10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 7

Seven months ago, the sky became the enemy.

The air was full of blinding, white beams of energy: annihilating columns that marched from target to target, one by one, until the world was crippled. All airports and fleets were compromised. All military bases and missile sites were annihilated. All nuclear submarines were sunk, and warplanes swatted down.

By the time it was over, thousands were dead, and many more were wounded or blinded. The financial cost was truly incalculable, both due to the damage, itself, and its effects on global commerce and transportation. Indeed, the world may have collapsed back into a second dark age if the Imago had not stepped in and "fixed" what they'd broken.

Back then, they told the people that this terrible thing had been done by America. They'd lied and claimed that it had been a scorched-earth policy, of sorts -- one carried out when it became clear that its plan to use proxy warriors to take over the world had failed. And they forced all living Presidents, past and present, to testify to that, so that their families would be spared.

Ever since then, the guns of Deep Ten have remained mostly silent. When they are activated, the Imago have been quick to come on the internet and tell their slaves that the people did not see a giant, white column of heat evaporating a target. How could that be? The "weapons satellites" were supposedly destroyed, after all.

No, what they saw was simply the detonation of a massive and terrifying weapon -- one that produced an explosion that looked a lot like the deadly, particle-cannon blasts of 3/15. Such devastating attacks were the doing of dangerous elements, in league with either the old American government or the looming threat from beyond the stars. And, thanks to the mental programming that went over the internet, all day every day, the people believed it.

But now there is no longer an internet. Now the brainwashing has been eliminated. Now an active rebellion is happening.

Now the Imago are actually in danger of being supplanted from their perch, just as the final stages of their plan are within sight.

So now, there is no longer any need to lie, or dissemble, or soothe the worries of the population. There is no need to keep up appearances or avoid contradicting previous statements. There is no longer a need for a soothing voice and a patting hand on the head, and a gentle promise of better things to come.

Now there is only war, and a war needs a victory.

And the Imago will have that victory, no matter the cost.

* * *

Alpha Base Seven dies first -- The Fist makes certain of that, partially as a test of the weaponry, and partially because it amuses him.

The particle cannons fire at the lunar surface from four different directions. They strike the remnants of the base from directly overhead, from the sides, and from below.

The time before, the base lost much of its above-ground presence, and a great deal of its personnel. This time, it loses everything. Volley after volley, strike after strike, what the survivors of the last lunar holocaust had quietly rebuilt is atomized.

Tate dies trying to get people to safety, which is -- if you'd asked him -- exactly how he'd wanted to go out. Clifton dies at his post, cowering under the computer he'd spent so many months rebuilding and perfecting. Marcus dies screaming at God, begging him to stop the killing long enough for him to tend to the casualties he's already gotten that day.

Acting Commander Barbara Martin dies in her room, weeping as she comes to realize that her plan -- rather that Director Straffer's -- has been the one to kill them. 

As for Director Straffer, he is nowhere near the conflagration. He is quite some distance away, sitting on the edge of a crater, with his back turned on the base as it's taken apart from above, between, and below. His eyes can handle the blinding blasts from Deep Ten's weaponry, but he doesn't care to see the full cost of his betrayer's actions.

It's just too painful to think about, right now.

Idiots, he thinks as he repairs the damage to his body and legs as best as he can. He wonders if Prentice acted alone, or if Martin put him up to it. And he counts the number of seconds between firing solutions, hoping that they're increasing, and that the being pretending to be him up on his station has either gotten bored or is about to move on.

Doubtlessly on to the satellites, and then probably the world. 

Even now, Straffer has a plan. It's not the best plan, and it's something he'd rather not do. It's something he's avoided doing this entire time, even though it would have been so !@#$ simple -- obvious, even. 

And now he has no choice. 

He feels a mighty moonquake rumble. He stops working on his knee until it passes. He counts the seconds between flashes. 

He promises the dead their due. 

* * *

"!@#$," SPYGOD mutters, seeing the telemetry from the satellites vanish, one by one: "!@#$ !@#$  !@#$ on a !@#$ing !@#$."

He doesn't need to see the blips on the screen go away. Thanks to the Chandra Eye, he can hear as, in upper reaches of the atmosphere, the rockets' roar is replaced by a loud, atom-rending scream.

And then he can sense their absence in the dark silence that follows, thereafter. 

"!@#$ing !@#$," he shouts, tossing an empty bottle at the walls of his flying saucer: "!@#$ !@#$ !@#$!!!"

He knew the plan had risks. He knew it might not work as intended. He had no idea what went wrong on the Moon (or even who was doing it, up there). 

And he had a backup plan -- several backup plans, in fact.

But it would have been so nice -- so !@#$ing nice -- if things had just gone right for a change.

Still, it's somewhat comforting to know that God is up there, laughing at him.

"Mister Ten," SPYGOD says, looking at a face on a screen: "Is the Dignitary ready?"

"It is," the Japanese man says: "But we will need some time to warm up the engines, and coax it into motion. It has not been in battle for so long-"

"Tell that giant white !@#$ to get its star-metal !@#$ in motion before I put the mother of all !@#$ing guns up its giant white !@#$hole and give it a laser enema," SPYGOD snarls: "No excuses, no delays!"

He turns the screen off. If he could shoot it without damaging his ship, he would. So instead he grabs another bottle of hooch and drains it in one, gargantuan gulp.

Plan B is in motion. And now, so is he. 

"Take us up, Bee-Bee," he says to his cat, who's downed his own bottle of emergency vodka while waiting for his owner/staff/hooch-provider to stop cursing and drinking and start thinking, again. 

The cat nods and says something in Russian, which could be best translated as "About !@#$ing time, idiot." And then the flying saucer SPYGOD took from the Fourth Reich, all those years ago, engages its cloak and leaves a lonely rooftop in Tokyo, heading for the mighty Ocean to its West.

And battle, though whether victory follows thereafter is even more uncertain, now.

* * *

The six rockets never even get to proper cruising altitude before they are picked off, one by one.

Each streaking projectile is enveloped in its own, personal line of white. Touched by fire, they melt almost instantly. All the hard work that went into making them -- to say nothing of their payloads -- is undone in less than a second.

That necessary task done, the firing solution moves on to more complex targets: the area surrounding the massive, white cubes that the Imago have erected outside of major cities, and in the wilderness areas beyond their sprawling, high-tech tent communities. Anywhere they are being attacked, they fire -- knowing that the shields surrounding their cubes can be adjusted to repel the deadly particle cannon fire they're raining down.

American Shield wonders why the sky is so bright, and reflexively holds his namesake up over his head. That gesture buys him only an extra millisecond of life, but it's enough time for him to realize that the weird dreams he's been having recently (him standing by an empty grave with his name on the headstone) were actually an omen. Had he more time, he would have prayed, but before he can even think to begin he has already joined with the body of his God, in a place where prayer is somewhat unnecessary.

He is not the only one to die, then and there, and he is not the only member of the Freedom Force to die in similar circumstances. The Visionary goes intangible a second too late, his last thoughts a cacophony of irony and annoyance. The Red Alchemist is too slow to remember the formula for energy transubstantiation, and can only hope that the new Golden Standard lives through this, and that their explosive comrade is not vulnerable to this kind of energy while he's scattered atoms.

Around the globe, American supers and foreign strategic talents wither and melt under the horrible, white glare that comes down from Deep ten.  And those few that survive, either due to their power sets or some obscene act of luck -- perhaps both -- have only moments to call in and warn their allies of what's happening, and to either take cover somehow or get away.

Some are able to do so. Others are not so fortunate.

And they may be the first of thousands. 

* * *

"Everyone Toon up!" Fred screams into his intercom as he realizes what the energy buildup the sensors are detecting right above them is: "Toon up and Toon everything you can!"

Within seconds, almost every Toon that has become real in order to perform tasks that must affect the real world has pressed their personal Tooninator -- a small box, usually worn on the belt, that turns them back into cartoons. It won't work in reverse, but it's good enough for them to escape real world damage. 

As for the few that remain, they bravely forgo taking care of their own safety, and instead grab their massive, Tooninator guns and begin turning every important gizmo, device, and mainframe in the place into a cartoon. Hopefully there will be just enough time for them to Toon up when their work is done.

But if not, then theirs is just yet one more sacrifice on a day that's going to be full of them.

As this takes place, an old man that everyone knows -- yet hardly anyone has actually seen before -- walks up to the massive television that the Toons have built to connect them with B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 . He sees that the machine is warming up, and therefore preparing to transport things from the other side to this one.

And, before anyone can stop him, he presses the override switch, and throws it into reverse. 

"Fred, when I'm through, if they haven't blasted this place yet, turn this thing off and Tooninate it," he shouts at the Toon who's been in charge of things. The look the Toon gives him is priceless, but the look the man gives in return both destroys all questions and makes it clear that his orders must be obeyed.

"You got it," the Toon says, nodding reverently: "It's... it's good to see you again."

"It's good to be seen," the man says, and steps into the machine's blinding, flickering field. 

A second later, he's through. A second after that, a beam of brilliant, blinding white comes down from the sky to the ceiling, and then though every floor in the place.

Some die, then and there. Thankfully, most do not. And the machine is rendered into stray molecules within moments. 

B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 is now on its own.

* * *

"Oh my God," Myron says as the machine stops working: "You have to be kidding me. You have to be !@#$ing kidding me!"

"Something must have gone wrong at the other end," Winifred shouts, continuing to aim her gun at the smashed-up, smoldering hallway that Moloch is coming down. The SPYGOD SCOUTS on the platform all shout and howl as one, both disappointed and afraid in equal measure.

"Try to re-establish contact!" Mark shouts, forcing himself to his feet and fighting off the wooziness that causes: "We'll hold the thing off!"

"Moloch doubts that," the brass beast exclaims, clanking into their view as it does. 

For a moment, Winifred allows herself to feel hope, for this is not the massive, raging beast they were fighting a few moments ago. It stands only as tall as Myron, and has no fire, nor any victim to fuel it. 

(Was this lesser body made in advance, in case something happened to the other one? Or did he just assemble it out of brass and steel, and pilot it down here? Winifred isn't certain, but already certain plans are forming, should the gun she's aiming at its head fail to work.)

But then it steps into the room, and her confidence goes away. The body jackknifes open into a much larger, more deadly form: sharp swords and cutting arms spread out in every direction, and the monstrous, raging head splits several times to become many things, all terrifying in their hate.

"Moloch will have its day!" the beast howls, slicing its way through the weak, wounded, and slow: "Bring Moloch the boy, Thomas! Thomas will bring SPYGOD here. And Moloch will destroy SPYGOD!"

"Don't you understand?" Mark shouts, firing his gun at the thing: "It doesn't matter, anymore! The plan's over! The machine won't work!"

"What?" the beast shouts, stopping in mid-stride.

"The machine's stopped" Myron says: "It stopped in mid-transfer, and we can't get it started again. And that means that either it's broken, or something's happened to the machine on the other end!"

"You lie!" Moloch rages, raising its sword-arms to the ceiling and slicing right through it: "Make the machine work! Or Moloch shall destroy you all!"

"Oh, !@#$ off," Winifred mutters, pulling the trigger. The bullets hit the beast right in the center of its cluster of faces, making it withdraw them into itself for a moment, and step backwards. But then it surges forward again, doing its best to kill her before she can fire once more.

Myron shouts and leaps forward, pushing her out of the way. Mark yells and fires, distracting the beast just as it's about to slice into Myron. Moloch turns on Mark and prepares to cut into him. 

And just then -- seconds before the brass blade can eviscerate its new target -- the machine surges into life, again. 

Moloch stops in mid-slice and turns to regard it: "The machine is broken, you said?"

"It's receiving!" Myron yells: "Everyone get off the platform!"

He doesn't have to tell them twice. The healthy haul the wounded away quickly, all moving to the far end of the room, well away from the metal creature that means them ill. In seconds, the area is blanketed by a white strobe light, and then a single figure can be seen through the haze and flickering fog.

Mark gasps as he realizes who it is. Myron blinks a few times, confused. Winifred squirms from underneath him to see.

"Who are you?" Moloch challenges the newcomer, looking down at an extremely old man wearing an ill-fitting but still-distinctive costume.

"Me?" the old man says, putting up his fists: "I'm your worst nightmare, you butcher. I'm someone you can't hurt, but who can hurt you."

"You defy Moloch?" the brass beast laughs, expanding itself out just a little more, as if to engulf the stranger in its sharp embrace: "You test the patience of a god, little man."

"You are not God, buddy," the newcomer says, levitating off the floor, electricity crackling between his knuckles: "But I'll be happy to introduce you to him..."

And Mr. USA flies right at the brass beast's numerous mouths, ready to show him the meaning of fear.

(SPYGOD is listening to Christmas Island (Depeche Mode) and having a Moloch)

9/03/12 - 9/08/12 - The Learning Curve - pt. 3

Of course, there's one more thing to be learned before the President can have his interrupted sleep.

After dinner, and before bedding down for the 8 hours he earned, SPYGOD hands him a gift of sorts. It's a large, hinged, wooden box that turns out to be heavier than it looks. Inside are a pair of very large automatic handguns, along with a pair of full clips.

"Is this what I think it is?" the President asks, pulling one out, astounded at how much it weighs.

"If you think it's an IMI Desert Eagle AE, you would be abso-!@#$ing-lutely right, Mr. President," he says: "Israel may not have been our best friends, or even our worst neighbors, but they knew how to make a !@#$ handgun. It fires bullets as big around as your thumb, and kicks like a mule. But it will turn someone's heart to giblets in their chest, and make their skulls a pretty red fountain if you hit them right in the nose, dead on. Nasty, overwhelming things."

"And these are mine?"

"!@#$ straight. It's a warrior's gun, Mr. President. That thing will put a man down with one shot, even if you just hit him in the !@#$ing little toe. And it will win battles for you before you even have to take them out of their holsters and give someone both barrels. It says to the world 'I am something from a comic book, come to life to kick your !@#$. Do not !@#$ with me.'"

"You mean I'm supposed to be firing these one-handed?" the President asks: "I can barely hold onto it with two."

"Eh, that'll come with time," SPYGOD answers: "Or it won't. But the important thing is that, tonight, I want you to sleep with them."

"Oh, this isn't going to be like that thing from that one movie, is it?"

"Which movie?"

"The one where half of it's a boot camp comedy that ends in tragedy? I think Kubrick did it-"

"Oh, that movie? Do I remind you of that Drill Sergeant at all?"

The President decides not to answer that one on the grounds that it may get his sleep rescinded: "As long as I don't have to call them womens' names."

"You will sleep with them crossed on your chest, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, demonstrating with his own: "Like this, right over left, touching at the wrists, like the Pharaohs in their tombs. I want you to dream about those guns, in your hands. I want you to imagine that they have become part of you, much like a car becomes an extension of your own body when you're driving it. And while you're dreaming it, I want you to ponder the mystery of the gun."

"The mystery of the gun...?"

"Yes, Mr. President. The mystery of the gun, which is a lot like the riddle of Osiris, who lived so he could die and died so he could live."

"What is it?"

SPYGOD snorts: "Now, if I !@#$ing told you the answer, it wouldn't be a mystery, now would it?"

"Well-"

"Eight hours," SPYGOD says, checking his watch: "No more, no less. Sleep well."

And the President leans back, closing his eyes and letting exhaustion take him at last.

Partway into slumber, he has reason to remember that SPYGOD referred to Israel in the past tense, and wonders that he meant, if anything. 

* * *

It's Noon in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and that means it's opening time for a small, seemingly run-down bar on the North end of town.

The brick building doesn't have a sign. It doesn't even have a parking lot. There are neon signs promising LIQUOR, SPIRITS, and BEER in the grimy windows. There are no hours of operation on the door, or promises that they take anything other than cash.

An hour after they open, a man quite literally appears from nowhere in a nearby alley. Reality steps aside and lets him through, and, once he's made a gesture or two, it goes back to normal.

Older fellow, this man, with a craggy, lined face, a long, white beard, and a wide, black leather hat to hide what his beard is clearly over-compensating for. He wears a long, grey coat and walks with a cane made of dark wood chased with silver.

His old and raggedy sneakers carry him across the dusty road, and into the bar. The door opens a split second before he touches it, as if he was willing it open, and he goes in, looking around for his party. 

The inside is dark and smells of tobacco products and spilled beer. The walls are covered with faded ads for American beers they don't make, anymore, half the ceiling fans don't work, and the ladies room is out of order. The jukebox is full of pop music from the 50's and 60's, and is currently crooning an old number by Bobby Vee.

A small crowd of people are there, in a smokey "back room" that's not very private. They look up and see him there, and someone waves him over. He looks to the bar, and sees that the tender's preparing a raft of margaritas every color of the rainbow. He can almost taste them from here, and that makes him deliriously happy.

"I see the place has lost none of its charm," the man says, coming to the table. Everyone there looks nothing like he's used to them appearing, but he thinks he knows who to blame for that, as well as who everyone actually is. 

"About time you got here, Doc," a young man with spiky, blue hair says, putting his cigarette out: "Long trip from the Moon?"

"More or less," the man says, sitting down: "I had a few other errands to run as well. Mostly recruiting. Mostly unsuccessful."

Someone makes a rude noise: "I hate to say I told you so," he follows up, his young face oddly plastic.

"Pipe down, Larry," says an older woman who appears extraordinarily fit: "We knew this was going to be an uphill battle, given what we're up against. I don't know that I can blame anyone for wanting to sit this one out."

"We're the Freedom Force, for Gods' sake," a bald man in a red shirt says: "We're supposed to be heroes. That's supposed to mean something."

"Even heroes have their limits."

"Berlin, before the war," a small woman with severely cut, thick black hair intones: "Everyone says 'why didn't someone do something?' No one said 'oh, they had limits.'"

"No one living, anyway," the plastic-faced man says, holding up his hands: "Speaking of limits, let's not waste time arguing. I can only maintain our cloak for so long."

"Then let's have the bad news," the older woman says, looking at the man who just joined them: "Doc?"

"We're all that's left," he says: "The others are dead, or worse. The legacies or sidekicks who cooperated with the Imago are also dead, or worse. Those who remain are in hiding and will not come out of it, and the one who appeared to be most willing to join us was a spy for them."

"What do you mean?" the small woman says.

"I mean that Corporal Flag's Grandson was taken, reprogrammed, and turned into a human surveillance device and living bomb," the man replies, very sadly: "He's currently attending the great Freedom Force reunion in Philadelphia, by the Liberty Bell, or so he thinks. We'll probably get word of a massive explosion somewhere in the Kamchatka Peninsula, today. It was the most remote place I could think of at the time."

The older woman looks down, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. When she looks up again her eyes are wet, and she's not the only one holding back tears.

"What about the Super Soldiers?" a middle aged man in a leather jacket asks: "Blaster Boy, Thunderfoot, Dragonheart? Are any of them...?"

"I said dead or worse, a moment ago?" he replies: "I could tell you what 'worse' means, but you wouldn't thank me."

"So it's us, then," the older lady says: "Myself, Doctor Power, Red Alchemist, The Visionary, Freedom Belle, American Shield, and Captain Chaos-"

"Mr. Chaos, actually," the blue-haired man says: "I don't feel right pretending to a military rank I haven't earned. My father was the war hero, not me."

"Well, we're all war heroes now," the smaller woman says: "Mrs. Liberty's right. We're it. Let's stop moping about."

"Well, not exactly it, per se," the old man says: "Like I said, I was on the Moon. And I do have a piece of good news."

"Did Alpha Base 7 survive?" the Visionary asks.

"Not all of it. They did lose about half of their above ground base to a strike from Deep Ten, and with it about 75% of their people. But they didn't follow up the attack, and the lower levels are still intact. They're holding up alright and wanting to know what they can do to help, down here."

"Do they have any offensive capability?" American Shield asks.

"Some. But anything they could shoot would be hit well before it got to Deep Ten. We might be able to use it as a staging ground, but-"

"But it's useless to us," Freedom Belle says: "I am glad that someone survived, but I fail to see how that helps us."

"Because they have a survivor of their own," Doctor Power says, smiling: "It took him a while to get there, but he's got information and abilities that could be very useful when the right moment comes."

"And who is this person?" Mrs. Liberty asks.

And none of them believe the answer.

* * *

"Creation," SPYGOD tells the President, holding his gun out and pointing it at the target down the way. A small rock glints in the morning sun.

He pulls the trigger -- BANG -- and the rock he was aiming at turns to powder.

"Destruction," SPYGOD says, indicating what's left of the target. 

"Destroying the bullet is creation?" the President asks, still not quite feeling that the heavy, deadly thing in his hands has a riddle associated with it, other than whether it should have been banned for sale in America. 

"Of course," SPYGOD says: "Creation is destruction, destruction is creation. Energy can't be !@#$ing destroyed, right? It just changes its shape."

"I'm not sure-"

SPYGOD fires his gun between the President's feet: BANG. The man leaps back a full three feet just as the bullet slams into the ground, and then wonders how he learned to react that fast.

"Argue later, learn now," SPYGOD says: "There will be a test, this afternoon. You know how those go."

"Okay..."

"I want you to aim, and think 'creation.' And then pull the trigger, and think 'destruction.' Say it if it helps."

"Is this the mystery of the gun?"

"Have you !@#$ing figured it out, yet?" SPYGOD asks.

"Well, I dreamed of Egypt. And then I dreamed I was a Pharaoh, only I was strapped with guns. And then it turned into basketball, only we were shooting at the players, who seemed very happy to die for us. And then, well, my wife was there-"

"You miss her."

The President nods, looking at the morning sun: "I keep thinking there's got to be some way to tell her I'm okay. Just so she knows."

"If she knows, they will know," SPYGOD says, putting a surprisingly-nonthreatening hand on the President's shoulder: "I know it's tough for you, and murder for her. But the best thing you can do right now is be dead. That's our number one advantage, Mr. President. That they don't even see you coming."

The President nods, and holding his gun two-handed, like SPYGOD spent the early part of the morning teaching him, starts alternating between creation and destruction. 

BANG. BANG. BANG.

(SPYGOD is listening to the World In My Eyes (Depeche Mode) and having a High Desert Extra Strength Bitter )