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

10/10/12

In an undisclosed location, a young man comes into his darkened workroom, bringing a cup of morning coffee with him. The mug says EVIL GENIUS.

He sits at his cluttered desk, and wakes up his computer. Once it pops into life it gives him all the information he'd told it to watch for, and he smiles at what it tells him.

His phone rings, and he answers it: "Yes? ... Yes. I think we are. ... I'm pretty sure. I'll get in touch with her and see, but I think she's taken what I said to heart. 

"Okay, good to know. Let them know I'm ready when they are-

"Oh, that quickly? Well !@#$, Ben. I'm impressed.

"Okay, will do. You can count on me...

"Yes, I do know what you said about hanging separately. No worries, here. I'm all in.

"You too. Talk to you soon, old man."

He puts the phone down and smiles.  His eyes glow purple as he sips his coffee, and violet sparks jump from his teeth to the cup.

"Let's go change the world," he says to himself. 

* * *

"... still reeling from the events of yesterday afternoon. We're not entirely sure what's happening inside Neo York City, today, Wolf, but one thing's for sure. Something just changed, here and now. And the world we thought we knew has been turned upside down."

"What do you mean, Bob? Can you at least tell us what's happening where you are?"

"I can. I'm by what's left of the west end of the Queensboro Bridge. It's... well, as you can see behind me, it's a mess."

"You mean the Ed Koch Bridge, Bob?"

"Well, Wolf, no one here calls it that. It's Queensboro to the people who used it every day to get back and forth from Queens to Manhattan. And now it's a mess of twisted metal and broken concrete. Dozens of civilians dead, hundreds wounded."

"And you're saying this was done by the Specials? The rapid response troops the Imago have been using as security worldwide?"

"That's correct, Wolf. There was a massive car chase, all the way up 25 from the Eastern outskirts of Queens. A lot of armed men who have been identified by the police as being suspected of Mafia involvement were chasing a white van, shooting and trying to run it off the road. It got as far as the west end before coming to a halt, and then they got out of their cars and started shooting at it-"

"Right, and we have some amateur footage of that. A commuter named Ed Jones was kind enough to film it on his phone and post it to his youtube account. This footage you're seeing has not been retouched, and, Bob, I'm presuming you can see this, too?"

"Yes I am. Now, what you're seeing is all these armed men firing at a white van. We're told by the authorities that these men chased it all the way from Queens because they were after the masked vigilante known as The Black Card-"

"Okay, and that's the body they found at the scene, right?"

"Well, Wolf, that's going to be hard to say, for reasons you'll see soon enough. But he had an accomplice, and that's the woman you can see in this film, shooting back at the men."

"Do we know who she is?"

"No we do not. As you can see in the film, she throws a smoke grenade, right about here, and then high-tails it down the bridge. About five seconds later the van catches fire. The police are saying it was an incendiary device, which is what's made it hard to really identify the Black Card, if that was indeed him."

"And then... well, they take off after her, and then we see the Specials teleport in. There's a lot of scared people in cars, and they're trying to get out of their way, and... what are we seeing, Bob? Is that what we think it is?"

"It is, Wolf. The Specials marched across the bridge and turned it into a giant kill zone. They shot everything moving. The suspected mobsters, the people in their cars, everything. And they kept marching and firing, chasing after the female accomplice as she ran to the other side of the bridge."

"Okay, and you can actually hear people screaming and crying for them to stop. I think that Mr. Jones is screaming for them to stop."

"He is, yes. And then this happens."

"That's Bronze and Blue, right? One of the Imago from New York State, right?"

"Yes, it is. He looks right at Ed, and you can hear Ed screaming at him to stop them. To just stop them from killing any more people. And then there's that flash of light from the eyes of the Imago, and we hear Ed scream. Then the camera's falling down, and looking up..."

"And then that boot, coming down on it."

"That's right, Wolf. We just saw an Imago execute an American citizen without trial, right on the spot, for filming their Specials killing civilians while trying to quell an armed riot."

"Alright, so, as difficult as it is to process that, and just setting the reality of what this means aside, what happens next? You've been talking to people who were watching at the time, and people who are there, now?"

"Well, the Specials didn't stop, Wolf. They kept marching across the bridge, firing and firing. And then they chased her down the off-ramp. But the moment they actually got onto the ground, something happened. People who were there said it was like the first few times the city woke up, and the people who were there were all snatched up by force fields and moved out of harm's way. Only the Specials were all picked up and flung right out of the city, just like the planes that one time those terrorists tried to fly planes into them, back in 2001, and the last time the city was attacked, last year."

"And has it done that before?"

"Not that anyone knows. And it didn't just hurl those Specials out, Wolf. The reports I'm getting say that all of the ones in the city were tossed out. And any that have tried to teleport in since then have been flung right out again."

"What about the Imago?"

"The same, Wolf. They're not even on the ground a second before they're up and flying away."

"And what's going on in the city? Are there riots? Crimes of opportunity?"

"No, Wolf. No one's doing anything violent, at least as far as we can tell. There's a makeshift memorial for the people who were killed and a lot of people are there, putting down flowers and wreaths. The police have called for calm and order, and I think the mayor is going to make a public statement sometime today."

"Now, I did hear something that sounded a little weird. There are apparently reports of street people setting up portable televisions in public places, all over?"

"That's true, Wolf. In fact, I even saw one. I asked him what he was doing and he just smiled at me and said 'turn on, tune in, drop out.'"

"Well, that's a blast from the past. But I thought televisions weren't working any longer, Bob?"

"I thought so, too. But there's something being broadcast on them. I'm just not sure what, yet."

"And what about that woman who was being chased by the Specials? Do we have any news on her? Is she still alive, or...?"

"That's another unanswered question, Wolf. Eyewitnesses say that she was wounded but still running when the Specials were being flung away. No one's seen her since. We have no idea who she was, but we figure that the whole world saw her on that video. It's only a matter of time before her identity is made known."

"Alright. Thank you, Bob. We're going to go back to the Situation Room, here, for a moment..."

* * *

They say that Japan is as close as you can get to being off the planet without actually leaving it. If that's true, then the world-famous Harajuku district, in Tokyo, must be the launching pad.

The real blastoff doesn't happen until Sunday, when every grey-faced wage slave with a few Yen to scrape together for a cool costume will be down at the park, pretending to be something they're not. But until then, there's always the crazy fashion shops and unique boutiques, selling their wares to the dedicated and curious alike.

And there's also the bars and cafes, each dedicated to a different subsect: bars where everyone dresses like anime characters, coffee houses for "blackface" players, rockabilly diners -- anything you could imagine. There's even a bar that caters to people who like to dress up like the Imago, though the clientele are being a little circumspect, today.

Which is why it's not so outrageous to find a SPYGOD PLACE, here, in spite of everything that's happened in the last year.

It's a dark, 50's-style bar, serving drinks and food they stole from the menu of the nearest rockabilly establishment. It's full of posters of SPYGOD, the COMPANY, the Liberty Patrol, and the Freedom Force in action, and features fairly decent replicas of their costumes up on the walls, and special gadgets and weapons under glass behind the bar. The staff dress like COMPANY Agents from the 50's, and the clientele dress as Strategic Talents, supervillains, science terrorists, famous enemy agents, and the like.

(Their number one selling t-shirt has a freeze frame of SPYGOD shooting the President, with the phrase GET YOU THE HOT BULLETS TO DIE!!! on it. Available in white, black, and pink; sizes S, M, L.)

Tonight, the bar is quite packed. There's a party going on at one of the central tables, and the normal customers are quite in awe of how good their costumes are. If they didn't know any better, they'd swear that SPYGOD, himself, was sitting at the table, along with the President he shot. But that's just impossible, surely.

(Conversely, they have no idea who the other people at the table are. Two Indians, some scruffy-dressed big guy with a large beard, a black man in a nice suit, and some insane-looking old, white guy in weird prescription eyeglasses? It must be some international group from a nearby university, out for a drink or something.)

"You always take us to the nicest places, SPYGOD," Mikhail grunts, downing what must be his third bloody mary: "Are you certain we are safe here?"

"Safe as !@#$ing houses," SPYGOD replies, knocking down a beer and gesturing to the server to set everyone up again: "Everyone here just thinks we're !@#$ing re-enactors. And that big !@#$ black box in the center of the table's scrambling our conversations and turning them into Japanese conversation. So far as anyone outside the table knows, we're talking !@#$ about our professors."

"Clever," Khalil says, wishing he could remember what he needed to tell SPYGOD: "Is that one of your devices, then?"

"It's courtesy of our friends at Ju Kikan," the President says: "And before anyone asks -- no, they will not be joining us, tonight. They're willing to do a deal with us, but I think they're not sure about you all, yet."

"Feh," Dosha Josh says: "It's not unusual. The leader of Ku Kikan hardly ever came to our little meetings, either. I don't think he trusted us. Not completely."

"The infamous Mister 9," Mikhail says, raising his empty glass to his memory: "The Tsar is dead. Long live the Tsar."

"So what are you wanting to talk to us about, then?" Dr. Krwi asks, regarding his straw-wrapped bottle of barenjager: "Is there something we can do for you?"

"Yes, there is," the President says, looking at each man in turn: "SPYGOD tells me that each of you is still in touch with what's left of your countries' real governments. And that some of them are in touch with what's left of their allies. I'm going to want to talk to them, fairly soon, about what we're going to do once the Imago are done."

The men all fall silent, look at one another, and then look back at him.

"You have to be joking," Dosha says: "With all respect, sir... do you have any idea how far underground they are right now? I'm barely in contact-"

"No one in Poland is worth a !@#$," Krwi sighs: "Worse than the Communists at this point."

"I'm not even going to get into how bad things are in my country," Khalil sighs. 

"And as for Russia, well..." Mikhail says, casting a look in SPYGOD's direction: "We still do not have a full understanding of what has happened there."

"Neither do I, come to think of it," the President says, giving SPYGOD a look.

"Look, you all !@#$ing knew it was coming around," SPYGOD says, getting his beer and smiling at the ersatz Agent who gives it to him: "And after everything we've learned and done, recently, it's got to be sooner rather than later. !@#$, it's starting now, in case you didn't see the news from Neo York City. And right now, we're the ones who are spearheading this !@#$ing thing."

"Which 'we' do you mean?" Dr. Krwi asks: "We at this table? We and our countries?"

"He means we, as in America," the President says, pointing to the two of them. 

"It is always nice to know the Americans are in charge," Khalil sighs.

"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "And do you know why we're in charge? Because we're the ones who are !@#$ing getting !@#$ done. Always have been, in case you didn't !@#$ing notice. You all are too busy !@#$ing arguing and debating, and by the time you've got a !@#$ idea hammered out we've already beaten back the !@#$ thing and taken its skull. And then you complain our troops are getting fresh with your hookers-"

"I might just be leaving, now," Dosha says, gesturing to Anil, who nods and makes ready to teleport them out of there.

"That's not the point, here, Dosha," the President says, leaning forward and raising a hand: "We don't want this to be unilateral. We want this to be a group effort. It has to be. If we take the point on this, we might win the war, but we're going to screw up the peace and the reconstruction really badly. Especially if we have to do some of the things we may have to do."

"Such as what?" Dr. Krwi asks.

"I think you know," SPYGOD says, having a pull on his beer. 

Dr. Krwi looks at the President, and then SPYGOD. Then he puts down his drink, and crosses himself. The others look at him funny, but no one cares to elaborate.

"So are we all gonna share the !@#$ responsibility, risk, and reward on this, or are you all gonna make !@#$ing excuses about not being able to find your leaders and their friends, and then complain that America !@#$ed it up, again?" SPYGOD asks: "Because I don't have the !@#$ time to hear excuses, gentlemen. We're !@#$ing meeting with Mister 10 tomorrow. We're !@#$ing putting the final big !@#$ plan into action not long thereafter.

"And when it goes off, we're gonna need everyone on board for what happens next."

"Especially after you do what you're going to do," Dr. Krwi says.

"What I might have to do," SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "I'm hoping we can !@#$ing circumvent that."

"Does someone want to say what this something is?" Mikhail asks.

"Not really, no," the President says, looking at SPYGOD: "If we're lucky, it won't come to that."

"My people swear they can knock them out without having to do it," SPYGOD says: "But there is something we are going to have to do, gentlemen. And it's a doozy."

He holds up a piece of paper and shows the whole group. Dr. Krwi puzzles over it and shrugs. Everyone else's jaws drop to the table.

"You would not," Mikhail says.

"I did not think it existed," Khalil says: "I thought it was only a myth..."

"It is no myth," Dosha says: "it is very real. And if you press it-"

"When I press it," the President says: "It will deprive the enemy of their greatest asset on this planet. It will give the people their freedom and their minds back."

"And it will set this planet back decades," Mikhail sighs: "Mister President, there must be another way."

"Then talk to your leaders, tell them what we're up against, and ask them to find another solution," the President says, taking the paper from SPYGOD and thumping it down on the table: "Because from where I'm sitting? It's an unavoidable casualty of war."

And then there is silence at the table in the SPYGOD PLACE.

* * *

Ladies and gentlemen of the world, your attention please.

I am a man of few words, and so I shall keep this message short and to the point.

You may not remember me, though I am something of a legend amongst certain circles. 

But from here on out, when you hear the name Doctor Kyklops, I hope it will be held in the highest of esteem.

The reason for this is simple. I am about to conquer the world.

Now, I am certain you may be asking yourselves "What of the Imago? Do they not now rule?"

And you would be right to ask that. 

But I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: "What of the Imago?"

Oh, they may seem scary. They may have the numbers and the power. They have have taken control of certain key services and the like.

But I? I have decades of experience in this sort of thing, whereas they only just arrived.

I also possess an army the likes of which they have never seen, nor ever reckoned with.

And finally? I have the iron will necessary to do this. The will to take on the entire world.

The will to power.

Before that, their might is nothing.

And so begins the war. 

As you hear these words, my army is flying towards their space elevator, and will tear it from the ground and fling it at them. All who stand before them shall be crushed. All who stand with the Imago will die.

Your best chance to survive is to stay inside. You have my word that no one who submits will be harmed in the slightest. 

My rule will be fair but firm... but we can speak of this when victory is mine.

For now, stay indoors, and pray to what gods you call yours. Today is the war. Tomorrow, the victory. 

And after that, the world is mine.

(SPYGOD is listening to SEQ666 P.U.L.S.E. (Front 242) and having a Scorpion Death Rock)

10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 3

10/9/12

"Just leave me," the Black Card says, groaning in the passenger seat of the van as he tries to keep his insides from plopping out into his lap: "That's an order, kid... leave me..."

"Like !@#$ i will," Whisper says, gritting her teeth and swerving the vehicle any which way it will go to keep just ahead of the bullets. The good news is that, at this time of day, 25 going into Manhattan isn't chock-full of commuters. The bad news is that it's far from deserted, and there's going to be a rolling tailback any second now, coming back from the bridge.

And even if it doesn't materialize, there's still the !@#$ bridge, itself.

She isn't even bothering to look in the rear view mirror, anymore. She knows what she'll see there: every black car in Queens -- all full of angry goombas, all armed to the !@#$ teeth and beyond, and all wanting a piece of them for what they just did.

"Stupid," she mutters for the tenth time since the op they went on this morning ended in a monumental !@#$-up. Stupid for not planning this better. Stupid for not having a real exit strategy. Stupid for not doing a million different things, or making a million different decisions.

Stupid for getting sloppy and soft, and trusting too much in chance and luck, and believing that they couldn't even be scratched by their enemies.

Stupid, pure and simple. And now she was going to die, and take the whole !@#$ world with her.

* * *

All she had to do was fail to kill someone. How hard could that be?

The five Families were having a meeting, that morning. They were going to be deciding what to do about this Imago situation. They tried to hand out an olive branch, back in May, after the President was executed, but were told that they were an "unfortunate anachronism, and one that would shortly be rectified."

At least, that's what the sole surviving member of their delegation said that they said. There may have been more things said, but after what they did to the four other people who accompanied him, this rather hard fellow -- well-known for his barely-checked brutality -- would rather sit in his room and drink himself into oblivion than elaborate.

And that said all that needed to be said about their attitude towards the Families.

So, after a few months of having only a black market to work with, and finding it hard to compete with various other organizations, they were hurting. The money was drying up, and -- between those other organizations fighting for turf, and the efforts of "that crazy !@#$ing vigilante" --  the body count was getting high. The soldiers were scared, the lieutenants were grumbling, and decisive action was needed to maintain order and discipline.

Hence the meeting, which was held in a back room of the best-protected home of the oldest and most powerful member of the most influential Family, who was also the least rational of the bunch. There, behind strong walls and sound-baffling devices, the five men of influence would have a good meal, and debate whether to throw in with their rivals, serve them up to the Imago, or pursue other avenues of revenue.

(They were also going to talk about the crazy vigilante, though that might wait until dessert turned to drinks. No one wanted to talk about him sober.)

Such a meeting was supposed to be hit-proof. The special room was in the best reinforced house that millions of dollars in blood money could buy, complete with total surveillance packages. They had all their muscle -- some enhanced, some just !@#$ good, some both -- inside and outside the house, watching for anything out of the ordinary. They had a secure perimeter, with armed men walking around the trees and bushes in an endless circuit. They even had a psychic or two, lounging outside the secure room and waiting to feel the build-up of negative vibes that would indicate a bullet about to be fired their way.

But nothing ever truly is hit-proof. Not in this day and age, anyway.

Not when you have a very special sniper rifle that fires straight and sure up to a mile away. Not when you have bullets that can go through mega-armored alien spaceships, to say nothing of wood, brick, and steel. Not when you have a sight that can see though such things as though they weren't there.

And certainly not when you have, as a last ditch effort, a remote-controlled car bomb that can turn an entire city block into dust and toothpicks, to say nothing of someone's fancy estate house.

So that was the plan, at least as far as Black Card understood it. Sit a little under mile away, shoot the five heads of the lesser families, one by one, and then drive by to shoot out their cars -- just to say "!@#$ you," and leave no doubt in anyone's mind who was responsible.

That was the plan, at least as far as Black Card understood it. But Whisper had a different understanding.

And now he's dying because of it.

* * *

A hail of bullets fly through the back of the van, shattering the windshield. Thankfully, the walls behind their seats are armored against such things, but having flying glass rake across her face, followed by rushing wind, makes driving just that much more interesting.

Black Card's gone unconscious again, so she punches him in the shoulder, right at a nerve cluster. He shouts at the pain and starts forward, and then goes back to holding his insides in.

"No sleeping, soldier!" she commands, hanging a quick left and trying to get over to the inside lane: "You're staying with me, got it?"

"Let me just take them out with me..." he begs: "I'm not gonna !@#$ing make it..."

"You will."

"I won't."

"!@#$ that !@#$. You are living though this."

"Honey, I-"

"It's Whisper, you son of a !@#$," she hisses, trying not to cry: "It's Whisper when I'm working."

"You call this working?" he says. It's a moment or two before she realizes it was as close as he comes to a joke, but by then he's started laughing. It's dark and unsettling, and there's blood coming from his nose as he does.

And that's when she realizes that this old, barely-sane soldier she made the mistake of falling in love with is going to die, after all. 

* * *

"How are we on time?" he'd asked as they lay atop the van, just over a mile east from the house they were aiming at. There's a special tarp draped over them: one that keeps them cool and masked from electronic surveillance. 

And, given the power of the weapon they're about to use, they don't even have to have the barrel of the gun poking out from under it.

"Just fine," she'd said, delicately adjusting the sight, and smiling to see how clear the targets were: "This is a really nice !@#$ing piece. Where did you get it?"

"Friend of an enemy of an ally," he says, putting a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes: "These came with it. I can see what you see."

"Now there's a scary thought," she says, chuckling to avoid cursing. This changes things, and not for the better.

"I like to see things through your eyes," he replies. And she knows what he means.

She smiles and snuggles a little closer to him, in spite of it all. He doesn't move closer, but he doesn't move away, either. He just stays there, solid and warm. 

Comforting in his trust. 

And she realizes that, in less than ten minutes, she's going to break that trust open like a stepped-on egg. That makes her wince, just a little, but she does her best to mask it.

"All five of them in three seconds," he says: "Can you do it?"

"Oh yeah," she says, watching them all come into the room and get ready to sit down: "Just waiting for the first course to be served. I always wanted to blow someone's brains into their caprese..."

* * *

The muscle is ramming the back of their van, now. Another car is trying to move alongside, either to get ahead of them or slam them into the side of the road, which is the risk she took getting over to the left. But at least now she doesn't have to worry about two vulnerable sides.

The car to her immediate right is a massive, green SUV with a clearly panicked family inside. They can't get out of the lane they're in to save their lives, and every time they speed up or slow down Whisper matches their speed, just to keep them from giving the car behind them the opening they need to get alongside.  

She feels bad for the family (mother, father, two children in the back) but cannot help them; they have to stay where they are or else the bastards will have an open field of fire on the right side of the van. And if they do, they'll hit Black Card.

The old man wakes up with each jolt, cursing and growling at the pain. She'd hand him a gun to fire back but he'd need both hands, and then he'd unwind all over himself and bleed out faster. 

And she needs both hands on the wheel.

"!@#$ it !@#$ it !@#$ it !@#$" she curses, wishing she could toss a grenade out the back, or shoot back, or anything.

The bridge looms ahead. There may be a tailback coming their way. If they stop, they are both dead. 

But even if they make it over the bridge, there's no guarantee they won't be dead, there, too. She has no idea if the people she's really been working for, all this time, are going to uphold their end of the deal.

All that she knows is that she's got a mission, and there's more than just her life at stake, here.

* * *

"It's really simple, Whisper," the masked and hooded man had told her, not long after she woke up from that coma and escaped from that hospital: "We need you to do something for us."

"What's in it for me?" she'd asked, doing her best to not act scared by the man or his weird friend. She didn't feel like she was succeeding, though. The fact that they'd just teleported into the hotel room she'd gotten was one thing, but the fact that they'd apparently traced the virgin fake ID she'd rescued from her New Jersey drop box made her distinctly unnerved. 

(She'd only been using it for 24 hours, and already they'd found her? What was up with that !@#$?)

"For you, not a whole lot," the man had said, gesturing that she should sit down in the chair by the bed, which she did. (She'd hidden a gun nearby, after all.)

"My life, then?" she'd asked, smiling at him.

"No," the weird fellow had said, his voice sounding like it came from deep underwater: "That is not ours to give or to take."

"Well, that's a !@#$ comfort-" she'd started to say, but then the masked fellow had handed her an old photograph, and her face fell to see it. 

In the photo was an older man. He was square-jawed and grizzled, and had a look in his eyes like the best parts of his humanity had been torn out of him with pliers. He looked as though he was going to murder the camera for the sin of merely existing.

And she knew that man all too well.

"You worked with the Black Card once," the masked man had said: "Italy. Ten years ago. He was taking out certain illegal business interests, right at the root. You were part of the team he put together to do it. And you two were the only survivors."

"Yes," she'd said, handing the photo back: "We worked very well together. And if you want me to kill him, then you just !@#$ off-"

"That's not what we want," the man had replied, sitting down on the bed and looking her in the eyes: "We want you to go to where he's holed up, in Neo York City, and join him in his crusade. He's taking full advantage of the bad spot the Imago have put organized crime into, and it's only a matter of time before he overextends himself and they get him. We want you to keep him safe, and keep him grounded."

"Why?" she'd asked, looking between the man and the other one: "Do you approve of his war?"

"We need him to keep being successful," the man had replied.

"And when the right moment comes, we need it to fail," the strange one had commented: "We need you to make it fail."

"Why the !@#$ would I do that?"

"To save the world," the masked man had told her. 

And then he'd explained how.

* * *

A tailback. !@#$. She has no choice, now. 

She moves the van over exactly half a lane, pushing the SUV out of the way as she does. There's a crash and a smash as it hits another car in another lane, followed by the accusing sound of someone's horn blaring. It fades away as she leaves the scene of the crime, reminding her of a little brother threatening to tattle as he runs home.

And as she gets past the smash-up, she accelerates the van as fast as it will go, honking her horn and hoping that the big cars and trucks get the !@#$ out of her way, because she's coming right up the middle. 

The first hits are the worst, and actually slow her down. For a terrifying second, she thinks she's going to stop, anyway. In spite of all the weight and reinforced metal this van is packing, it might actually stop. 

But then the muscle behind her slams into her back bumper, forcing her forward into the mashed up crunches of metal, plastic, and glass that used to be a Civic and a Firebird. And then her forward momentum is carrying her on to the next two cars. 

And the next.

And the next.

And the next...

Before long, the people up ahead see what's coming their way and do their best to squeeze out of hers. This makes things go a lot better, as well as faster. And now the muscle has to follow her in a single-file line, down the highway, and they can't shoot over or through each other.

She realizes she's on the bridge, now. She's almost to the island. Almost home. 

She might just make it. This just might work. 

* * *

"What the !@#$ do you mean the gun jammed?" Black Card had shouted as they leaped from the top of the van and ran into it.

"I don't !@#$ing understand it, either," she'd lied, knowing full well that she'd tampered with the fifth bullet so that it wouldn't fire. She'd waited until the five targets were lined up in such a way that she could go from left to right, killing each one in turn until she got to the last one, and then leaving him alive.

That was the real plan, after all. 

"Well, get the !@#$ car bomb moving," he'd said, strapping himself into the passenger seat and getting his gun ready to go: "Have it follow us about a block back. I'll fire at the guards and toss the cards. And then the bomb'll take care of the survivor."

"That it will," she'd lied, knowing full well that the bomb was a, like the last bullet, a total dud. 

The real plan was that she'd leave the least sane and rational Family head alive. They would drive by, shoot them up, and speed away. And rather than be sensible and stay back, the head would most likely order all his muscle to chase after them -- right into the !@#$ing city if necessary -- because he was that sort of guy.

And that is exactly what she was counting on, as that was what the plan called for. 

What she didn't expect, however, was that when they rushed past the mansion, and Black Card put his mask on, opened his sliding door, and started firing at the muscle as they scrambled this way and that to look for the snipers, that someone would be ready and waiting to shoot back.

But there he was, right at the front door: Giuseppe "Madman" Mandino, head of the Mandino crime family, and total sociopath, covered in his fellow heads' brains and blood and holding the sort of gun you don't see every day.

And aiming it right at her partner. 

Before she knew what was happening, the old, !@#$-eyed mobster was firing back at her partner. And then she could see daylight through the back of Black Card's abdomen.

The only reason the bullets didn't kill her is because they went right through her window, trailing bits of his intestines and kidneys with them. And when he collapsed into his seat, holding what was left of his variety meats with his hands, she realized how badly she'd !@#$ed up.

And how badly they needed a miracle.

* * *

"!@#$ yeah!" she shouts, riding a spike of pure adrenalin as they get halfway across the water: "Almost there, hon! Almost there!"

"What's waiting...?" he asks: "Get the doc, yet?"

"Not yet," she says, wondering why she didn't think to call their favorite blackmailed sawbones, yet. Was she just that busy dodging black cars and brutal thugs, or did she realize there was no point?

(He looks terrible. He's not going to make it. She knows this, and it's breaking her heart.)

From somewhere in the distance, she can hear a police siren. Is it for them? Is it up ahead or following behind?

A couple more shots are fired into the back of their van. The metal behind them takes it. The windshield's already gone. The bullets will reach Manhattan before they do.

"Just a little more," she begs the van: "Please just-"

More shooting. A bang. The sick lurching as the wheel decides to do something that she doesn't want it to, and they almost ram right into one of the cars that's gotten out of their way before she gets it under control.

The tires. They've finally done the smart thing and started aiming for the tires.

"!@#$!" she screams, wishing she could toss that grenade out the back, but knowing if she does then the plan fails and this is all for nothing.

She has to get to the island. Manhattan. All she has to do is get there and-

Another shot. Another bang. The other tire.

The wheel lurches the other way. Now she doesn't have to fight to keep it in a straight line, anymore. But they're shredding rubber and running on the rims, and their momentum is slowed down to half of what it was.

If they hit another car they're going to stop. If they stop they're dead.

If they stop, they've failed.

* * *

Italy, ten years ago. It was her and Black Card in the burning warehouse, backs to a wooden crate and down to half a clip apiece. 

The other three mercs were dead. The people who killed them were out there, in the fire, and not afraid of it. In fact, they were !@#$ing laughing. 

It took the two of them a second, but they realized their breathing was synchronized. They also realized that they were holding hands.

He looked at her. She  looked at him. 

"Thank you," he said.

"What for?"

"For this."

"You're paying me for this."

"Not for all of it."

"No,"  she said, smiling: "Not all of it."

They leaned in and kissed, then -- full and deep. A warrior's kiss. The last mark of love and respect two such persons can give one another before the end. 

"I'll go left," he told her, between kisses.

"I'll go right," she told him, biting his lip as he pulled away.

"If you're not at the boat in ten minutes..."

"I'll leave without you."

They looked at each other, and smiled. And then they got up and did what they said they would. Perfectly.

All the way to the mainland, on the boat, she wondered if he'd died, back there, or if he'd just drawn their fire so she could get away. 

She watched the island burn until the dawn.

* * *

"Come on..." she growls, stomping down on the gas as hard as it will go and laying on the horn. Some !@#$head in a jeep isn't getting the message. He's on his cell phone and not paying !@#$ing attention.

"!@#$ you," she mutters, knowing that the burning rubber smell isn't just coming from the back wheels, but from the vents, too. The engine is overheating. When's the last time they changed the oil? Will it hold together?

The jeep isn't getting out of the way. They're so close, yet so far.

"!@#$ you!" she screams: "!@#$ you!"

"Love you, too..." Black Card whispers, eyes closed and drooling blood. He has no idea where they are or what's going on.

She reaches out to take his hand. He squeezes it, and maybe his eyes flicker open for just a second.

"It was worth it..." he whispers as something snaps under the hood and the engine starts juddering: "All of it."

"All of it," she replies just before they hit the jeep.

And then-

(SPYGOD is listening to Juanita/Kiteless/To Dream of Love (Underworld) and having a Moretti)

9/24/12 - Shapeless in the Dark Again - Pt. 2

Unseen and unheard, the mysterious pair move across the world. They watch, they listen, and they consider, and then they either act or do not.

And with that decision, they are gone, and on to their next stop.

* * *

In Neo York City, right around 2:30 in the afternoon, they observe several different groups of people, almost at once.

They begin by looking in on a large band of those undocumented souls who make the technotropolis, itself, their home. These "Free," who live off the city's offered nourishment, and nestle in its warm and quiet corners, have weathered the last six months with hardly any interference from the Imago. It would seem that, as they have turned their back on the general program of the world, those who currently oversee that world have next to no use for them, and therefore no concern.

Clearly, that was a mistake on their part, for the Free's seeming disinterest is merely a front. They actually do care about the world they appear to have turned their back on, and they have proven this by willingly taking refugees into their care for the time being.

Small people with big problems, mostly: those who asked too many questions, or heard the wrong answers, or were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there are also those who did and said things considered antithetical to the new regime. The free thinkers and loud talkers, internet outlaws and rogue pamphleteers, graffiti provocateurs and park proclaimers -- all marked for a visit from the Imago, and all mysteriously vanished just before they could get there.

It's almost as if they knew the metal men were coming.

As they watch the motley, raggedy band, moving deep into the catacombs and forgotten sub-basements of the old city -- the parts not gifted with mind and movement by the Compuconqueror -- the group stops at a large junction of strangely dry tunnels, and one of them consults her old, silver pocketwatch.

"Any minute now," the older woman says, taking a careful step back, as though she could feel something coming. A second  later, the place she was standing comes alive with electrical fire and strange crackling, and their hair stands right up on end as a massive hole opens up in the invisible fabric of the world.

Their air goes wooshing into the hole, which looks to be someplace sunny and warm. Figures walk through from the other end: men and women and children, all wide-eyed and nervous, and some of them quite scared for their lives.

At the front of the band is a youngish, stern-looking figure, dressed in black leather armor and sporting a rakish eyepatch. The back of his shaved head is a ruin of scars, wires, and ridged tubes, and he's carrying a gun that looks way too large for him to handle.

The woman with the watch sees him approach, and then walks up to kiss him -- hard and with what appears to be relief.

"How goes the front lines, embedded ?" she asks him, a breathless few seconds later.

"Not good," Randolph sighs, looking around: "This is all we could salvage from Van Nuys. Everyone else who survived was picked up for questioning."

She looks at him, taking his dark meaning, and nods, looping a hand around his waist as she turns to the crowd: "Folks? Don't worry. You're safe, now. These people with me will help you. Go with them, please."

They look to her, then to the smiling people who have come to greet them. Finally, one of their number extends a hand in trust, and the others follow suit.

"I have to get back," Randolph says, looking at the hole: "Things are about to go down. We heard from You Know Who, finally."

"Orders, huh?" she chuckles, kissing him again: "I always loved a man in uniform."

"I always !@#$ing hated taking orders."

"You give them very well."

"Yeah..." he sighs, looking at the gun: "Funny old !@#$ world, huh?"

"Do you think there will be more after this?"

"Wayfinder can't see that far in advance. But I figure there's going to be a lot of evacuations before this is all over. Especially to here."

"We'll be waiting," she says, giving him a last kiss goodbye: "Tell Jess I said hi, and tell the kids I'm making them the best hummus ever when this is over."

"I will," he says, and then, with one last squeeze, he walks away and back into the hole. He turns around to look at her just before it closes, and then, with the whooshing of air, she's all alone.

"You're watching," she says to the chamber: "Aren't you?"

"Yes," the older-sounding member of the pair says, choosing to make himself visible as well.

"I don't know whether to thank you or punch you," she says, not turning to look at him: "This has been heaven. But now..."

"You knew what was coming," the one with the echoey voice says, not choosing to make himself visible: "We gave you a choice. You chose this."

"Don't I know it," she says, not wanting them to see her cry: "But was this really my choice? Or was this something else?"

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other," the older one sighs: "I wish I could tell you more, but..."

"But there are no words for this sort of thing," she sighs: "Yeah, you told me that, too."

"Is there anything... I know, that's not much, but-"

"You tell him I loved him, when this is done," she insists, turning around to look the man in the face: "You tell him to never forget that I loved him. And you do every !@#$ing thing you can to make sure he's happy, after this."

"I will," the one with the echoey voice says: "You may rely on that."

"Thank you," she says, closing her eyes. By the time she's opened them, they're both gone.

And the woman walks away, wishing only that the last time she and Randolph were together could have lasted forever. 

 * * *

That done, the pair check in on two more people, neither of whom are all that easy to find.

* * *

The first one is hidden in a secret compartment within the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., hiding out from the Imago and False Faces that are stationed there, trying to make sense of its many strange and dangerous secrets. Unfortunately for them, he's been watching them almost non-stop since they entered, and takes a great deal of pride in letting them get only so far, and then yanking the prize right out of their hands. 

Hunched over a hastily-built conglomeration of viewscreens and consoles, down in a small vault that doesn't show up anywhere in the schematics, Benjamin Franklin -- Founding Father, inventor, genius, politician, diplomat, spymaster, and apparently-immortal sex god -- chuckles and eats popcorn by the handful. 

He's currently watching a gaggle of False Faces try and disconnect a rather strange-looking weapon from one of the downstairs armories. He's already planned a few nasty consequences for them when they do get it out, but he's not so concerned about that, right now. 

What he's really interested in is the code he's been working on, in the last few days, after he got word that SPYGOD had gotten back in contact, and that things were soon to be on the move. When that movement happens, his part of the plan will involve a larger, longer, and much stronger version of the virus he unleashed on the American people last June.

It wasn't perfect, and didn't achieve all that he'd hoped, but a lot of people did a number of interesting things in that precious twenty seconds of free thought he'd given them. Who knows what they might do with a whole !@#$ hour?

Of course, the humorless metal bastards adapted and overcame his attempts at patriotic sabotage, so he's not completely sure his hack will go as well as he hopes. But if the plan's what he thinks it is, it's more than likely they'll have many other problems on their mind when he flips the switch. 

And after that, their problems will really begin.

There's a shudder and a thump that's felt all over The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, and the screen in the armory he was watching goes blank. Ben laughs through a mouthful of popcorn, wishing he had someone cute and well-proportioned to share this moment of triumph with, and then gets back to work on the code.

Partway through a troubling line, the silver-handed member of the pair waves in Mr. Franklin's direction, and suddenly he realizes that he's been coming at the problem from the wrong way around. Cursing his own stupidity, he immediately starts making feverish changes to the code, seeing that he could do so much more than he'd hoped...

* * *

The second person isn't easy to find either, but only because the older man and his young apprentice/rival/lover are hiding in plain sight, today. 

They're in Queens, again, parked on a dingy, wreck-choked back alley, just a little down the way from a small, Korean restaurant that's been out of business for a few months, now. No one's paying much attention to their van, as it's just another junky-looking vehicle, and for all they know he bought her for an hour and this is where he'd like to get his !@#$ sucked.

"So after we do these !@#$ers, who's next?" Whisper asks, checking her gun just one more time: "The Russians? The Chinese?"

"I was thinking of looking back at the Mafia," The Black Card says, his voice as rough as flint as he checks his watch: "They're probably organized, again."

"After what we !@#$ing did to them?"

"Especially after," he says, looking at her with a little smile: "This is what they do. You cut them to bits, you walk away, and then the bits reform again. It's one big, bloody cycle."

"Like starfish, huh?"

"What?"

"Starfish. You chop them up and toss 'em in a bag, and everyone's pieces will go right on each other."

"Really?" he just looks at her, like she said hat the rain was actually a host of angels taking a !@#$ shower.

"Yeah, really. You mean you lived right by the side of the Ocean for all these years and you've never known that?"

"Don't really have time for strolling the boardwalk," he says, looking at his watch again.

"No, I guess not," she says, reaching over and taking his hand in hers. He sighs, and lets her do it.

"I love you," he says, for the first time that they've known each other.

"I love you too," she lies, not knowing if he knows what this is really all about or not.

But then the explosion happens, and the restaurant's front and sides are all over the road. And then she's out of the van, guns ready to execute anyone who runs out the back. And then he's right beside her, wearing his black, Ace of Spades mask and grinning like a hungry tiger. 

The pair of observers watch from up high as the two of them gun down a number of panicked, badly-burned Korean mobsters that come running out the back. Somewhere in there, they see to it that the old man doesn't have the time to even suspect that the woman who's sharing his crusade, his trust, and his bed could have yet another ulterior motive. 

And then they're off, again, leaving the two killers to do what they do best. 

* * *

They also drop down to Washington DC, to look in on two other people who have no real business being in the same bed, much less the same space.

Indeed, their close (some would say "intimate") proximity to one another is causing severe problems in the local area. The spiritual distortions they give off have caused their apartment building to start crumbling apart like an early snowman caught in the rain. Its exterior walls are rotting from the inside, its hallways are so damp they're turning to paste, and its wiring going malevolently bad. 

Only some dark miracle is keeping it from collapsing around itself, and maybe that's being done for those few mortals who yet remain. Most of the other tenants moved out shortly after the couple moved in, all fleeing some unseen dread. And those who have stayed are slowly going insane, beset by disturbingly beautiful visions of a glorious world beyond this, or else catching truly horrible glimpses of the damnation that's awaiting them.

Sometimes both kinds at once.

Six months ago, these two beings entered into a bargain. They did so at the prompting of SPYGOD, himself, who said that they might need to change the rules of a certain long game, if they were to head off a massive problem down the road. His proposal was long on orders and short on explanations, but, after their mutual dealings with the man, they were both willing to extend a little trust.

So a deed was done, and a change made, however subtly. Now they are simply waiting for the expected change to come, and with it the moment they've been waiting for. And it would seem that neither of them handles waiting too well.

Aarondiel pretends to sleep in their bed, wrapped around a pillow, presenting himself to the open door. He knows that his roommate will eventually come in, away from his self-imposed punishment, and want to do something to take him mind off of how badly they've !@#$ed things up. And then, after doing the deed, he'll feel terrible again, and want to leave the room and take his mind off what they've done.

The cycle has been well-established by now. Neither of them expects anything else to happen, here. And it will be like this until their plan comes to fruition, and they can finally leave this sour-smelling room. 

The one with the old voice wishes there was something he could say. He wants so much to be able to tell one or both of them what they should do, now. He wishes he could be a comfort, now that they need it most, and give them a warning well ahead of the looming danger they face.

He wishes he could do these things, but he knows he cannot. And with that sadness, he and his companion leave.

* * *

They make several more stops, after that -- of them fairly brief.

Most of them are young men and women who have but one thing in common, and that is that they had cause to be visited by SPYGOD in the past, and were sent in new life directions as a result of it. Some of them are good, and some are not so good, but all of the ones the pair look in on have been keeping to their part of the bargain.

So far as their family, friends, and neighbors know, none of them is extraordinary in any way, shape, or form. And if even their closest companions have no idea of the miracles stewing beneath their ordinary facades, then the Imago have even less of an idea. 

Which is exactly what concerns the pair as they take each person into account, and wave a hand to ensure they stay quiet, hidden, and alive -- at least for now.

They also visit the members of the Freedom Force, who are all wondering what to make of SPYGOD's last, quite perfunctory communication. Some think they know what he means, and some are as baffled as ever, but they are all ready to move when he gives the word.

And ready to die, if the cause be right and just.

They take the time to visit a young man with big ideas, great techniques, and a terrible secret. They watch him send secret messages back and forth with a mentally unbalanced robot who's locked herself into a very bad position for a truly horrible reason.

They don't know whether to laugh or cry at what they see, there, but they're both content that what's happening is what needs to happen, now. With heavy hearts, they leave the two schemers to their plots and plans, and go on to something much nicer, and yet sadder than either of them could express.

* * *

Across a dimensional barrier, they walk, and end up in a strange, cyclopean treehouse, currently under attack by winged dinosaurs. In the confusion of sad battle -- for none of those poor creatures will live through this day -- they walk, observing numerous persons as they do.

They see two people who are not in love, but need each other so very brightly. His new-found strength keeps her from breaking, and her affections give him a purpose beyond riding the wave of all this slaughter, horror, and upheaval.

It will end, soon, this affair, but the pair of watchers need do nothing about that. One morning, soon, she will awaken to a memory that she has avoided facing, and realize there is nothing about it that can harm her now. When she tells the others, it will change everything, and the affair will come to its natural conclusion.

They also see a man in love who cannot express it. Perhaps it is best if he does not do so, at this time, but rather lets it burn his soul and inspire his actions. One of them almost makes that love vanish altogether, just in case it gets in the way of something else, but the other advises caution. Uncertain, they leave this chip to fall where it may. 

They see other heroes, here, brought from many lands and lives to work together on one great purpose. Some of them are doomed, some are not. Some of them will live with honor, some will die in fear.

The best of them is not easy to spot, given his predilection for remaining quiet and hidden. They would like to appear and tell him of what he must do, and how important it is that he do it. But he already knows, this Green Man, and maybe it's best to not spook him any more than he's already been.

(Conversely, the worst amongst the group is very easy to spot, given that one's condition. But as much as they'd like to stop that person, now, before the terrible thing that will happen her can even begin, they know that this, too, is part of the plan.)

They end their visit with a young and broken boy in a hospital bed, who's praying to God for his family -- especially the father he's just now regained. Every day in here is a struggle to stay alive, as terrible infections wrack his body, and push his already-ruined systems even closer to the point of collapse, and yet he still thinks only of others, and what his absence will mean to them.

On his shoulders, so much depend. The older man places his hand on the boy's brow and prays over him, unseen and unheard, as his companion takes a few extra precautions, here and there around the room.

That done, the older man dries his eyes, and they leave. And when the young boy awakens, he may yet remember that he was touched by angels.

Or not.

* * *

"Do you wish to see her, again?" the silvery one asks the older one as they make their very last stop, out in a desert. It's just before Noon, here, and the wind is picking up a little.

"No," the older man says, shaking his head and adjusting his robes and mask: "If I did, I don't think I'd do this."

"You wouldn't?"

"No. I'd... I'd find some excuse. I'd try to get more time, again. More than I've already taken. And..."

"You deserve it," the silvery one says, putting a hand on the old man's shoulder: "You deserve so much. There are no words for what you have done, and what you are about to do."

"There is," the old man says, smiling under his mask and putting a hand on the other one's shoulder: "'Repentance.'"

"I think I am the one with something to repent for," the silvery one says: "But maybe we both needed each other, my friend."

"Maybe we did."

"I love you, old man," the silver one says, embracing him: "Thank you for what you've done."

"Thank you," the older man says: "I love you, too. God bless you, boy. Be strong. And when the time comes... you give them !@#$ for me, you hear? And then you go and make this world amazing, again."

"I will," the other one says, stepping back and away, his form starting to dissipate: "I am already there, now. I am many places at once. And in them all, you are guiding me. Thank you."

And with that, he's gone.

The older man sighs, wipes his eyes one last time, and then adjusts his robes and mask. He stands there for a time, wondering if the other person is going to come back, again, maybe for one last hug, or one last strange message, or fantastic errand.

(Maybe to find a way to give him one more day with her. One more hour. Or even a minute, precious and quick...)

But no. There is nothing. That is over, now.

And this? This has truly just begun.

"Just after I left,"  the masked leader of the resistance says, checking his watch as he goes into the Toon city, and gets ready to make war.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Hanging Garden (The Cure, Demo Version) and having something reverent and wide.)

9/17/12 - So Perfect As We All Fall Down

It's one in the morning, B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P 4 time, and Myron's lying in his room, looking at the ceiling, and trying to feel bad about what he and Winifred have just done.

It's not the first time this has happened. It's been three times, now, and each time he's told himself that it was a mistake, and they shouldn't have done this, and what was he thinking.

But then, once the day's done, and their work's completed, they're back here. They always say they're just going to watch some BSG and have some popcorn, but they don't even get through one fraking episode before they're tearing out of their clothes and tumbling into bed. 

He shouldn't be doing this, something in his mind tells him. He's more than twice her age. She's a !@#$ing teenager, for Christ's sake.

(And, yes, in her home state of Kentucky, she's legal at 16, but still...)

So he looks at the ceiling, maybe searching for the hand of a God he doesn't believe in, anymore, and tries to feel terrible for this. But try as he might, when he looks back down at her -- cuddled up against his side and snoring gently -- he can't feel that he's done anything wrong at all.

Does that make him a pervert, then? Some kind of pedophile? Is he going to the special hell for this?

He doesn't know. All he knows is that he really likes her, and she's special, and she's crazy in the sack (the best !@#$ of his life, to be honest) and while he knows that this probably won't last, it's good for now.

That and, for all he knows, the world might !@#$ing cave in on them, tomorrow, and who would be left to judge them for this?

Still.

"Send me a sign?" he whispers at the ceiling, wondering if the man with the long beard and stern countenance will be kind enough to send a clear, easy-to-understand memo as to whether he should keep letting this brilliant kid with great taste in TV shows -- and an awful secret she doesn't want to confide, yet -- ride him like a pony, late at night.

And something tells him that God isn't going to be that nice about complying.

* * *

The President sits at a desk in the apartment he's currently inhabiting, and cries quietly, watching his wife and children at their new home. 

The surveillance pad was supposed to make him feel better about things, and what he's had to do, recently. He knows that's how SPYGOD meant it, and he's grateful for the gesture. Really, truly grateful.

But as he watches his wife walk through the home she's been forced to live in, by the Imago, he can see that look in her eye: the one he's been dreading seeing. It's a certain, sagging tiredness that betrays how broken she is, inside -- both by his apparent assassination, all those months ago, and the fact that she's being kept on a leash by the things that now rule the world.

The children are sad, too, but they're clearly moving past it a lot faster than she is. They've just lost their father, and aren't really old enough to understand what's just happened to their world. 

Her? She's lost her lover. Her partner. Her best friend in the whole wide world. The father of her children, and the man she was going to spend her future with.

All gone with two shots of an impossible gun.

He wants to go to her, right !@#$ing now. He wants to fly there, to the armed camp for high-level prisoners they've turned Washington D.C. into, and get them all out of there. He wants to swoop in with guns he now knows exactly how to use, blast his way in there, and blow them all back out again.

He wants his wife back at his side, in his arms, in his bed. He wants his children to look him in the face and call him "daddy" again. 

He wants his !@#$ing life back.

But he can't have it. Not yet. Not now.

And he knows he has to wait, and he knows why it's the right thing. But !@#$ if it doesn't hurt worse than crawling naked over broken glass.

He should really just stop looking at this. He should turn it off. Better yet, he should throw it across the room and step on it a few times, just to be sure.

But he keeps watching and crying. He can't not. And !@#$ him for that.

And !@#$ SPYGOD for his kindness.

* * *

"Oh, that was just exquisite, my dear Scarlet Factotum," Doctor Kyklops says, wrapping a green silk robe around his grey but lithe frame with a magnificent flourish: "Perfectly exquisite. I have not had such pleasure from a business partner in quite some time."

METALMAID lies on the bed, staring up at his bedroom's massive, painted ceiling to avoid looking at him, and deciding what to say next. She decides the best thing to do is to be as dishonest as possible, given that she still needs this old, rich pervert for her plans.

"I am confused," she stammers, wondering how many times he needed to have himself painted on his !@#$ing ceiling: "I have never felt this way before, and I am unsure of what it means. Could it be that I am falling in love?"

"Oh, it's just possible," the old fellow says, farting as he goes over to a nearby, gold table and pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter: "I am told I have that effect on women."

"Well, they told you correctly," she says, rolling over and crossing her legs as seductively as she can, focusing on how nice it will be to feed him his own intestines while he's still alive enough to chew and swallow.

(She also debates whether to keep this exquisitely gaudy, Sardinian castle of his for her own purposes, or tear it apart, brick by brick, and fling it down into the Mediterranean Sea as a final revenge on this well-moneyed fool.)

"So, your company was most kind to send you along to, as they say, 'seal the deal,'" he says, turning to regard her as he brings over his drink (and not, she notes, offering her one): "Did they think I would pay faster?"

"They think you are a good customer in the making, and are exciting to be working with you on this venture."

"Ah, that is good to know," Kyklops lounges on the other side of the bed, regarding her: "I think I will be putting my plan into motion, soon. The recent events in Indonesia have revealed our conquerors to have feet of clay, and I do not wish for them to recover and rebuild."

"A wise maneuver."

"Of course it is, my dear," he winks: "I am an old hand at this game you know. Yes, I think I shall strike while they are still repairing their space elevator. And then..."

"And then?"

"And then," he knocks back his drink, tosses the doubtlessly-priceless crystal glass to shatter on the floor, and crawls back onto her, reinvigorated in all senses of the word: "The world shall be mine, your company shall have the privilege of arming its master.

"And you, my dear, shall be fortunate enough to serve my other, more baser needs..."

And as he sticks himself into her, yet again -- pulling her hair and grabbing her breasts so hard it's a wonder they don't snap off -- she closes her eyes and thinks of the money, and her own plan.

And she wonders where the Violet Demon is, and what he's doing tonight.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the lair she doesn't really have control over, anymore, Zalea Zathros is !@#$ing herself.

More correctly, five of her are !@#$ing each other. Another five are working on making more Slaughterbots for METALMAID. And the remaining five are watching television, eating junk food, and having a nap.

Such is the connection between the fifteen of them that they're all more or less aware of what's going on with one another at any given moment. The ones working smile as they receive pleasure, and occasionally chuckle or gasp along with the insipid Greek soap opera that's playing upstairs, on the landing. Those loving themselves gently discuss plot points and design details as they nibble and lick one another into a frenzy. And those before the television languidly close their eyes every so often, and shudder with shared orgasms, or make a mental list of things they'll have to do when it's their turn at the lathe and soldering iron.

This is Zalea Zathros' signature achievement: a fully functioning hivemind, spread across a potentially infinite number of clones. A clone might die or be injured, but the overmind continues to function without cease. And should all but one be destroyed, that one would assume all knowledge and experience, and then be able to generate more clones from itself.

It is her dream made flesh, this life without limits. She would have made a gift of this blessed state of being to the entire world, if she'd only been allowed. But those with limited views and phobias of true scientific achievement were always out to stop her, for whatever reason.

And SPYGOD? That !@#$er locked one of her up, and then hunted down and exterminated every other clone she had remaining. He even found and burned her original body -- withered and sere, by that point, but still gloriously full of her meticulously altered DNA -- and informed her of this by dumping its ashes into her cell in the Heptagon basement.

Revenge, then, was her key goal once she escaped from his clutches. But that goal has been put aside by her former houseguest, now jailor and slavemaster. And try as she might, there's nothing she can do to get out of her bondage.

She keeps thinking there's something she could to do stop this. There's something she's doing, or not doing, that's keeping her like this. She has no idea what it could be, though, and so far every attempt she's made to narrow it down's been sidetracked, somehow.

(It's like something's aware of her investigations and is carefully moving the results of her quiet, slow experiments, so as to stop her from reaching definite conclusions.)

So she !@#$s herself. She works as ordered. She laughs and cries at the television and eats snack cakes and gets fatter than she'd like.

And as she comes and welds and passes the remote, she's all too aware that she's !@#$ed herself in more ways than one.

* * *

It's late at night in New Delhi. Dosha Josh is sleeping in the room of the safehouse he's "appropriated." Anil is standing nearby, watching him sleep.

He watches his chest rise and fall, ever so slowly, grateful for each new breath. He studies his face as he reacts to dreams, and as he lies peaceably, with no expression whatsoever.

When he's asleep he's the most beautiful man, this Dosha Josh. His scars are merely character. His eyes are kind and understanding. His lips full and luscious.

It's taken Anil some time to muster up the courage to stand there and watch, rather than to sit in the other room and keep an ear open for the two of them, like he's supposed to. Dosha only meant it jokingly, but he didn't know -- and still does not know -- that Anil does not need to sleep.

(Some strange trick of biology? No other teleporter Anil's ever met or heard of has such an issue. And while he's happy to not be enslaved to the cycle of wakefulness, he wonders what it must be like to truly lose himself to dreams, for a time. Perhaps only death will teach him this.)

But he daydreams. He fantasizes. He imagines.

And as he stands there, looking at Dosha's body under the thin sheet, imagining its hard surfaces and warm hollows, he dreams of a day when he might crawl into that bed and lay with him.

This is another thing that Dosha does not know about Anil, and probably never will. Anil has known what he was since he was old enough to know how men and women fit together, in the larger scheme of things. And while Dosha has never had time for love, sex, or any other "grotesque entanglements," as he puts it, he's quite clear about the fact that, if he ever desired to be so entangled, he'd look no further than some lovely, young Indian woman -- a vision of brown curves and fragrant hollows, with eyes that sparkle and hair that never ends.

(And a body that falls to ruin either right after the first baby, or sometime in one's 40's, Anil can't help but notice...)

Anil is none of those things, and would not care to be. He is a man, and he loves as a man does: a careful balance between firm directness and gentle suggestion. To make either to Dosha would be fatal to their working relationship, and shatter any hopes of a friendship beyond that.

So he watches Dosha sleep. He listens to him breathe. He promises to all Gods he knows that he will protect this man from all things, in all ways, and in this way show him his love.

It's not enough -- it could never be anywhere near enough -- but given that fate has decided to play this hand for them, in this lifetime, Anil will take the cards and hold them with silent gratitude.

And love.

* * *

Elsewhere in B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4, Mark Clutch sits at the console, counting the seconds until Martha comes on to talk to him. Her and Kaitlyn have been up to a lot -- most of it quiet errands for their mysterious backer -- and there's a lot to talk about. Plans, errands, concerns, things like that.

Tonight could be the night he lets it slip that he's been thinking about her a lot.

It could actually happen, tonight. It's been a good day, and nothing feels like there's a disaster looming. He could just slip it into the conversation, as they get ready to sign off, and see what she says.

He could. Really.

But how does he say a thing like that? Really?

And how is she supposed to take it? Really?

Because he knows how this sounds: pathetic and base. It sounds like he's lonely, and missing his wife, and horny, and looking for a new mother for Kaitlyn, and a million other things that just scream "woah, back up, buddy."

And it's true, that sometimes when Martha laughs or cries -- or kicks people's !@#$ -- she reminds him of her so much. So !@#$ much...

But there's other things, besides. The way she talks, the way she thinks, the way she trusts to God always, and in all ways. The way she looks after his daughter, and will not give up on her son.

The way she's become the head of the family, now, and has learned to trust her own judgment and see what the Lord provides.

He has fallen in love, again. He has seen things in her he never saw before, and probably just as well given that he was married to her cousin. But fate has cleared the way between them, and, with the world hanging in the balance, can they not try to be happy as they save it?

But how can he say those things? How can he think those things? Rachel hasn't even been dead a year, and he's already trying to see her cousin. Surely there's something about that in the Bible. Somewhere.

(Though, the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks there's something about someone in the family having to marry the in-law who's lost her husband? Does that count for him? Does that even count at all?)

But all the reason and morality and propriety in the world can't cast aside his feelings. It's more than just loneliness, or wanting to make love to a smart, capable, and very lovely woman. It's a small spark that was lit when they met, all those years ago, and has blossomed into a full and beautiful flame now that the fire of his lost wife has dwindled away.

And if he doesn't do something about this blaze, it will burn him down.

Maybe tonight will be the night he says something they'll both regret hearing. Maybe tonight he'll just leave it lay for a better time.

Maybe.

* * *

In a shadowed apartment in Washington DC, a Beautiful Stranger frantically surfs the internet, looking for signs of a disaster. 

He knows the net's been censored, courtesy of the new masters of this planet, but he figures that news of earthquakes, floods, and tornadoes are probably let straight through. And after what he and Aaron did in the bedroom, earlier tonight, surely there has to be some sign of displeasure from on High, or Below. Some sort of cosmic comeuppance must have been levied against this trembling, moral world.

Surely the Earth must have moved.

As he searches, terrified of what he may have done, Aaron lies back in the bed they just broke, remembering the moments leading to here, at this moment. The lead-up to them was slow, sweet, and exquisitely tortured -- often a two steps forward, one step back sort of affair.

And, now that that's done, everything from here is likely to be fast, sour, and harsh. 

He does not cry. He does not smile. What's happened has happened, as he knew it would the moment he looked at that entity. 

And as for what happens now? Well, he'll probably find that out tomorrow, or maybe the day after. 

People think he knows everything that's going to happen, but that's not true. He only ever gets small glimpses of most of what's coming down the pipe -- small flares sent up from the font of Creation which are gone before they're really understood. It's only the big things that light up his mind, and make him ever so aware that everything he's doing has been planned since his creation, countless aeons ago.

This? Well, it was nice while it lasted, and might last longer than tonight. But in the grand scheme of things, it's was just a !@#$.

(A very nice !@#$, though -- one billions of years in the making.)

The stranger's weeping at the keyboard. Something about Vanuatu, or the coast of Japan. Aaron smiles and wills himself back to the closest he can approach sleep, knowing he'll just have to deal with it tomorrow. Maybe with more of the same.

* * *

In a small, Bridgetown shack, on the Southwest corner of Barbados, a cat is snoozing, curled up around a bottle of vodka and an AK-47. Three very tired hookers are conked out in a pile around him. Every so often he wakes up, halfway, mutters something in Russian, and then goes back to sleep, knowing that tomorrow he's going to be really !@#$ing busy.

He'd better get his relaxation when and where he can.

* * *

In a safehouse in the Bronx, two war vets alternate between !@#$ing and fighting. He's old, with the scars to prove it, and wearing nothing but a black mask with an ace of spades on it. She's young, but has almost as many scars as he does, and is wearing a blindfold, just to make this interesting. They'll do this until they're too weak to do anything but sleep, and maybe in the morning they'll do some business, but for now it's been too long since they've thrown down.

And they both need this -- badly.

* * *

And in China, not too far from where the President is crying, and the man he got the information from is sleeping, SPYGOD sleeps with his guns crossed over his chest, clearing his mind and making himself ready for what he's going to do, tomorrow. But every so often, he can't help but remember the Dragon, and relive that lovely bit of ghost sex they had, there in that fire, as the barriers between worlds and futures was shattering around them. 

He tries not to cry for that lost moment, wanting to have a blank mind for the job. He tries to resist the sickness of regret, which can both paralyze and kill an Agent -- even someone like him.

But here -- in this place and time -- he can't help but let the sorrow wash over him, so he gives in, and loses himself in that rush of dark emotions. He puts his guns down, grabs his mutated, lovecraftian !@#$ and masturbates weakly, trying to let the wave of light and airy endorphins this brings counteract the sour mash of loss and horror.

In his mind, one man becomes many men. The Dragon of then becomes The Dragon of now becomes Director Straffer becomes a mindless, soft parade of Thai ladyboys, MI-6 agents, and fighting men from every war he's ever been in One set of buttocks melds into another, all !@#$s become one !@#$, all torsos and shoulders and hips and calves and necks and jawlines and lips and eyes are pieced together from the honeyed trap of his memory, becoming a frankensteinian patchwork doll, there for him to !@#$ from all angles, in all ways, in all times.

One man in one moment, shining and resplendent, taking him in his arms and calling him home. 

He's come three times before he knows it -- sperm bullets shattering portions of the drywall and ceiling. The resulting rush of bliss washes over him, knocking the sorrow out of his skull, at least for now. And then he lies back, watching with some fascination as his twisted manhood slithers and slurps itself back into his pants.

"I love you," he says to the piece of the Dragon left behind in his mind's eye, just before it becomes Straffer and then vanishes with the wink of a winsome katooey's eye: "I loved you all."

And then he gently takes his guns up, crosses them over his chest, and goes about clearing his mind for his mission -- the only real and true love he has left, now.

And the only one that can really love him back forever.

(SPYGOD is listening to Pornography (The Cure) and having something you never want to taste)