couldn't shut him out.
Why do I love my boyfriend? Oh, son, if you let me !@#$ing count the ways we'd be here for more years than you have left, on average. I could go on about his better attributes. His sense of command and power of presence. That amazing body of his and that cute pageboy blonde haircut. The way he takes no !@#$ from anyone and never lets me get away with any. His "ask no questions of the one you love and trust" policy when it comes to extracurricular activities..
!@#$, son. He orders Ladyboys up for me when he knows I need some strange. How !@#$ awesome is that?
So yeah, it's love. But love alone is kind of !@#$ empty. You have to wake it up, every so often. Go out of your way to do something and !@#$ing remind the other person, and yourself, that the love is !@#$ real, and matters. You have to !@#$ing do things to show you care, and not just the ones that are expected.
You have to be ready to !@#$ing drop everything else and give, just because.
And that's part of why I !@#$ing avoided love for so !@#$ing long, son. I was afraid I'd have to choose between love and duty, and, back then, I was sure which side would !@#$ing lose.
Now? Well, obviously I haven't had much of a !@#$ chance to show him that I can handle the love, what with him being presumed !@#$ing dead and replaced by a !@#$ alien piece of !@#$, and then being a head on a bed for a while. But he stuck by me through !@#$, and there's no way that will go unrewarded.
But today? Oh, son, today he just upped the !@#$ing ante so high, I don't know how I'm going to respond.
See, tomorrow's New Years Eve, as you well !@#$ing know. And, knowing SPYGOD, you know that, any other year, I'd be !@#$ing partying down with all my Agents, somewhere. Because it's my COMPANY and that's how we !@#$ing roll, right?
Well, last year, I didn't really get a !@#$ chance to do it. The Flier was gone, and we were having to !@#$ing clean up Costa Rica after OPERATION: BUGSMASH was good and done. So it was something of a !@#$ing working vacation, and it didn't really turn out all that !@#$ good, as you may well remember.
No, son. Last year, New Years Eve was spent at the !@#$ing White House, !@#$ing sitting there with the President who, at the time, wasn't entirely !@#$ing sure what to make of me. And then all sorts of bad !@#$ happened, and he was firing me, and then he was dead, and then the world was !@#$ing taken over.
And since then? !@#$ son, haven't had a time to catch a breath. And after everything that just happened, well... since I got tossed out of my own !@#$ COMPANY and put under !@#$ing house arrest by the French !@#$holes that run the world, now, a New Years party was the last !@#$ thing on my mind. Especially since there's no !@#$ way I can leave, and there's no !@#$ing way we could fit everyone in here.
I mean, !@#$, even if they let them in, Bee-Bee would probably !@#$ing shoot them all for disturbing his sleep. !@#$ing cat.
So what does my boyfriend do?
Oh son, that man I love? He !@#$ing arranges for a party to be held in my !@#$ honor, here in the city.
No !@#$, son. You heard that right. While I wasn't !@#$ing looking or hearing, he snuck around, made a few deals, and got the mother of all !@#$ing New Years parties organized. He handled the invites, the catering, the music, the security. He !@#$ing handled everything.
And, thanks to a few tricks he cobbled up? I'm even going to get to !@#$ing be there. Sort of. But I can't say too much about that, now can I?
(I just hope it'll go better than this last Christmas. Jesus !@#$ was that a disaster)
So I am going to get my !@#$ New Years party this year, son. I will have to do it by !@#$ing remote, and I will miss actually being with people. But !@#$ it, it's going to happen, no matter what.
Of course, this means I don't have a !@#$ thing to wear, but he swears he's got that !@#$ing covered, too. And just for that, I am going to pick him up, carry him into our bedroom, and !@#$ him up one side of the room and down the other until we're both sloppy, salty, and as broken as the bed slats are going to be. Because I love him and he's !@#$ing awesome, and awesome !@#$ing.
And if a rocket ride to and from Pluto is all I can give him right now, then he's gonna get it. Good and hard.
See you at the party, son. Come as you are, leave as something else.
And if you hear screaming for the next few hours? That's me shouting I LOVE YOU at the top of my !@#$ lungs.
Because I do. Oh !@#$ing God do I ever.
(SPYGOD is listening to Love Action (Human League) and having... well, figure it out)
I mean, !@#$, I was busy. I had my !@#$ing duty, my guns, my booze, and my !@#$ country. And if I wasn't using one to perform another for yet another, I was using the last one of them to !@#$ing forget the nastier details, or get ready for yet another !@#$ round of it.
But it's not that I was really too !@#$ busy for love, son. It was just that I didn't have the !@#$ time for what it did to me. Because love will !@#$ you up, as I'm sure you know.
And love in the capes and tights set? Oh, son, the things I could !@#$ing tell you. The !@#$ crazy hookups and drama. The !@#$ing complications and plot twists. The big, weird !@#$ moment when you !@#$ing realize you're in love with the person who's been trying to kill you for decades.
(!@#$, you've heard me go on, right? Right.)
So I !@#$ing avoided it, son. I kept it the !@#$ away. If I needed to get !@#$ed, I could find all the !@#$ sex I wanted, anytime. But love, itself, was just some weird !@#$ing concept I didn't want invading my world and turning it inside !@#$ing out like a noggin-punched octopus.
And then Straffer came along, and as hard as I !@#$ing tried, I realized I couldn't shut him out.
Why do I love my boyfriend? Oh, son, if you let me !@#$ing count the ways we'd be here for more years than you have left, on average. I could go on about his better attributes. His sense of command and power of presence. That amazing body of his and that cute pageboy blonde haircut. The way he takes no !@#$ from anyone and never lets me get away with any. His "ask no questions of the one you love and trust" policy when it comes to extracurricular activities..
!@#$, son. He orders Ladyboys up for me when he knows I need some strange. How !@#$ awesome is that?
So yeah, it's love. But love alone is kind of !@#$ empty. You have to wake it up, every so often. Go out of your way to do something and !@#$ing remind the other person, and yourself, that the love is !@#$ real, and matters. You have to !@#$ing do things to show you care, and not just the ones that are expected.
You have to be ready to !@#$ing drop everything else and give, just because.
And that's part of why I !@#$ing avoided love for so !@#$ing long, son. I was afraid I'd have to choose between love and duty, and, back then, I was sure which side would !@#$ing lose.
Now? Well, obviously I haven't had much of a !@#$ chance to show him that I can handle the love, what with him being presumed !@#$ing dead and replaced by a !@#$ alien piece of !@#$, and then being a head on a bed for a while. But he stuck by me through !@#$, and there's no way that will go unrewarded.
But today? Oh, son, today he just upped the !@#$ing ante so high, I don't know how I'm going to respond.
See, tomorrow's New Years Eve, as you well !@#$ing know. And, knowing SPYGOD, you know that, any other year, I'd be !@#$ing partying down with all my Agents, somewhere. Because it's my COMPANY and that's how we !@#$ing roll, right?
Well, last year, I didn't really get a !@#$ chance to do it. The Flier was gone, and we were having to !@#$ing clean up Costa Rica after OPERATION: BUGSMASH was good and done. So it was something of a !@#$ing working vacation, and it didn't really turn out all that !@#$ good, as you may well remember.
No, son. Last year, New Years Eve was spent at the !@#$ing White House, !@#$ing sitting there with the President who, at the time, wasn't entirely !@#$ing sure what to make of me. And then all sorts of bad !@#$ happened, and he was firing me, and then he was dead, and then the world was !@#$ing taken over.
And since then? !@#$ son, haven't had a time to catch a breath. And after everything that just happened, well... since I got tossed out of my own !@#$ COMPANY and put under !@#$ing house arrest by the French !@#$holes that run the world, now, a New Years party was the last !@#$ thing on my mind. Especially since there's no !@#$ way I can leave, and there's no !@#$ing way we could fit everyone in here.
I mean, !@#$, even if they let them in, Bee-Bee would probably !@#$ing shoot them all for disturbing his sleep. !@#$ing cat.
So what does my boyfriend do?
Oh son, that man I love? He !@#$ing arranges for a party to be held in my !@#$ honor, here in the city.
No !@#$, son. You heard that right. While I wasn't !@#$ing looking or hearing, he snuck around, made a few deals, and got the mother of all !@#$ing New Years parties organized. He handled the invites, the catering, the music, the security. He !@#$ing handled everything.
And, thanks to a few tricks he cobbled up? I'm even going to get to !@#$ing be there. Sort of. But I can't say too much about that, now can I?
(I just hope it'll go better than this last Christmas. Jesus !@#$ was that a disaster)
So I am going to get my !@#$ New Years party this year, son. I will have to do it by !@#$ing remote, and I will miss actually being with people. But !@#$ it, it's going to happen, no matter what.
Of course, this means I don't have a !@#$ thing to wear, but he swears he's got that !@#$ing covered, too. And just for that, I am going to pick him up, carry him into our bedroom, and !@#$ him up one side of the room and down the other until we're both sloppy, salty, and as broken as the bed slats are going to be. Because I love him and he's !@#$ing awesome, and awesome !@#$ing.
And if a rocket ride to and from Pluto is all I can give him right now, then he's gonna get it. Good and hard.
See you at the party, son. Come as you are, leave as something else.
And if you hear screaming for the next few hours? That's me shouting I LOVE YOU at the top of my !@#$ lungs.
Because I do. Oh !@#$ing God do I ever.
(SPYGOD is listening to Love Action (Human League) and having... well, figure it out)
Monday, February 17, 2014
12/29/12 - Fata Morgana, She Keeps to Herself.
So, House Arrest.
I've gone on about it before, and how much it !@#$ing sucks. I mean, don't get me !@#$ing wrong, I'd much rather be here in my own bed, with my boyfriend, my music, (and, yes, my cat) than sitting in some super-slam, somewhere, along with all the !@#$ers I've locked up.
I mean, I have been !@#$ing jailed, before. It's usually some !@#$ing misunderstanding that gets cleared up well before I actually have to !@#$ing break out, or something. Nothing terrible. !@#$, by the time the government would !@#$ing call up and tell them to let me the !@#$ out they were just about ready to let me go, anyway, after what usually happened when they got my !@#$ pants off for the intake shower.
Yeah, you !@#$ing figured it'd be something like that, wouldn't you? You're getting to know me too !@#$ing well, son.
(Maybe we should do something about that...)
But no, son. I can live with being !@#$ing stuck here. I can live with having to watch the !@#$ world go apart when I'm not at the wheel. I can even !@#$ing handle !@#$ty post-Christmas TV with limited options due to the !@#$ channel package they arranged for this dump.
No, it's this not drinking thing that's really !@#$ing getting to me.
Oh, sure. They !@#$ing let me drink. They're still sending up my hooch when I !@#$ing require it, along with the daily food drop. Whiskey, beer, vodka, beer, port, beer, wine, beer, beer, beer...
But I'm not !@#$ing being allowed as much as I used to be. And that is a serious !@#$ problem.
You see, son, I'm used to drinking somewhere around twice my !@#$ body weight in alcohol every !@#$ day. And if you think that sounds extremely !@#$ing excessive, well, you'd be !@#$ing right. But I have what can be called a genuine medical excuse, as opposed to that wimpy rewrite of a certain metal-clad superhero by my least favorite homophobic writer.
It's this !@#$ alien peeper in my noggin, son. The Chandra Eye tells me everything that's going on around me, and a whole lot of that !@#$'s nothing I need to know. So I need to be pretty !@#$ing boozed up to be able to handle what this of mine's telling me. Otherwise I get knocked off my !@#$ !@#$ and onto the floor.
And I gotta !@#$ing tell you, son, I've been sitting on the ground a !@#$ of a lot, lately.
Fortunately, there are other things that can be done. I've got all kinds of interesting herbal remedies running around this place. The Martians !@#$ing owe me big-time, so they've got me done up on enough of their so-called cocaine to kill one of their living mountains. And while it's not !@#$ing dulling me, the way the booze does, it is getting my brain working fast enough to handle everything I'm seeing.
And do you know what it's !@#$ing showing me? The !@#$ing deleted scenes reel.
Yeah. You remember me talking about alternate timelines and all that crazy !@#$? Well, it turns out that, if you're !@#$ing able to ride some of what this weird !@#$ alien thing in my head's got to tell me, then it's possible to see how some past choices might have !@#$ing panned out, if I'd zigged instead of zagged, said "no" instead of "yes," !@#$ed this one instead of that one. You get the !@#$ing idea.
Well, just my luck I can't !@#$ing see these alternatives before I make my !@#$ choices. All I can do is make the best !@#$ choice I can, and every so often I get a quick !@#$ glimpse of what would have happened otherwise, but never with a whole !@#$ lot of preamble.
So I'll just be sitting there, !@#$ing some ladyboy in the mouth from across the !@#$ room, and I'll have a sudden flash of being shot to !@#$ing pieces by Superscience Commies from the other !@#$ side of the Moon, and I'll flip the !@#$ out and shoot the room up around my date, only to remember that almost happened back in !@#$ing 1960-whatever, and obviously I made the right choice to not !@#$ing open the airlock, and just press the red button and shove them the !@#$ out of the ship, now didn't I?
(Doesn't do the poor ladyboy any good, but hey, I always !@#$ing tip well if firearms get inadvertently involved.)
So imagine this, son. I'm sitting here, staring at the wall, and all these decisions I !@#$ing made, five, ten, twenty or more years ago are all coming back to !@#$ing haunt me, one after the other. And for once, I can actually !@#$ing see them coming, and know what the !@#$ they were from.
Now how the !@#$ do you like that?
It's not like I can !@#$ing steer this boat, of course. That would just be the bees knees, as they used to !@#$ing say. But I can at least make some sense of them, now. Maybe even follow one option into another, and a little further out...
What's it like? Well, !@#$, son, don't you ever wonder what would have happened if you'd !@#$ing asked that person out, back in !@#$ing high school? Or gone to that party your parents told you they'd !@#$ing kill you if they found out you went? Or not went to it, thus avoiding wondering if they !@#$ing knew you went and just kept !@#$ing quiet all those !@#$ years?
Yeah. Really weird.
So I've seen all kinds of things, tonight. I've seen me not agreeing to !@#$ing go to Camp Rogers, and just spending the war in some prison, somewhere, so I wouldn't !@#$ing talk to anyone. I've seen me not kill Hitler, that night, and not have to !@#$ing deal with ABWEHR all these !@#$ years. I've seen me not develop that weird hate-love relationship with the Dragon, and seen myself finally just snap his !@#$ing neck in Hong Kong in 1997, during the handover.
...
Yeah. That's a lot to process, son. A !@#$ of a lot. I'm finding I'm having to just shrug and let a lot of it !@#$ing go, so I don't go !@#$ing crazy with regret or anger or self-loathing or something.
But one thing that keeps coming back? One !@#$ing thing I can't just sort of shrug off?
One decision I really would give !@#$ing anything to do over?
A little over two months ago, I had someone's life in my hands, and instead of telling someone who needed to know about it, I kept it quiet because I was !@#$ing afraid he'd !@#$ up, go soft, and ruin the whole !@#$ thing for me.
I was afraid that when it came to his own !@#$ family, he'd choke and call off the !@#$ war.
And I should have known better. I should have !@#$ing known!
Should have...
...
Well, truth is, it didn't matter. Either way, we didn't get to the Ice Palace in time. My team was too late, either way.
But in this other reality, where I actually did !@#$ing confide in the President, he only hesitated a half second before telling me to get a team and get it going. He told me he trusted me to !@#$ing deal with it.
And when I had to tell him we failed? Yeah, he broke. And I don't !@#$ing blame him. But he had the family that remained to lift him up, and he got through it.
And...
Well, I can't see more than two more steps down the !@#$ing line from there. So I have no idea if he would have been complicit in my house arrest. I have no idea if he'd be defending me or leaving me out to !@#$ing dry. I don't know for certain.
All I know is that, when some of the !@#$ started to come down our way, he looked at me like he trusted me to make the right decision, in spite of everything.
And that says a !@#$ of a lot to me.
...
So yeah. My boyfriend's gone to bed, and told me to come when I can't stand to watch anymore. My cat's !@#$ing drunk and useless, as always. And all I've got are scenes from a film that went off-track, about two and a half months ago.
Or maybe longer than that.
...
Is love enough, son? Is pain all we have when the curtain comes !@#$ing down?
Because I'd give my life for this world, you understand. A million times over. You know that. You know that.
But what if it's not enough to be willing to die? What if I have to be able to do the right thing, for once?
And how will I know what it is when I see it?
...
You better go, son. I think that !@#$ing deleted scene's coming back around, and this time I might just shoot it away.
And if I hit some of those !@#$ing video cameras, outside, hoping to catch me in the nude, again, then all the !@#$ing better.
Nite nite, now.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Underwater Boys (Shriekback) and having not nearly enough booze )
I've gone on about it before, and how much it !@#$ing sucks. I mean, don't get me !@#$ing wrong, I'd much rather be here in my own bed, with my boyfriend, my music, (and, yes, my cat) than sitting in some super-slam, somewhere, along with all the !@#$ers I've locked up.
I mean, I have been !@#$ing jailed, before. It's usually some !@#$ing misunderstanding that gets cleared up well before I actually have to !@#$ing break out, or something. Nothing terrible. !@#$, by the time the government would !@#$ing call up and tell them to let me the !@#$ out they were just about ready to let me go, anyway, after what usually happened when they got my !@#$ pants off for the intake shower.
Yeah, you !@#$ing figured it'd be something like that, wouldn't you? You're getting to know me too !@#$ing well, son.
(Maybe we should do something about that...)
But no, son. I can live with being !@#$ing stuck here. I can live with having to watch the !@#$ world go apart when I'm not at the wheel. I can even !@#$ing handle !@#$ty post-Christmas TV with limited options due to the !@#$ channel package they arranged for this dump.
No, it's this not drinking thing that's really !@#$ing getting to me.
Oh, sure. They !@#$ing let me drink. They're still sending up my hooch when I !@#$ing require it, along with the daily food drop. Whiskey, beer, vodka, beer, port, beer, wine, beer, beer, beer...
But I'm not !@#$ing being allowed as much as I used to be. And that is a serious !@#$ problem.
You see, son, I'm used to drinking somewhere around twice my !@#$ body weight in alcohol every !@#$ day. And if you think that sounds extremely !@#$ing excessive, well, you'd be !@#$ing right. But I have what can be called a genuine medical excuse, as opposed to that wimpy rewrite of a certain metal-clad superhero by my least favorite homophobic writer.
It's this !@#$ alien peeper in my noggin, son. The Chandra Eye tells me everything that's going on around me, and a whole lot of that !@#$'s nothing I need to know. So I need to be pretty !@#$ing boozed up to be able to handle what this of mine's telling me. Otherwise I get knocked off my !@#$ !@#$ and onto the floor.
And I gotta !@#$ing tell you, son, I've been sitting on the ground a !@#$ of a lot, lately.
Fortunately, there are other things that can be done. I've got all kinds of interesting herbal remedies running around this place. The Martians !@#$ing owe me big-time, so they've got me done up on enough of their so-called cocaine to kill one of their living mountains. And while it's not !@#$ing dulling me, the way the booze does, it is getting my brain working fast enough to handle everything I'm seeing.
And do you know what it's !@#$ing showing me? The !@#$ing deleted scenes reel.
Yeah. You remember me talking about alternate timelines and all that crazy !@#$? Well, it turns out that, if you're !@#$ing able to ride some of what this weird !@#$ alien thing in my head's got to tell me, then it's possible to see how some past choices might have !@#$ing panned out, if I'd zigged instead of zagged, said "no" instead of "yes," !@#$ed this one instead of that one. You get the !@#$ing idea.
Well, just my luck I can't !@#$ing see these alternatives before I make my !@#$ choices. All I can do is make the best !@#$ choice I can, and every so often I get a quick !@#$ glimpse of what would have happened otherwise, but never with a whole !@#$ lot of preamble.
So I'll just be sitting there, !@#$ing some ladyboy in the mouth from across the !@#$ room, and I'll have a sudden flash of being shot to !@#$ing pieces by Superscience Commies from the other !@#$ side of the Moon, and I'll flip the !@#$ out and shoot the room up around my date, only to remember that almost happened back in !@#$ing 1960-whatever, and obviously I made the right choice to not !@#$ing open the airlock, and just press the red button and shove them the !@#$ out of the ship, now didn't I?
(Doesn't do the poor ladyboy any good, but hey, I always !@#$ing tip well if firearms get inadvertently involved.)
So imagine this, son. I'm sitting here, staring at the wall, and all these decisions I !@#$ing made, five, ten, twenty or more years ago are all coming back to !@#$ing haunt me, one after the other. And for once, I can actually !@#$ing see them coming, and know what the !@#$ they were from.
Now how the !@#$ do you like that?
It's not like I can !@#$ing steer this boat, of course. That would just be the bees knees, as they used to !@#$ing say. But I can at least make some sense of them, now. Maybe even follow one option into another, and a little further out...
What's it like? Well, !@#$, son, don't you ever wonder what would have happened if you'd !@#$ing asked that person out, back in !@#$ing high school? Or gone to that party your parents told you they'd !@#$ing kill you if they found out you went? Or not went to it, thus avoiding wondering if they !@#$ing knew you went and just kept !@#$ing quiet all those !@#$ years?
Yeah. Really weird.
So I've seen all kinds of things, tonight. I've seen me not agreeing to !@#$ing go to Camp Rogers, and just spending the war in some prison, somewhere, so I wouldn't !@#$ing talk to anyone. I've seen me not kill Hitler, that night, and not have to !@#$ing deal with ABWEHR all these !@#$ years. I've seen me not develop that weird hate-love relationship with the Dragon, and seen myself finally just snap his !@#$ing neck in Hong Kong in 1997, during the handover.
...
Yeah. That's a lot to process, son. A !@#$ of a lot. I'm finding I'm having to just shrug and let a lot of it !@#$ing go, so I don't go !@#$ing crazy with regret or anger or self-loathing or something.
But one thing that keeps coming back? One !@#$ing thing I can't just sort of shrug off?
One decision I really would give !@#$ing anything to do over?
A little over two months ago, I had someone's life in my hands, and instead of telling someone who needed to know about it, I kept it quiet because I was !@#$ing afraid he'd !@#$ up, go soft, and ruin the whole !@#$ thing for me.
I was afraid that when it came to his own !@#$ family, he'd choke and call off the !@#$ war.
And I should have known better. I should have !@#$ing known!
Should have...
...
Well, truth is, it didn't matter. Either way, we didn't get to the Ice Palace in time. My team was too late, either way.
But in this other reality, where I actually did !@#$ing confide in the President, he only hesitated a half second before telling me to get a team and get it going. He told me he trusted me to !@#$ing deal with it.
And when I had to tell him we failed? Yeah, he broke. And I don't !@#$ing blame him. But he had the family that remained to lift him up, and he got through it.
And...
Well, I can't see more than two more steps down the !@#$ing line from there. So I have no idea if he would have been complicit in my house arrest. I have no idea if he'd be defending me or leaving me out to !@#$ing dry. I don't know for certain.
All I know is that, when some of the !@#$ started to come down our way, he looked at me like he trusted me to make the right decision, in spite of everything.
And that says a !@#$ of a lot to me.
...
So yeah. My boyfriend's gone to bed, and told me to come when I can't stand to watch anymore. My cat's !@#$ing drunk and useless, as always. And all I've got are scenes from a film that went off-track, about two and a half months ago.
Or maybe longer than that.
...
Is love enough, son? Is pain all we have when the curtain comes !@#$ing down?
Because I'd give my life for this world, you understand. A million times over. You know that. You know that.
But what if it's not enough to be willing to die? What if I have to be able to do the right thing, for once?
And how will I know what it is when I see it?
...
You better go, son. I think that !@#$ing deleted scene's coming back around, and this time I might just shoot it away.
And if I hit some of those !@#$ing video cameras, outside, hoping to catch me in the nude, again, then all the !@#$ing better.
Nite nite, now.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Underwater Boys (Shriekback) and having not nearly enough booze )
Thursday, February 13, 2014
12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - Epilogue
Let's swim to the moon, uh huh
Let's climb through the tide
Surrender to the waiting worlds
That lap against our side
Let's climb through the tide
Surrender to the waiting worlds
That lap against our side
Moonlight Drive - The Doors (1967)
* * *
* * *
How best to describe what happened next?
It was as if the world had been holding its breath for two years, afraid of being heard by something terrible that had suddenly appeared. And then, just as suddenly, it could finally exhale, and take a deep, relieved breath of sweet, clean air.
The terror was over. The horror was gone. And the world would never know why or how.
True, some lasting damage had been done. The undead swarms created by the Red Queen stayed in the world, in spite of what had happened to her, and went on to cause numerous problems throughout Eastern Europe. Likewise, a number of demon-machines that were active when their misshapen master went back The Pit were also left behind, and either found new masters or went feral. The Holy See would never be quite the same again, thanks to certain obscene suggestions made over the telephone, and any number of strange, occult experiments would come back to bite the Soviets in the !@#$ for years to come.
(There was also a rash of dream-poisonings, some time later, when an overlooked pallet of bootleg Russian vodka was unearthed in Chicago, of all places)
But by and large, things returned to normal.
The barrier between Earth and Hell became strong, once more. Moscow no longer had a blood-red etheric glow, almost visible to the naked eye. Rogue magicians empowered by the negative vibes lost their mojo, would-be diabolists no longer enjoyed an unfair advantage, and the so-called Church of Satan (formed the same night the Supreme Six came through) lost any real sinister edge it may have developed as certain mysterious members dropped out of sight.
The shadows became less ominous. The light became that much more golden. The sunrise was truly gorgeous, once more, and the stars shone brighter at night.
SQUASH continued to be a problem, of course. There were more thaumathematical hi-jinx, ridiculous attempts at spiritual sabotage, and the like. But, by and large, it had had its last hurrah; it would never attempt anything that grand and dangerous ever again, either because the Kremlin simply would not allow it, or because its now-emasculated leader lacked the conviction.
Of the remaining members of the "Super-Lucky Six" -- as they would later call their fortunate band -- they maintained some degree of contact. Dr. Krwi and SPYGOD became better allies, and then friends, however tempered with tough love. Jim Morrison also aided the COMPANY on a few notable occasions, mostly involving strange magic and large parties. It's said that he and John were seen together in New York City, now and again -- talking philosophy in dark clubs or just tramping it up in the worse ends of town.
Doctor Power, on the other hand, remained somewhat aloof. He'd help SPYGOD out on a case or two, given his work with the Freedom Force, but wouldn't stick around long thereafter. He was also notoriously bad about taking phonecalls, much less answering them.
In fact, on the one, very memorable occasion that the other four got together, late in 1970, to stop something else from coming through into our plane, he was strangely nowhere to be found. It was as if there was something about what the six of them had done that he wanted to avoid revisiting at all costs.
Or maybe something in the future was concerning him.
* * *
July 3, 1971
Paris, France
It's early in the morning, and the Lizard King is getting ready to walk on down the hall.
He stares at the ceiling in his bath, his eyes unfocussed, seeing further than he should. His mouth is on fire with the blood he's just vomited up, and his nose still aches from all the heroin he snorted, this morning.
Pamela's in the other room, asleep. She begged him to call a doctor, the last time he puked, but he told her no. He said to just go to bed and sleep -- he'd join her, soon.
Of course, that was a lie.
He's known for some time how this song was going to end. He saw it before, down in that weird, domed room under Moscow. Every time the Demon Magician, Voland, threw the red fire at him, this moment in time became more certain a thing. More real.
It was just a question of how he would get from there to here, was all.
Not that he'd really been all that careful, between then and now. How could he? There was so much to do, the last few years. All those fights against the darkness, all those struggles against menaces too weird and insane to deal with.
(All those problems with the image his handlers helped him make...)
No. He can't think about that, now. He can't hate poor Ray-Ray or John, or anyone. There's no time for hate, now.
Not now that it's almost over.
He's known for for some time that the end was near -- little hints, here and there, that the world was beginning to reject him. The look of his bloated self in the store windows of Paris. His troubles with breathing, or moving. The spasms and the hiccups.
The blood he kept spitting up between drinks.
Even today, out with his old friend, Alain, that mustachioed demon had been mocking him. There'd been a laughing man with a crazy mustache on the way to the restaurant, laughing as he walked on down the road. There was the chance forming of hideous, prophetic words from noise when they went back out for another drink. And there'd been that leering face from that !@#$ movie he's watched with his woman, earlier in the night. "Pursued," it was called.
(Of course it would be, wouldn't it?)
"You know what you have lost here, Lizard King," Voland had sneered, just three years ago: "I'll see you in The Pit yet."
But the joke was on him, now wasn't it?
He wasn't put on this world to just die and go up or down. He was put here to go across, over and over again -- time to time, place to place, maybe even world to world. He was put here to be here when he was needed, and then charged with moving on when it was time.
And now -- now that his body was tired and used up, and someplace else needed him more than our world did -- that time was fast approaching.
So no. No hate. No regrets. No should have, would have, could have beens. No fear. No tears. Nothing to look forward to, here. Nothing to hold him back, anymore.
Nothing but the promise that his soul made, all those years ago, when he was young and fresh and had no idea of the great secret the world was keeping from him. Not until that trip from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, and the dead Indians on the road.
Not until he saw his life reflected in the death of someone else, and the endless spirit came to claim him, adding his face to the ancient gallery.
A line from that movie echoes in his mind -- almost something he might have written, himself, once upon a time.
No part, really. This failing vessel is only flesh. There is nothing here to take with him, where he is going, except maybe a small remembrance of times gone by, and friends he spent those times with. The ones his future selves will remember. The ones his past selves knew were coming.
The moment, singular and eternal, that no demon can even hope to occlude.
Paris, France
It's early in the morning, and the Lizard King is getting ready to walk on down the hall.
He stares at the ceiling in his bath, his eyes unfocussed, seeing further than he should. His mouth is on fire with the blood he's just vomited up, and his nose still aches from all the heroin he snorted, this morning.
Pamela's in the other room, asleep. She begged him to call a doctor, the last time he puked, but he told her no. He said to just go to bed and sleep -- he'd join her, soon.
Of course, that was a lie.
He's known for some time how this song was going to end. He saw it before, down in that weird, domed room under Moscow. Every time the Demon Magician, Voland, threw the red fire at him, this moment in time became more certain a thing. More real.
It was just a question of how he would get from there to here, was all.
Not that he'd really been all that careful, between then and now. How could he? There was so much to do, the last few years. All those fights against the darkness, all those struggles against menaces too weird and insane to deal with.
(All those problems with the image his handlers helped him make...)
No. He can't think about that, now. He can't hate poor Ray-Ray or John, or anyone. There's no time for hate, now.
Not now that it's almost over.
He's known for for some time that the end was near -- little hints, here and there, that the world was beginning to reject him. The look of his bloated self in the store windows of Paris. His troubles with breathing, or moving. The spasms and the hiccups.
The blood he kept spitting up between drinks.
Even today, out with his old friend, Alain, that mustachioed demon had been mocking him. There'd been a laughing man with a crazy mustache on the way to the restaurant, laughing as he walked on down the road. There was the chance forming of hideous, prophetic words from noise when they went back out for another drink. And there'd been that leering face from that !@#$ movie he's watched with his woman, earlier in the night. "Pursued," it was called.
(Of course it would be, wouldn't it?)
"You know what you have lost here, Lizard King," Voland had sneered, just three years ago: "I'll see you in The Pit yet."
But the joke was on him, now wasn't it?
He wasn't put on this world to just die and go up or down. He was put here to go across, over and over again -- time to time, place to place, maybe even world to world. He was put here to be here when he was needed, and then charged with moving on when it was time.
And now -- now that his body was tired and used up, and someplace else needed him more than our world did -- that time was fast approaching.
So no. No hate. No regrets. No should have, would have, could have beens. No fear. No tears. Nothing to look forward to, here. Nothing to hold him back, anymore.
Nothing but the promise that his soul made, all those years ago, when he was young and fresh and had no idea of the great secret the world was keeping from him. Not until that trip from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, and the dead Indians on the road.
Not until he saw his life reflected in the death of someone else, and the endless spirit came to claim him, adding his face to the ancient gallery.
A line from that movie echoes in his mind -- almost something he might have written, himself, once upon a time.
"Out back there was some cattle bones. All of a sudden I couldn't
breathe, and then as I walked around the side, I came upon some unmarked
graves. If that house was me, what part of me was buried in those
graves?"
No part, really. This failing vessel is only flesh. There is nothing here to take with him, where he is going, except maybe a small remembrance of times gone by, and friends he spent those times with. The ones his future selves will remember. The ones his past selves knew were coming.
The moment, singular and eternal, that no demon can even hope to occlude.
So Jim Morrison looks across the worlds, and smiles at what he sees there. Another boy, looking his way, with eyes just like him. A man-child with a mind ready for the experience of the lifetime, and a soul empty and waiting for a promise.
His face ready to take its rightful place in the gallery.
Jim shuts his eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out.
And then he walks on down the hall.
His face ready to take its rightful place in the gallery.
Jim shuts his eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out.
And then he walks on down the hall.
* * *
There is no question that Colonel Bulgakov is dead -- and good riddance to him -- but what is not readily known is exactly how he died, or when.
It's generally accepted that he died at some point during the dissolution of the Soviet Union. It may have been in the early years, after the Soviets finally decided they'd had enough of SQUASH, and left them out to dry. It may have been near the end, as its former super-agent Boris Yeltsin -- who'd made certain they were no longer available at the table -- became a hero during the attempted coup.
As for exactly what happened? Well, one must realize that, in all such matters, truth is highly subjective. There are any number of accepted stories, all of which carry the requisite SQUASH poetry. And there are any number of reasons why this, that, or the other theory is more likely than its cohorts.
And one overriding reason why none of them really work.
So, in spite of how amusing it would be to believe that he was dragged screaming and alive off to The Pit after a final summoning gone wrong, we should remember that he was too good a thaumathematician to have that happen to him.
(We should also remember that, following the debacle of 1968, he had someone else do the summoning for him.)
And, in spite of the deliciousness of believing that, the night SQUASH's replacement came fully online, he was crushed under several tons of rock and concrete when the Beehive was destroyed without warning, we should also remember that he had any number of escape routes, and means to avoid serious injury.
(Plus, if anyone could have crawled out of a cave-in and come back, it would have been him.)
And while one can't help but be amused at the notion that whatever dark bargain he made in order to escape death, all those years ago, just ran out of time, and he had to pay the bill at last, those who knew him have often said that was never a barrier. In fact, they say the deal had actually run out some time before, but he'd always found a way to extend his stay on the Earth by a decade or so.
(There always were so many young and foolish thaumathematicians, ever-so-willing to assist the Colonel in a "late night experiment.")
So no. None of those stories are adequate or sufficient. None of them account for the fact that, though he could be a stupid fool at times, and so arrogant that he had no idea when he was committing the most disastrous of mistakes until well past the point of no return, he could always find some way to get out of it. Even if that escape was aided by his enemies, if only by accident.
But the fact remains: Colonel Bulgakov is dead. One can only hope that he died in a manner befitting the amount of woe and ruin he caused the world -- especially his own country, when all was said and done.
And good riddance to all of that.
John vanished, as they always figured he kind of would.
It was back in 1997, during that one weird thing some people call a Crisis, and others call The Opportunity. He was helping contain the structural reality damage in Trenton, of all places, and he stepped out of sight to do something. He must have done it, because the repairs held, but he never stepped back, either.
No last words. No goodbyes. No cryptic remarks. Just the utter absence of a man.
(Not even Wayfinder could locate him. He said it was as though he'd just never been. And that spooked the old !@#$ like you wouldn't believe.)
It's generally accepted that he died at some point during the dissolution of the Soviet Union. It may have been in the early years, after the Soviets finally decided they'd had enough of SQUASH, and left them out to dry. It may have been near the end, as its former super-agent Boris Yeltsin -- who'd made certain they were no longer available at the table -- became a hero during the attempted coup.
As for exactly what happened? Well, one must realize that, in all such matters, truth is highly subjective. There are any number of accepted stories, all of which carry the requisite SQUASH poetry. And there are any number of reasons why this, that, or the other theory is more likely than its cohorts.
And one overriding reason why none of them really work.
So, in spite of how amusing it would be to believe that he was dragged screaming and alive off to The Pit after a final summoning gone wrong, we should remember that he was too good a thaumathematician to have that happen to him.
(We should also remember that, following the debacle of 1968, he had someone else do the summoning for him.)
And, in spite of the deliciousness of believing that, the night SQUASH's replacement came fully online, he was crushed under several tons of rock and concrete when the Beehive was destroyed without warning, we should also remember that he had any number of escape routes, and means to avoid serious injury.
(Plus, if anyone could have crawled out of a cave-in and come back, it would have been him.)
And while one can't help but be amused at the notion that whatever dark bargain he made in order to escape death, all those years ago, just ran out of time, and he had to pay the bill at last, those who knew him have often said that was never a barrier. In fact, they say the deal had actually run out some time before, but he'd always found a way to extend his stay on the Earth by a decade or so.
(There always were so many young and foolish thaumathematicians, ever-so-willing to assist the Colonel in a "late night experiment.")
So no. None of those stories are adequate or sufficient. None of them account for the fact that, though he could be a stupid fool at times, and so arrogant that he had no idea when he was committing the most disastrous of mistakes until well past the point of no return, he could always find some way to get out of it. Even if that escape was aided by his enemies, if only by accident.
But the fact remains: Colonel Bulgakov is dead. One can only hope that he died in a manner befitting the amount of woe and ruin he caused the world -- especially his own country, when all was said and done.
And good riddance to all of that.
* * *
John vanished, as they always figured he kind of would.
It was back in 1997, during that one weird thing some people call a Crisis, and others call The Opportunity. He was helping contain the structural reality damage in Trenton, of all places, and he stepped out of sight to do something. He must have done it, because the repairs held, but he never stepped back, either.
No last words. No goodbyes. No cryptic remarks. Just the utter absence of a man.
(Not even Wayfinder could locate him. He said it was as though he'd just never been. And that spooked the old !@#$ like you wouldn't believe.)
SPYGOD's
dealt with a couple other Grey Men since then, all wearing the same kind of weird, film-grey coats. None of them care to say where
John is. When he asks them, they just ask "which John?" and then smile.
(Bastards)
But every so often, when he's alone or maudlin or both, SPYGOD gets the feeling that John's nearby, somehow. Even with the Chandra Eye, he can't see him, but he can feel him, somehow. And he can feel he's telling him to get a !@#$ grip on himself, because nothing ever got solved by whining about a !@#$ thing, now did it?
And he would be !@#$ing right.
(Bastards)
But every so often, when he's alone or maudlin or both, SPYGOD gets the feeling that John's nearby, somehow. Even with the Chandra Eye, he can't see him, but he can feel him, somehow. And he can feel he's telling him to get a !@#$ grip on himself, because nothing ever got solved by whining about a !@#$ thing, now did it?
And he would be !@#$ing right.
* * *
11/4/2012
Rezscow, Poland
Rezscow, Poland
The sad thing was that, if he'd just called Doctor Krwi at his !@#$ safehouse when he realized he needed him, this could have been avoided.
Around the end of October, SPYGOD realized he really needed to talk to his vampire hunter ally. He'd been avoiding it for a time, because they'd had a serious misunderstanding towards the end of the Imago Occupation.
(In other words, SPYGOD had been a !@#$ing jerk, and Krwi had called him on it)
But needs must as the devil drives, as they say. So he'd started calling him, using the line he'd had before the Invasion. But he wasn't picking up.
So he got his people on trying to roust him from whatever hole he'd dug himself into. He'd made threats and promises, and delivered on some of both. And his subordinates scurried this way and that, searching for a man who was very difficult to find when he did not want to be found.
He'd been using his cellphone, which could usually get him anywhere, but that cellphone had been burned some time ago. But there was another number, somewhere in SPYGOD's possession, that led to a safehouse in scenic Rezscow, where he liked to hide out between killing runs.
And if SPYGOD had just called the old man there, when he'd realized he needed his help, Doctor Krwi would probably still be alive.
But he didn't. And on the 4th of November, SPYGOD got a call from one of his COMPANY Agents, out in Poland, telling him to get on a transport and come to south-eastern Poland as soon as he could.
He needed his boss to come and tell him if the sorry, bloated, and hideously-mangled body he'd found in what appeared to be a vampire hunter's stronghold was, in fact, the man he'd been looking for.
Sadly, it was him. Doctor Krwi had been dead for at least a week, maybe longer. And he hadn't died easy or well from the looks of things.
He'd died slowly, and in pain -- a lot of pain, from the looks of him. One wouldn't expect any less, given the number of horrible and sadistic enemies the old man had racked up over several decades worth of fighting the bloodsuckers. Indeed, he'd often joked that, when they finally got him, he'd be lucky if they just tortured him to death instead of giving him the bite, just to get revenge.
(He'd also said something about having enough garlic in his veins to marinate a whole herd of cattle for stew, which was how he planned to avoid that threat.)
But that wasn't what got to SPYGOD -- seeing the man he'd called ally, then friend, then pain in the !@#$ in that sorry state. That wasn't what made him go insane with anger and tear the place apart. That wasn't what made him burn it to the ground when he was done, and stomp back to his transport ready to kill the next person, place, or thing that even looked like it was going to look at him funny.
No. It was the fact that, when he looked at what was left of the old man, he realized he'd been raped. To death.
And then he realized by who.
He didn't want to go into details. He didn't want to tell anyone what he knew, for fear of word getting out. The trial had already gotten that cat out of the bag, but he didn't need anyone to know just how active the culprit was in the world.
All he could do was give the old man the dignity of making sure his body could in no way, shape, or form be revived by his true enemies. It's what he would have wanted, and all he could have done for him.
But as they flew back to America, and every mile on the way, SPYGOD was forced to realize that he knew. He knew, !@#$ it.
He knew that, if he'd called the old man, they would have talked about this little problem with what he'd been feeling in the White House, lately.
If they'd talked about the little problem, Dr. Krwi would have known that he was in America, and not Poland.
If he'd known he was in America, and not Poland, he wouldn't have opened his door up and let his murderer in, because he would have known that something was fishy.
And if he hadn't opened his door up and let his murderer in, he wouldn't have spent the last however many hours of his life being !@#$ed in every single hole he had, plus a few more that his attacker decided to make with that blessed sword the old man used on vampires.
Every mile on the way home, he realizes this. It makes him sick. He tries to drink it away but it doesn't help. He wants to smash things but then he'll just have to swim home, and haul his Agents besides.
All he can do is tell himself that he's done being careless, now. He's done with failing to anticipate this danger that's out there, loose in the world.
And when he finally finds his Alter-Earther, he's going to do things to him that will make what he did to Dr. Krwi look like an overly-firm handshake.
Oh yes. He will.
* * *
There's also the matter about a conversation that took place between Doctor Power and SPYGOD, not too long after SPYGOD found out what happened to Doctor Krwi. In fact, it took place after a very fateful and tragic Thanksgiving at the White House, when SPYGOD had to deal with the source of that nasty feeling he'd wanted Doctor Krwi's help with.
"Dealing" meant bringing in a special gun, which resulted in a very unfortunate death. It also meant that whatever political and personal currency he'd cultivated with the President of the United States of America -- both during and after the Invasion -- was completely gone.
And it also meant that, given how Doctor Power was responsible for what happened, SPYGOD had no !@#$ing compunctions whatsoever about making good on his long-standing threat to take Doctor Power's namesake away from him.
It was quite an impressive conversation, really, but there was only one way it could end. And that was with SPYGOD striding out of the Doctor's sanctum with a former superhero in tow, and telling him how and where to get help for his serious problems.
Not the greatest end to one of the few remaining members of both the Liberty Patrol and Freedom Force, one might say. But it wasn't really his end, either. Just another serious bump in a lifetime full of them.
That is, however, another story for another day.
And it also meant that, given how Doctor Power was responsible for what happened, SPYGOD had no !@#$ing compunctions whatsoever about making good on his long-standing threat to take Doctor Power's namesake away from him.
It was quite an impressive conversation, really, but there was only one way it could end. And that was with SPYGOD striding out of the Doctor's sanctum with a former superhero in tow, and telling him how and where to get help for his serious problems.
Not the greatest end to one of the few remaining members of both the Liberty Patrol and Freedom Force, one might say. But it wasn't really his end, either. Just another serious bump in a lifetime full of them.
That is, however, another story for another day.
* * *
As for the Hell Blazer -- no
one's entirely certain what the entity formerly known by that name is doing, down in The Pit.
He has not made contact, ever, and he
does not answer when called. Not even Doctor Power could ever summon him up.
It's almost as if he didn't want to talk to anyone.
Some
say he's biding his time until he can break the entire operation. Some
say he's gone bad, like he said he would, and that the increase in
vampire attacks is his doing. But you can never trust Demons, as they
tend to tell you exactly what you want to hear.
SPYGOD still keeps his gun handy, just in case.
There's also the other four members of the Supreme Six to consider, down there in The Pit.
They are not happy demons, those four. They scream and howl at the barrier between worlds, scrabbling to get out and away. They dream of atrocities and grand unmakings. They promise pain and pleasure, knowledge and experience.
And they would burn the world, if they only had another chance to get out and play.
Will they ever have it? Who can say? A year doesn't go by that some !@#$head with more old books than sense doesn't try to raise them from their prison, the better to curry their favor. Sometimes these idiots even manage to raise one of them, though not fully and never for long.
But so long as the Hell Blazer doesn't care to move, and Behemot is stuck in our world, calling up the whole gang to effect a great and terrible change just is not going to happen. At all.
But still they try, because they're greedy and short-sighted and mad and stupid. And still they die, because they almost always get Voland, himself, and he's still really !@#$ed off about losing out on Morrison. And still nothing really happens to change the balance between good and evil, light and dark, and up and down in our world.
Hopefully it stays that way. We have enough problems as it is.
And what of Behemot, then?
The demon cat has lived in Neo York City, with SPYGOD, ever since the events of 1968. He drinks between three and five bottles of high-test, liver-rotting vodka a day, and goes through a can of high-quality cat food every so often, when he remembers he needs to eat, too. He used to spend most of his days sleeping on an AK-47, but when that was lost SPYGOD got him a better gun, and now he sleeps on that, instead.
* * *
There's also the other four members of the Supreme Six to consider, down there in The Pit.
They are not happy demons, those four. They scream and howl at the barrier between worlds, scrabbling to get out and away. They dream of atrocities and grand unmakings. They promise pain and pleasure, knowledge and experience.
And they would burn the world, if they only had another chance to get out and play.
Will they ever have it? Who can say? A year doesn't go by that some !@#$head with more old books than sense doesn't try to raise them from their prison, the better to curry their favor. Sometimes these idiots even manage to raise one of them, though not fully and never for long.
But so long as the Hell Blazer doesn't care to move, and Behemot is stuck in our world, calling up the whole gang to effect a great and terrible change just is not going to happen. At all.
But still they try, because they're greedy and short-sighted and mad and stupid. And still they die, because they almost always get Voland, himself, and he's still really !@#$ed off about losing out on Morrison. And still nothing really happens to change the balance between good and evil, light and dark, and up and down in our world.
Hopefully it stays that way. We have enough problems as it is.
* * *
And what of Behemot, then?
The demon cat has lived in Neo York City, with SPYGOD, ever since the events of 1968. He drinks between three and five bottles of high-test, liver-rotting vodka a day, and goes through a can of high-quality cat food every so often, when he remembers he needs to eat, too. He used to spend most of his days sleeping on an AK-47, but when that was lost SPYGOD got him a better gun, and now he sleeps on that, instead.
Once a member of the Supreme Six, he is now known as Bee-Bee, as his owner won't have "Commie" spoken in his house. If
he misses being a prince of Hell, he doesn't show it. He seems content
to laze around, and seemingly aspires only to stay drunk, or maybe get
it on when his biological urges send him off to tomcat.
He will not come when called. He tolerates no petting or belly rubs except once in a great while, and then only from SPYGOD. And no one !@#$s with that cat.
No one at all.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Best of Tchaikovsky and having a number of drinks for absent friends)
No one at all.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Best of Tchaikovsky and having a number of drinks for absent friends)
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