12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 1

10/26/12

He's dead. That much he knows for certain.

He doesn't know his name, anymore. He doesn't know what he did, or how, or where. A whole, rich life, full of people and places and things, and all he's got are a few pieces, sliding past each other in what's left of his mind.

A trio of fragile icebergs, crackling in the water as they float away from the larger, cold and quiet land.

One piece is sweet and calming. It's him and another man, locked in an embrace on a warm, tropical night. The sweat they share may have been from the heat, or may have been from what they were just doing -- maybe both. But as they stand on a balcony and watch the sun go down, arm in arm, wrapped only in a crisp sheet and each other, there is nothing but trust and happiness.

And love, full and complete.

Another piece is spicy and challenging. It's him and yet another man, only they're arguing over something. The silly fellow's come and knocked down his office wall, such as it is, and is laying into him for something he did, or else something he didn't do. The conversation could go a couple different ways, but somehow they wind up agreeing with one another, and laying out a path to something better than this.

A trail that leads to another balcony, in another place, and another, even stronger feeling.

And then there is a horrible one, where he's forced to watch as everything he's worked for decades comes falling apart -- exploding, really -- because of a long string of mistakes and misfortunes. He's no longer sure if the destruction is necessary or not, or if it's by his hand or someone else's. All he knows is that when the blast engulfs him, he feels himself fall into a deep pit, sick with despair.

A pit made all the worse for the simple fact that, once there, he will never enjoy that truly challenging emotion again.

The pieces crack and collide with each other, there in the dark. He can feel the pieces of them melding, and slowly becoming one. Maybe they're trying to give him a more complete picture of who and what he was, or maybe they're sliding into each other, like old files on a disk in bad need of a defragging.

Maybe they're all he has now, here in what may be the last moments of a life he can barely claim to know.

* * *

"I need to know if you're serious, son," the man is saying. His chest seems ready to explode with rank bars and medals, and his desk is littered with scale models of spaceships -- some that everyone knows, and some that very few have seen.

"A chance like this?" he replies, looking at the schematics he's been handing: "An assignment like this? Sir... there's no way I could turn this down."

"I know. Your psychological assessment said as much, and so have your superiors and everyone you've ever worked with in the Space Service. Your time with Icarus and on Alpha Base Seven has proven your worth, especially under highly trying circumstances. You're the right man for the job in every way, as far as we're concerned. But..."

"But?" he says, putting the schematics down and looking at the man. 

The man opens his mouth, and then leans back in his chair, sighing: "This thing with the people who made it. It's a complicated thing that I don't pretend to understand. The incoming President's telling us to just shut the !@#$ up and deal with it, but the longer we wait, the greater the chance that the Soviets might get hold of it. Or maybe one of the others. You know...SQUASH, HONEYCOMB, or whoever else..."

"I thought SQUASH were the Soviets, sir?"

The man smiles and nods: "And that's another reason we want you there, son. You know the situation."

"I do, and I know that we need to send a group up to take control as soon as possible, sir," he says, pulling his chair closer to the desk: "And like you said, I'm your man. I agree. Sir."

"I know," the man says, patting his desk: "But it's like this. We need assurances. Insurance that you're not going to get up there and go crazy, or sell us out. Insurance that someone won't get up there, somehow, and force you to use it against us."

He thinks for a moment, and then nods: "Well, sir, my time with the Service should prove that I'm not likely to go space crazy, but given the circumstances of the assignment, I can understand the concern. And as for being forced, well... that is a real concern."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, son," the man says, getting up from the desk and going to get a folder from a nearby table. It's black, marked ULTRA BLACK, and has a different set of schematics poking out of it.

"Another part of the duty?" he asks, looking at it as the man hands it over.

"No son," the man sighs, sitting on the corner of his desk: "This is the part of the duty that we have no precedent for. The part where they make certain you can't be used, and can be stopped if we have to. The part where you give yourself to the Space Service, body and soul, now and forever."

"Oh?"

"Do you... do you know what a cyborg is, son?"

He looks at the pictures, his mind wanting to shut down, and yet not quite getting there. Memories of 70's television and a hundred dimestore paperbacks. A word that's always fascinated him, but not quite been real, somehow.

Cyborg.

"So, to be in charge of Wonderwall-"

"Deep-Ten, son," the man smiles: "Small change in nomenclature, as per the current situation."

"In order to be in charge of this installation, I have agree to be... altered."

"They need to turn you into a cybernetic organism, yes."

"And I basically sign on for life?"

The man doesn't speak. He just nods, and stares at the wall. It's not every day he has to ask this of someone, apparently.

"Sir, I'm in," he says, standing up and extending his hand to shake. The man looks at it like it's some crazy thing that's been shoved in his direction for a moment, but then takes it, tentatively.

"Are you sure, son?" he asks, raising an eyebrow: "You don't want to think it over? Maybe take some time-"

"I'm positive," he says: "I assume I'll need to report right away?"

"You could... you know, take a vacation? See the world a bit before...?"

"Sir, with all due respect to the Space Service, we know how this works. We're not the only one with an interest in this installation. If I go out on a last trip around the world, the chances that someone might get hold of me and try to turn me into some kind of Manchurian Candidate are pretty !@#$ high. And then you'd have a compromised agent in charge of the kind of weapons no enemy government should even know exist. Sir."

The man blinks, frowns, and then nods. He shakes his hand, reverently. 

"Report to the medical wing, Commander," the man says, saluting: "And on behalf of your country, thank you."

"Thank you for this amazing opportunity, sir," he says: "I won't let you down."

The man doesn't even dismiss him -- just nods and lets him go.

And as he walks down the hall, his heart pounding in his chest, and he feels as though every single moment of every day in his life has led him to this exciting chance, he wonders who the red and silver girl is, down the hall, and why she's looking at him so strangely...

* * *

"Do you know where you are?" a voice asks him, dreamy and far-away, in the black. A girl's voice, he thinks. But so echoey and ethereal...

He tries to answer. He can't. He can hear the words, and knows what they mean, but they might as well be another language for all he can communicate back.

"Do you know who you are?" the voice asks again.

And he has to think about that for a moment. Who is he, really? 

Who's holding who on that balcony in Thailand? Who's yelling at who in his office? Who's destroying whose machine, on the Moon?

Where does he fall in these few memories he has left?"

"Come back to me," the voice gently persuades him: "I'm right here. Let me help you..."

* * *

"I don't know how you feel about this, but..." the Lt. hands him a small jar, full of something, glinting in the light from the tall windows of the small hospital room.

He picks it up and tests its weight, still getting used to how things feel with his new hands, and how they move. 

"Are these my ashes?" he asks, giving it a shake. From the way the Lt. looks at him, that would be a 'yes.'

"Well," he says, smiling and putting the jar down on the table: "That's a conversation piece."

He's in yet another medical facility -- the third one in two weeks. This time they're calling it "Post-Op Re-Evaluation," which is just another phrase for "Making Sure We Didn't !@#$ Up," so far as he can tell. He's been poked, prodded, opened, closed, refitted, and partially rebuilt about a dozen times since the operation.

But then, each time he goes under, he comes back out a little more functional, a little less freakish.

"Anything else, Lt.?" he asks, casting his eyes around for the latest Omni: "If they want to know if I'm hungry, the answer is yes. I can actually feel the sensation, again."

"Well, that's good," the man says, still a little uneasy at this whole thing: "I'll let them know, sir. Any requests?"

"Well, the chicken last night didn't do so well, I don't think. Maybe some simple proteins and starches?"

The man nods, not wanting to know what 'didn't do so well' means. He salutes and leaves, and then it's just the room and the magazine.

And the silver and red girl, again. 

"How can I help you?" he asks, putting the magazine down: "Are you part of the staff, here?"

"No," she says, echoing and uncertain as she walks to his bedside: "Are you?"

"No," he replies, not certain what kind of crazy question that is: "I'm definitely a patient."

"Do you know why?"

"Full body replacement," he answers without thinking: "Everything but my head, and I think they fortified my skull... come to think of it, I think the only thing they left alone was my brain."

"Not alone, no," she says, looking at the side of his head: "I see structures. Many structures. New and alive."

"Yeah, well, go figure," he says, tapping his temple: "I guess they had to wire things up a bit. I don't know what all they did, anymore."

"No," she says, leaning back as if she was about to do a backstroke in the air: "I think they avoid telling you. It's not a good thing to know how you come together. How you come apart."

"Are you sure?" he asks, really wondering who this person is.

"A long time ago, in a garden, a woman was made for a man," she explains, waving a hand through the air, leaving red and silver motion lines behind it: "He saw her as she was made. Bone and muscle. Fat and gut. Blood and secretions. All that stuff we have locked inside the skin, made piece by piece and then wrapped around like a Christmas present."

He blinks, imagining that: "That's... that must have been horrible to watch."

"It was. And he couldn't ever see her, after that. He only saw her pieces. And he was afraid."

"Who was she?"

She giggles and shrugs: "No one knows. He never named her. And the One who made her took her away."

"Did he ever get another woman?"

"Yes," she says, waving her hands again: "But this time, the One made him sleep. There was a rib taken out, and she was woven from it, like from a loom. One flesh, they were. Two parts of the same body. Man and woman."

"Adam and Eve," he says, realizing where she's coming from: "Are you Eve, then?"

"No," a smile, and her fingers in his hair: "But I was also remade, as you have been."

"Really? Like this?"

"Not like this, no," she replies, running a hand down his chest: "The One touched me, inside. I became a new thing, inside and out. A runner on the waves of the world. A herder of comets and a watcher of the stars. A witness to time, ongoing."

"The One?" he asks, sitting up a bit: "Do you mean God?"

She giggles a little, pointing out the window. He realizes she must mean the Sun, but that makes no !@#$ sense. 

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Brightstarsurfergirl," she says, the words rolling off her tongue: "What's yours?"

"I'm..." he says, but then realizes he doesn't know.

"See, that's a problem," she says, leaning in closer: "How can I save you if you don't know who you are?"

"I need saving?"

She smiles again, and points back outside the window. He looks and sees that the Sun seems so far away, and the sky is black and full of stars.

The Moon is nearby, and beyond it is a ring of twisted, broken wreckage, floating in a loose orbit around the Earth.

And the Earth is shining and beautiful, down below.

"Come back to life," she whispers in his ear: "Come back to the world."

And he might ask why, or who she is to demand these things of him, but something makes him think. The way she whispers in his ear. The way another person once whispered in his ear.

The way he held him down on the bed, strong and hungry. The way he entered him, swift and loving.

"I love you," he said, over and over, there in the heat and night. Over and over and over again.

"I love you," SPYGOD is saying, holding him close after.

"I love you," he is responding, loving to be loved.

"Come back to us," she is saying, whispering so deep inside his ear that she might as well be in his mind.

The jar of ashes falls to the ground and shatters, and-

* * *

he is opening his eyes, again -- crusty and frozen in the shattered life pod.

He looks around, all too aware that his body is ruined. Only his head has survived, as he thought it might. Only his thoughts and memories are intact, now.

"Hello," someone says to him, through the void. How he can hear her in a vacuum is one of those mysteries that will just have to keep. But she's red and silver and floating alongside him, smiling through the broken window.

And as she moves him out of his dying lunar orbit, and flies him back to Earth like a glorious red and silver comet, he remembers her name from a strange dream -- a memory she invaded, somehow, and made her own.

And he remembers his own name, at long last. An old friend, waiting at the door.

Director Straffer smiles, closing his eyes. If he cries, the water will freeze his eyes shut, again, so he does not. There will be time for tears in the days to come.

He only hopes they will be tears of joy, this time. 

(SPYGOD is listening to One Look Up (The FIXX) and having a Brewfist Spaceman)

The Age of Imago - March

At first, there was confusion, which was only to be expected. The trauma of seeing the beams coming down from the sky -- the last thing many people ever saw -- and hearing that their airports and planes had been vaporized by them was bad enough.

But then there was the additional shock of the aborted takeover to consider. Most people, when told that their governments were nearly overthrown, tend to react badly at best. So one could only imagine how they felt when they heard that every government around the world was almost overthrown, and then by whom.

The United States of America? Really?

Though many around the world always suspected that something like this might one day happen, given that country's tendencies towards enforcing global security with aircraft carriers, nuclear missiles, and The Flier, only a few of them ever believed that it really would. Such persons were often called cranks or paranoids, and not always without good reason.

But here were the new saviors of humanity, telling them that this was what had happened. Such was the power of their presence that even the most skeptical and suspicious of people, once they saw these "Imago," couldn't help but remember those days, so long ago, when the world was on fire with brightly-colored superheroes, and they all felt a lot safer for knowing they were there.

Looking at those costumes, and seeing those smiles, they felt that wave of nostalgia, and let themselves be drawn into trust.

And then, not long after the Imago spoke to the people, their own leaders came to speak to them. They confirmed what the newcomers had said: that daring and bloody attacks had taken place in their houses of government, and that, just before these deadly armies could carry out their final orders -- to kill their captives, one and all -- the Imago had come and saved them from death.

Their leaders went on to praise their new friends, and assure their people that things would be alright, now. As the Imago had said, a terrible danger was on its way, and the people of the world needed their help to stave it off. But they would receive that help, and soon.

They told their people to be calm, and be patient. They told them to return to their homes, and not give in to panic, or sow anarchy and chaos. They told them to go be with their friends and loved ones, and be assured that, in the days to come, while things might occasionally seem a little strange or fantastic, that was just the Imago's way of doing things.

They had accepted the help of the Imago, they said, and their people should be prepared to do the same.

Those were great and stirring speeches, to be sure. Many listeners would say that they'd never heard their leaders speak so eloquently, or assuredly. Some listeners were still a little uncertain, of course, but they were mostly ignored by the multitudes, who, feeling reprieved from the destruction of everything they ever knew, were willing to trust in their leaders, and their mysterious new friends.

What they couldn't know was that, except for a few minor variations from country to country, in order to give them local flavor, the speeches their leaders gave were exactly the same.

And they also couldn't know that, except for the most naive or trusting amongst them, their leaders all went home, held their families tight, and wept, knowing that they had been conquered.

And knowing that if they valued the lives of the people they had returned to, they would let no one know the truth.

* * *

That was the reality that most of the world went to bed with, that day. But, in the United States of America, things were quite different.

The people of that country heard the same worldwide speech from the Imago. But then, instead of hearing a speech from their President, they heard another speech from the Imago -- one aimed directly at them.

In that speech, they were told that, in spite of what had happened, and what their leaders had conspired to do, they would not be held accountable. How could they have really known what was going on in the White House basement, or the CIA's headquarters? To punish them would be unnecessarily cruel, and would not serve the cause of justice.

However, justice would need to be done, and America would need to regain its place in a world no longer run by money, or defined by who had the largest weapons. 

To that end, special tribunals would be convened by the Imago. The architects of the plot, and those who had been complicit in its carrying out, would be brought before the world and made to confess their crimes before it. Many of those who were found guilty would be set to work undoing their damage, but a harsh example would have to be made of the most guilty ones of all. 

Also, America would need to prove its willingness to reenter the world, and learn the value of nonviolence and trust. All private citizens who possessed firearms for purely self defense purposes, as oppose to those rural citizens who used them for hunting, would be required to hand them over to the local authorities within a few days time. The age of the privately held handgun was over.

Further, all so-called Strategic Talents were to turn themselves into the Imago for vetting and possible inclusion within the tribunals. No doubt, many of America's "super heroes" were innocent of any wrong-doing, but given the level of collusion between the country's intelligence community, the current Administration, and The COMPANY -- who no doubt knew what was going on -- these persons would need to step forward and prove their heroism at least one final time by telling the truth about what they knew.

There might be other, smaller issues that would crop up, of course. The Imago asked for patience and trust in these matters. While they appreciated that Americans were, perhaps quite rightfully, highly skeptical of their leaders and institutions, now was not a good time to be overly doubtful and suspicious. Now was a time for trust, reconciliation, and the pride of knowing that, in a few short years, Earth would be a better, finer place for their having weathered a few small inconveniences.

The world was ready to soar, and America would soon be flying right alongside them into the glorious new world to come.

* * *

The screams from down the windowless, cold prison block stopped as abruptly as they had begun. 

Myron had been awoken from his fitful sleep, a few minutes ago, to the sound of the cell block opening and closing, and two sets of heavy armor boots stomping down the concrete. Within seconds he was sitting straight up on his bunk, no longer even remotely asleep, and wondering if today was the day. 

His day.

He was in the exact middle of the block, and the Imago always came from the left, and then went back there. They came anywhere from twice to six times a day, and there were always two of them, and they almost always had a third person with them: one of those naked, sexless, skullfaced things that they used to replace people. 

And when they were done with what they'd come to do (which always involved a lot of panicky, painful screaming) and gone back to the left, the thing was wearing one of his fellow prisoners. 

And smiling wide at nothing, like an idiot. 

He'd been here a week. In that time, this scene had played out about two dozen times. After the first few times, he'd realized what was going on, and why he was here. A few more times after that, he'd looked for some way to escape, but realized that the lack of exterior windows, the high possibility that they were underground, and the electronic sophistication of the rolling, barred doors of the cell made busting out without tools or weapons something of an mugs game.  And once he'd understood that, he'd made as much peace with his God as he could, and was ready for the moment when it came.

But that still didn't stop the fear. He knew what these people were using, and if it was anything like the N-Machines SPYGOD warned him about, he knew that it was one of the most painful ways to die, ever. Worse than having your skin scraped off by cheese graters and drowned in lemon juice, he'd said.

(Of course, SPYGOD said lots. That's why Myron was here, now.)

So he'd sat still, back to the wall, and waited for the telltale sound of the boots slowing down as they approached his cell. CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP, closer and closer...

And then they'd passed on by. 

The person across from him picked that moment to start crying, again. He was someone from the other Company, so far as Myron could get out of him. He was still playing it close to the chest, even here, even after being told what happened to the person who was in his cell before him. 

There were a lot of intelligence people, here, Myron noted. NSA, CIA, DIA. Even a couple of COMPANY Agents who were transferred in after the assassination. Of course, they were all happy to insist that they didn't belong here, and had done nothing. 

(Everyone else told them to shut the !@#$ up.)

There was also Colonel Richter, though he was a couple cells down to the right and across the way, which made talking to him kind of difficult. Every so often they'd peer out of the bars as much as they could and hand-signal to one another, COMPANY-style. But Richter hadn't kept up with the classes, and it showed, which turned such attempts at communication into sorry rounds of charades after a while.

For a moment, Myron had felt panic, and wondered if today was his day, instead. But the CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP had gone on, past Richter's cell, and then stopped at its final destination.

"Oh God, no," the condemned had said as they rolled the cell doors open: "Please, not me. I didn't do anything. I wasn't involved in anything more than signals intelligence. Please!"

Then the screaming had started, and the weird thrumming noise, and the bright, pulsing light from down the cell block. And once it was done, and their weird, post-Embracing catechism said, the door had opened back up again, and now they were marching back. 

The formerly naked thing was now a man in his mid-forties, dressed in the orange jumpsuit they were all wearing, and smiling like he'd just heard the best joke in the world. 

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," Myron whispered: "Here comes a chopper to chop off your head."

* * *

"Well, it's really simple, Mr. President," the skeedy little fellow says to him, handing over a large stack of papers and putting it on the Resolute Desk: "The fact is that you may not have been entirely privy to what was going on, given the high level of secrecy that it involved. But you had to have known that something was up. These papers are that something."

The President sighs, looks at them, and pointedly refuses to even touch them: "What sort of something?"

"Dates, meetings, little hints. We tried to be thorough. You don't have remember all these things, of course. In fact it'd be better if you didn't. If it sounds like you're reading off of a laundry list then it'll look like a Soviet show trial, and that'll just throw the whole show-"

"I thought I was going to be put on trial."

"You are," the fellow says, leaning back in his chair and looking around the Oval Office. Anything of worth or value had been taken from it, as well as the entire White House. All that was left was secondhand furniture and the President's desk, as well as one of the couches, which they let the President sleep on. 

"Then why the !@#$ are you !@#$ing telling me to lie on the !@#$ing stand?" the President asks, wishing for the hundredth time in what seemed twice as many days (but had really only been about ten or so) that he could have a beer: "I never heard of any !@#$ plot. If there had been a plot, the President would have told me. And I'd have told him to stick it and I'd have !@#$ing quit right then and there."

"You know, I think you're not getting it," the fellow sighs: "I'm trying to help you out, here."

"By making me complicit in a crime that I didn't do?"

"By saving your legacy, Mr. President," he explains, leaning forward: "This is the way it goes down. We need a villain. We need someone we can pin this whole thing on. That person, for better or worse, was your predecessor. But he's dead."

"How about the !@#$hole at the CIA?" the President shouts, getting to his feet: "That's what you're saying, isn't it? The whole global takeover thing was his doing! He arranged it, he armed them, and we had no !@#$ing idea. Put him on trial!"

"Sit down, sir," the skeedy fellow says. Something about how he says it (or maybe the fact that there are Imago just outside the door) makes the President's knees buckle, and then he complies

"Now, let me back the train up for you a bit, Mr. President," the man says, leaning back and talking with his hands: "Yes, the Director of the CIA is entirely complicit in what happened. But he was just the action man, making it happen. He didn't engage in this all by his lonesome. There was a far-reaching plot to seize the world's mineral wealth, and it's been in the White House armory for some time, just waiting for someone to use it."

"That's bull!@#$-"

"No, sir, it is not. I am sorry to say that this plan existed. It was authored by one of the previous Administrations' people, as a thought exercise as to what to do if peak oil was about to come, and a viable alternative to fossil fuels had not yet been found. Depending on the global political and economic situation, this could have tipped the balance of power away from America, and possibly towards the Soviets, or whatever might have replaced them."

"So you're saying that my President..." the President says, eyes tearing up: "One of the finest men I've ever known? You're saying that he found this plan, and handed it over to that !@#$hole from Langley, and they put it into motion without telling me?"

"That's what you're going to be saying, Mr. President," the man says, patting the pile of paper: "And the good news is that, once we've dealt with and sentenced the f-hole from Langley, as you put it, your partial guilt in things, and willingness to explain everything, will probably mollify the world enough that we won't have to make a terrible example out of you. And you can go to your fate knowing that history will be relatively kind. You'll sort of be like Ford to his Nixon, only on a larger, more devious scale."

"And what if I refuse?" the President asks: "What if I say !@#$ you, here and now, and say nothing more?"

"Then you really don't understand what else I mean by legacy, Mr. President," the man says, getting up from the chair and leaning over the desk: "You have children, and they have children. Would you like those grandchildren to live long enough to have children of their own?"

The President just stares.

"We've taken your wife from you. Please let this be all we take. Let us show you this much mercy, Mr. President. Let us help you sleep."

"You're monsters," the President says, looking down at the desk he never ever wanted to sit behind.

"We are necessary," the man says, turning to leave: "Help us to help you, and in return we will see that your legacy soars, even if you will not be there to see it."

And the skeedy man leaves the President to his sobbing and regrets, knowing that he will do anything to save his loved ones when the trials begin, next month. 

(SPYGOD is listening to (S)Crapage (Front 242) and having an Applehead)

The Age of Imago - First Words

O peoples of the Earth, hear us.

We send this to all the people of the world,

in all ways you speak to each other,

so there will be no confusion, no misunderstanding.

No mistake.

We are the Imago.

You do not remember us, but we remember you.

For once we lived amongst you, as good friends in need

We helped you in times of peril, and guided in times of trial,

In times past.

But then, after an era, we had to leave you

We wished we could stay, but had to leave.  

And since then we have walked beside you in time and space,

like brothers and sisters, unseen by all.

Until now.

We have been happy to merely watch

as you rise to the light we gained so long ago.

And we would have been happy to stay unseen,

but for a great evil that was worked upon you.

From within.

For some time, a rogue nation has planned an evil thing.

It has planned to conquer you and control you.

It conspired to take your freedom and wealth

so that they could prosper from your hard work.

And your oil.

For oil, your lives were all made forfeit.

For oil, your fates were thrown like dice.

For oil, your leaders were to be slain, and your governments toppled

For oil, your armies would be stamped flat onto the ground.

All for oil.

For oil, which will soon run dry, these plans were laid.

An army for each nation, there to kill your leaders.

They struck on this day, well armed and with orders

To kill and control, and sow panic and fear

For America. 

We learned of this plot too late to stop it.

This is our shame, to bear for all time.

And we acted too late to stop the chaos and death.

This is also our shame, to bear for all time.

Forgive us.

But we are here now, O peoples of Earth.

We are here now, in our legions, to help you rebuild.

We are here to staunch your blood and salve your wounds.

We are here to protect you, to save you, to guide you.

We are here.

For a new threat is coming, O peoples of Earth

A great and horrid thing from beyond space and time

As you hear us now, it comes for this world,

And will not stop until it has come and gone.

And destroyed.

Once, at your best, you may have fought it and lived.

With your space rays and your bombs, you could have yet won.

With your heroes and your powers, you may have seen it off

With courage and force, you could have been victors.

Just perhaps.

But now, O peoples of Earth, you have nothing left.

Your space weapons are dust, and with them your safety.

Your missiles and aircraft are melted, your heroes dead or missing.

Your once great defenses can no longer save you.

Only us.

We, the Imago, have returned to save you.

We will save you from the threat that comes from outer space

And we will save you from the danger you pose you yourselves.

No more rogue states, no more tyrants, no more oil wars.

No more threats.

The days to come will be hard at times.

There will be a new way of living and doing.

We will ask things of you that you might not understand.

But we ask for your faith, and to know that we care.

Please trust us.

There will also be justice, at long last.

Those who sought to destroy will be made to confess.

You will all know the truth, though it may be hard to hear.

Ambition's debt will be repaid, and justice be done.

This we swear. 

After those hard days will be good days indeed.

We will work with your leaders on a great new world.

A world with no war, no poverty, no want.

A world where work will be given, and well rewarded. 

Your new world.

As one people, we will rebuild the Earth.

We will raise great new cities, and make great new lives.

We will show you things you did not think were real. 

We will bring you to the light we have known for so long.

Together.

We are the Imago, and we have returned!

Rejoice, O Peoples of Earth, for you are now free.

We shall raise you above the heavens you seek,

And deliver you from the evils you fear.

Let us soar. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Crushed (Front 242) and having more of the radioactive mare's milk. So should you.)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 4

It says something that, even after all the exertion he's put into tonight's activities, Doctor Krwi is able to leap out of the pit -- grisly prize in hand -- without much effort.

How much is magic and how much is muscle is something he's not wanting to spend too much time debating, however. They're still in La Casa de la Sangre, after all. And though he's just killed the King of the Vampires of Cuba, and the mewling, feeble ancients that attended him, there could be any number of other dangers lurking here, still.

(Not to mention the monster they brought with them, wherever it might be.)

So he sheathes his swordcane, takes a deep breath, and marches back to where his ally, SPYGOD went off to. He's standing in the back of the cathedral, by a number of stone tables on which lay supine figures covered in moldering, red silk. He's pulled the silk off the occupant of one, and his holding him up by his shirt lapels, saying numerous, angry-sounding things; the occupant looks genuinely afraid for his life.

"Forgive my interruption, my friend," the old man says, holding up his prize: "I have done what needed to be done."

The detached head of the King is already beginning to fester and rot -- meat aging and sliding off the bone as the untold aeons of stolen existence catch up to it. Killing the thing was somewhat anticlimactic, given how languid and sleepy it was in its hideous throne of blood, but watching its body twist and writhe in the gruesome ruins of its life support system was worth the struggle to get here.

(Putting the life support system to rest was more sad than satisfying, but at least the child's unending nightmare was over, now.)

"Good to know," SPYGOD says, not looking away from his captive: "You want to say hi to one of your last fellow Communists?"

"I was never a Communist, my friend..." the old man says, but stops when he sees who SPYGOD has captive: "Is that...? Fidel? Fidel Castro?"

"Si," the dictator sighs: "(Could you please tell this man to stop throttling me like a chicken for the pot? I'm not going anywhere.)"

"Ha!" Doctor Krwi laughs: "(You should be lucky he doesn't twist your neck, sir. Whatever were you doing down here? Learning murder from the experts?)"

"Yeah, why don't you !@#$ing tell him about that, Fidel?" SPYGOD asks, switching the conversation to English as he shakes him a little: "Tell him how our buddy Ernest got you in good with these bloodsuckers. How they were going to make you immortal so you could be !@#$ing Dictator for an eternity."

"How... how did you know...?" Fidel stammers.

"SPYGOD. Knows. All."

"That and we had your mutual friend on the business end of several books of matches, sir," Krwi adds, smiling: "So you wished to become one of these abominations? You chose poorly, sir. Observe!"

Doctor Krwi pulls the silk off one of the figures on a nearby table. A withered, mummified corpse lies underneath -- a cadaver with eyes still alive and moving, but unable to do more than stare at the cathedral's intruders.

"The forever sleep," the old man says, unsheathing his sword: "What awaits an upier when even a modicum of blood will no longer maintain its body. The state of affairs the King had circumvented through that obscenity in the pit. The fate that would await even you, in time, sir."

"Thousands of years from today," Castro insists: "But the things I could do... all the things in the meantime! I could-"

"You might want to shut the !@#$ up now, tubby," SPYGOD says: "This old man eats people like you for breakfast."

"Yes," Krwi says, smiling and shaking decaying filth from the King's skull: "I think I shall be having that meal in due course, once I am finished with these creatures."

"Well, don't stand on ceremony, Doc," SPYGOD says: "!@#$ 'em up. We don't have a lot of time."

"I agree," he says, and, without needing to put down the decaying head of the creature's dead King, decapitates the closest inert monster with one swift slice: "Are our allies almost done?"

"They haven't even really started," SPYGOD reveals, letting his captive go: "We're the !@#$ing distraction, remember?"

"And this was not a distraction?" Krwi asks, moving on to the next table. And the next. And the next...

"Not completely," SPYGOD says, grinning at Fidel: "But it gets us where we need to be to make it happen."

"I am confused, my friend."

"Good. Hopefully you aren't the only one," Then he cocks his head, as though hearing something, and smiles: "In fact, I know you aren't."

Doctor Krwi frowns, and decides the best thing to do is to kill ancient vampires, as he's been instructed. Whatever the plan has changed into -- or was all along, and is only now being fully revealed -- it is clearly out of his hands. He will have to trust that his ally knows what he's doing, for all their sakes.

As he's doing it, he feels something decidedly strange behind him -- as though a spell had gone off. When he turns back to look, he sees only SPYGOD and Fidel, there, though they've switched places. Both men also seem a little unsteady on their feet for some reason, but before Doctor Krwi can ask why, he feels another, darker disturbance at hand.

"SPYGOD, my friend," he says, killing the last ancient vampire to be found: "I fear our ally is approaching."

"That's... yeah," SPYGOD says, leaning over to vomit and then straightening up: "That's what I was counting on."

"What is... what have.. what?" Fidel stammers, sitting down on the stone table he'd been resting on, earlier.

"Doctor, we need a new plan," SPYGOD says, motioning the old man over to them, and holding out a small, metal disc with a large, red button on it, and a black dot painted onto the front: "Do you know what this is?"

"I do not," he says, coming closer as quickly as he can. He can feel Crazyface approaching -- sensing the horrible, treacle-thick displacement of everything kind and good that comes with his presence -- and does not want to be here when he arrives.

"It's a... well, it's a thingee," SPYGOD says, handing it over: "Bottom line is that, when you press that button, it gets you the !@#$ out of here, along with whatever else you're carrying. Or whoever."

"So you and I will escape?"

"No," he says, looking at Fidel: "You and our friend the Dictator, here."

Krwi blinks: "I thought we were going to kill him?"

"Doctor, I know we've had... well, our relationship's !@#$ing sucked for years, now. But do you still trust me?"

The old man has to think about that, but as the horrible feeling increases -- like watching a crying child being forced to eat his own !@#$ -- he realizes there isn't time for anything else. The hallway they came from is losing its red glow, and getting darker. That can only mean one thing.

"I am willing to trust you at least one step further," he says, holding out his hand to take the disc: "But do not ask me to save this man. He deserves what's coming to him."

"More than you'll ever know, Doc," SPYGOD says, grabbing Fidel, putting his button on the man's lapel, and pushing him towards his ally: "Take him out of here. That'll take you both somewhere safe. Hold the disc about this high off the ground... yeah, like that, and keep the black dot forward. When you get to where you're going, leave the button on him. And don't kill him for at least a day, okay? It'll all become... well... yeah..."

SPYGOD seems to falter in mid-thought, and Fidel doesn't seem to be doing much better, either: "Are you alright, my friend?" the Doctor asks.

"I'll be fine," SPYGOD insists, his facial features becoming less distinct as the red glow that illuminates the room begins to falter: "24 hours, Doctor. Just that long. If something hasn't happened by then, it won't !@#$ing matter, anyway."

Doctor Krwi nods. He takes one last look at the bare skull that's all that remains of the King, spits in one of its eyesockets, and lets it fall to the ground. Then he grapples the dictator in a bear hug, holds out the disc at the correct height -- with the black dot facing away from him -- and prepares to press it.

"I always admired you, old man," SPYGOD says: "I'm sorry things... well... I'm sorry."

"I always thought you were a monster," the Doctor says: "But I am glad to have been your friend."

Then he presses the button. At first, nothing happens, but then he and Fidel fade out, leaving only the disc -- floating in mid-air. The moment they go completely, it falls to the ground and cracks into three smoking pieces. Useless.

"Hooray for stolen tech," SPYGOD says, sitting down on the table and trying to un!@#$ his head in the face of certain doom. It doesn't work too well, but it clears up enough that -- in spite of certain, other complications -- he can at least do what needs to be done.

The red glow dies completely, leaving him in the dark. He looks up at the giant, iron door that they entered through. And standing there, glowing with the malefic darkness of the void that either birthed or nursed him, is Crazyface -- the stone about his feet warping and cracking from the stress of holding up the thing that should not be.

It is a swarm of cosmic, metal vermin in the shape of a man, if the man was made out of living cutlery. A million tiny, crawling things clink and clatter against one another, their endless droning eating holes in reality, and destroying the minds of any who listen for too long. Swirls of the creatures twist and curl as if caught in the wind, forming grotesque, menacing shapes that shine for a moment, and then are gone: extra limbs form and dissolve, wings form and flap and dissipate, blades slide in and out of the crawling chaos of its skin.

The face is the worst thing, though. It is the mask, itself, with its strange, almost robotic parody of a smiling face. But the eyes and mouth are lit up with its dark, inner anti-light, and shine so brightly so as to blind those who gaze upon it for too long.

Even SPYGOD, who can stare at the Sun for days on end, can barely look at that light for more than a few seconds without needing to look away. There's something dark and dangerous, there -- something cold and unlovely.

AND All oF ThE FiSHes weRE HollOW mY Dear, it announces in its buzzing, sing-song voice -- the song of dead, broken planets and cannibalized stars in a rotting sector of space -- aND All Of THem swAM at me...

"Thanks for the distraction," SPYGOD says, trying not to look at its face, or the anti-light blazing from it, or the way the air buckles and boils around it, unable to carry the strain of its presence: "But... did you have to kill the... their victims?"


We ARE All VictIMs, Crazyface says, holding its hands up to the sky, and making them turn into forests of blades and corkscrews: I aM ComE To Reap ALL. Now oR LAter mAKEs no DiffERENce. ALL wILL Fall. All wiLL FALL.

"Yeah, I thought you were gonna !@#$ing say that," he says, rising unsteadily from the stone table: "I'm sorry, Gilligan. I don't think you should have that mask, anymore. It's !@#$ed you up. You're not wearing it, anymore. It's wearing you."

Is THEre a MAsk ThAT Does Not? 


"No, I guess there isn't."

We HavE AlWays BeeN MovIng To THis MomENT, YoU anD i, Crazyface announces, slowly putting its arms to the sides so as to accommodate all the long, lovely sharp things they're generating: ThE fIRsT TiME I meT yoU, I waS PlanniNG thIS mOment. SeeING iT. And NOW, It iS heRE.

"For what it's worth," SPYGOD says, walking forward to meet his friend/foe: "I'm sorry."

FoR What COulD YoU BE Sorry? ThiS IS ThE Way of THINGS. We WEre ALWAys GOing tO be Here. I WAs alWAYS goinG to KiLL yOU. 

"Well, jury's out on that one."


YoU seek TO Limit MY Actions. In MY worLD, I am The DestroYER of That WhiCH STANds OuT. In MY waY, I am YOU.

If SPYGOD sees any kind of irony in that, he doesn't show it. Instead he takes a running leap at the monster he's let loose, hands ready to do all the damage he's been preparing for.

Crazyface laughs, and transforms into something like a metal flower, and something like a food processor. He expands outwards as far as he can, so as to take all of his foe in, and rip him to pieces before he can so much as land a single blow.

But then, just as the two monsters are about to collide, a third force enters the fray. It does so with overwhelming force -- and intense heat -- from some distance away. There is only a slight vibration in the air to announce its arrival, and then it's too late for either SPYGOD or Crazyface to do more than wonder what's happened.

And before either of the two can react, the third party turns the entirety of La Casa de la Sangre into dust and ash, smoke and fire.

* * *

Elsewhere in Havana, quite a ways from La Casa de la Sangre, Doctor Krwi and Fidel Castro slowly fade into existence in a small but well-appointed apartment. They materialize around a disc that hangs on a pair of strings suspended from the room's ceiling, and the moment they fully appear the disc's red button blinks twice, and then goes jet black.

Krwi looks at it with some regard, and gives it a tap. It swings a little, but does nothing. He chuckles, and throws Fidel on a nearby bed. The man seems uncertain of his surroundings.

"Just sit there, you goat," the old man says, finding a scrap of paper on a table. Recognizing SPYGOD's crabbed and coded hand, he deciphers: 

Doctor, if you're reading this, the plan went off, and we've been separated. If Fidel is with you, do not kill him for at least 24 hours. Guard him with your life until then. If he has sudden medical problems, do not send for a doctor or try to help him -- let him tough it out. I know trust isn't high between  us, now, but please trust me on this one. It will all make sense. Also, when you hear the explosions outside, don't look just yet. Give it a moment. There's cheese perogies, sour cream, and bottled water in the refrigerator. There's also a bottle of barenjager. Have a drink on me.

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea," the doctor says, reaching into the nearby refrigerator for the reed-wrapped bottle of honey liquor. As he shoots back a slug of it, he hears the first explosion, but resists his urge to look out the shuttered window. He resists further as he hears people screaming in what is either fear or joy, and has another drink.

(All the while noticing that Fidel, as prophesied, has frothed at the mouth and fallen down onto the floor in a slightly spasmodic heap. He makes the man comfortable and leaves him to his writhing.)

After a few more explosions, followed by what are now unmistakable cheers, the Doctor goes to the window and opens up its shutters. The sight almost sends him scurrying, given how bright and hot its burning, but he perseveres.

The apartment is clearly some distance from where they were. He can see La Casa de la Sangre from here, and can see that The Flier is hovering above it, raining down fire, missiles, and lasers. Every so often something inside it explodes, and the people cheer louder.

"My god, my friend," Doctor Krwi says, the implications of this sight becoming clear: "What have we really done here, tonight?"

He has a few more glasses of barenjager and watches the red brick warren burn.

* * *

Sometime around five in the morning, Fidel Castro stops breathing. Doctor Krwi, who's been sitting by the window all night, wondering what's going to happen next -- and wondering what happened to their other allies -- looks over at him, and, as ordered, does nothing.

He's about to get another drink when Fidel sits straight up, gasping. Then he's not Fidel, anymore, but the fuzzy and indeterminate man who is actually SPYGOD, wearing that certain button.

The old man jumps to his feet, dropping the glass and drawing his sword. It shatters on the floor (the glass, not the sword) and he lets loose with every Polish curse he knows, along with some Russian and Rom.

"You can !@#$ing say that, again," SPYGOD sighs, holding his head in his hands: "How long as I out?"

"Out?" Doctor Krwi shouts: "Out? You were... you were not you! You were Fidel Castro! And now-"

"Actually, I was me, all along," he says, blinking his fake eye rapidly: "And Fidel was Fidel. I just fixed it so that we both believed we were each other, and we believed it so strong that we became each other."

The Doctor blinks a few times.

"Yeah, I know, it sounds like horse!@#$, but it works," SPYGOD continues, rolling out of bed and taking a few, unsteady steps: "Picked it up from this crazy-!@#$ ninja clan, back in the 80's. It only works a short time, and not very well, but I always thought if I used the Eye I might be able to do something a little more spectacular."

"Well, you did," the old man says, sheathing his sword: "So Fidel, who thought he was you? He must have attacked that monster."

"More importantly, my old outfit attacked him," SPYGOD says, looking out the window as the Flier hovers over the smoking ruins of what was vampire central: "You see, the effect's so !@#$ing powerful that if they're looking for me, they'll find him. Neat trick, huh?"

"Very. And he is dead, now?"

"I'd say yes. And Gilligan... he's dead."

"So this had numerous objectives?" Krwi asks: "Was there anything resembling the truth in what you said about this mission?"

"You have to have some saying in Polish that translates to 'killing two !@#$ing birds with one stone,'" SPYGOD says, grinning.

"We do. It involves many penises and one woman. And that's how I feel, right now."

SPYGOD looks at the old man, who scowls, and hands over the barenjager.

"We were the distraction, like I said," he explains, shooting back a heady gulp of the stuff: "I knew Fidel would be there. I didn't intend for him to walk out alive. I didn't want Crazyface to walk out, either. And I knew that, the moment they knew were I was, the COMPANY was going to come in, guns blazing. I just put the pieces together and made a plan."

"And our friends? Are they not still there?"

"!@#$ no," SPYGOD laughs: "They're somewhere else, Doc. And they're safe. They made radio contact a few moments ago. That's what woke me up."

"So there was no object you needed to save the world?"

"Oh yes, there is," he says, knocking back more barenjager and handing the old man the bottle: "They have it secured. Tomorrow we meet them and trade off. And then we get the !@#$ out of this country before another revolution happens."

Doctor Krwi looks at his ally, shakes his head, and drinks: "You are a reckless man, SPYGOD. I hope you know what you are doing."

"I got you into vampire central for Cuba, didn't I?" he says, sitting down on the bed and putting his feet up: "Thanks to you, that threat is over. Thanks to the COMPANY, Crazyface is over. Thanks to us, Fidel Castro is finally !@#$ing dead. And thanks to the people of Cuba, the island will be free, shortly. If that isn't knowing what I'm doing, I don't know what is."

The old man sighs, but has to admit the man's right. It gives him something to do while watching part of Havana burn.

(SPYGOD is listening to Discoteca/Single-Bilingual (Pet Shop Boys) and having just enough barenjager to get some sleep)

11/13-15/11 - The Week of the Hunt pt. 3

11/13/11
10:34 PM
(LOCATION UNKNOWN)

The Big Man sits in a small and simple room, off from the side of his office.

He's all alone in that room, sitting behind a desk that costs more than most people see in their lifetimes. On the desk are six photographs: four women, two men. All of them are reasonably attractive, but each possess one small flaw that makes them memorable -- more desirable, somehow.


There's another room, beyond that small one. There's no door between them, but the wall has been specially made so that he can hear almost everything that goes on in it. Every creak, every footfall, every slap, every groan.

The six people he has photos of are in that other room, and they're !@#$ each other. He can't see them, but he can hear everything. And as he sits there, with his eyes closed, he imagines everything they're doing to each other. Who's doing what to whom, and with what, and from what angle.

It's one of the few things he does that really gets him off, these days. Once he was quite the connoisseur of flesh, and the fun, complex things one can do with it, but now he's really feeling his age -- at least, when it comes to that one little thing.

In terms of everything else, age hasn't slowed him down. He may appear thin and wrinkled where he was once stout and strong, but the weathering is all surface. Below the sallow, baggy skin he's as lithe and spry as he ever was.

But below the waist, something has withered and will not bloom without massive help, no matter how much top-grade pharmaceutical help his doctors give it.

This ritual is part of that help. There's a video camera in the room, and later that night he'll watch it. He'll see how close he was to imagining what really happened -- especially when his special actor chooses to reveal himself -- and the delicious difference between imagination and reality will fuel his lust enough to make his manhood stand up proudly for itself, once again.

And if he's lucky, he'll be able to time his release with the last, energetic act of that special actor...

There's a knock at the door. He scowls, but, knowing his factotum would only interrupt this ritual if it was extremely important, he presses the button on the desk that unlocks the door. He does not, however, open his eyes as the whip-thin man approaches.

"Sir, you asked to be informed if the SPYGOD situation deviated from how you anticipated."

"Has it, really?" The Big Man asks. His voice sounds as cracked and lined as his face, but it's still full and forceful enough to make the so-called powerful men of the world fear hearing it.

"His Agents are making certain inquiries. We think they might be going after the current roster--"

"Let them. Anyone they know about it is as expendable as the people we dealt with. Second rate losers and unnecessary risks, all of them."

"Yes, but they may be going after The Magician."

That gets The Big Man's attention. He opens his eyes and turns them on his servant, who shudders to see them so angry.

"How did they find out about him?"

"I don't know sir. We don't know. But word's come that his people are looking for the man who handles the retirements, and that's him."

"That's disturbing," The Big Man says, closing his eyes: "Tell his security details to expect my son. Tell my son to go get The Magician. Tell him I want him relocated as soon as possible."

"Well, sir, your son's in France," the factotum says, praying that doesn't become his epitaph. Fortunately, the old man's eyes don't open, and his hands don't leap up to choke him.

"Then tell the security detail to expect a relocation team. Have him removed as soon as possible. Take him to The Skull. I'll figure out what to do with him tomorrow."

"Yes sir. Is there anything else, sir?"

The Big Man shakes his head and gestures to the door. The factotum leaves quickly, carefully, and silently, hoping he hasn't ruined his master's ritual.

The timing couldn't be better. The actor The Big Man had the talk with, earlier tonight, is starting his special part of the show. Someone's asking what he's doing with that, which is how it usually starts.

But however it starts, it always ends in screams, which seems to be what he needs, these days.

11/14/11
5:53 AM
BILLINGS, INDIANA 

Zachary Leighton is a magician. He always tells people that. If they cock and eyebrow and say "oh really," he makes a quarter fall out of their nose or pulls an endless handkerchief out of their pocket, depending on what he's got up his sleeve.

He doesn't make them smack their significant other or walk into traffic. Not anymore. He could, but he doesn't.

He's retired, you see.

But there was a time, years and years ago, when making someone engage in some spousal battery was the least of what he could do, and did do.

They said he was the greatest natural hypnotist of his time, but that was bull!@#$. He was not a hypnotist. Hypnosis doesn't make you do something you wouldn't normally do, or would find morally repugnant. You can hypnotize people into acting like a chicken on stage or spilling somewhat embarrassing secrets, but you can't talk them into lying, stealing, murder, or killing themselves.

No, what Zachary had was mind control. It was short term, and required full eye contact and verbal precision, but he could make just about anyone do just about anything for at least ten minutes, maybe more.

Now, with a gift like that, he could have had anything. He could have eked out a quiet life for himself, somewhere, asking for what he needed, and relying on the compliance of kind strangers.

But he discovered the power in his twenties, which was back in the 30's. In those more exciting and trying times, it seemed like just about anyone with a talent was putting on a costume and doing something amazing with them. Some were heroes, some were villains, and some didn't seem to know which they were from week to week.

Zachary? He didn't have a hard time figuring it out. He wanted what he wanted, and felt no need to stop anyone else from taking what they wanted, unless they both wanted the same exact thing. That made him a villain, he guessed, and after years of working and then not working, of having and then not having, but always needing and wanting, he was happy to take whatever name the papers and police wanted to give him.

As long as he could take what he wanted.

He dressed the part, in dapper, black coat tails and tophat, with a white domino mask and wand. He'd walk into banks and persuade the guards, tellers, and patrons to help him take the money out of the safe and put them into his waiting car. He'd walk into upscale stores and empty them of their best wares.

Sometimes he'd take home a comely customer for insurance, or fun. Sometimes he'd just want to enjoy his new things by himself. And he had a lot of things.

He wasn't a killer, at least not then. He actually prided himself on having a zero body count, unless you counted that one guard who had a heart attack after lifting all those heavy sacks of money in Chicago, that one time. His fault for not retiring early, Zachary figured.

He had nemeses. Mostly costumed superheroes, sometimes the occasional villain who was upset that he was getting away with it all too easily. Zachary thought it was all in good fun, and just took it in stride.

Until The Big Man got hold of him, anyway. Then things changed.

Suddenly they were all working for him. Suddenly they were all patriotic Americans, fighting against the Axis in the war that was on its way. Suddenly they were being shipped all over the country, there to be trained, renamed, and remade by the War Department, so they could go overseas and fight for America.

And spy, steal, sabotage, suborn, and slaughter for The Big Man.

The Magician didn't like it. Not one !@#$ bit. He didn't like being told what to do. He didn't like having to kill, either.

But The Big Man had him by the !@#$, and he wasn't letting go. You were either with him or against him, and those against him got rubbed out, one way or another. So Zachary had decided, very early on, that he was going to survive this, even if it !@#$ killed him.

And if it killed someone else, well... that's just how it went.

After the Armistice, most of the others stayed in character, and remained with the Occupation. Not Zachary: he was brought back to the states and put in a special team, doing special errands for The Big Man. He got a new name and some semblance of a new face, and then spent several decades keeping them both far from the light of day.

Most of what he did consisted of putting a word where it needed to go, on those occasions where The Big Man's powers weren't going to work so well. Mobsters, monsters, truly corrupt politicians, and fellow villains needed to be told where to get off and what to do when, which The Big Man couldn't compel, but his personal Magician could.

And then there were the retirements.

After The Left Handed Legion became The Legion, and membership in the fraternity became something of a generational thing, those members who really wanted to sell their franchise and hang it up had to be made to forget everything they'd ever done. This was done so they wouldn't blab when they got old and started losing their minds, or found religion or got remorseful. It was also done to avoid stray thoughts from leaking around telepaths, as well as keep them from being discovered by heroes who just wouldn't quit looking.

He performed the same service, under much duress, for those older, original villains who didn't retire, technically, but had since become Operators: handling the hiring out and recruitment of new blood while masquerading as normal elderly folks. Once they got too far gone, or started showing signs of remorse or regret, he'd step in to make sure they remembered nothing at all.

(It was kinder than killing them, of course, but The Big Man wasn't thinking with his heart. He just didn't want any suspicious deaths coming back to haunt him.)

That was his life for most of the past decades, right there: professional memory-destroyer. A mere hour and a few good scripts and he could have someone believing they'd always been John T. Polka, hairstylist and car salesman from Parma, Ohio. Every so often he'd work in some funny details (usually a taste for weird porn) but he found that The Big Man didn't have much of a sense of humor about that, so he kept it low key after a paycheck dock or two.

Past that, he was well cared for. Money rolled in whether he did anything or not. Anti-aging drugs kept him looking like he was in his 50's, when he was really much older. A team of security guards lived on either side of him, making sure he didn't get attacked in the middle of the night. He only had to make a phone call to get what he wanted, and it was there in an hour or two.

And if they did come after him, well... he had his powers. One look and a few words and no one would be shooting him.

Which is why he doesn't panic when he becomes aware, after waking up much earlier than usual, that something is wrong. The usual noises from the house on the left, closest to his bedroom, are not coming. They haven't changed watch shifts, which never happens.

He gets up out of bed, puts on a robe, and walks over to the other bedroom. He can't quite tell if they've changed shifts or not, but he just has the feeling something is not right. The car parked in the driveway hasn't moved. The house just seems too still.

He thinks to call and check, but that might give the game away. If whoever's doing this knows that he knows, he may have less time. And if he's wrong, he's wrong, and they can all laugh about it, however quietly.

He goes to his bedroom and quickly dresses in something casual -- something that'll get him through an airport pretty quickly. Then he goes downstairs to his office to grab the emergency suitcase he's been keeping just in case. Change of clothes, change of identity, lots of cash and easily-traded items, guns that don't show up on x-rays or other scans.

He's about to leave when he realizes he isn't alone. They've been here all along, watching, there in the dark. Probably wearing No-Suits, the !@#$.

"Drop your weapons," he says, looking around: "Kneel down on the floor. Pick one among you to come with me to the airport. The rest of you wait two minutes, then kill the other teams with you, then each other. Last person alive go walk into traffic. Tell no one I was here, what you were doing, or--"

"Oh shut up," one of them says, and the No-Suits drop their invisibility field. They're COMPANY Agents, wearing carapace armor and carrying very large, convincing weapons.

Each one has a special helmet. It looks like an old-style stereo speaker, only rounded to fit the contours of the human head.

Echo-location, The Magician realizes. They can't even see his eyes. No wonder they aren't doing what he tells him.

"I really don't like your tailor," he says, putting the now-useless suitcase down. When the taser hits he tries not to scream.

11/15/11
12:39 PM

THE FLIER

SPYGOD walks down a long hallway, and into a large room. The lights come on the moment he enters, and reveal a treasure trove of amazing and mysterious objects.

Trophies, one and all.

SPYGOD is the only one allowed into the trophy room. If he was anyone else, various things would have leaped into life and killed him in about twenty different ways. Not that he'd have much of a problem dodging them, of course, but then he's him, and that makes it something of a moot point.

He walks down one walkway, then another, and touches the glass on a large case. Behind the glass is a rack with room for five long, bat-shaped objects. One of them is filled with a black and white bat that's tricked out with diesel-punk knobs and wires. The other four are empty.

He reaches into his uniform and pulls out a long, black and white bat. It's the one he took from Columbine, the other day. He puts it next to the other bat, and then closes up the glass.

Three more and he'll have the full collection. This makes him chuckle, but not for long. He's here on other business.

Serious !@#$ business.

He goes to the end of that walkway, past the other glass cases with their strange objects on display, and comes up to a large, black box with a screen, and an old-time movie camera on the top. He runs a hand along the top, appreciatively, and turns it on.

There's a hum, and a burst of static. He runs his hand over the screen, feeling the tingling. Before long the blackness is gone and there's an image: blurry and indistinct, and more than a little flickery, but it's a chair.

"Come on, you old !@#$," SPYGOD shouts: "Your magic black box is on. Notice me."

It takes an hour. He sits the whole time, fuming and occasionally taking a call. But finally some wiry weed of a man comes by, on the other side, and notices the box is on.

"Hi there" SPYGOD says, waving theatrically: "You must be Hargreaves."

"How did you--"

"SPYGOD knows all."

"What?"

"Shut up. Go get your boss. Tell him if he's here in five minutes I'll actually stick around to tell him what he needs to hear. Otherwise he gets to guess what I wanted."

The Big Man makes it there in less than two. He's clearly not happy, but does his best to disguise the irritation in his voice.

"Well, if isn't (REDACTED)," he says: "Nice to have you calling me. I didn't think this old thing still worked."

"It didn't, until about a week ago, Gilbert," SPYGOD says, not remotely surprised that The Big Man knows his real name: "We had someone come in and quietly fix your side of things, so we could have this little talk."

"I see. And we're having this conversation because you didn't feel like arresting me, then? Nice try, (REDACTED). The truth is that it's always worked. We built it to last. Your move."

"Queen takes Bishop. Check."

The Big Man raises an eyebrow: "If by Bishop you mean Magician, then we figured as much. Have fun with him. He only knows as much as I allowed him to know."

"Which is quite a lot, Gilbert. All the retirees? Plus all the dirt on The Legion, itself. Including where The Skull is currently parked."

That gets him riled up: "You had better consider that move very carefully, (REDACTED). There's a danger in taking a symbolic victory while the game is in its first moves."

"That's very true. And if I was playing the old game, I'd probably take that advice to heart. But this is a whole new game, now. The truth is that I no longer give a flying backwards !@#$ if it's too soon or too late."

"What do you want?"

"You under arrest. Your organization under arrest."

"That's not on the table."

"Yeah, I figured as much. I'll just settle for dead, then."

"No, I don't think so. Let me tell you what I have on the board. You know about our retirees, and our Operators--"

"All of whom you slaughtered, the other day."

"Not all of them. Just most of them. They'd gotten weak and complacent, anyway."

"That was pretty !@#$ merciless, even for you."

"Actually, I was merciful, (REDACTED). The poison gas went first. It put them to sleep and painlessly killed them long before the sludge gas turned on. I owed them something for their service, after all."

SPYGOD nods like he considered that, which he actually didn't (and is somewhat bothered that he failed to do so).

"So what else do I not know about, Gilbert?" He asks.

"Every so often, I go out in public, and I make a new friend," the old man says: "That one Agent of yours that you did away with the other day is just one. I have many more. A lot of them work in very important places. Nuclear plants, defense industries, the armed forces, intelligence organizations, even the White House, and especially the Secret Service."

"And?"

"And I've got them on speed dial. And every so often, maybe once a month, or once a week, sometimes once a day, I call up my new friend and say 'don't.' And he or she does not do what I told them they should really do if I didn't tell them to do it. Like, say, cause a chain reaction, or shoot the President's daughters."

"I see," SPYGOD replies: "And you think this is going to stop me from coming after you?"

"I think it should give you pause-"

"I think !@#$ you," he says: "Go ahead, Gilbert. Nuke the !@#$ planet. Bomb the wrong !@#$ country. Sell secrets to the !@#$ Chinese. Shoot the whole First !@#$ Family and their !@#$ dog. All it means is that I'll find you that much faster, and put you down that much harder.

"Your move, !@#$ !@#$."

The old man blinks. Once, then twice. "Are you insane?"

"There's some serious theological debate on that, Gilbert. What isn't up for debate is how this happens. You go down. I do it. Either you come to me with your hands out and accept what's coming, or I come to you with my guns drawn and we see what happens."

"I guess we will," The Big Man says, still visibly shocked: "But-" 

"And just so you know, we got to your mole in the White House a full week ago. She's been playing along with you ever since. She'll be calling you in about an hour to tell you to !@#$ off, Gilbert.

"Check. Mate."

With that he stands up, unholsters his gun, and shoots the television. It explodes into black flinders and sets off a dozen alarms. But what can the security devices do?

It's his trophy room, so it's his rules.

"Yeah, get me the interrogation division," he says to his communicator on the way out: "I want our new guest singing like he's on X-Factor as of !@#$ yesterday. Threaten to pull his eyes out of his skull with rusty pliers if you have to. I want everything on The Big Man and I want it now, before we run out of counter-bluffs."

With that, he tries not to grin too widely (so the Legion mole he knows he has won't see) and heads off for the commissary. It's sausage pizza day, and that makes it a good day indeed.

* * *

The Big Man sits in his office, now. He looks at a telephone he bought for one special purpose.

He waits for it to ring. Fifty minutes, now. Soon to be fifty-one. 

Is it war, then? Is it war so soon and he wasn't ready, yet? Did he not plan well enough? 

Does he have a chance to win?

Fifty-two minutes. Any moment now...

(SPYGOD is listening to The Edge of the Deep Green Sea (The Cure) and having an Elliot Ness)