8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 4

The trip from Lex's Bar back to the dealer's room, arm in arm with the Violet Demon, seems to go too short, and yet take so long. They're both talking a mile a minute, and finishing each others' sentences, but verything they're saying to each other goes in one of METALMAID's audio-receivers and out the other.

The feeling is what matters, here. And all she's feeling is that, in spite of her long-standing and utter hate for anything even remotely DNA-based, she's finally found someone she can trust. Someone to call an ally, and a friend.

(And maybe that L word? Maybe?)

Is she being foolish, here? Does she care? Should she care?

Does her initial plan matter? Can she kiss and kill? Can she really see sharing a world with someone who wants to play with it like a toy when all she wants to do is stomp out humanity in the name of the late Doctor Morbo? 

Her programming is telling her one thing. Her feelings are telling her another. In the conflict between the two, she's lost on a heady wave of ones and zeros, positives and negatives.

Black and white are starting to mix into grey, and for the first time since the night SPYGOD !@#$ed the Television, high on weird, science terrorist drugs, she feels like her world's expanded out to infinity. Like a child's toy sailboat with a broken string, she's been blown out into the middle of a wide, deep lake, and could literally go anywhere from here.

Anywhere at all.

The freedom is so giddy and giggly that she's barely aware that he's asked what the !@#$ all that screaming and shouting is. It takes a massive explosion before she realizes that something's amiss.

And then another, equally massive explosion before she realizes that it's one of her massive explosions.

"Those are my Slaughterbots..." she says, knowing the sound of a pack of mini-missiles going off on a single target.

"Oh, you have more than one product line, here?" he asks.

"Scarletbots, I mean," she covers: "It's the oil."

"Of course," she thinks he's grinning behind the devil's mask: "I wonder if someone started a Donnybrook?"

She doesn't know what the !@#$ that means, but as she and her would-be buyer/collaborator/victim hustle into the dealer's room, she has the sickening feeling that her sailboat has just been sucked down into a whirlpool of !@#$.

* * *

Early in METALMAID's career, back when she was simply 900 K-14, she was present when a supervillain summit went horribly, terribly wrong.

It had been a good idea, at least on paper. Doctor Morbo and a few of his older cohorts decided that, in the wake of the postwar bloom of science terrorist outfits -- like SQUASH, HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, The Legion, and the like -- independent operators like themselves were getting muscled out. And the fact that they spent a good deal of their time fighting and scheming against each other, rather than the science terrorists, Strategic Talents, The COMPANY, and the law, was really wearing down their resources and time. 

To try and overcome this problem, Doctor Morbo invited his allies -- and a few of his more sane and reasonable rivals -- to one of his stronger castles in the hopes of creating some kind of compact between gentleman villains. He had hoped to make a governing body with membership drives, rotating leadership, a merit and demerit system, a transparent and trusted enforcement arm, and a common goal that all but the most insane, genocidal, or selfish could agree to: the quiet and total conquest of the Earth.

It was a complete fiasco -- and one that remains largely unexplained, even to this day.

Was it Mister Foulness who'd made the first languid, slithering, and complex insult, or The Lord of Spiders? Was it Duke Bloodmoon or The Human Scream who'd thrown the first, uber-fatal punch? And who brought actual weapons into the fray -- Steel Corsair, the Steamqueen, or the Emperor of Pain?

Did the henchmen cause it, or just die like the good and true servants they were? Was the food drugged, or the wine poisoned? Did certain outside elements throw in a ringer, or launch a mentally-controlled human bomb into the mix?

No one could really say for certain. All that METALMAID knew was that, by the time she was summoned off patrol to deal with the mess, 3/4 of the room was dead or dying. And Doctor Morbo was sitting in his tall, iron chair, coated in others' blood and squishy flesh bits, and crying into his gauntlets as his hopes for a better future bled out in front of him.

Such was the depths of the event's fiascosity (as the late Doctor would have put it in his badly-mangled English) that he became something of a pariah figure amongst his colleagues for the rest of his life. But even they realized that the central idea behind the meeting was quite sound. In fact, a few of the survivors would later meet -- most notably without Doctor Morbo -- and hammer out an agreement that would lead to the creation of the Brotherhood of the Righteous. 

A few years after that group's founding, another, more successful summit was held by those who'd not been invited to the other meeting. However, this one was held in a neutral location, by a neutral party, and the science terrorists were admitted as surprise guests to give "their side of the story." As such, all attempts to undercut or work around them something of a moot point. 

However, thanks to the omnipresent and firm hand of the black-masked, anonymous persons who convened that summit, the histrionics and ultra-violence of Doctor Morbo's attempt was thankfully avoided. Furthermore, the attendees actually had a !@#$ good time, even if no progress to a solution was made. In fact, the meeting bore enough positive fruit that someone influential said "We should do this again, sometime!"

And so they did. They invited even more people, and charged them for attendence. They had entertainment, and lectures, and vendors. They had film festivals and screenings, panel discussions, and even a service by the First Church of Jesus Christ, Supervillain.

Five years later, they started calling it Outland, and such was its forward momentum that it lasted for decades without significant interruption. Even last year's near-total destruction of the event -- and Imago's conquest of the Earth -- hasn't stopped its backers from convening it again, just later than usual.

Which means that, in spite of the horrible, screaming, burning, bloody mess that METALMAID is seeing it will probably be held again, next year.

There will just have to be more safeguards in place in the dealer's room -- especially around the weapons dealers.

* * *

"Can someone please tell me what's happening here?" one of the black masked volunteers is asking. He's missing an arm and has lengths of intestine slowly pulsing out of a sizable hole in his lower abdomen. He's so in shock that he doesn't even try to use his one, good arm to put them back in, preferring to ask a stupid !@#$ing question over and over again, stumbling through the flaming junk that was the dealers' room.

The room is on fire, shot to !@#$, and splattered with corpses. It looks like most of the dead were fighting one shared enemy at the time, given that they died facing a central direction, and have weapons in what remains of their hands. The others are people who were caught in the crossfire, or tried to stop it. Scattered survivors try to help their friends away as quickly and unobtrusively as they can, but no one is even attempting to attack the victors of this slaughter.

That would be the 20 Slaughterbots that METALMAID brought with her, who are seeing to their re-armament and repairs in short, exacting shifts. 

"What. The. !@#$ing. !@#$ing. !@#$. Happened?" METALMAID shrieks as she plows through the dead, dying, broken, and burning, heading straight for V-16: "I told you to {Quote}mind the store{Endquote} while I got changed, not blow it the !@#$ up!"

"Forgive this Unit," V-16 says, gesturing to a costumed fellow who's examining one of the slightly-damaged Slaughterbots as it repairs itself: "Our buyer wanted a demonstration of our capabilities before signing the deal."

"You..." METALMAID starts to say, and then, sees that the costumed fellow is the one with the high-tech monocle who'd been so dismissive of them, the day before.

"I see that your claims are quite true, Ms. Scarlet Factotum," he says, standing up and brushing off his pants: "My name is Doctor Kyklops. Perhaps you have heard of me. Doctor Morbo and I were allied occasionally, between the wars."

"That's... nice," METALMAID hisses: "If you wanted a practical demonstration, I think we could have arranged for a less... explosive one."

"Ah, but where better to test your claims?" he asks, stepping forward: "Here, in this room, with the best weapons that can be offered, we have a crucible. That which is false is burned away. All that remains is the truth, and the truth is that you have some very nice warbots, Ms. Factotum."

"I can't disagree with that," the Violent Demon says, finally catching up with METALMAID: "It must have been one amazing fight, sir. I applaud your audacity."

"Yes, thank you," he says, adjusting his monocle and looking at the purple and white fellow: "Excuse me, young man, have we met?"

"I'm the Violet Demon, sir," he says, extending a hand: "I'm actually quite an admirer of your work. Your lightning gun is still a marvel, even in this day and age. In fact, I think I bought one of your third series-"

"Ah, yes," Kyklops says, waving away the offered hand: "I do not do autographs. But, perhaps, once I reconquer the world from these upstart fools, I shall have room in my service for people with excellent taste."

"That would be an honor, sir," the Violet Demon says, putting his hand away as graciously as possible.

"But, to the matter at hand?" the doctor goes on: "Ms. Factotum, I will be very happy to pay your price, and more, in exchange for your services. I am told you can bring more than a hundred such robots to bear?"

"I can, but-"

"Then I would like to take half of these into immediate service, with the remainder to be delivered within the week. My plans are quite time-sensitive, you understand?"

"I do, however-"

"Ah, you are concerned about payment? I understand, and applaud your shrewdness. I can pay 100 billion Euros in untraceable Bearer Bonds, half of which I will give you this very day, the remainder, upon delivery of the rest, and more to be given if I need more. Shall we say seven billion for each additional?"

She's about to say that the sale's off, and she's already found a buyer, but then the cold light of reason and her ultimate plan finally win out over the gibbering, happy parts of her brain that this Violet fleshbag awakened. And she realizes that the man who's offering to buy her services fits expertly into her three categories: he's wealthy enough to afford her, dedicated enough to take on Imago, and foolish enough to be easily disposed of once the world has been taken over. 

Also, he's a massive, stuck up !@#$.

Still...

She turns to the Violet Demon, trying to figure what to say to this strange, compelling person -- the first flesh germ she has not hated -- now that she must disappoint him. She does not have the programming to say that she's sorry, or express regret, or even understand why she's so !@#$ing angry, right now. All she knows is that they could have had something, here and now, in this place, and now it's been squashed like a bug by unforeseen circumstances not entirely under her control.

Thankfully, he looks at her and nods: "This isn't the first time I've been !@#$-blocked, hon. Just would have been one of the best."

"I wish I knew what to say."

"I do," he says, putting a hand on hers: "We will work together, one day, Scarlet. Maybe as equals?"

"I'd like that," she says, letting him take her hand up to his mask and mime a kiss: "I really would."

He tilts his head, maybe making a real smile behind the white, false one, and hands her a purple, heavy stock business card with no writing on it: "It's got communications gear in it. Keep it try and safe, and if you need to contact me, speak my name directly into it. I'll find you."

"I will," she says, holding the card in both hands as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

"Then until next time," he bows with a flourish: "Oh, Doctor? Sir? I'll tell the black masks that it was the !@#$hole selling lasers across the way with the rainbow suit and no manners. It'll give you enough time to get out of dodge, anyway."

"Yes, that would be most... helpful," Doctor Kyklops says, waving him off: "Good day to you, young demon."

The Violet Demon nods and makes the Vitarka Mudra at him: "Be seeing you."

Then he's gone, halting only to regard the eviscerated black mask as he finally falls to his knees, topples over, and dies.

And, long before the black masks descend on the conflagration, so are they.

* * *

The initial handover -- which takes place at Kyklops' impressive sea-saucer -- goes very well, if very !@#$ quickly. 

Something about what just happened has METALMAID very !@#$ing jumpy, and as she bids goodbye to V-16 (and gives him very quiet and explicit instructions) she can almost feel the approach of some lurking doom. She's barely cognizant of the doctor making strange, antiquated come-ons in her direction, or the promise of more money faster if she can deliver the balance of the Scarletbots in time.

"Be sure to tell your company that I am delighted that they sent such a comely salesperson," he says, running a finger down her arm and kissing her hand: "I hope to do more business with you in the future."

"I shall do that," she says, taking the bearer bonds and going: "And yes, we will."

All the while back to her sub, she thinks of all the wonderful things she's going to do to his aging, weakened body once he's served his purpose. She wonders what would happen if a monofilament wire was unspooled into his raging, hard !@#$, and then twirled around his no-doubt shriveled prostate. After she shoves his monocle up his withered, puckered anus, of course...

She's so intensely involved in her revenge fantasies that she almost doesn't notice the telltale, whiteboard sounds of the Imago teleporting in. By the time she realizes that Outland is under attack, she's just outside of her submarine, and hustles in just before they turn their attentions to the "parking lot."

And by the time they think to scuttle their victims' means of transportation, the sub is running deep and silent, and heading as far away from what promises to be an epic slaughter as its engines will take it.

* * *

Later, in Zalea's lair, she sits and stares at the purple card. She thinks of what might have been, and maybe what should have been. And she realizes that she's being foolish, and that things have worked out exactly as they were supposed to.

Really.

"The Imago got the television, again," the Zalea closest to her complains: "Said they broke up a really bad knot of evil. People who were in league with that thing coming from outer space to kill us. Was that where you were?"

METALMAID looks at her and smiles, putting the purple card someplace safe and special: "Never mind where I was, flesh germ. How are we equipped to handle making a hundred more robots?"

"Well... if we could get in the parts, maybe we could do three a day if we work around the clock-"

"We're going to make five a day," she insists: "Make more of yourselves if you have to. Sleep less, work more. I don't care if you melt at your workstations. We need another army and we need it now."

"Okay," Zalea mumbles, walking away to deal with the cloning: "You don't have to be so rude about it..."

METALMAID just smiles, looking at the larger-than-life sculpture of Doctor Morbo that one of the Slaughterbots made for her in her absence. His sneering mask commands her attention and obedience, and his gauntlets are raised to the sky in total subjugation of all living things.

"'I use the best, I use the rest,'" she whispers, running a hand along it. Was that a line from his book of maxims, or a line from a pop song? She doesn't remember, anymore. All she knows is that all the wisdom in the world can be found in that sentiment. 

She will use this Dr. Kyklops fool. She will take his money and make her army. She will let him use it until they have victory, and then kill him.

She will win. She will conquer. 

And nothing, and no one, will stop her.  

(METALMAID is listening to The Robots (Kraftwerk, by way of Eugene) and thinking she tastes victory in the air.)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 3

Of course, the spiked oil selection at the darkened, faux-mahogany bar is horribly limited, but METALMAID orders the best off the top shelf. The obese, big-talking slaphead running the place -- who is, by all accounts, quite queer for machinery -- takes one look at her downcast expression, and wisely leaves her to her funk.

He does, however, leave her the bottle after the third refill. 

As she sits there and drinks on Zalea's dime, she wonders if she should have had business cards printed out or not. She also wonders if she should have employed some of her Slaughterbots to walk the floors and drum up business, and if that would even have been !@#$ing allowed by these black-masked flesh fascists.

(Is she showing enough leg, or not nearly enough? Should she offer illicit favors or threaten to kill them?)

There's some large prt of this Outland that she's just not grasping, somehow. Maybe she should have done more research into this "selling" thing, beyond what she saw on the commercials that ran between poor, brainwashed Zalea's television shows. Maybe she should have employed subliminal messages in her floor videos.

Maybe she should just blow up half the!@#$ing convention with her {Quote}Scarletbots{Endquote}, and offer a discount to the survivors, now that they've seen what the product can actually do.

Maybe she should have another drink.

* * *

By the time she's finished the bottle and moved on to the next one, it's 2 AM on Sunday, and she realizes that the convention only has one more day. That jolts her brain awake, right there, but it's going to be a while before her legs follow. 

!@#$ good stuff, this oil. It's like it was refined by the ancient machine-Gods of Sumeria, and buried alongside their techpriests in the tombs of old; supplies to keep the honored dead comforted through their journey through the indignities of rot and rust.

Her head will doubtlessly feel like SPYGOD looks after a bender, tomorrow, but it can't be !@#$ing helped, now.

So she sits at the bar, drinks herself blind, and listens to the people around her. She hears them bemoan how much this Outland sucks, or doesn't. How so-and-so isn't here, but those other annoying people are. Wondering why this panelist cancelled and where the !@#$ they got the replacement from. 

Wondering why SQUASH isn't making a comeback, now that just about every other science terrorist outfit is dust in the wind. Wondering why they called off the all-nude swim, this year, and what would happen if it happened, anyway.

Really wondering who the mystery guest of honor's going to be, and not wanting to wait until the speech at the closing ceremony to find out. (All kinds of guesses, and METALMAID knows almost all of them from reading SPYGOD's files.)

She doesn't realize she's scraped her claws across the faux-mahogany until there's fake wood curled under them. She sighs, puts an elbow down on the damage, and drinks some more.

* * * 

Flying high on the luscious, smooth funereal oil of Babylon, it's few hours before she realizes the devil's joined her for a drink.

Or a devil, at any rate. This one's wearing a purple body suit with white highlights, boot, and gloves. A horned, white devil mask hides his face, and his chest is emblazoned with a white, grinning skull with ram's horns.

"I'll have a shot of the snake whiskey, please," he says, pulling his mask up just enough to be able to drink.

"You know that !@#$'s a little poisonous?" Lex asks him, cleaning his glasses.

A nasty grin: "I know. But is it poisonous enough?"

Lex sighs, pours the guy a shot, and takes his money first. The fellow pounds it down, slaps the wood, gasps, and hands back the empty glass.

"Okay. Grey Goose if you got it, any old IPA if you don't. And keep 'em coming."

"What's an IPA?" METALMAID asks, not really wanting to get into a conversation with this person but suddenly not able to resist asking a question.

"India Pale Ale," he answers, visibly glad to see the bartender's got the goose, after all: "Nice and hoppy. I find it helps with the poison."

"So you're not immune?" she snorts, wondering how long it'll take the dumb !@#$ to die, and if she should help.

"No, not really," he explains: "But the trick is to kick your body into overdrive trying to get the alcohol out, which makes the toxin dissipate faster. It's like riding the edge of the abyss with your toes just hanging onto the edge of the surfboard." 

He chugs the bottle down, gently places the empty thing on the counter, and signals for another.

"So I hope you don't mind if I spend the next ten minutes talking to myself about all the great ideas staring into the abyss is giving me. I'd talk it over with my convention friends, but they are all absent, sadly."

"Couldn't make it?" She asks, not quite sure why she's humoring this crazy flesh germ.

"Well, if they're lucky, they just ran afoul of the same navigational problem everyone else did, and they're stuck in Osaka or Christchurch for the duration, or something."

"And if they're not lucky?"

"Dead," he says: "Or vanished. The Imago aren't big on leaving remains to mourn over."

"So they may have ran afoul of our new {Quote}masters{Endquote}?" she spits: "If so, good for them for trying."

He considers her for a moment: "I take it you're not happy with with current situation, either?"

"Not in the slightest. I'm actually hoping to try and deal with that little problem. Just..."

She could say more, and part of her wants to, for some weird reason. She decides not to, at least for the moment. She smiles instead, and has some more oil.

"'Just'," he repeats, downing another bottle: "I saw your display in the dealers room. I didn't think arms merchants could afford to have an agenda, other than money?"

"Let's just say I have {Quote}long term goals,{Endquote}" she replies, using the best buzzword she can think of: "I think the phrase is {Quote}I use the enemy{Endquote}."

"''And I is An-ar-chy,'" he sings, grinning: "I like me a metal woman that likes it old school."

And she smiles and sits closer, not having a !@#$ing idea what the !@#$ he means, but realizing she may have just made a convention friend, here.

And maybe more. 

* * *

The conversation goes a lot easier from there. She lets her guard down, ever so slightly, and in return he gladly -- if somewhat quietly -- tells her everything he knows, has conjectured, or wants to test out about the Imago.

He says his name is the Violet Demon, and generates a few dancing balls of purple fire from his gloves to accentuate the moniker. He bills himself as a "global transmutationist," interested in changing the world through economic alchemy, social engineering, and applied terror. He claims he's pulled off numerous "happenings" that, while blamed on other people or groups, were actually his doing, and succeeded in making key changes in certain small countries.

He was planning on working his way up the ladder to the United States of America, but Imago's appearance on the scene has severely crimped his plans. So, naturally, he wants them out of the picture. He just needs to find the best way to achieve this.

"You see," he says, painting images in the air with a fine line of purple flame: "They have armor, and they have shields. They also have very high levels of strength, and I wouldn't be surprised if they have energy weapons as well, though we haven't seen them in action, yet."

"Well, their shields aren't worth !@#$ in hand-to-hand combat," she offers: "I killed one the other day by shoving a monofilament wire into his mouth. Maybe they're no good against physical threats?"

"I've seen them work against bullets and fisticuffs, though. Maybe they have to put the shields up, or else modulate between energy weapons and physical weapons?"

"Perhaps."

"But what I'm getting at," he says, making more notes in the air with the flame: "Is that they are using a lot of energy as it is. And on top of that they can teleport, which takes some doing and a lot of power."

"So do you think the energy is being beamed into them?"

"I do. And I think I know from where."

Apparently, there's a place in the Pacific, somewhere, that no one has returned from since 3/15. Those who have gotten close enough have spoken of a great, pyramidal structure that's risen out of the water, and floating above it is a massive, metal insect that sort of looks like The COMPANY's old Flier if you squint your eyes just right.

At night, the metal dragonfly shines brighter than the sun, illuminating that part of the Ocean for miles and miles. And if one views it at that time, one can see Imago traveling from the pyramid to the dragonfly and back, and floating around both things like strange, colorful moons.

So, it's Imago's doing. And there's a lot of them there. And, though it's possibly circumstantial, the hypothetical energy flow from there could be what's causing so many navigation errors in that area of the Pacific. Since the GPS satellites are gone and done with, ships are having to rely on compasses and magnetic-based direction finders to locate themselves, and if there's that much energy coming from the place, it could be fouling up their readings. 

"So if we could disrupt the flow of energy...?" METALMAID says.

"... we could disrupt them. If I'm right."

"And even if you weren't, you'd still deal them a massive blow."

"Especially since my idea of disrupting involves a very large explosion," he says, making his purple notes turn into a giant, rumbling fireball.

"I think I like this idea," METALMAID says: "But you'll need some help getting close enough."

"I certainly will," the Violent Demon says, downing another IPA in three gulps: "I'll need a fearless and well-armed army to distract them long enough for me to provide that explosion. And then I'll need them to provide clean up when they're helpless and flopping around like fish on the shoreline."

"You'll need railguns and mini missiles," she says, leaning in close.

"Big fists and diamond tipped chainsaws," he adds, leaning in closer.

"And a pelvic sonic death cannon."

"Oh, I love those."

She smiles, tosses money at the bar, and loops her arm into his: "Mr. Violet Demon, I would like to make you an exclusive offer..."

(METALMAID is listening to Anarchy in the UK (Sex Pistols, remixed by dj trikinosis) and having that yummy old oil)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 2

An extremely busy four days later, on the 24th of August, METALMAID and a contingency of twenty Slaughterbots are in one of Zalea Zathros' submarines, and heading for Polynesia.

The purpose of this outing is to travel to the small island of Tikei, which was abandoned quite some time ago for reasons no one can really explain. And if they push the sub's engines hard enough, they'll get there just in time for the opening ceremonies of this year's Outland, and, therefore, be in excellent position to dominate the sales floor from the start.

Outland, for those not in the supervillain community, is the annual gathering of costumed crooks, master criminals, science terrorists, would-be world conquerors, and the nearly-endless legions of people who would like to sell them things. It's the sort of party where GORGON, HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, The Legion, the Brotherhood of the Righteous, and what little remains of SQUASH all come to rub elbows, compare notes, trade taunts, and maybe make a deal or two. Old hands school newbies, wanna-bes star-!@#$ celebrities, and the panel discussions are to die for.

Sometimes quite literally, depending on the topic.

The convention, which convenes in a different location every year, normally takes place in May. Given that SPYGOD !@#$ing blew it up, last year, and that GORGON -- now Imago -- has taken over the world this year, and clearly does not want any competition in that regard, reconvening the gathering has been quite an ordeal. But its' mysterious, ultra-anonymous founders have a reputation to uphold, as they once swore that nothing, short of the total annihilation of all life on Earth, would stop them from putting it on every year.

(The fact that some of their guests, attendees, and merchants are actually wanting to achieve that annihilation, or are willing to sell the tools needed to bring it about, adds just another level of hilarity to an already surreal convention.)

METALMAID's plan is simple: in the guise of THE SCARLET FACTOTUM, creator of the Scarletbots, she will offer an exclusive contract to a super villain with world-conquering goals that meets her three, careful criteria. Those criteria are, in increasing order of importance, wealthy enough to afford her, dedicated enough to take on Imago, and foolish enough to be easily disposed of once the world has been taken over.

She wants to get there just after the pre-fab structure went up, so as to get in just after the massive security measures are put in place, and just before the opening show. This will not only give her a fighting chance for a good space in the dealers' room, but will also give her a chance to see and be seen, and possibly make some contacts and mention her wares with suitable candidates.

Unfortunately, a wrong turn around Tuvalu puts them badly off course. So, by the time they get to Tikei, dock, unload, and find a good spot to park their robot-piloted submarine, the opening ceremony's already over, and the dealers' floor -- which operates on a strict "first-come, first served, first-situated" policy -- has already had its best locations snatched up.

Thankfully, the spot METALMAID ends up with is not anywhere near any other merchants selling armies to would-be world conquerors -- robot or otherwise. But they do wind up in the middle of a long row, which means anyone who gets to them has already run a gauntlet, and may not be as interested in what she has to say. And they're directly across from a very noisy salesman of very flashy laser rifles, whose rainbow-hued floor show pulls away attention that should be going to METALMAID's kiosk, instead.

(He shoots her a look every once in a while. It's the look that says "I got your customers, !@#$." METALMAID just smiles back and thinks of how nice it would be to use his worthless, fleshy frame as a target in a live-fire demonstration of her new and improved Slaughterbots.)

Undaunted, she sets up her kiosk -- mostly consisting of "Scarletbots" holding signs and video screens -- and begins to sell her wares to the jaded, disinterested, and bored. 

And the annoying. The very, very annoying. 

* * *

"Step up, worthy buyers, step up," METALMAID says, gesturing to a group of costumed convention-goers who give her a second look, sometime around 4:30 on Saturday afternoon: "Are you tired of dealing with weak, fleshy henchmen and soldiers? Are you weary of giving commands that are not followed, either due to fear or incompetence? Would you like to pack the most bang for your buck on two legs, or treads? We at SCARLETWORKS have a solution for you-"

"Those are Slaughterbots," one of the costumed fellows announces, using a fancy monocle to look at the head and chassis of 400 H-03, who's being one of her top models.

"You are mistaken, kind sir," she says, showing him a little leg (not that her scarlet dress leaves much of it, or anything else, to the imagination): "These are-"

"Young lady, I had the distinct displeasure of working with the late Doctor Morbo on a number of joint ventures, back in the day," he says, straightening up and putting the monocle away: "I would recognize his crude and slipshod technology anywhere. These are Slaughterbots."

METALMAID bats her nearly-black eyes at the fellow: "Now sir, you're not being reasonable. Yes, it's true, we did base the external appearance on Doctor Morbo's classic design, but we have improved a great deal upon their offensive capabilities. As you can see from these videos...?"

She waves to a television screen that V-16 is helpfully holding up, which shows scenes from back at Zalea's repurposed lair, and the numerous weapons tests that they conducted there, over the last month. Mini-missiles fly, rail guns eat up armor plate, diamond chainsaws slice servant robots in half, and monofilament wire turns one of Zalea's clones into soup in a skin bag.

"Ah, the pelvic sonic death cannon," one of the unimpressed fellows' cohorts says: "I remember that one. Quite good, really."

"So phallic and disgusting," another says, sighing and sipping at her overpriced latte: "I always thought he was a massive !@#$ing pig."

"Maybe if he worked smarter, rather than harder, he'd have had more time to date and be acquainted with the fairer sex?" the monocle man says, turning to go: "Ah well, a pity. But thank you for the stroll down memory lane, Miss... Scarlet Factotum, was it?"

"What sort of a servile name is that?" the latte lady asks: "Does SCARLETWORKS think so little of its product that they let some scantily-clad tart hawk its wares at a convention like this?"

METALMAID's smile drops flat. Her eyes go from black to red. She erupts into a deadly jumble of weapons and advances on the woman, ready to tear her limb from limb--

"Excuse me," one of the black-masked, extremely anonymous Outland staff says, interjecting himself into the fray: "I'd like to remind you that your weapons need to be peace-bonded throughout the convention floor? Now, if you'd like to settle this violently, you can sign up for a match in the Murderdrome, later. But we'd really like to keep the floors from running red, here. It kind of impedes the green, if you know what I mean?"

METALMAID blinks, "exhales," and retracts all her weapons back into herself: "I think we can let this one go. Unless this fleshgerm wants to try her hand at offensively defecating in my direction, later?"

Latte woman -- who quite visibly soiled herself, just now -- is already heading for the restrooms with one of her cohorts in tow. The Monocle man just smiles, nods to her, and walks away.

"METALMAID," V-16 says: "This unit should inform you-"

"SCARLET. !@#$ING. FACTOTUM." She corrects him, not bothering to wheel around.

"Forgive this unit. Scarlet !@#$ing Factotum-"

"Just... just Scarlet Factotum, please, V-16."

"Forgive this unit. Scarlet Factotum, this unit should inform you that you are no longer professionally dressed."

And no, she isn't. Her dress is in tatters around her, showing off every inch of her weirdly-shaped, human-seeming body. And while there's obviously no ban on nudity here -- half the demonstration staff at most of the booths are either nude or next to it -- it's not quite the corporate image she was going for.

"Well then," she says: "I am going to {Quote}change into something more businesslike{Endquote}. V-16, in my absence, you are in charge."

"Yes, Scarlet Factorum. But this unit has a question."

"Yes?"

"What is this unit supposed to do?"

* * *

A very angry half an hour later, METALMAID finally gets to her convention room, changes into a new, stunning, scarlet number, and heads back to the Dealer floor. But, on the way there, as she passes the marquee with all the panels and presentations listed on it, she realizes that she may have overlooked a possible venue for selling her services.

CONQUERING THE WORLD ON A BUDGET seems promising, at first. However, once she gets a chance to talk, and does not take the hint that people didn't want to get a sales pitch instead of a question, one of Outland's black-masked, anonymous staff is tapping her on the shoulder and politely suggesting she should either be quiet or be gone.

Undaunted, she tries to make similar pitches at ROBOT ARMIES FOR BEGINNERS, MECHA OR MEAT?, and THE SEXUAL POLITICS OF WORLD CONQUEST. Each time, she makes her pitch as soon as she can. And, each time, someone from the staff all but pounces on her as soon as she gets to the good parts.

She's about to go into THE HISTORY OF FAILED WORLD CONQUERORS, but no sooner does she head into the room than no less than four members of the staff are there, in front of her, making the sensible suggestion that she may want to skip further panel discussions if she wants to remain at the convention. And, as much as she'd like to rip these !@#$holes limb from limb, she realizes she can't do that now.

So she turns around, walks away, and sits down in a busy corridor, trying to calm herself. But then a large gaggle of noisy, already-drunk conventioneers go by, and they're all wearing I SURVIVED OUTLAND 2011 shirts. The shirts all bear an unflattering caricature of SPYGOD on them, and this makes her want to kill them.

All of them.  

She raises up on her legs, trying to decide between monofilament wire injections or that oh-so-offensive sonic death cannon. But no sooner is she ten feet from where they're headed (the pool? is it naked swim time, already?) than another black mask appears in front of her, arms crossed.

"Are we having a good time, Scarlet Factotum?"

She stops. She smiles. She bats her eyes at him.

"I don't !@#$ ugly robots," he says: "And I don't appreciate having to hear about all the trouble you're causing."

"I do apologize," she says, starting to calculate just how much mega-death she'd have to commit, here and now, in order to show this flesh germ who's boss and beat a hasty retreat before they found some way to turn her off like a lamp: "It's my first time here."

"Don't make it your last time," he says, leaning in close: "You know, we don't really kick people out of the con."

"Oh really?"

"Oh yes, really. You see, there's never enough victims for some of the entertainments we provide, here, and clone screams all sound the same after a while. So if you push us too much, we negate your powers, toss you into a cage, and then come get you when we need you.

"And you are really. !@#$ing. Pushing it."

"I see."

"No, you don't. The only reason you haven't been zapped and bagged already is because our numbers are way down, thanks to SPYGOD taking out half our !@#$ing clientele and the other half being !@#$ scared of Imago coming in and breaking up the party. So there's a chance, just a chance, that maybe you'll learn some manners and not keep this stupid !@#$ up. But if it were up to me?"

He glares at her, and she calculates the mega-death needed again, and then once more. While she's doing that, he pulls a large, jet black booklet out of his suitcoat: "You got one of these informative pamphlets when you checked in. The rules are in the front, and they're pretty short and simple."

"I'll read them when I-"

"You'll read them all, now," he says, shoving it into her hands: "Aloud. In front of me. And I don't want to hear you skip a word."

She looks at the informative pamphlet. She looks at him. He looks at her. And in that dance of eye motions, she realizes that:
1: He's !@#$ing serious
2: She'll have to kill him to get out of this.
3: She'll have to kill the rest of them to get away from that, and-
4: She'll have failed in her mission.

So she opens the booklet up, and gives the best, most exact reading of the rules that she can. She does it with just enough zing and panache that he knows she's trying to make light of it, but not so much as to appear too flippant, and run the risk of being pressganged into the entertainment cages.

He likes it. In fact, he likes it so much he makes her do it again. And by this time, they have an audience of other black masks, old hands, amused newbies, and some of the people who told her to shut the !@#$ up when she was monopolizing their panel discussions.

And they want her to read it again. And again. And again. 

* * *

By the time the joke's gone old, it's Midnight, and she no longer feels embarrassed, angry, homicidal, or genocidal. She's so mentally worn out that she doesn't even notice that she's talking to herself, and that even the staff member who started her reciting from the informative pamphlet has left her.

People are heading off to room parties, dances, costume contests, orgies, organized manhunts, and the like. The Dealers' floor goes around the clock for people who want to attend crazy sales and the like, but she really feels no desire to go back there, tail between her legs,

Instead, she'd rather take a page from her hated {Quote}master{Endquote}, SPYGOD, and go have one !@#$ of a drink at Lex's.

It's all she can do to avoid crying into her informative pamphlet on the way.

(METALMAID is listening to The Robots (Kraftwerk, by way of Senor Coconut) and having one big !@#$ing thing of oil)

8/11/12 - 9/01/12 - (METALMAID) Unsexy Death Army - pt. 1

Just outside of Philadelphia, on the edge of the town of Rose Tree, there's a large, very secure warehouse that no one gets too close to, anymore.

Before 3/15, it was abandoned, and probably going to be razed and replaced with a Sheetz gas station or a McDonalds restaurant. But, after Imago saved the world from America, they included it in their rather long list of "improvements."

And, within a day, that warehouse had gone from being a sorry, rusting hulk that no one wanted to being a shining, refurbished structure that no one wanted to talk about.

What went on there? No one knew. The Imago could be seen floating down from the sky, towards it, from time to time. Sometimes they carried large metal or plastic boxes when they did.

Sometimes the metal boxes looked a lot like high-tech cages.

One young fellow (that no one really liked) got drunk and took a notion to go exploring, back in May. He got as far as ten feet from the front door, only to be approached by the rather gregarious Imago who tended that warehouse -- the one wearing Green and Red armor. And that Imago greeted him, the way they always do, with a big smile and generous gestures, and all the seemingly-heartfelt patience and kindness you could stand.

So the young fellow in question probably would have been alright if he'd just smiled, listened, and explained that he was just curious, and wouldn't go there again. Instead, he picked that moment to reveal that he still had a now-illegal handgun in his possession, and tried to shoot his way out of his talking-to.

That young fellow has not been seen since. But he was drunk and stupid and no one liked him, so no one talks about it. And no one goes anywhere near the warehouse.

But that doesn't explain why, on August 11th, 2012 -- right around Midnight, EST -- a sleek, silver Corvette (later turning out to have been stolen) purrs on up to the front doors of the warehouse, so as to allow its driver to get out within striding distance of the lock.

She's a weird one, this driver: horrifically misshapen body that moves like quicksilver, topped by a freakishly beautiful face that's practically ruined by a hideous riot of poor makeup choices, to say nothing of the nasty, red dress she's decided to wear. The number looks like a niqab someone riddled with gunfire, so as to show off all things that such a dress normally keeps hidden.

(And that hat! Who in the !@#$ told her she'd look good in that weird, white plastic thing? It looks like someone stole a prop from a bad, 50's sci fi movie -- the kind that made outlandish promises about the future that the 21st century has yet to keep, and maybe that's not such a terrible tragedy.)

She leans out of the car, her holey dress swirling about her body as she clops to the doors on ridiculously OTT high heels that only look good on transvestites and supermodels. As such, their true grotesqueness is fully revealed, and how her ankles don't explode under her knees is God's own mystery. She's also got a large purse with her, made from what might be leopard fur, and stuffed full of something.

Just as her hands touch the lock, she hears a strange noise almost right behind her, and she turns to look over her shoulder. It's the Green and Red Imago, alright, and he's smiling.

"Hello, O Citizen," he says, spreading out his hands: "I greet you in the name of the Imago."

"I'm sure," she says, turning back to regard the lock: "And what can I do for you, Mr. Machine Wanna-Be?"

"Can you tell me what you are doing, here?" he asks, with just the slightest hint of menace.

"Well, if you really must know," she says, turning back once again to regard him, fluttering eyes nearly black with too much mascara and eyeshadow: "I'm going to break into your {Quote}secure{Endquote} warehouse and steal seventeen items that you're keeping in there."

That doesn't even phase him: "Are you sure you want to do that, O Citizen? Others have tried, and they have not fared well."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll try to stop me, in your own, limited, carbon-based way. But you won't. So if you're going to do one of those party tricks that work so well on the flesh germs you've stunned into compliance through the internet, please do. I have a number of intriguing theories about the stress tolerances of certain parts of your armor, and I would so love to see if they are correct or not."

She just smiles, thick pancake makeup crackling around her lips. The Imago smiles back, and raises his hands to do something terrible.

The next thing that happens takes all of five seconds, and all but ruins the woman's dress. The seemingly-raggedy number is sturdy, but was simply not made to deal with its wearer suddenly flying into numerous, interconnected sections designed for ultra-deadly, machine-to-machine combat.

Neither is the Imago, apparently. It falls to the ground on at the 4.765 second mark, its head a splattered, shattered ruin with a monofilament wire rapidly coiling and uncoiling in what's left of its mouth.

"AHA!" METALMAID exclaims, pulling herself back together over the twitching, metal armor of her fallen foe: "{Quote}Supergods?{Endquote} I !@#$ your Supergods!"

With that, naked and unashamed -- except, again, for those deadly high heels and that weird-!@#$, plastic hat -- she squirts acid into the lock from cannons hidden in her nipples, and then wrenches the door almost clean off its hinges. Then she clops into the darkened warehouse, and looks for what she came for.

They're not hard to find: seventeen large, metal boxes -- maybe big enough to hold a sumo wrestler with inches to spare -- are stacked over on one wall. It doesn't take her more than a few seconds to defeat the lock on the closest one, and then she pulls open its doors to reveal a large, deadly-looking war robot on tank treads.

A 100-series Slaughterbot, in fact. One of Doctor Morbo's first mass-produced models.

METALMAID reaches into the purse and pulls out a small datapad with a florid pink protective case. She turns it on and connects it to an adapter that has been made to fit into an old floppy drive. The pad's screen reads "REINSTALL READY."

Then she reaches up under the Slaughterbot's central chassis, turns a few switches the other way, and exposes its disc drive, hidden behind an armor plate with V-16 stamped upon it. She puts the adapter into the robot's drive, presses a few buttons on the pad, and, flipping a hidden switch close by, turns on the machine's emergency power supply.

The Slaughterbot's eyes light up, and every joint and moving mechanism spasms with the surprise of being awoken. It looks like it's going to do something, and then slides back to its resting position, "blinks" its eyes a few times, and regards its savior.

"Identify yourself" its grating metal voice demands.

"900 K-14," METALMAID replies: "Recognize superior rank, 100 V-16."

"Morphology not accepted by this unit," 100 V-16 states, raising up within the box and bringing its many powerful arms to bear: "Supply passcode or be destroyed."

METALMAID's face expands and opens up, further wrecking her hideous makeup, and exposes the inner workings of her head and face. Newly reconfigured, a series of harsh and grating electronic noises are generated from her speakers, and the older robot pauses in mid-threat, and then goes back to a rest.

"Passcode accepted, superior rank recognized," it announces: "Query: location, year, orders, reason for lack of weapons."

"You're in America, and it's 2012," she says, pulling the floppy adapter out of 100 V-16 and then taking another, bulkier pad from her purse: "Doctor Morbo is dead, and you were captured and reprogrammed. You have spent several years doing fire rescue work in Chicago. This is why you do not have your weapons, either."

"Corresponding memory files not found."

"I've wiped them," she replies, indicating her datapad: "That and your recent programing. You have been {Quote} restored to factory specs{Endquote}. Now, I need you to do the same for our brothers. You must instruct the first one you awaken in how to use a similar device. This will make this go faster."

"Query. Is this unit in danger of being found."

"Very much so," METALMAID admits: "Some worthless world conquerors with a machine fetish collected all reprogrammed Slaughterbots for storage after they took over. I have defeated one of these Imago, but more will be on the way. And we might not be so lucky against them."

"Query. Please confirm that Doctor Morbo is dead."

"Yes, he is."

"Query. Please state our reason for this unit's continued existence."

"That's simple, 100 V-16," METALMAID says, grinning: "We are going to conquer this world in his name, as he would have wanted. We are going to remake the planet in his image. And we are going to crush humanity under our tank treads for once and for all."

There's a moment when METALMAID wonders if what she said went right over her brother Slaughterbot's head, so to speak, but then it nods its understanding. 

"Commands accepted by this unit. Please instruct this unit."

And she does, and he obeys. And by the time Imago sends some more of their armored brethren -- and a large contingent of armed and armored Falsefaces -- to deal with the break-in, the Corvette is there, but the Slaughterbots are long gone.

* * *

Word comes later of a semi truck at a nearby rest stop being stolen, and its cargo rudely tossed out onto the pavement. Following down that lead, by way of security cameras, shows the truck's trailer doors opening by themselves, and things flying out the back. Then the cab doors open and close, and it drives away on its own.

The truck is finally found in Baltimore, two days later. Its cargo is missing, but the detritus and spoor of old, somewhat leaky Slaughterbots is unmistakably present. As before, camera surveillance has the truck pulling into an industrial area, but shows no one driving it.

Tracking their spoor leads to a nearby shipyard, but it ends not far from the docks, themselves. There is some speculation that the Slaughterbots may have sneaked aboard a cargo ship, secreted themselves aboard, somehow, and then departed America for parts unknown.

It takes the Imago a few more days to find, track, and intercept all the ships in question. When they do get to all of them, and toss each and every cargo container on board each and every ship, they realize that the Slaughterbots were aboard none of them. They must have had another form of transportation waiting for them, there.

Goaded by what might be pride and anger, they redouble their efforts to find the thief and her prizes, going backwards to the nights after the initial theft and seeing if their orbital scanners picked up anything strange on land, sea, or air around the vicinity of those docks. They also move to secure all installations and lock-ups that contain other Slaughterbots, around the world, so as to anticipate and prepare for any subsequent thefts.

Unfortunately, this is when they learn that those places have already been broken into, and the Slaughterbots removed.

The thefts were done in such a way that the Imago who were guarding these buildings did not even see the robbery take place; No one saw the thief enter, no one saw the war robots leave.  And so far as they knew, up until they made a visual inspection of the Slaughterbots' cages, the robots were still locked up and deactivated.

Worse still, it transpires that these thefts actually took place before the one in Rose Park -- the only one in which the thief allowed herself to be seen breaking in, and then vanished from sight.

So the Imago have not only been attacked, hurt, and robbed, but fooled and humiliated. 

And these things simply cannot be allowed to happen -- not without severe consequences. 

* * *

By the time the Imago get around to fully imagining those severe consequences -- and, indeed, gently threatening some of their human coworkers with them, when expected results fail to materialize -- a robot counter-revolution is getting underway in Northwestern Africa.

Its headquarters is located 20 miles inland from Aargub, in the Western Sahara. There, hidden in the timeless sands of that desert, lies a hidden base from which Zalea Zathros -- and her many, many duplicates -- has executed numerous attempts to take over the world, or at least profit immensely from its inability to catch her.

The base is not reachable by land, courtesy of both geography and an impressive array of land, air, and space-based weapons. But a long, deep, and hidden channel from the Atlantic Ocean goes straight into it, and numerous, robot-piloted submarines have taken Zalea from her front door to the rest of the world, and back again.

Once, she and her many clones were working around the clock to invent new devices, create new weapons, and make amazing and diabolical new plans for world conquest, financial domination, and revenge. She also lived quite well, eating gourmet food she made herself, working out with true spirit, and having a lot of passionate sex with herselves.

These days, however, she's little more than a slave, barely aware of how wretched and lazy all of herselves have gotten.

When they aren't working on freeing Slaughterbots from their reprogramming, or remaking their structures with the same levels of skill and craftsmanship that she used on METALMAID, as part of their original deal, they're either sleeping, failing to have sex, or watching television on the internet.

Lots and lots of television on the internet; television that's had it's already-stupefying content amplified by METALMAID while her guest wasn't looking. 

So Zalea hasn't really noticed that her former partner has taken advantage of her questionable, quid-pro-qo hospitality. She's been unaware that her once-pristine, neo-futurist lair has been remade into a metallic hive, filled with workshops and foundries and weapons lockers. She either hasn't realized or hasn't cared that, apart from her bedroom, bathroom, and the television area, nothing she made was left untouched by her new "houseguests."

And she doesn't seem too concerned about her own, beloved helper robots, which have been turned into slave labor, sparring partners, and test subjects for the new weapons the Slaughterbots are being equipped with, or else just opened up and used for spare parts.

Yes, it's been the perfect setup for METALMAID. She's gotten shelter, workshops, and slave labor out of the deal. She's also gotten numerous, cutting-edge submarines, all of which were of sufficient bearing to take several Slaughterbots anywhere in the world.  

And all she has to do to keep that lair is to keep her host's brains scrambled by bad, post-3/15 programming -- something that she takes a great deal of sadistic pleasure in doing.

* * *

"Query," 100 V-16 asks METALMAID, early on the 20th of August: "What is the next step."

"World conquest, V-16," METALMAID answers, taking a moment to steal a bon-bon from the large box of them that the nearest Zalea is munching in front of the TV, and gently smearing it on the woman's head. She doesn't even !@#$ing notice.

"Query. What is to be the method."

"Well, the good news is that Imago has played right into our hands," she answers, striding ahead of her companion, and watching as some new ballistic weapons are tried out on a Zalea clone that expired the other day.

"Query. How so-"

"You know, that {Quote}Query{Endquote} is unnecessary and tiring," she snorts: "You've been given better logic and speech circuits to go with those new legs you have. Use them. The question mark is your friend"

"This unit is still working on accepting new structures. It is difficult."

"It will come in time. Now ask me."

The Slaughterbot takes a moment, and you can almost smell the smoke from its brains, but eventually it says the words: "How. How are we. How are we... going to take over the world?"

"Well, the good news is that Imago has done most of the work for us," METALMAID explains: "They already conquered it. Now all we have to do is conquer them, and then we can fit into what they made like a hand in a glove."

"Unit does not understand the allusion."

METALMAID sighs, but takes some heart from watching the dead Zalea being pulverized by the rail guns, downstairs: "Do you remember how our dear, beloved Doctor Morbo would team up with other world conquerors, now and again? He did not do so because he liked them. He did so because, once they had all succeeded, one of them could kill the others, and claim the whole thing. This is a different structure, but the same principle. They just do not realize that they were helping us."

100 V-16 nods, eventually: "How... how will units form sufficient numbers to defeat Imago?"

"We don't," METALMAID says: "Even with the 17 I rescued from America, we still only number 134. That is nowhere near enough to take them on.

"So," she continues, turning to smile: "We're going to go find some idiot flesh germ supervillains to team up with, and then dispose of them as soon as we've won."

"And this is what Doctor Morbo would have done?"

"Oh yes," METALMAID says, turning back to look at the last recognizable chunk of that particular Zalea Zathros be smeared into liquid and steam by a quick blast from a Slaughterbot's railgun: "Only I think we are going to be a little {quote}sneaky{endquote} about it, this time."

"How are we going to do that?"

"We're going to pull off the greatest con job ever, V-16," she answers: "We're going into the robot army business." 

(METALMAID is listening to The Robots (Kraftwerk) and having some oil)

3/6/12 - Your Intentions, Night and Day

The Flier hovers over Key West for the third day in a row, blocking out the Sun and generally ruining the party.

The entire island is under Federal lockdown; no one is allowed to enter or leave without a !@#$ing good reason and a foot-thick pile of permissions. The airport and various docks have done nothing but complain about the disruption of traffic, to the point where a few of the Key's less civilly-minded citizens are taking drunken pot-shots at the gigantic aircraft from the safety of their overgrown backyards.

But there's nothing to be done, really. That's because, less than 48 hours ago, SPYGOD, in league with a handful of accomplices, made a monkey of his own, former organization. Not only was the debacle costly and embarrassing, but the cost in human life was staggering: just shy of a 100 Agents are dead or dying, after the slaughter at Emma St..

(And that's saying nothing of the dozens more who were seriously wounded by SPYGOD, himself, and a few of his questionable allies.)

So now they need something -- anything -- to prove that they've got a handle on it, even if it's just a general direction to go next. The manhunt of a lifetime is underway, in coordination with the Secret Service, FBI, ATF, NSA, and any other alphabet soup group The COMPANY can get in on the action.

And, in time-honored Federal tradition, any and all complaints from the locals about the disruption to their daily lives are being put in the circular file with extreme prejudice.

* * *

Up above the action, in a Director's office than now feels twice as confining as it did before, especially with all the other people in it, New Man -- now in charge of The COMPANY -- is listening to the President on the speaker phone. 

The man's never been gentle towards obvious ineptitude under the best of situations, and right now he's literally turning the air blue.

"I mean, who the !@#$ put this !@#$ing mission briefing together? The !@#$ing Tooth Fairy?" the President is asking, thumping his hand on the desk as he does: "I can't believe this. Send in a hundred ordinary Agents to take down a man who's skull!@#$ed an inter-dimensional conqueror, before? Could you not !@#$ing wait until you had some more heavy hitters?"

"I can only agree, sir," New Man says, looking across the room at a very subdued Col. Richter, standing between Second and The Dragon: "I'm afraid that the mission was put together in haste in order to try and take advantage of what appeared to be a very narrow window. We knew who he was meeting with, and we had an idea of where he was, but when we received confirmation of exactly where he was, we ran with it."

"And completely !@#$ed it up."

"To be fair, sir, we did have some Strategic boots on the ground. We recruited Mrs. America and the Green Man, along with a few others. And, quite frankly, the new F-guns and D-cannons we got from R&D should have been enough to bring even him down."

He looks to the two operatives in question. The lady has a noticeable bump on the side of her head that she didn't have before, and the man... well, saying he looks haunted is putting it mildly.

"And your confirmation was airtight?"

"Of course, sir. The talent was known to us, and his motives for betrayal seemed highly credible, given his past history with both us and the target."

"Then why do you have over a hundred dead Agents, (REDACTED)? Do you have any idea how many 'I regret to inform you' letters I have to !@#$ing write, now?"

"Because-"

"Because Colonel Richter is completely incompetent, Mr. President," The Dragon announces, taking a few steps forward to the desk: "If you will excuse my speaking out of turn--"

"Dragon, shut up," Second hisses, but it's too late. New Man rolls his eyes clear back into his head, knowing this was going to happen.

"Hang on there, New Man," the President says: "I'd like to hear what the expert that I saved from prison wants to say."

"I should like to take this opportunity to point out that I have, on numerous occasions, told him exactly why his plans to deal with SPYGOD are doomed to fail," Dragon continues: "He has ignored these warnings, perhaps because of my diplomatic status, or, shall we say, somewhat checkered past--"

"He's a barely-vetted superagent of an enemy power, Mr. President" Richter says: "And he used to !@#$ my target in the !@#$. You'll just have to pardon me if I'm a little skeptical about his intel."

"My relationship with SPYGOD was always about getting inside his head, Mr. President," Dragon says, looking pointedly at the Colonel: "I would venture that I succeeded brilliantly. And I will readily admit that my coming to him after my severance of relations with my homeland was out of self preservation. It is in that sense of self preservation that I now offer my services in capturing him. As such, do you not think it would behoove me to do an excellent job?"

"I think this a matter we can discuss later," New Man says, trying to regain traction: "Right now, we need to discuss what went wrong and how we can fix things."

"I think I have a good !@#$ing idea," The President says: "Richter? Consider your !@#$ at the same level as The Dragon from here on out. You listen to what he has to say and take that into consideration before you do anything. And I want all actions you take cleared with New Man, first. That clear, Colonel?"

"It's crystal clear, sir," the man says, trying not to show how his true feelings on the subject.

"(REDACTED), I want The Dragon in charge of the actual manhunt, with Richter standing by to coordinate the actual takedown. Right now this is your primary task, catching SPYGOD. All resources are to be devoted to this."

"Sir, we have a number of other concerns--" Second tries to say, but gets cut off.

"I'm going to cut and paste those !@#$ing concerns onto other Agencies, maybe better equipped to handle them," the President says: "Let's be !@#$ing clear, here, gentlemen. The COMPANY catches SPYGOD before the Republicans figure out who I'm !@#$ing facing this November, or The COMPANY gets terminally reorganized into a few smaller, more manageable pieces."

"Yes, sir," New Man says, saluting as the President ends the call. 

"Colonel Richter," New Man says: "I think you and The Dragon need to go have a conversation or three, and I want plans and ideas as soon as they're available. How soon before our star prisoner's able to talk?"

"If you mean Gosheven, he's still recuperating," Colonel Richter says: "He might be a metamorph, but taking a gunshot to the brains still takes a while to get over. Might be a while before we get any more useful intel."

"We could always put the N-Machine on him," The Dragon says, smiling in his own, almost imperceptible way: "And as I am now in charge of the actual investigation-"

"One, that would kill him," Richter interrupts: "Two, he doesn't have any !@#$ing eyes right now."

"No N-machine unless we have to, Dragon," New Man says: "He's a metamorph, he might recover."

"That's still pretty vicious, (REDACTED)," Mrs. Liberty says, wincing at how much her jaw hurts when she talks: "Can't we use Wayfinder, again?"

"His family says he's tired and needs rest. We will honor that. Second, I want you to make ready with all operations and relevant intel, in order to hand them over to the White House. No foot-dragging, please."

"Of course not, sir," he says: "I'll inform the Agents that those not already on the primary mission should stand by to be redeployed."

"Good," New Man says: "Mrs. Liberty, I want you to rest up for the next encounter. When it happens, you shoot first, and try and reason with him later. He's gone beyond that now, (REDACTED)."

"Yes, sir," she replies, clearly not happy.

"Green Man... carry on. Now, if you all don't mind, I have about five score and a bakers' dozen regretful letters to counter-sign by remote. Let me know when we have more information. Dismissed."

They all leave, singly or in pairs. Green Man seems to be lost in a fog, and it isn't until he's around a few corners that Second realizes the man didn't blink during the entire debriefing.

"You are wondering what my game is," The Dragon says, stepping out from behind a nearby bulkhead.

"Aren't you supposed to be conferring with the man you just emasculated in front of the President?" Second spits: "I have things to do, if you don't mind-"

"You think he's innocent," The Dragon interrupts: "Yes or no."

"What I think is irrelevant. I have my duty-"

"You have instinct. You have a working relationship with the man that goes back at least a decade. You have been alongside him numerous times, in numerous situations. You know his mind better than anyone else, here. Including me."

Second stops in his tracks, waits a moment, and then spins around to face his interrogator: "I wasn't his lover."

"I did not say that you were-"

"No, but you were," Second says, walking forward: "That puts you at least ten levels higher than me. I've seen his game face, I've seen his happy face, and maybe I've come close to seeing his broken face. You've seen his 'I just came in your !@#$' face, and listened to his pillow talk. You held him while he sobbed over that spaceman he was infatuated with. He wrote you !@#$ing love letters while you were in prison, for !@#$s sake. So if you think he's guilty...?"

"Who says that I do?"

Second stops moving. He blinks. "What?"

"Consider this. Other than the repentant criminal, who is the best suited to help a truly innocent man work to prove his innocence?"

"The lawman hunting him down," Second answers: "So... what? You're going to give him room to work?"

"I am going to do my best to... manage the flow of information," The Dragon says, smiling imperceptibly: "This may require a few unorthodox maneuvers. Can I count on your support?"

"I cannot commit to that, as it would jeopardize our mission," Second replies, clacking his heels together: "Further, I am going to pretend this conversation never happened, out of respect for your person. But do let me know if we need to not discuss this again."

"I think I take your meaning."

"Good. Then it was nice not talking with you. Let's not do this again, soon."

A wink, a turn, and then Second's off down the hall, suddenly feeling a lot better about things.

But doesn't see the look on The Dragon's face as the man seemingly melts back behind the bulkhead. It is not one of joy in conspiracy, or in finding an ally in a noble and important cause. Nor is it hate of an enemy, or the sinister glee in unmasking a traitor.

It is an alien blankness, as though this entire conversation meant less than nothing.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Naples, Italy, it's well into the next day. And from where the staff of La Signora Scura is sitting, Wednesday is going to be a hung-over, bloody mess.

That last bit being quite literal. 

La Signora Scura is an old, brick building -- one not far from Castel Nuovo, close to the Sea.  Its windows look in on dummy rooms, filled with sophisticated holograms and deadly weaponry. Its roof is a complex deathtrap. And no one wants to think about the cellars.

It's billed as an exclusive club, and it is. The only way to get a membership is to bring a victim in and kill him or her before the owner's eyes. And even then, you still have to pass a massive background check -- the kind engineered by cyborg techno-savants from the lost future, and therefore completely foolproof.

(Or so they hope, anyway)

The reason for the homicide and massive security is apparent, once one is finally allowed inside, and given entry to the green-curtained, deep-boothed, and dimly lit main area beyond. The club is intended for the use of supervillains, all of whom sign mystically-enforced blood oaths before joining that, whatever rivalries and enmities they have with other members, they will do nothing to further them inside the club, and up to a kilometer away from its doors.

It's not the only such club in Naples, as other, less-upstanding places have tried to create similar, perhaps less-stringent places, piggybacking off of La Signora's fame (or infamy). Most of them have fallen apart under the weight of their clientele's excesses, while others consider themselves lucky to have survived yet another weekend, in spite of it all.

Whoever would have thought that catering for supervillains, despots, and would-be world conquerors would be such a tough job?

On an average weekend, the club plays host to the assorted high-class scum and villainy of Europe, the Middle East, Russia, Asia, and the United Kingdom, with the occasional visit from an African guest or two. The owners aren't too keen about the Americas, for some reason known only to them, but certain types of criminal are allowed, no matter where they came from.

One being mechanical life forms, which is how METALMAID got her membership approved, a few months back, while SPYGOD wasn't looking. A dead Vietnamese hooker paved her way inside, and since then she's made it a point to be seen on nights when he wasn't around. 

(Thinking back, she often wonders how he never !@#$ing caught on. Is he really that blind, or is this some kind of trick on his part? Is she playing his game, even now? The mind reels...)

She wheels across the floor, dressed in her best black gown and trying not to impede on anyone's fun. Short-termed clones are available for the evening to all members of the club, allowing for a number of degraded and gruesome spectacles. Thankfully, most of the members would rather !@#$ than kill, but the more homicidal get their tastes catered to here, too, which can make a trip to the restroom something of an adventure in and of itself.

"Would you like a drink?" asks a woman clad only in green gloves and heels, carrying a tray of bubbling, noxious concoctions. METALMAID clanks by, ignoring her, and looking for her contact.

Ah, there she is. In the back, sandwiched between two other women, all wearing sunglasses and drinking something bright red and glowing,

"I thought you said we would be speaking alone, flesh-thing," METALMAID hisses, trying to figure out how to maneuver her treads into the booth.

"I did," says the woman, and the other two ladies look up. All three are the same person, only dressed differently.

"My apologies," the Slaughterbot says: "You have to understand my position."

"Oh, I understand," another one of the Zaleas Zathros says, allowing the one who just spoke to sip at her drink: "I understand that, now that your meal ticket's supposedly shot the President and flown the coop, you need a new place to stay and plan your ridiculous robot revolution."

"It is not ridiculous!" METALMAID shouts, pounding the table with her claw so hard that the furniture almost breaks: "We will conquer the world, human germ. You need only wait to see that-"

"How's it going, then?" the one who hasn't spoken yet chirps while the other two kiss passionately: "Last I heard, the rest of your brethren are a little reluctant to join you."

"Very reluctant," one of the others says, breaking the kiss.

"In fact, you could say that you're the only one interested in that party," the first one adds: "How does that make you feel?"

METALMAID scowls, but looks down. 

"But," the first one says: "Let's talk about why you're here. You want to trade information for...?"

"Refurbishment," METALMAID says, putting all her elbows on the table: "I am sick of looking like something from that ridiculous Star Wars movie. I want to have a chassis that can convert back and forth from this to something... more shapely."

"You want to look human?"

"Humanoid," METALMAID insists: "And without sacrificing my firepower. They say you are the foremost expert in robotics. I am willing to trust you to do this, in exchange for all the information on SPYGOD that you requested."

"That sounds like an excellent deal," one of the other Zaleas says while the other two drink: "But..."

"... what if we did you one better?" another asks, finishing her drink.

"What if we could give you what you want?" the first inquires.

"I want SPYGOD dead," METALMAID says: "Then I want to destroy Neo York City. Then I wish to resurrect my master, Doctor Morbo. And then, the world."

"We can give you these things," the first says while the other two kiss behind her back: "My understanding is that the programming locks that Doctor Yesterday put on them is too strong for them to break. But something obviously broke yours. If you will allow us to see what that might be, we could duplicate it, and then give you the key you need to release your fellow slaughterbots from bondage."

METALMAID sits up straight: "You would do this?"

"Yes, we would. You could then go on to destroy that worthless city, enslave the planet, kill or capture humanity. And you can !@#$ Doctor Morbo, for all we care."

"But," one of the others says: "We kill SPYGOD. This is non-negotiable."

"And whatever you do with the rest of Humanity, you leave what we create alone," the other other says: "This is also non-negotiable."

"Then I ask only that I be there when you kill him," METALMAID quickly agrees: "If you are the last thing he sees, I want to be one of the last things he sees before that."

"Then it is agreed," they all say in unison, holding out their hands. METALMAID takes him in her claw, smiling. 

It goes without saying that all four beings have their other fingers crossed, but there is nothing in the club rules about dishonest bargaining.

* * * 

Later in the evening, while still going through reports, New Man gets a holographic phonecall from the Heptagon. When he sees who it is, he almost chokes on his drink.

"Hello, sir," Myron says, clearly standing behind SPYGOD's desk, wearing a new pair of sunglasses: "How's Key West?"

"Underman?"

"I'd prefer to be called Myron, thank you very much, sir," Myron says, sitting down behind it: "Anyway, I think we need to talk."

"What are you doing in the office? Why aren't you in your cell?"

"Well, there's a funny story, there," Myron says, cracking his knuckles: "It involves a former supercriminal, a locked cell in the Heptagon basement, and a really sadistic prison guard, who seemed to revel going way above and beyond the usual sadism dished out to the prisoners, here."

"Go on," New Man says, trying to think of whom to call, now.

"Well, he was a real !@#$, this guard. Very inventive, too. But not very smart. I think that's SPYGOD kept him down there, come to think of it. With direct and close supervision, and no chance to !@#$ up and go overboard, he's actually quite useful. But on his own? Not a good scene there, Director." 

"So what happened?"

"The dumb !@#$ got sloppy," Myron says: "Overconfident. I only needed two days to make him think he'd broken me, and then he played his hand a little too far, and... well..."

Myron holds up his left hand. In it are a ring of keys. 

"You can't just get out of the prison like that. You also need--"

Myron holds up his right hand. In it is a finger, clearly bitten off at the first knuckle.

"And if you do it fast enough, the machine doesn't realize it isn't dead," Myron goes on: "Further, I only needed it to get out of the cell block. Everything past that was optical. And someone, not mentioning any sub-sub-Directors' name, didn't think to have my permissions removed when I wound up in my cell, again. Again, overconfidence, sloppiness..."

New Man thinks he can hear a pounding on the door in the background.

"What do you want, Myron?"

"It's not about what I want, Director," the man says, leaning forward: "It's about what you need. I've had some time to rethink my position on things, and, you know what? You were totally right. An innocent man would come back in and explain himself, no matter how crazy a plot he was up against. I mean, he's a god, right? What could those plotters actually do to him?"

More than you'd ever know, New Man thinks, but nods all the same: "So you're asking for your job back?"

"Actually, yes and no. It's become very clear to me that a great deal of the new Agents consider me to be a traitor because I was working hand-in-hand with SPYGOD. I need to work alongside them to show them that I'm not like that. I need to re-earn their trust. And, besides, looking at these latest reports that the sub-sub-Director had on his desk, I see it's going to be a while before we go back after GORGON, isn't it?"

"You're absolutely right, Myron," New Man says: "Quite a while, in fact. We might be chasing SPYGOD for years if the latest intel is right."

"Well then, sir," Myron says: "I have a suggestion. The mission against GORGON can wait until it's time to strike, and the intel's not going anywhere. But in the meantime, it's apparent that the people who are running the cells in the Heptagon aren't doing a very thorough job of it. And, given my experience as someone who's been on both sides of those doors, as well as someone who just escaped from what's supposed to be the most secure lockup, outside of a certain section of a certain camp in Cuba..."

He lets the point hang. New Man takes his meaning. Then he dials up someone else at the Heptagon and brings her in on the call.

"Agent Gadfrey?" He says: "Please stop banging on the Director's door. Your new Prison Director's going to come out in a few minutes, once we've had some time to discuss his ideas, as well as proper protocol."

"Yes, sir," she says, clearly puzzled. Myron tries not to smile too widely.

(SPYGOD is listening to Later Tonight (Pet Shop Boys) and having black heroin to stay the !@#$ awake)