10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 6

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a great city, recently risen above the waves.

It is a strange thing, that city: a single structure containing echoes from the architectures of all the world's great and long-lost civilizations. Aztec pyramids are surrounded by Greek columns, and rows of creatures akin to the Sphinx of Ancient Egypt stand guard over hanging gardens richly laden with strange fruit. The overlapping walls of Great Zimbabwe form a seamless, seemingly-endless labyrinth in the spaces between structures, their halls endlessly patrolled by the deadliest of sentries.

By day, the city shines strangely in the Sun, as though it were front-lit before a raging, black storm. By night it glows from within, its colors cycling in time with the many giant, white cubes around the world.

And sometimes, in those twilight moments when no human is anywhere near its eerily familiar pyramids and walls, glowing and misshapen things go in and out of its interior -- slipping through the air from the city to the massive, metal dragonfly that hovers above it, and then back again.

Inside that city dwells the great mystery of the Imago, themselves. It houses the massive enigma they have enslaved an entire world to protect. And it is also their weakness, for the secret is the answer.

And whomsoever answers it correctly will destroy them all.

Above that city, in the metal dragonfly that was once the COMPANY's Flier, the faces of most of the beings that have controlled the world for the last seven months are in deep consultation. One of their number -- the one they called The Sight -- is missing, as his incoherent screaming was too much for them to bear.

But even without him, and the powerful service he provided, they are still a force to be reckoned with.

How have they done this to The Sight? their hidden Leader asks, her voice sibilant and wet: What has happened to our eyes and ears on the world?

I think I know, leader, The Motion interrupts, his voice betraying how busy he currently is: Some time ago, there was talk of having a way of turning the entire Internet off. The so called "kill switch." Having an actual switch wasn't feasible, except maybe in the United States, so we, and by we I mean me, put together a package of very powerful viruses that would go all over the world wide web in seconds and destroy the networks. 

So why did you not make certain our networks were safeguarded against this threat? the Dragon asks, burbling up from the pit of neural circuitry he lounges within, deep inside the Flier.

I did. That was one of the first things I did. 

And yet the Internet is dead, and our friend blinded, The Dragon chides him.

Look, I did what I could. But this code is amazingly more complex than what I created-

Can you fix what has been done? The Leader asks.

Maybe not until we're ready to leave the planet, quite frankly, the Motion sighs: This is a mess. And I don't have time to deal with that mess right now-

Speaking of time, the one they call The Fist says, looking down from Deep Ten: I have the projectiles they've launched locked on to. They aren't warheads, and they aren't aimed at the platform. I think they're meant to launch satellites into geostationary orbit-

And there can be only two reasons for them to do that, The Motion interrupts: They're either going to set up a new, secured form of communications we won't have immediate access to, or they're going to send some kind of a jamming signal.

Can they do that? the Leader asks, sounding concerned: Do they have the know-how to do this?

We know that they do, my leader, the Dragon says: The one known as Underman used it on 3/15 to temporarily disable our technology. He has been missing for the last few months, but I doubt he has been idle.  And it would be a logical thing for him to improve upon his previous works.

And if don't have the ability to send a counter-signal through the Internet, anymore, they could knock us down like tin soldiers, The Motion says.

We could still send a counter-signal through Deep Ten, The Fist says: We could send it the same way we're sending our teleporter signals. But by the time we got it working, who knows how many of our power stations they might disrupt? And we'd need that power to send the signal.

Then we'd better shoot those things down quickly? The Motion says: And we'd better get our spy cameras up and running. There's thousands of people all over the world who have our eyes in their head. It's time to use them.

Agreed, The Dragon says: And perhaps we should also target the area around the power stations, while we are destroying the missiles. Their shields can be changed to match the harmonics of the particle cannons, and the deflection would cause a greater amount of destruction on the ground.

I'd be all for that, The Fist says: In fact, I've had a targeting solution planned for such an eventuality.

And speaking of that, the Motion says: While I'm sending out more Specials to mop up what survives the blasts, should we just activate the Extermination Order?

There is no need for that, yet, the leader says: We will need their energy and power in the months ahead. We must rebuild our elevator, and redouble their efforts to build our escape vehicle. 

We could do that with only a tenth of the population, The Fist says: And they'd be a lot easier to control-

It is never wise to throw a valuable resource away simply because it has proven a bit more cumbersome than anticipated, The Dragon opines: One can always find another to help carry the burden. But once the heavy load is gone, it is gone, and there will be no getting it back.

Plus, to be honest, we've still got a lot of converting to do, The Motion admits: Consider my idea withdrawn, at least for now.

Very well, the Leader says: Fist, you may begin. But you must also utilize the spy network, and be prepared to fire upon any sign of resistance. If they were planning on sending up a network to jam our technology, then they must also have forces ready to mobilize. They must be destroyed.

It will be done, The Fist says: And I could be wrong, but I just saw an explosion on the Moon, close to where their base was. May I fire at it a few more times, just to be certain?

That seems a wasteful expenditure at a time like this, The Motion sighs: What are they going to do? Throw moon rocks at us?

I leave that decision in your hands, the Leader says: You all know what you must do now. Do it with the knowledge that I love you all, and that we shall soon be through this crisis, and then back on our way to The Day. All you need is love.

All you need is love, The Motion repeats, preparing to adjust where he teleports his soldiers, and making ready to get them out of the way of their big guns.

All you need is love The Dragon says, sliding his consciousness back into the endless, contemplative loops of thought and memory he spends his time exploring.

All you need is love, The Fist says, targeting all six rockets and the Moon in his first volley, just to be certain. 

All you need is love, The Leader breathes, confident her beloved servants will yet save this day.

And then there is silence in the Flier, yet again, occasionally broken by The Sight trying to come up from his current state of blind panic. As he cries and screams for help, he wonders why no one answers him. Where is the Dragon, who is all-present? Where is the Leader, who says she loves him?

Will no one save him in his time of need?

* * *

"Oh you have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD says, looking up at the roof of Lady Gilda, and listening though it.

He didn't need the Toons to tell him the rockets were away. He could hear them, even all the way across the Pacific Ocean. He could hear them taking off, and could sense when they entered the upper atmosphere. He even felt the world shudder just a little bit as they raced out of it, and prepared to do what they'd been sent up to do.

And that's how he knows something is wrong on the Moon.

There should be a jamming signal coming from there. There should be a harsh, whining vibration, sluicing through the void and being picked up by Deep Ten's communications arrays. There should be a quiet but inescapable voice speaking to its computers at their deepest levels, saying "lay down your arms and surrender."

There is not.

He did, however, hear a loud thump from up there, right around the time he was trying to hear the signal. He felt the bass drum in his chest, and knows that wasn't just an overloaded device frying its circuits, or a blown fuse.

He knows the feel of an explosion. He knows the tactile sensation of a metal object stuffed with explosives one might make in secret, out of leftover scraps of material and chemicals stolen from a disused lab. He knows the taste it leaves in his mouth when they ignite and expand.

And he knows what happens when they're used to take out a pressurized environment...

"We've lost the !@#$ signal," he announces to his forces, wondering who that brave, doubtlessly-dead soul he just lost on the Moon could have been: "Deep Ten is still !@#$ing live. I repeat, Deep Ten is still live."

"What does that mean?" American Shield asks, doing his best to hold off the Specials that are all but overrunning his position.

"It means we're a few !@#$ seconds from !@#$ing needing plan B," SPYGOD says, quickly looking over his cheat cards: "Doctor Power, I need you mobile as of ten seconds ago. Mister Ten, stand by with the Dignitary. All allied forces, get ready to move. And all Supers..."

"Yes?" Mrs. America asks: "Do we have the go-ahead?"

"Converge on secondary targets," SPYGOD says, reaching for the bottle of the stronger stuff his cat has knowingly hidden until this very moment: "Total destruction."

There's cheering by some of his Strategic Talents at that order, but they don't know what he does. He can only hope that, once they learn what he's having them do, they can forgive him.

And maybe they can one day learn to live with that much death.

* * *

At that very moment, all around the world, thousands upon thousands of people begin to die.

Given that the world is raging against its captors, their deaths go mostly unnoticed, except perhaps by those who know them well. Even then, all those observers know for certain is that, for some reason, the dead stopped doing whatever they were doing, and stood or sat perfectly still for exactly ten seconds.

And, after that those ten seconds were done, the dead turned and walked away, heading somewhere else both silently and without emotion. They stopped rioting and looting, and came out of hiding. They walked from their homes or offices, abandoning their families and loved ones.

They got out into the streets to observe what was going on there. They walked behind the angry and idealistic crowds as they charged into Specials, and observed the less noble as they used the confusion to smash store windows and take what they wanted. They spied on hidden forces as they occasionally tipped their hand and came out to see what was going on, themselves.

They watched and listened, still as statues. They did not speak, or respond when spoken to. They could not be deterred or shooed away.

And they stood there until they either collapsed from exhaustion, or were knocked down or killed by stray bullets or sudden dangers.

Later, as the human cost of global revolution would be tabulated, it would be remarked that all these walking dead were people who lost their sight on 3/15, and had had their eyes replaced by the Imago as an apology. But by then, the damage was done. 

And there was simply no way to stop what was coming.

* * *

"Oh God, please help us," Mark says, trying to get up as the devil crashes into the buffet room, fire gouting from its eyes and mouth, its pathetic passenger's eyes still alive even though its body is wrapped in flames.

"Pathetic," Moloch hisses as it strides through the smoking ruin that used to be doors, shrugging off the numerous bullets and blasts from all the guns being pointed in its direction: "Would you kill a metal god with iron and steel?"

"We'll !@#$ well try, you !@#$," Myron shouts, jumping behind some crates of unpacked equipment and aiming for the thing's burning eyes: "No further! You !@#$ing hear me? No further!"

Moloch laughs, rears back, and launches a fireball at the crate Myron's hiding behind. He leaps out of its way just in time to avoid being disintegrated along with it, dropping the gun as he does.

"Let's get it!" one of the SPYGOD SCOUTS shouts, and leads a desperate charge, hoping to cover Myron and their wounded. They run and scream and fire, trying to find the weak spots in the creature.

But if it has any, they do not find it.

Somewhere in the doomed firefight -- as Moloch finds their weak spots all too well -- Winifred realizes that the machine is ready to operate, again. They could evacuate the room, and get poor Thomas back to the real world, if only they could keep the monster at bay long enough to let it warm up and activate. 

If only...

"Skyspear," she says, looking at the African woman, who's clearly wiped out: "How much control do you have over your teleporting ability?"

"I could carry the monster with me, yes," she says, trying to get up from the floor: "But I might not have the strength to return. It's too heavy-"

"I was thinking about the floor," Winifred says, pointing at Moloch's feet.

"Oh," Skyspear says, and, taking the teen's meaning, begins to jog over to the raging, brass beast hoping it doesn't notice her as it tosses fireball after fireball at its attackers, and slaps their burning, melting bodies across the great hall with unbidden glee.

"This slaugher is pointless," the brass beast snorts, turning its sights on the broken form, wrapped in a blanket, over by Mark: "Bring Moloch the boy, Thomas. Operate the machine to send a signal to SPYGOD. Do these things and Moloch shall spare your lives."

"No chance," Mark says, reaching over to shield Thomas with his own body: "You won't be getting any help from us."

"We shall see," Moloch says, getting ready to snort out another fireball. But, just before it does, it realizes that the woman who could appear and disappear is at its feet.

"Hello," she says, jabbing her hands into the wooden floor -- splintering it like matchsticks, and grabbing hold of what's left.

"You dare?" Moloch says, his breath singeing her eyebrows.

"Goodbye!" she shouts, and vanishes, taking a good chunk of the floor it was standing on with her.

Moloch shouts and reaches out, trying to regain its balance. It fails spectacularly, and tumbles down through the hole, breathing fire all the way. There is a spectacular crash, followed by another, and then another, and then...

"Oh wow," Myron says, getting up to the smoking hole and looking down: "How high up is this treehouse?"

"About a half mile," Mark says, making sure Thomas is okay: "But that thing's fast, Myron. Get that machine ready to go."

"You got it," the man says, taking off his bloody, broken sunglasses and going over to get the machine going: "Everyone who's hurt? Grab someone who's knocked out and get onto the platform. We're getting out of here, now."

He doesn't have to tell them twice. The survivors get onto the platform, dragging the badly wounded and knocked out behind them. A few of them have the good sense to organize a proper stretcher for Thomas, and one of the Scouts makes he's getting enough oxygen. 

Skyspear appears a second later, holding a large, medical-looking thing in her arms. She's able to take two steps before falling to her knees, bleeding from her nose. Mark hobbles over to her, taking the machine from her and handing it off to someone else.

"Thank you," he says, wrapping his arms around her: "What can I do to help you?"

"I will be fine, soon," she sighs, smiling at him with bloodshot eyes: "God willing."

"I think we're gonna be okay," Mark says, looking around and wincing at having just said that. All around are the dead and dying, their bodies burned and broken on the floor like wreckage from a bomb. 

Mark closes his eyes and prays for them, wishing this victory could have come at less of a human cost. As he does, strange, thumping noises can be heard. 

"What was that?" Winifred asks, holding up a hand.

"Not the machine," Myron says, looking around as the device in question begins clicking and clacking, preparing to go.

"Was that Moloch hitting the ground?" Mark asks, but then realizes the sound is coming from the hallway. 

And it's footfalls -- heavy, thumping. 

Metallic.

"Fools!' Moloch shouts, its voice echoing down the hallways: "What is a body to a god? So long as there is metal, Moloch is immortal."

"I need another three minutes," Myron sighs as the machine slowly thrums into life: "Please just keep him back that long!"

Winifred grabs the gun Myron put down and aims it down the hallway, for all the good it might do. In that moment, Myron couldn't love her any more. In that moment, she wishes she could tell him the same. 

"Oh !@#$," Mark says, holding Skyspear close as she starts to cry in frustration and fear: "Oh dear Lord, please help us..."

But the only god that chooses to act in that moment is Moloch, and it chooses to laugh.

* * *

All around the massive, trans-Lunar weapons platform known as Deep Ten, hatches slide open, and scores of large cannons protrude. Their movement gives the ring the appearance of a spiky leather cuff -- the sort of thing a rock and roll god might wear on stage to avoid looking wimpy under the lights.

And then, one by one, they swivel around on their mounts, so that they are no longer pointing outwards, as they were intended to do, but inwards, at the Earth.

The Fist -- the being masquerading as Director Straffer, however imperfectly -- sits in his grand control room, looking through a massive, glass and steel window, down at the blue and green gem that this truly amazing place once guarded.

And as his robots move around him, going from station to station and preparing to fire, he cracks his knuckles and ponders the best place to write his name -- his true name -- across the face of this world, just before they abandon it to its fate.

"Activate program B-4," he orders, sipping at the martini one of his robots has brought him: "Start with the lunar surface. Might as well get that out of the way, first."

The entire station vibrates and hums as the cannons build up to charge. It's a wonderful feeling -- almost sexual, as if he was about to come.

"I wish I could just vaporize it all," he muses, hoping that the Leader didn't hear him, but knowing that it means nothing to her, anymore.

And with a wave of his hand as he sips on a Martini, he condemns the world he hates to slavery, followed by oblivion. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Agent Orange (Depeche Mode) and having a !@#$ing !@#$ beer)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 5

As weightless as a thought, and as peaceful as the sea, Mark Clutch follows the white, cold light down, further and further into the holy silence.

He falls for what seems like a hundred years -- maybe even a thousand -- and remembers being told that the Kingdom of Heaven is beyond the conception of time and space. He is inside the Great Mystery, here in this tunnel of shimmering white. And he can only wonder, between flashes of life and memory, when he's going to touch ground, or at least hear a voice welcoming him home.

When he finally does, it's not God, but man.

"Mark?" he hears a woman say. It's a familiar voice, accompanied by a strange feeling.

Pain -- sharp and stinging.

"Mark, please," the voice continues as the white goes away: "You gotta open your eyes. Please !@#$ing open your eyes..."

There's more pain, now. It's to his face. His cheeks. It feels like someone's slapping him.

Someone is slapping him. And he can smell things. Metal and sweat. Wood and electricity. Burning things.

Blood.

There's one more slap, and then he opens his eyes, gasping for air as though he'd just breached the water's surface. He clutches at the air and wonders where he is, and how he got here.

And then he remembers what happened back at the infirmary, and what was going to happen. But he also realizes he's not burned, and not dying.

He's in the main buffet room, up against the far wall. The giant, television-like machine that they use to travel back and forth from the real world to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 is warming up. Myron is standing by the controls, holding a very large gun and pointing it at the door. His sunglasses are gone and his face is bloody, and the look in his eyes is terrifying to see.

Winifred is in front of him, looking extremely relieved. There's a number of SPYGOD SCOUTS near her, all holding guns at the door or tending to each others' injuries. He can't see The Wall or The Fist, anywhere. And Skyspear...

There's a strange noise, like the world being ripped open. For a moment he thinks that big, brass, fire-breathing monster he was trying to fight is coming here, crashing the treehouse to pieces as he goes. But then a hole in the air opens up, close to him, and Skyspear leaps through it.

She's holding something wrapped up in a blanket. A badly-burned stump that was once a teenager's arm is poking out from under it.

"He's awake!" Winifred shouts to the woman, who places the blanket-wrapped-boy on the ground and falls to her knees, panting.

"Thanks God," she says, between breaths: "I got Thomas out of there, but I could not get his machines. Do we have anything here that can help him?"

"I'll keep him breathing," one of the Scouts says, and hustles over: "But we'll need the machines. Can you go back?"

She looks at him, and then, bowing her head, nods weakly: "Give me time. Too many short jaunts weaken me. If I go too soon I may be lost..."

"You saved me," Mark says, holding his hand towards her: "You... I thought I was dead..."

She just smiles at him, and takes his hand in hers: "Alhamdulillah"

"Alhamdulillah," he repeats, noticing for the first time how truly lovely her eyes are: "Thanks be to God."

"Where are the others?" Myron asks, taking a step away from the controls (but keeping his eyes, and the gun, aimed right at the door): "Are they still fighting it?"

"They are," Skyspear says: "The Fist and Green Man are trying to distract him. I do not know where the Wall is, but I suspect he is near."

"Are the satellites...?" Mark asks, trying to get to his feet.

"That's what's going back now," Myron says, gesturing to the six large, metal spheres in front of the machine, caught up in the flickering, bright field that's starting to dominate all the light and sound in the room: "The thing's gotta rest for five minutes after that. Then we send back Thomas and whoever's badly hurt."

"What about the monster?" Winifred asks: "Can we hold it off?"

"We'd !@#$ing better," Myron shouts to be heard over the machine's noises: "If it gets past us, and figures out how to get this thing working..."

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. In fact, Mark remembers teaching the hero that monster was masquerading as how to operate it just the other week, before the metal man lost his temper and vanished.

If Moloch gets past them, he'll have no problems operating the machine. He'll go to the Toon colony and cause mayhem, there -- maybe even stop the rockets from launching. He'll destroy their entire war effort in one blow.

He'll doom the entire world just to win.

* * *

Prentice walks up the corridor to the main communications hub, doing his best to conceal the cylinder he's brought along as a surprise.

The plan is pretty simple. He'll apologize for interrupting, of course, and then he'll explain why he's actually here. It seems there's some energy variances that they detected not too long ago (true), and they're bound to play havoc with the signal that Director Straffer's machine is going to cause (maybe). 

The cyborg will probably want to look the papers over, but he'll want to do it by the machine. While he's doing that, he'll be far enough away that Prentice can pull out the explosive and arm it, and then show that grumpy, dictatorial narcissist the true reason for his visit. 

And then, while the shock's still setting in -- and before the clanking, stumbling, metal stick man can think of something to do -- Prentice will calmly and coolly tell him why this is happening.

And, most importantly of all, why Prentice is the one doing this.

He didn't get that short straw entirely by chance. He was meant to do this. And the reasons for that meaning -- that very legitimate and pointed meaning -- have been a long time coming.

It's the stuff of epic legends, that reason. And Prentice is going to tell Straffer all about it, just before he lets the trigger go and ends himself, the cyborg, the machine the !@#$er was working on, and the whole !@#$ room. 

As he walks closer to the door, Prentice can feel the weight of destiny alighting on his shoulders. He can feel the wheels of karma turning under his feet, and the brilliant shine of justice upon his brow. 

Everything that has happened, up until now, has brought him here, to this moment, on this day. He will do what must be done, and perhaps be remembered for what others would see as a noble sacrifice, or a logical decision.

But that doesn't matter to him. It doesn't matter if no one ever remembers this, or hears of it. He doesn't mind if his name is expunged from the history books the children of Alpha Base Seven will one day write.

All that matters is that Straffer will hear the reasons for his demise at Prentice's hands. That will be obituary enough for him, and a monument to rival the Pyramids.

That will be all he's ever wanted; who would go on living after such a perfect moment?

* * *

"Oh, thank God," one of the Toons says as the satellites begin to materialize in front of the giant television.

"They're coming through!" Fred shouts into the communicator to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4: "Well done, guys! Is everything okay, over there?"

There's nothing but static as a reply. Fred looks at the Masked Leader of the Resistance for assurance or instructions, but the man shakes his head and points to the six machines coming through.

"Get them on board the rockets as soon as they're fully here," he says: "And then get the machine pad cleared, and send for a medical team. I have the feeling we may be getting casualties."

"Casualties?"

"That's what I said, son," he barks: "Do you need to be reminded of what that means?"

"No, not at all," Fred starts, never having been shouted at by this man before: "I'll call them right now."

"You do that," the man says, watching the machines wax full and solid as the Toon technicians prepare to zap them with tooninator guns -- the better to smack them into Toon rockets, which will then be turned back into real rockets just before launch.

And then, once launched, begin a wave of counter-Imago signals that will end this horrible war before it even really gets a chance to start. 

But as the technicians begin working, and the medics run down to their ready stations, the man realizes that there's something else that needs to be done, here, if they're not only going to win, but be worthy of that victory.

Something horrible that he clearly can no longer avoid.

* * *

Moloch strides from the bloody, red ruins of the infirmary, watching as blood droplets quiver in the air, trying to reform themselves into something capable of giving into gravity.

It thought it had seen everything, more or less, but what just happened in that room defied all explanation. If it were not what and who it were, it might be toppled over, laughing itself to pieces at the thought. But it has no time for such things.

Not now that the end of the game is so tantalizingly near.

What happened was no less than the answer to an age-old question: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? It never had a good reply to that conundrum, but now it does.

Those two things explode -- taking out the rest of one's adversaries if one is very lucky, or a god. 

Moloch could not have coordinated the events any better. No sooner had it been denied the right to burn Mark Clutch from the face of this world, thanks to that Skyspear woman and her abilities, than it was attacked by the Fist. And while a single punch from her might not have been enough to destroy Moloch's mighty body, it was enough to cause some significant structural damage, and send it sprawling across the floor.

But it was not a clean hit. Moloch's body was incredibly hot, and whatever gifts the Fist may have been given at birth, withstanding high temperatures was clearly not amongst them. She got in three good hits, and then backed away from the fight, screaming at the smoking, melted ruin that were her hands.

Green Man had said some angry things at her, then, but his own attacks -- however embarrassingly precise -- were nowhere near as effective as hers. Moloch got to its feet quickly, hurling fireballs at the two of them, and the Green Man had entered into combat with it, again -- parrying all its blows and leaping out of the way from its fire, but unable to actually hurt its metal skin, or kill the human hero who'd been providing it with fire. 

But the human's attacks had not been entirely ineffective. In fact, they kept Moloch from seeing that its objective -- that broken boy, Thomas -- was being snatched from its clutches by the same hero who had gotten Mark out of the way of its fire. And by the time it noticed what had happened, it was too late to stop Skyspear from taking him.

It was not, however, too late to lash out in rage, and knock the maimed Fist off her feet, and towards the door.

Which is where she ran right into the Wall, who was coming in to aid his friends.

The Wall's power was well-known: he simply could not be moved, and any who tried to move him would have their energy rebounded upon them. The Fist, on the other hand, could not be stood against, as even the slightest flick of her finger could send someone flying across the room.

In idle moments, the two would often joke about what might happen if she punched him, or he bumped into her. They often liked to say that their abilities would just cancel each others' out, but they never dared to test it.

A wise decision, as it turned out. When they hit each other, in that way, their powers multiplied and broke against one another. And the force of the resulting explosion all but leveled the infirmary -- blowing out its walls and windows, and causing that part of the building to crack, break, and warp.

When Moloch got back to its feet, there was nothing left of the Wall and the Fist but blood, and a strange, quavering, red mist that could not fully resolve itself into being liquid. There was no sight of the Green Man, either, so Moloch assumed that its boastful harrier must have been destroyed by the blast as well.

And so did Moloch -- now wiser, and facing fewer adversaries than before -- begin to make its way to the room where the machine stood. No doubt Skyspear took the broken boy there, and it would need the great machine to communicate with the real world, and SPYGOD.

The plan would work. Moloch would push through and persevere. And if the pieces weren't coming together the way Moloch had intended, that was merely a complication, and not a barrier.

For what right did errant circumstances have to tell a just god "no"?

* * *

"Well, I do appreciate your bringing these things to my attention, Prentice," Director Straffer says, looking at the readouts the man's handed him and scratching the back of his maimed neck: "Lousy timing, though. I just got the signal from Earth. The satellites are on the rockets and we're just about to launch."

"Well, I got them here as quick as I could, sir," Prentice says: "I'm sorry if it wasn't fast enough."

"I'll fix it," Straffer says, hobbling his spindly, metal legs towards his machine: "And under the circumstances, I'll even overlook the fact that you didn't care to knock."

"Well, I had to press the issue at the door, sir," he replies, smiling just a little at the thought: "You instructed Carlson a little too well."

"Well, I'm told I have that effect on people," the cyborg says, winking, and then turning to fiddle with the massive device he's slapped onto the side of the main communications hub: "So, if the Van Allen belts are up, it might distort the signal enough to be worthless. So should I boost the signal, or try to widen it out to compensate for that?"

"I'm afraid that radio engineering isn't my specialty, sir," Prentice says, getting ready to pull out the weapon and have his say.

"Ah. Well, why don't you see if you can get Carlson in here?" Straffer says, turning his back on the assassin: "This was his baby, after all. He should have a better idea."

Prentice blinks, flabbergasted. Does this man really have no idea that he's come to kill him? Is he that dense?

"I'll go and ask," he says, turning to head back to the airlock, the plan changing with each step. 

"You could, but I think that'd be kind of difficult." 

"What do you mean, sir?" Prentice asks, turning around.

"I mean that I can smell his blood on you," Straffer says, most pointedly not turning around.

"I don't know what you mean, sir-"

"I can also see the cylinder you've been trying to hide under your arm this whole time."

"Sir?"

"You're not very good at this, are you?" the Director says, finally turning around and looking at him: "If you were, you'd have just detonated that thing the moment you got close enough to hand me the papers."

"Maybe not," Prentice says, no longer caring to hide the object in question. Instead he brings it out and holds it up, his other hand on the trigger: "I think I wanted to tell you why, first."

"I really don't think I care," Straffer says, stepping between the bomb and the machine he's been working on: "But you need to understand, and you need to get this !@#$ quick, Prentice, because we don't have time."

"No, it's you who need to listen-"

"If you destroy this, Earth is doomed. The Imago are-"

"Oh I am so sick and !@#$ing tired of hearing about the Imago!" Prentice shouts, holding the bomb aloft like it was a rock, or a knife: "Who cares about them? We are alive, here! We live! And you're trying to get us all killed!"

"I'm trying to save you, you !@#$ idiot!" Straffer shouts: "I'm trying to save the world!"

"By killing us!"

"Do you even know what's coming? Do you know why the Imago are building a spaceship in Earth's orbit? There's something worse than them on the way, Prentice."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not lying. It's coming-"

"Shut up!"

"It's coming here, Prentice. It's a million times worse-"

"Shut up!" 

"And if we don't stop them, we won't be able to defend ourselves, and that thing will walk all over us-"

"Shut up shut up I was going to tell you everything-

"And when it's done with Earth what do you think it'll do to the Moon? You will not survive it, Prentice-"

"I was going to tell you why I was going to do this and you ruined it! You ruined it!"

"Your only hope is that machine! Put the bomb down-"

"You ruined it!" Prentice shouts, letting go of the switch: "You ruined it..."

Straffer shouts and tries to knock the cylinder from Prentice's hands. Prentice narrowly avoids the attack by the stumbling, stick-figure of a man, but trips over a pile of scrap parts and goes sprawling. The bomb bounces out of his hands and across the floor, over by the wall with a brilliant view of the Earth.

And when the device goes off, it's all Prentice can do to not scream in rage and frustration. 

So close. So close and yet so far.

* * *

Without warning, six holes open up in the surface of the desert sands. Within seconds, six large rockets fly out of them, streaking towards the clouds, and then the dark blue sky beyond, and then the black beyond that. 

And victory, hopefully.

In a fantastic treehouse on a parallel world, a young man who's too smart for his own good, and too aware of the timing involved, assumes a proper firing stance. He raises a gun that's just a little large for him, and starts firing down the dark, wooden corridors at a flaming, metal monster that's heading his way. He knows he can't really hurt it, with this gun, but he hopes to slow it down, any way he can.

And lord knows -- hope's gotten him this far. 

In the secret underground of a colony of living cartoons, an old man switches one disguise for another. He does this knowing that this may well be the moment he's been left here to attend. If so, he's going to go out fighting the way he began, all those decades ago.

And he can only hope the fight will succeed, and that he'll be able to come back to see if the plan worked.

And on the Moon, in a chamber that had been securely filled with air, warmth, and gravity just a few seconds ago, a severely-damaged man-machine hybrid hangs on for what's left of his life, and knows that his part in the plan is finished. The device he'd been lovingly tending for the past few months is gone -- a pile of broken wreckage -- and with its passing also dies any hopes of ending this invasion with less bloodshed than it started with. 

He'd curse if he could hear himself do it. He'd pray if he believed. And he'd kick the spattered pieces of the pathetic man who tried to kill him if his legs were just a little longer.

But all he can really do is feel shame and anger at how stupidly this all came apart, and, hopefully, use that anger to fuel his next, critical moves. 

And force himself to do the one thing he really did not want to do, ever, but now may have no choice left.

(SPYGOD is listening to It Doesn't Matter Two (Depeche Mode) and having a Blue Moon Blackberry Tart Ale)

10/14/12 - Something Could Change - Pt. 3

It's late at "night" on the Moon, and in a small room no one knows survived 3/15, five people have come to see which one of them has to die.

"Look, I'm just not sure we should be doing this," Marcus says, looking across the table at the four other Alpha Base Seven officers involved in this tiny but deadly conspiracy: "Surely we can make him see reason?"

"Have you talked to him, lately?" Tate asks, putting his hands down on the table: "Reason and that cyborg don't !@#$ing go together, mate. He's Ahab after the bloody white whale, and we're the !@#$ing Pequod."

"He's not reachable, anymore, if he ever was," their commander, Barbara, says, holding onto the cut straws she brought up from the makeshift cafeteria: "And if we don't stop him, he will turn that thing on. And then we're doomed."

"I just think there's a better way," Marcus sighs: "There has to be."

"There isn't," Clifton says, putting his hand on Marcus' shoulder: "Now I know how you feel. I think we all do. You're a doctor. You save lives. But this man is threatening all our lives. If he was an infection in a person's body you wouldn't think twice about cutting him out."

"Infections don't have souls-"

"Then look at it as a tactical decision," Prentice says, leaning forward and breaking his silence: "One man dead for all of us, versus all of us dead for one man.  I don't think you can disregard the logic in that choice."

The doctor looks at his commander, and then the other men he's worked with for years. He nods, and puts his hand out, not looking anyone in the eye.

The others also put their hands out, and she nods. She shows everyone the straws, quickly, and then, after making a fist and arranging them evenly, holds them out to everyone -- all lined up in a row.

Clifton pulls first. He wonders if anyone will be able to keep the computers going when he's dead. The straw seems of medium length, though, so he thinks he's safe.

Marcus pulls next. Of course, he gets what has to be the longest one. And that means he'll just have to be !@#$ed for being a part of this, instead of being doubly !@#$ed for being the one to do it. 

Tate pulls after that. It's short -- way too short. For a moment he feels fear, but then realizes he's been living in fear since 3/15. This would be an end to that fear, and so he embraces it.

Barbara looks at Prentice as he pulls. He doesn't meet her gaze, but he knows what she's thinking. He always has, and that's why he picks the one he does.

She looks at what he's pulled. It's so short it practically falls out of her fist the moment he touches it. She didn't want there to be any mistakes or misunderstandings.

"I think you don't need to show us yours," he says, smiling and holding the straw aloft.

"Then you'll do it?" she asks, even though she doesn't need to.

"I'll do it, then," he says, closing his hand around the object that's doomed him: "I'll kill Director Straffer and destroy the machine before he can turn it on."

"Then I'll get the device ready," Tate says, getting up and leaving so no one can see the expression on his face.  The two others who were spared leave shortly thereafter, leaving the commander and her weapon alone.

She doesn't know what to say to him, so she just takes his hands in hers.

He knows what to say to her, but doesn't need to -- it's all in his eyes.

And when he kisses her -- like he's wanted to do since they met, all those years ago -- she not only allows it but fully reciprocates. 

And everything that happens after that goes exactly like he imagined.

Just like he planned.

* * *

The naked woman crawls across the white tile floor of her luxury Taipei apartment, leaving a trail of blood and noxious, bubbling fluids behind her.

"If you're hearing this, lover, then you did what I thought you would," a familiar voice says, playing from some hidden source: "Which is to say, you didn't do a certain something. And, having not done so, I didn't warn you to not do the one thing you normally do every night around this time."

Geri Yesterday calls his name -- his true name -- panting as her heart races in her chest. She begs him for help, even though she knows he must be a million miles away. And she clasps her hands between her thighs, sickened to feel herself disintegrating beneath them.

"It's not that I don't understand your reasons," the man's voice goes on as she starts losing consciousness: "In fact, I actually agree with them. These allies are damn useless, in the long run. Fucking metal-clad parasites, one and all. I can't stand their thinly-veiled threats and thinner veneer of kindness.

"Their hypocrisy makes me sick."

She cries out, feeling her pelvic bones turning to mush under what's left of her skin.

"But the fact remains that your reasons for betraying them are based more on fear than fact. And if that's true, then your mind isn't worth a damn, anymore. And if that's true, then, well, I had my orders. Just like you did, I'm sure."

One of her legs drops off, then the other. Blood spurts out from the stumps in time with her heart, which is skipping beats as the poison she unwittingly ingested through her vagina begins to melt that organ, too.

"Having said that, I don't know what I'm going to do, either," the voice continues as the rot spreads faster and faster: "Should I tell them what I know? Should I warn them what they're going to do?

"I've been watching what's going on, lover. And you wouldn't believe the shit that's about to happen. I actually think they might do it.

"If I let them do it, that is. And I haven't really made up my fucking mind, yet."

She screams. It's half air, half blood. Her lungs collapse from the effort.

"But for what it's worth? It was fun having this world as our big playground, for all these years," the voice continues: "I really hoped we could watch it burn down and fuck each other raw and bloody in the ashes before going home. I wanted to smear our come and blood and shit across the face of the moon, and leave it circling a dead planet, just to say that we could.

"But the mission comes first, lover. And if you're no use to it, you're no use to me.

"So, this is goodbye," the Alter-Earth SPYGOD says, and then the recording stops.

Not long thereafter, so does she.

* * *

"I think that's it," Winifred says, stepping back from the large device she's been working on and putting the circuit testers down.

"You sure?" Mark asks, looking at the thing they've made -- one of six, large and incredibly technical-things, all sitting on tables in the workshop.

"If she says she's sure, she's sure," Myron says, not looking at either of them, though it's hard to tell when he's got those sunglasses on: "And that's good enough for me."

She smiles a little at that. Maybe he sees it, maybe he doesn't.

"Then I guess we're on schedule," Mark says, getting out his communicator and calling in: "Skyspear? Tell the mainland we have the gifts. Ask them if they have the boxes ready."

"I was about to call you, my friend," she replies: "Fred just called to say the boxes were ready, and did we have the gifts?"

"Excellent timing!"

"Alhamdulillah!" she exclaims.

"I didn't catch that?" he asks, walking out into the corridor and leaving Myron and Winifred with the devices -- and each other.

"Oh, I am sorry, my friend. It means 'Praise be to God.'"

"I'll have to remember that," he says, smiling, and turns the communicator off. On the way he sees the Lion, and comes to give him the good news, but stops short when he sees the expression on the man's face.

"Tell me, my friend, have you seen Man of Steel?" the Algerian asks, looking rather concerned.

"No, not really," Mark says: "But he's been avoiding me since he blew up at me, last week. So...?"

"He did not come to morning prayers, today," the Lion says: "Normally, he is the first of us to be there, even before Crocodile. I am wondering if something bad has happened."

"Maybe he wanted to pray by himself?"

"Perhaps, but this seems so unlike him. He was normally so social. Crocodile was particularly worried, and went off to find him. And I haven't heard from him in quite a while, either..."

"Well, it's a big treehouse with a lot of places to hide. Maybe he just went off somewhere to be alone?"

"I think something worse than that. The other day, I saw your Green Man looking at him, when we were having our meal. It was not a pleasant look."

Mark nods: "I understand your concern. But for what it's worth? I don't think he could even hope to harm Man of Steel. They're not even in the same power class."

"Perhaps, my friend. But I have heard some very frightening stories of what that man can do."

"Well, I'll keep an eye out," Mark says, putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "But we've got some gifts to send to the real world, and you've got a war to fight."

"This is true," the man says, putting his hand on Mark's: "Hopefully I will see him at the staging area, then."

"God be with you all," Mark says.

"And with you, my friend," the Lion says, embracing him quickly, and then heading on his way, further into the treehouse, and higher up, onto the floors that they were warned not to go into for fear of their collapse.

One floor up, he finds Green Man, sitting by a window and looking out, as if he were contemplating something. He thinks to say something to the man, but thinks better of it, and turns to go. 

"You know, I think your religion is complete !@#$," the man says, just before the Lion can move away.

"Excuse me?" the Lion says, turning to look back at him.

"Islam. I think it's !@#$. I think the same thing of all religions, really. I don't believe in invisible sky fathers and the like. I never have."

"Perhaps not," the Lion says, fighting the impulse to beat the man for what he just said: "But I know in my heart that my God believes in you."

"I know," the Green Man says, and the Lion can see he's been crying: "And that's what !@#$ing scares me."

"The world is going to be at war, soon," the Lion says, taking a step closer and looking down at the man: "Are you going to fight with us? Are you going to fight for your son?"

"Yes," Green Man says, turning away to look out the window, again: "Yes, I do think I am."

The Lion looks at him for a moment, wondering why he seems to be chuckling at that, and decides to leave him to his strangeness and blasphemy. God will find a use for him, too, here and now or in the hellfire.

Up another floor, he goes through the hatch they've put down to keep the large, prehistoric spiders that have invaded these abandoned, upper floors from coming down. He sees there are footprints here, in the dust and detritus, and a number of smashed arachnids. 

And he knows this is not a good sign. He knows he should go back down and get more of his friends and allies. He knows that there is true danger, here. 

But still he goes forward. Perhaps God wills it. Perhaps it's just his nature.

Three more floors up, on a level that's more spiderweb than wall, he finds the answer to one of his mysteries. Crocodile lies dead on the floor -- his mighty jaws ripped apart, his beautiful voice stilled forever.

"Oh God," the Lion says, stepping back.

"Yes?" a voice asks from right behind him.

The Lion spins around, somehow knowing who he would find. And there he is -- Man of Steel, his metal hands coated with blood, his face fixed with a hideous smile.

"You... how could you..." the Lion stammers, stepping backwards.

"It had to happen" the metal-skinned man asks, holding his hands aloft: "Would have happened sooner, but SPYGOD did not come here. Now he will be made to come. He will want his weapons, and when they do not come to him, he will come to them."

"You are in league with the enemy?" the hero rages: "How could you be? You saw what they did to your own country! Your own people!"

"Care not for them," Man of Steel says, his form rippling and changing: "Never have. Nothing but meat. Destroying Imago necessary to join you. Joining you necessary to join with SPYGOD. Now he will come here. Now he will be destroyed."

"In the name of God-"

"God?" the thing the Lion thought he knew screams as his body unfolds and turns inside out, shiny steel falling away and being replaced by brass, giant horns raised up to the sky: "God is here, meat. There is no God but Moloch.

"And Moloch needs no messenger."

And then there is only the hellfire.

(SPYGOD is listening to Windows (Missing Persons) and having a cold Taiwan Beer)

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

10/7/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or something to avenge.

10/8/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If the reactor goes critical-"

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

"But-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9/22/12 - (Green Man) The Gospel of Thomas - Pt. 1

It's early breakfast time in the treehouse, which has become something of a necessity now that there's quite a few people there who wake up before dawn to pray.

The Muslims that the Lion brought over from Africa, a few weeks ago, all get up, shower, and go to their makeshift mosque on the third floor. They pray there, and, when they're done, they get dressed and come down to the dining hall for a meal. It's usually strange, prehistoric fruit -- the small, venous oranges that taste like raspberries are everyone's favorite -- and cold cereal, though every so often one of them gets a notion to try making eggs or pancakes for everyone.

Today is such a day. Perhaps emboldened by Crocodile's Friday sermon, yesterday, the Fist has attempted to make berry waffles using the small, red, and extremely tart fruits that grow from parasitic plants high up in the tree. The results aren't too bad, provided one is liberal with the syrup, but the general consensus is that next time, a few berries may go a long way.

Halfway through the eating, a lone, wan figure walks into the dining room. He looks at the others, nods at them without smiling, and then gets himself some juice from the refrigerator and a breakfast bar from the pantry.

"Would you care to join us, Green Man?" The Lion asks: "We're needing some more input on these waffles we've made..."

"I think they are delicious," Crocodile bellows, tossing another piece up into the air and chomping on it before it hits the table: "Clearly the Fist has gone into the wrong line of work."

"I think they need more butter," Skyspear chides, reaching to take some more.

"I think you should save some for the people who eat later," the Fist chides back, snatching the tub away from her before she can take as much as she'd planned. Everyone laughs at that (except Skyspear, of course.)

"No thank you," the Green Man says, trying to leave as gracefully as possible: "I didn't mean to intrude. Please forgive me."

"It's hardly an intrusion, my friend," Man of Steel says, gesturing to the rapidly-diminishing pile of waffles: "You may have my share, if you would like. I am unable to eat, after all."

"I am not your friend," Green Man mutters, and then is gone from the room.

Someone coughs, someone laughs nervously, and then they go back to eating as though he hadn't been there at all.

"So what's his story?" Man of Steel asks the Wall, who very graciously helps himself to his metal-skinned ally's share.

"Oh, him?" the Wall says, sighing: "I have heard many stories, and I do not believe they are all true. But if even a tenth are correct, then he is indeed a sad fellow."

"I hear he was supervillain, once," Skyspear weighs in, dejectedly eating her non-buttered waffles: "Quite the assassin, they say."

"Really?" the Fist says: "I heard he was in the employ of the American Government, not that long ago? He tried to catch SPYGOD after he shot the President-"

"After he was accused of shooting the President," the Lion gently corrects: "It was a deception, my dear. A very large and cunning one at that."

"I hear he was a superhero before he was a supervillain," Running Spear says, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin: "He might have even been someone's sidekick, once, but I do not remember whose."

"Well, one thing is true, at least," the Wall says: "That poor boy in the medical wing? The one they have on life support, who is so badly burned that no one will look at him for long?"

"Yes?" Man of Steel asks, sensing he's gotten to a juicy nugget of gossip at long last.

"That is his son," the Wall says: "A son he did not know he had until he came here, and saw him for the first time-"

"Oh my friend," the Lion sighs: "That is not something I think anyone here needed to know."

"Well, it is the truth."

"Some truth is best spoken in silence," Crocodile says, and something about the way he says it dulls the edge of the conversation, so that no one seems eager to take it any further down that road.

"Butter," Skyspear demands, snaking the tub back from the Fist to break the quiet: "These are delightful, but they need more butter."

"Your waist would disagree-"

And there is laughter, and playful bickering, and yet more laughter echoing out of the dining hall, down the corridors, and around a bend, where Green Man sits by the frame of a window, eating and watching the Sun creep above the dense foliage.

He could kill all of them. He knows this. He could walk back into that room with a decent knife and have them all bled within a few minutes.

(All except that Man of Steel, of course, but he's sure he could find even his weakness, given enough time.)

He could do it. Maybe someday he will.

But not today.

Today he has promised Thomas he'll read something to him, and that seems a lot more important than getting back at a roomful of gossiping Muslim heroes.

Especially since, if he's right, they'll all be dead soon, anyway.

* * *

"You don't mind if I join you, do you?"

The voice shakes the scraggly-bearded man's world, and rouses him from his stupor. He looks up from the sidewalk he's been staring at for the last hour or so, here on a bench in Chicago's Portage Park, and focuses his green eyes on the robed, hooded figure that's more or less just appeared in front of him.

"Is that yes?" the fellow asks, stooping down a bit: "Is that no?"

"No."

"No you don't mind, or no you do?"

"I don't... don't care..." Green Man says, looking back down at the ground. 

He looks like !@#$, quite frankly. He hasn't bathed in ages, his clothes are dirty and torn, and his beard is so overgrown that he looks like just another bum. Thanks to the Imago, all the homeless are being cared for, so no one really gives him any notice, but it's clear to anyone who looks at him for long that something is seriously wrong with him.

"I was hoping I could talk with you, for a while," the man says, sitting down next to him: "I can't stay long, though. Sooner or later someone will notice me, and then, well... you know how that goes."

Silence.

"I know who you really are," the man says, leaning over: "I know what you can really do. I know what you did, and sometimes I even know why."

More silence. Maybe an extra blink or two.

"I also know what was done to you, in Florida," the man says, straightening up a bit: "Chinmoku. He showed you something, didn't he? Something terrible."

More blinks. A slow movement of the eyes from the sidewalk to the man.

"Since then, you've been wandering. You left the COMPANY before 3/15, and you've been wandering ever since, right under everyone's radar. And I have to hand it to you, Green Man. You've done an excellent job of hiding in plain sight. Something your mentor taught you, all those years ago?"

"Yes," the Green Man says, really not wanting to think about that right now.

"Well, like I said, you've done a great job. The whole world's just passed you by, and here you are, broken and waiting for what you saw to come and collect you."

"How do you know?" Green Man asks: "Who are you?"

"I'm the leader of the resistance," the man says, standing up: "And I'm here to collect you."

"I'm not... no..." Green Man says, trying to get up and get away from this crazy man: "Not going to..."

"You are," the man says, and makes a gesture. Suddenly there's a hand on Green Man's shoulder -- a hand that wasn't there a second ago -- and then they're all somewhere else. 

* * *

The medical wing reminds Green Man of the summer camps he used to attend as a child. Wooden cabins full of sick kids, coughing and needing help going to the bathroom. Sunburns and cuts, rashes and bug bites, with the smell of band-aids fighting for dominance with the occasional whiff of diarrhea or vomit coming from the well-utilized bathroom. 

Of course, in this place the mediocre facilities are provided by people who can perform the miraculous, and so there are high-tech treasures laying down amongst the meager. Small, portable medical scanners lay on rolling tables, along with machines for instantly setting broken bones, vials of liquid cure-all, and the like. A machine not unlike a torture device sits in a corner, ready to do extremely delicate surgery by remote, and other great and amazing things are on display alongside it.

None of them being worth a !@#$ to poor, young Thomas, who sits in a 'room' off in the corner, made from sealed, soundproofed sheets of thick, clear plastic, and arranged something like a gerbil cage for humans.

"Back again?" the middle-aged doctor asks, getting up from his scintillating reading as Green Man walks in: "This is becoming something of a habit. You aren't actually growing attached, are you?"

Green Man just smiles and extends his arms for the white, sterile robe he'll have to wear in the next room over, where his son languishes. The doctor gets it for him, and has him cover his shoes with sterile pads, and put a mask over his mouth and nose.

"How is he doing today?" Green Man asks.

"Worse," the doctor sighs: "His blood Pressure's dipped down a bit. I've worked to counteract it, but it's not good. He's also not getting as much benefit from the IV as he should..."

"He's dying, isn't he?" 

The doctor looks at him, and shakes his head: "He's been dying since he got here. I don't know what's keeping that young man going, really. Maybe his mom, maybe the grace of God, maybe you."

"Maybe," Green Man says: "But thank you for your honesty. It's very refreshing. Have you always had such a sterling bedside manner?"

"You should have seen me in Iraq," the doctor says, and gets ready to open the airlock door that leads to Thomas' room: "Desert Storm was no !@#$ing picnic, pal. You get used to telling young people that it's time to make peace with their Gods way too quickly, and after a while you just sort of forget they might want you to be gentle about it."

"Oh, I remember, " Green Man says, smiling: "I was there, too."

"Oh? What regiment?"

"I'd have to kill you if I told you," he says, walking through the door: "And I don't think that's going to help things here at all, now is it?"

The doctor just scowls and slams the door behind him. And then there's a hiss in the small, sealed room, and the door to the larger, plastic box opens up.

And in walks the Green Man, smiling to see his son. 

* * *

"You have to be joking me," Green Man tells Mark Clutch, a little over two weeks ago when he first came to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P 4: "A son? I have a son?"

"You do, yes," Mark says, having a sip of the coffee he poured for himself, and not for his guest. They're sitting in his office, though it's anyone guess as to how long Green Man will actually be inside it.

"How is that possible?" Green Man asks, smirking: "I don't think I've been... well... alright, maybe I wasn't too careful a few times, but mostly-"

"It was seventeen years ago, give or take," Mark says: "You were what and who you were, back then. And you were working closely with Martha Samuels. A little too closely, as it turned out."

The man's smirk is erased, and replaced with what might be curiosity: "Martha?"

"Yes. My wife's cousin Martha, back when she was the Talon, and her father was the Owl."

"She had a child?"

"Yes."

"My child?"

"Well, both your child, technically. I'd just as soon wish it was parthenogenesis, but we did a DNA test. It's yours."

"Oh, please," the man smirks, waving his hand: "Is that what I was kidnapped for? I was snatched from my delightfully dour reverie, given an emotional facelift, and brought here to planet dinosaur so I could be told I have a bastard?" 

Mark's up and moving before he can even think, eager to slam his fist into the man's jaw. The man's also moving, but doing so faster than can be seen, so that, before Mark realizes what's happened, he's sprawled in a corner, holding his sprained wrist.

"Let's try that again, shall we?" Green Man says, getting up and confiscating Mark's coffee: "You brought me here so I could be informed that I have a son? That is.... wonderful. Truly the defining moment in my adult life."

"I can tell you're thrilled," Mark says, getting to his feet and cradling his hand: "I knew this was a mistake."

"Why? Because I'm not crying and falling all over myself at the news?" Green Man says: "I've worked for enough dodgy employers to recognize this sort of recruitment tactic. Frankly, I expected better-"

"This isn't about you," Mark interrupts: "Why the !@#$ would we want to recruit you? We need heroes, here, Green Man. I know the government gave you a clean bill of health, but don't think you've changed at all."

"Then what do you want me here for?"

"It's about Thomas."

"His name is Thomas?"

"Yes. Thomas Samuels. He's 16 years old, smart and talented, and he looked like his mother... and his father."

"'Looked,' you said," Green Man repeats: "I don't like the sound of that."

"No, you shouldn't," Mark says, opening the door to his office and gesturing to the hallway beyond: "But it's why we brought you here. He's always wanted to know about his father, and he doesn't have a lot of time for real answers."

"What's happened?" Green Man asks, following quickly: "What aren't you telling me?"

On the way to the medical wing, Mark tells him everything he never wanted to know.  But it isn't until they actually get there, and he sees Thomas lying in that sterile chamber, that he realizes exactly why he came here, to this place. 

But suddenly everything makes sense. 

* * *

"Hello, dad," Thomas rasps, his voice barely audible over the hissing machines that keep him breathing.

"Hello, son," Green Man says, walking over to a chair by the boy's bed and sitting down: "How are you feeling?"

"A little stronger, I think," the shell that was a boy says, twitching his burned, stumpy limbs: "Dunno... maybe I can move more today."

"Maybe," Green Man says, leaning back and smiling, trying not to register the terrible smell that's coming from what's left of his child: "But you must conserve your strength, Thomas. You're not going to do anyone any good if you push things. I know the doctor's told you that."

"He doesn't tell me anything," Thomas says: "He comes in and takes my temperature, makes sure my drips are working, and changes my tubes. I try to talk to him and he just grunts."

"Well, he's not the best conversationalist," he says, planning some interesting revenge on the fellow: "But, speaking of that, you wanted me to read you something, today?"

"Yes, please," Thomas says.

"Something from the Bible, again?" Green Man says, reaching over to take the well-thumbed book from its nearby table: "New or Old Testament?"

"Actually..." Thomas says, trying not to cough: "Could you read something you want to read?"

Green Man blinks: "What do you mean?"

"Well... I don't know what your favorite chapter is. We never talked about that, and... I'd like to know. I'd like to hear it."

"Well," Green Man says, wondering what the !@#$ he could possibly tell him about that subject: "My tastes in religious literature are a little... off, I think is the right word. Are you certain?"

"Yes, please," Thomas says, blind eyes looking around the room: "It would mean a lot to me, dad. It'll help me to get to know you better."

"And you really want to know me better?" Green Man says, realizing what a horrible thing that might be.

"Yes. Please."

"I think I can do that," Green Man says, opening the book to any old page: "Lucky for us, this copy has the Apocrypha. Have you ever read it?"

"No... Grandpa said it wasn't really part of the Bible, so I didn't really look into it..."

"Really?" the man says, smiling: "Well, he's right. The Church had a big sit-down, many centuries ago, and decided what went into the Bible and what didn't. Some things couldn't be confirmed too well, and some things were really strange, or maybe too off-message or off-putting to make the final cut. But I find there's some very interesting things in here, especially in the Gospel of Thomas. Funny coincidence, eh?"

Thomas smiles and tries to laugh, but it doesn't work so well. Green Man has to help him clear his throat, and then, once he's sure he's not going to choke to death on his own phlegm, he sits back down, cracks the book open to any old page -- as this copy of the Bible does not have the Apocrypha within it -- and takes a deep breath.

"This is one of the parables that Jesus spoke to people," Green Man says: "It's a bit archaic, so I may clean it up a bit. Is that alright?"

"Sure," Thomas says, closing his useless eyes: "Tell the story the way you want to, dad."

And so he does. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Green Man (XTC) and having a Green Man IPA)