12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 5

 11:20 PM

Myron picks up what the Nthernaut has given him, and studies it for a time. Inside the glowing, blue cube is a face he hasn't seen since Costa Rica -- seeming a lifetime ago, now -- and one he never expected to see again.

"The Machinehead is very unstable at present," the Nthernaut goes on, his face unreadable: "He suffered severe data damage."

"How did that happen?" Myron asks, making sure no one else in the corner this copy of the Nthernaut strong-armed him towards can hear or see this.

(After what just happened with him and Skyspear he really doesn't need any more complications, tonight.)

"He made the mistake of trying to enter the city's mainframe and take it over without a guide," the Nthernaut smiles: "He might have been able to figure it out on his own, of course. But while we were circling each other, I increased the city's functions just enough to be somewhat taxing to myself. And when I left..."

The blue and black shadow of a man taps the blue cube.

"He looks like someone who's been at the rest home too long," Myron says, remembering unpleasant childhood visits to his great-grandmother's 'special hospital.'

"That's a fairly accurate assessment. His memories are there, but his personality has gone flat. It's almost like a lobotomy, only this could eventually be repaired."

"Or someone could repair him?" Myron asks, looking up from the cube: "Is that what you're asking?"

"I'm not asking," Nthernaut says, taking a step forward: "You need to do this."

"I do?"

"Yes. You broke him to start with. And while he can't quite articulate the cause of his anger and recklessness, I suspect it was trying to get back in the saddle after you sent him riding into a minefield-"

"You're mixing your metaphors," Myron says, handing the cube back: "And I'm done taking orders for a while, Thomas-" 

Nthernaut, the project insists, his voice changing as he does.

"Thomas," Myron repeats, taking a step closer and all but shoving the cube into the Nthernaut's hands: "That's your name, isn't it?"

It's... complicated, the Nthernaut says, looking down at the cube: "And I wish you would do this."

"So, are you asking, now?" Myron says: "Because I don't care who you are, or whose party this is. If you try to tell me what to do ever again I will totally punch your computer face inside out."

The projection raises an eyebrow, and there's something in its eyes that makes Myron wonder if he should have been a little more careful, just then.

"Will you please help me?" the Nthernaut finally asks: "We were friends, once. You talked to me in the treehouse, when no one else would. Other than my father."

"Yeah, I did," Myron says: "And do you know why I did that? Because I liked you, Thomas. Even with half of your parts missing you were more alive and together than most of the people I'd known. !@#$, you were more together than I was, then. I just didn't realize how badly !@#$ed up I was until..."

"Yes?" the Nthernaut asks as Myron stops talking.

"It's... complicated," Myron sighs. They both laugh at that, however uncomfortably.

"The point is, I knew you, then," Myron continues: "I liked you. I could trust you. Now? I don't know. But I look in your eyes and I don't see some good kid who got dealt a bad hand, anymore. I don't see the person I knew."

"What do you see?" the Nthernaut asks: "Please tell me the truth, Myron. Please."

"I see... nothing," Myron admits: "Just blackness. Emptiness."

The Nthernaut looks at him, and then nods: "I was afraid of that."

They just stand there, for a time.

"Look, if you want me to?" Myron says, holding out a hand: "I will fix the Machinehead. I can't promise he'll be a model cybercitizen, or anything. For all I know he'll be worse than before. But I can at least see if I can get him up and running, again. That's the least I can do."

"Don't do it because you're scared of me," the Nthernaut insists: "Do it because it means something. Because you want to."

"I'm going to do it because I need to," Myron admits, taking the cube as the Nthernaut hands it back over: "I need an project, after all."

And as he nods and turns to leave, he's not quite sure if the project is just fixing the Machinehead, anymore.

11:39 PM

"Well, that must have been some conversation," Straffer says, giving SPYGOD a kiss on the cheek as his lover returns.

"It was !@#$ing epic," SPYGOD says, watching the old, German man walk away, maybe headed for the bar for a drink: "The earth moved."

"I sure hope so. I was afraid I was going to have to come fish you out of the conversation." 

"Because it's almost Midnight?"

"Because I got asked to pass on about a thousand messages from people," Straffer winks: "And, yes, it's almost Midnight. And I've been planning what's happening then for too long to not see the look on your face when the ball drops."

"That !@#$ing good, huh?"

"You have no !@#$ idea."

"God I love you," SPYGOD says, and pulls his man in to kiss him with borrowed, electronic lips. They're so lip-locked that it seems the Earth moves, but then Straffer realizes that it has, actually.

And they have company.

"I hope I'm not intruding?" the woman in the crimson shroud asks, holding a cocktail up to her mouth as she stands there, where she wasn't standing just a second or two ago.

"If you're the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, you're a little late," Straffer says.

"I need to talk to the guest of honor," she replies, looking at SPYGOD.

"Well, he's busy-"

"He's all yours," SPYGOD says, patting his lover on the shoulder: "Hon, get us both a drink for midnight. It'll be okay."

Straffer just looks at him, clearly not happy to be sent off like this, but eventually complies.

"Well, I'm going to pay for that," SPYGOD says, watching his lover go: "So whatever you have to say better be !@#$ing important, friend."

"I'm not here as a friend."

"I sure hope you're not !@#$ing here as an enemy?"

"No, merely observing," she says, having a sip: "You know who I am, of course."

"Of course. Did the other two crash the !@#$ing party, too?"

"No, just me."

"Enjoying the gig?" SPYGOD asks, wondering what the deal is, here.

"I wanted to know what kind of man you were."

"Well, you're not seeing me at my best."

"No, but I'm not seeing you at your worst, either."

"That's !@#$ing true-"

"You haven't killed any innocent people since you've arrived."

He just looks at her, then. And then he scowls: "I've never !@#$ing plugged anyone that didn't deserve it."

"You haven't?" she asks, smiling a little: "Well, how about those children in the White Boxes?"

"They were lost the moment the Imago got their !@#$ing hands on them."

"Your Mr. Chaos seems to think otherwise."

"He got lucky. !@#$ lucky. There was no way we could have !@#$ing planned for that-"

"How about Palestine, then?" she interrupts: "Israel? Because you did plan for that."

                                                                                        * * *

The crowd is no longer leering, nor threatening. All the faces that were of one, menacing expression just a second ago -- as they surrounded SPYGOD where he stood -- are now sharing one of fear. All those hijacked bodies take a step back, and then another, holding their hands up to their faces.

All of those voices screaming "no" -- many mouths, one mind.

One soul that realizes it's about to meet its maker.

SPYGOD drops the small, metal canisters to the ground. As they ping and bounce on the concrete, he wonders: how much blood has been spilled over its ownership?

None more than today, he realizes, watching as his enemy starts to die

                                                                                         * * *

"I sure !@#$ing did," SPYGOD admits: "And if you'd get your head out of the prosecution's !@#$ for a couple seconds, you'd !@#$ing realize why I did it."

"Because it's easier to kill people than to save them?"

"Because they were already. !@#$ing. Dead."

"That seems to be a common refrain from you."

"It is if it's !@#$ing true."

"Was it? They looked rather alive to me."

"Yeah, provided you ignore the fact that Zalea Zathros brought them back to life to be her !@#$ing meat puppets. I wouldn't call that being alive, would you?"

"And what of the President's daughter?" she asks, her eyes flashing: "Was she already dead, too?"

                                                                                       * * *

She's floating above the ground, her mouth and eyes black, empty smudges in a face contorted in what is either anger or hunger -- maybe both.

The sound of a thousand wet, scrabbling insects fills the air as the foulness spills out of her. Black balls of darkness tumble out and roil around her. Are they eyes or mouths? Or both?

He's not certain. All he knows is that the longer he stands there, staring at the source of the evil he sensed -- the evil he was so !@#$ing blind to, and for so long -- the more of it is coming out.

It says something. He's not listening. He's raising the black revolver -- the one given to him by a newly-minted demon lord, so many years ago.

And he's firing it.

                                                                                         * * *

"Worse than dead," he states, taking a step closer: "Possessed. By evil."

"Something you're quite intimate with."

"You know, you're really getting on my !@#$ing nerves. Just what the !@#$ is your problem?"

"You have so much blood on your hands," she says, sipping at her drink as she just looks at him: "And here you are, having a party."

"'Gather your roses while ye may,'" SPYGOD quotes (somewhat inaccurately).

"Yes. I wonder how many petals will be strewn before you as you leave the courtroom."

"Not nearly enough," he says, turning away: "Enjoy the party, Red. Don't do anything !@#$ing stupid."

And then there's a noise like the world breaking, and she's gone, again.

"What was all that about?" Straffer asks when he makes it back, a few seconds later -- a crazy cocktail in both hands.

"Not !@#$ing sure," SPYGOD admits, putting an arm around his lover: "But either we just got the mother of all driveby moonings, or the big !@#$ gauntlet just got tossed down"

"Think we need to step up the timetable?"

"Maybe," SPYGOD admits, having a sip of whatever outrageous brew Straffer brought him: "Or maybe not."

* * *

And then, at long last, it's almost time to count it all down.

People gather in knots and whorls. Sometimes the people they came with, sometimes new friends or lovers, sometimes complete strangers they just happen to be standing next to at the moment. They watch as one as the big clock gets closer and closer to zero, and as it gets down to the double digits they start shouting the numbers. 

Fifty: Yanabah's just about sober, now, especially after her and Josie had a long, much-needed discussion about certain things that happened, last Christmas. She thinks about getting a drink, just for the countdown, but realizes if she takes one drink she's not going to stop. And she needs to stop that, tonight. 

There's a lot of things she needs to stop, if she wants to start doing Wayfinder proud, again.

Forty: Skyspear's leaving, having called a cab. She thought about telling Mark, but decided not to. She's suddenly finding it's a lot easier to make decisions for herself, now. 

She wonders what else she might decide on the way back to the strange building she no longer wants to live in, anymore.

Thirty: Myron's in the middle of all the superheroes he's been avoiding, this party. Somehow he just fell in with them, and when New Man offered him a shoulder, he took it. Before long, he was talking and laughing, just like he'd always been a member of the costume circle, and not a reformed supervillain.

Just like he'd always wanted all along, as much as he hates to admit it.

Twenty: Mark Clutch finally catches sight of Martha, who's only just arrived. He smiles ear to ear, and is about to get up to go to her. But she sees Green Fury before she sees Mark, and as the two of them run up to each other and embrace -- as though these were the last moments in their world -- he realizes something horrible, but all too true. 

And then he sits down, feeling more alone than ever.

Ten: Antonia and Fred can barely hear the counting over the sounds of their kisses. They started necking about twenty minutes ago, and haven't cared to stop for anything. Not even the large Japanese Man nearby, who can't stop crying, no matter what the silver and red woman says (or maybe because of it).

And then's nine, eight, seven: SPYGOD and Straffer ascend to the platform they arrived on.

Six, five, four: they stand arm in arm, waving at one and all.

Three, two, one: they kiss like tomorrow's not coming on time, if at all.

And then it's New Years, 2013. Goodbye to all that old !@#$. Hello to whatever new !@#$ is lurking around the corner.

A screen pops up from nowhere, and on the screen are five men: a band of some kind. Older folks, maybe past their prime (and not entirely happy to be there) There's a moment of confusion, and then a Reaganesque voice announces:

"Ladies and Gentlemen. 

Let me present Frankie Goes to Hollywood. 

Possibly the most important thing this side of the world."

SPYGOD screams like he's twelve and seeing a ghost. Straffer laughs and kisses him, shouting "Merry Christmas!" Everyone laughs, and then the opening notes of Relax make everyone jump and cheer (or most everyone, anyway).

"How the !@#$?" Randolph asks, clearly taken aback.

"Straffer promised them each a million dollars, tax-free," Rakim shouts into his ear as he boogies down, Red Wrecker nearby: "It was the only way to get their lead singer to play."

"Money," Randolph sighs, knowing that's showbiz. But by the time they get to Rage Hard, he's grooving right along with all the others -- not caring about the 'why' or the 'how,' but just living in the moment.

And maybe that's just how it should be.

* * *

And then, a few hours later, the party's finally over. 

The guests of honor have long since gone. The criers, the laughers, the lovers, and the crashers have all gone their separate ways. There's nothing left to do but clean up the mess.

Or at least document it, which is what Randolph is doing: taking pictures with very small camera of the devastation left behind.

"Man, aren't you going to give that journalist !@#$ a rest?" someone asks. He's only partially surprised to see it's Yanabah, who's succeeded in sneaking up on him.

"Naah," he says, turning and taking a quick snap of her: "There's always one !@#$hole who stays after the party's over."

"Usually it's me," she admits. 

"Well, this time I've got an excuse. What's yours?"

"I dunno," she says, taking a step closer and smiling: "Maybe just wanted to see what it looked like when no one was here."

"Well, hardly no one," Randolph says, gesturing to the clean-up crew -- already wishing they had called off, tonight.

She laughs at that, and then just looks at him: "So what next?"

"Next? Well, I think I go home, drink a !@#$ of a lot of water, have some aspirin, and toss my alarm clock into my sock drawer. Maybe sleep a day away. Maybe two."

"I meant with us, paleface," she snorts.

"You and me?"

"The world," she clarifies, holding up a finger.

"What do you mean?" he asks, taking another snap of her with her finger up.

"I mean this has been a really !@#$ty year, Reporter. The Imago. The Reclamation War. All this !@#$ that's come after."

"You forgot being taken over by the !@#$ing French."

"The Presidential assassination that wasn't."

"Costa Rica."

"All the friends we lost," she says, choking a little at the end. 

"Your grandfather," he says, looking at her.

"Your girlfriend," she replies, looking right back.

He blinks, and then he nods: "Yeah."

"So do you think we can have a better year?" she asks, taking a step closer to him: "You think there's a chance we can actually learn from all this !@#$ and do better? Be better?"

"I think so," he says, putting the camera away: "I think we've got a chance."

"How you figure that?"

"We're still alive, aren't we?" he says, taking a step closer to her: "I believe that we can grow the !@#$ up. Maybe not all at once, maybe not perfectly. But even if we're just making mistakes, at least they're mostly new ones."

"Except when they're not," she grins.

"There's that."

They just look at each other, then. And they laugh, and they hug. And then they leave the party together, as friends, before going their separate ways.

The Sun's just about up, now. The city's coming alive, again.

And all is right with this brave, new world -- at least for the moment.

(SPYGOD is listening to Disintegration (The Cure) and having an Infinium)

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 3

9:37 PM

"I tell you truly, it is an honor to be here, meeting you," one of the Kingdom's lobster-like ambassadors says, her weird, glubbling speech translated by the wet, living things she wears to maintain pressure and atmosphere.

"I am pleased to meet you as well, friend from Atlantis," the blue-green, reptilian ambassador from the Inside (otherwise known as Mars) says, his body relatively unencumbered but his motions unsteady under the heavier gravity: "I knew that the Third World had a civilization, down below its great Oceans. But I am amazed that we can actually meet, here and now."

"You're amazed?" a floating, scabby ball with a viewscreen asks -- displaying a strange, yellowish, crablike being on the other side -- "When you people finally met us you were just delighted. What are we, gravel?"

"My friend from the Second World has a strange sense of humor," the reptilian fellow says, clapping his paws together: "I hope you will pardon him, friend from Atlantis."

"I tell you truly, this is such an amazing time," the Kingdom's ambassador says: "That we are all finally coming together, here at this Lightchange ritual!"

"They call it a party," the scabby ball says: "At least, I hope this is just a party. If they start sacrificing smaller creatures I'm logging out."

"Yes, Friend from Atlantis, I think this is a party, though it does have its ritual elements," the Martian says, pointing around: "For example, I do believe there are many mating rituals going on, here, tonight."

"Yes, I do believe I noticed," the lobster says, watching as Fred and Antonia talk up a storm, over near a quiet corner. They've gotten quite physically close to each other, but don't seem to notice this is a bad thing, or that the world is going on around them.

"And a few breakups, too," the Venusan says, looking at where Mark and Skyspear are sitting, having a much less comfortable talk as their hero friends go elsewhere and leave them alone.

"Breakup?" the Kingdom's Ambassador asks: "I tell you truly, I am not sure what that means-"

Skyspear slaps Mark, gets up, and walks away. Mark sits there, stunned, and doesn't follow her.

"Oh, I think I understand, now," the lobster says: "Endmate."

"Yes," the Martian says: "I suspect we will see many interesting things, here, tonight."

"True," the ball says: "But let's talk something else while we're here. Does anyone have any !@#$ idea what the !@#$ is going on?"

"What do you mean?" the Atlantean asks, uncertain of what some of his more colorful words are.

"Well, all I know is that all the space people I talk to? Their new Space Service? Those guys up on the platform in the white?"

"Oh, the ones trying to reason with that large fellow in the strangely-colored shirt?" the Martian asks, watching as Faraj all but scoops Ju-San up under one arm and escorts him away from Hanami's side (not that the man's resisting too much, as he is clearly broken.)

"Yeah, them," the Venusan says: "They're all worried about this thing that's coming to Earth, pretty soon. Some big planet-eating thing, apparently. No one can say the name right, as far as I can tell."

"Oh, yes," the Martian says, nodding: "We know of this thing, friend from the Second World. It came once before, and though we were far from it, its passing made many changes to our world."

"Such as?" the Lobster asks.

"We call our world the Inside," the reptilian being explains: "Once, there was no Inside. We lived on the skin of our world, and it was a lush and green place, filled with water and plants and animals. All was well, and then... it came."

"And it's coming around again," the Venusan says: "Well, !@#$. What are they planning on doing about it?"

"I tell you truly, we will do what we can," the Atlantean says: "But I am not certain what we can offer that those above the Barrier do not already have."

"Maybe someplace to go when everything above the Barrier is destroyed," the Martian says, shaking its head sadly: "Once we lived outside, under the sky. Then the sky was taken from us, eaten by the Hunger from Above. Now we live on the Inside, with what little we could save. And we dream of stars and skies, and hope to one day return."

"Don't you have some kind of fleet to deal with things like this?" the Venusan asks: "I mean, we got ships. Not a lot, but we got 'em."

"We have survived only by remaining Inside, friend of the Second World," the Martian admits: "Convincing my government to help would be very difficult. Especially since this is the thing that destroyed our world the first time. The current wisdom is to be quiet, and let it roll past us."

"I tell you truly, and with respect, that such an action seems less than grateful to these Overlanders," the Atlantean says.

"It is not that we do not feel for them, friend from the Kingdom, but that we cannot risk our own survival as a race for them. We have no desire to see our world destroyed a second time. Would you be any different, in our place?"

"I tell you truly that I understand your concern. But you do not need to be seen to be helping to be helpful."

"Well, that sounds like a weird line," the scabby ball sighs.

"I mean to say," the Atlantean tries to explain: "Can you not even send your ships to stand with them at the edge of their sky? Surely the creature would have no way of knowing you had interfered?"

The Martian's about to say something, but then falls silent, and thinks.

"Ah, you see?" the Venusan says: "I told you these Atlanteans were smart. But did you listen to me?"

"I listen to you all the time, friend of the second world," the Martian says, clasping hands with the Ambassador from the Kingdom: "It impedes my ability to hear wisdom, at times. And I believe my friend from the Kingdom has just given it to me. For that, I thank him."

* * *

 9:55 PM

"... and then, well, she asked me if I knew how to have a good time," a well-dressed Ben Frankin -- long hair back in a ponytail -- says, gesturing insouciantly as he tells the story: "And I said that the only way I could show her was to show her. And she said 'oh really? Well, I tell you what, Mr. Franklin. I'm going up to my cottage for the weekend. Perhaps you'd care to come up for a night and discuss this with me?'

"And, well, I do believe that every husband she had since then was quite sad, as they never quite lived up to that positively torrid week we spent together, Norma Jean and I."

The crowd around the old man laughs and applauds, and he bows a little.

"You are such a !@#$ing ham," Jess Friend whispers into his ear as the group of Gay Republicans dissipates, just as some really kicking disco song comes on.

"Oh come now, Good Jess," the old man says, grinning and patting him on the arm: "It's a good story. It was even mostly true!"

"Which part?"

"Well, the important part," he says, gesturing to the bar: "Let us have more of this wonderful drink I've discovered, and then perhaps I can tell you of the difference between a full truth and a half truth, and which is more preferable when trying to impress and amaze others."

"I think someone we know would have something to say about that," Jess says, and then just happens to see that someone walking towards them, carrying a big bottle of water from the bar, and looking like he'd rather be tongue-bathing kitten !@#$holes to make them poop.

"Why, Mr. Scott," Ben says, reaching out a hand to shake his free one: "We were just invoking you, good sir. Would  you care to join us for a drink? I have discovered this amazing new cocktail-"

"Can't," Randolph says, trying to smile and raising the bottle: "I've been drafted to help play 'babysit the drunk superhero.'"

"Oh, Wayfinder's granddaughter?" Ben asks, looking over in the corner where the large, pink-haired woman is still helping to glower her down into a chair, and Myron is sitting next to her, trying to talk to her but not getting anywhere.

"Yeah, she started early and got worse," Randolph says: "So Josie, being Josie, got her stationary and started finding people who weren't having fun and, well..."

"You were voluntold," Jess says, pointing to the water.

"Oh yeah," he hoists the bottle up: "This is her second. She might need a couple more after this. And then someone's going to have to make sure she doesn't !@#$ herself."

"That can't be fun."

"No. And neither is waiting in line for a bottle of water. You'd think I asked them to !@#$ in a cup and drink it."

"Well, that's not for me," Ben says, laughing: "Jess, I will go and get our drinks. I shall return shortly, gentlemen..."

And off he strides, right up to the bar in spite of the line -- because he's Ben !@#$ing Franklin, that's why.

"So how's looking after our national treasure?" Randolph asks, watching the treasure in question operate.

"It's a full-time job," Jess says, smiling a little: "How's our kids?"

"They... left," Randolph says, sadly.

"What?"

"Yep."

"What the !@#$ happened?"

"It's a long story."

"Are you okay?" Jess asks, putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "I mean, Jesus Christ. I thought you were all inseparable by this point."

"Well, you left, I guess they thought they could, too?"

The words leave Randolph's mouth before he knows what he's said, and then he's biting his tongue and not wanting to look his former partner in thoughtcrime in the eyes.

"Look," Jess sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, I shouldn't-" Randolph tries to say, waving his free hand.

"No, it's cool-"

"No, really," Randolph insists: "That was !@#$ing uncalled for. I know you got tapped to do this. And I know how important it was for you to do this. After everything that happened? You needed this."

"That's right," Jess says, nodding: "I did. And I thought you understood that."

"I do. I just... losing Helen, losing you, now losing them. I'm feeling pretty washed up, here."

"Yeah, I'll say," Jess replies: "You look like you went a few rounds with the Malort fairy."

"The what?"

"Oh God," Jess laughs: "You've never... oh man, whatever you do? Do not tell Ben you have never had Malort. He'll force you to have something so vile you'll never forgive yourself for having it."

"Can't be worse than this," Randolph says: "Anyway, listen. I think we need to talk-"

"Hey, Randolph!" a very loud voice shrieks from across the floor: "You coming with that !@#$ing bottle or what?"

"That's my cue!" Randolph says: "Coming, Josie!"

"But yes," Jess says, reaching out to shake his hand before he goes: "We do need to talk. And we will. If not tonight, then soon?"

"Yes," Randolph says, ignoring the hand and going for the hug, which lasts quite some time and almost ends in a kiss, but not quite. They both back away from that cliff a second before they jump into it, and then just look at each other, nod -- one after the other -- and disentangle.

And then they're heading away from each other, again.

* * *

(A letter)

Dear Randolph

First of all, we hope you are feeling better. When we found you on that park bench, last night, you were not at all well. We did our best to get you home in one piece, rehydrate you, and lay out provisions for this morning. Hopefully we were not too rough? 

(SPYGOD called us and told us to come and get you, in case you were wondering. He wants you to know he is neither upset nor angry. But there are things the two of you need to discuss, clearly.)

Secondly, you will doubtlessly not see this letter right away. But as you move about the house to start your day, you will surely see that we are not there. And you will surely see, also, that our rooms are clean and empty of most of our things, and our bags gone. 

And you will wonder what has happened, perhaps? And then come back to your room and see this note. 

We have left, yes. But please do not think that our leaving is a direct response to what happened last night. The truth is that we have been planning this for some time. In fact, we planned to tell you about this yesterday, over the Christmas dinner we did not have!  

But we had air tickets for this morning, and you know how difficult they are to reschedule on less than 24 hours notice, especially at this time of year! So we decided, reluctantly, to go ahead with our plan, knowing that you would understand. You know how efficient we try to be!  

The truth of things is that, while much of what you said last night was brought about by despair and drink, there was some truth to it. You are correct that, in spite of all we have seen and done, and lived and lost, there is still so much for us to learn. We are still so naive, still so innocent, still so wide-eyed at this amazing, larger world we were brought into when the Ice Palace was liberated.
And while we do not believe you meant what you said about leaving you to show we love you, we think it's time to do exactly that. Not because we love you (which we most certainly do) or because we don't (which we most emphatically do not)  

But because you are correct: It is long past time that we found our own way in this world. 

You have been a wonderful guide, in peace and in war, in good and in bad. You have shown us this larger world at its best, and its worst. You have shown us that the truth can make a difference, and that such truth is worth living for, worth fighting for, and worth dying for.  

You have shown us so much, but there is so much more to see. And as good as a guide and teacher as you have been, we realize that we must now find our own way, and our own truth.

When we were born, we were taught to expect a dark hole, filled only with pain, and we were told it was good. You showed us a world full of many different things, some joyful, some painful, and told us that we could make of it what we would. We were brought up to expect nothing, and you have given us everything.

You have given us a world. Now we must give something back, both to it and to you. 

So we have decided to strike out on our own, and record and see as much of this world as we can. If what we are hearing is true, and this wider world we have been liberated into is under a threat perhaps greater than we can overcome, then someone must make a record of it, if only so that those who come after us will have a window to view us through.  

And, with respect to certain American scientists, we do not think a gold record in a space probe will do. Not now that we have better things to record snapshots of our world upon, and fresh eyes to do so with.  

We have money. SPYGOD has seen to this. And due to our special situation, we have something approaching diplomatic immunity in the eyes of the TU. We can go anywhere, see everything, and ask anything of anyone.  

And we can promise that, by the time we are done, they will regret having been so generous with this. :)

You will pardon us if we do not tell you where we are headed, first. This will be something of a surprise for you, and we hope you will be at least amused. But we also know that you might try to come and join us, and this would defeat the exercise.

This is not goodbye. We would say Auf Wiedersehen. You know that this means "until we meet again," and we will.

We love you.

Gunther, Helga, Helmut, Jana, Karl

(SPYGOD is listening to One More Time (The Cure) and having whatever Ben Franklin's having)

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 2

7:59 PM

"Man, who was that drunk !@#$?' Fred asks, helping his companion -- a brown, somewhat-dopey cartoon dog in a tuxedo -- put his face back together after the fracas on the dance floor.

"I think her name's Yanabah," an upright, blue dog in a porkpie hat drawls, watching her as some of her friends try to get her to sit down, well away from the Toons: "Never met her before now, though."

"Yeah, well, she needs to get her act together," Fred sighs, still trying to get his friend's eye in the right location: "Talk about bumming the party."

"Are rhey rhowing her out?" the stricken brown dog asks.

"No," the blue dog replies: "Why the !@#$ would they? We're just Toons."

"I don't think that's what they're thinking, Huck," Fred sighs.

"I do," the blue dog insists, having another drink from the cocktail glass he's almost always got with him: "I bet they don't even send anyone over to apologize for her bad behavior."

"Ruck 'em," the brown dog curses, patting Fred's hands away and tending to the last stages of his first aid himself. Fred puts his hands up and lets him, shoving his hands in his jean pockets and just staring at the drunk !@#$ as she tries to get up, only to have a fairly large and powerful woman put her right back down in her chair.

(Curious looking woman. Buzzed, pink hair and tattoos running up her neck into her hairline. Uniform of some kind, but not a costume.)

"Hey," someone says, walking up to the Toons. She's a squirrelly little thing, dressed in early 80's nerd, complete with a bad sweater and thick, black glasses: "Is he, um... okay?"

"Rhe's fine, thank you," the brown dog says, scowling.

"Sorry," she says, clearly embarrassed at the faux pas: "I don't talk to you. I mean, you folks. I don't talk to you folks that much. At all, really."

"Maybe you should start some other time?" the blue dog snorts.

"Sorry," Fred says, extending a hand to shake: "Do we know each other? I'm still getting used to what people look like out of costume."

"Yeah, and I'm still learning to talk to people," she says, shaking his hand" "I mean, outside of my costume. I'm still nervous. Really totally. Nervous."

"I know the feeling. I'm Fred."

"I'm Antonia Crisp," she says, not letting go of his hand: "I'm Gold Standard. Well, the new Gold Standard. I don't even think we've met in costume, yet, actually."

"Oh, okay!" he says, shaking her hand a little more enthusiastically: "Yeah, I guess the Reclamation War was kind of your debut, right?"

"Right, yeah," she says, glad she's being understood: "So I guess we haven't met, period?"

"No. I knew your father, though. Edward was quite the genius."

"That he was," she smiles, a little sadly: "Well, look, the others sent me over... well, no, I wanted to come over. And say sorry. I mean, that was totally... well, stupid. On her part."

"I can't tell you how warm and fuzzy that makes me feel," the blue dog says, turning his back, collecting the brown dog, and walking away.

"Sorry," Fred sighs, shaking his head: "He's gruff at the best of times, these days. This was not the best way to start the party."

"No," she agrees, releasing his hand and activating an e-cig: "I mean, what she did? No excuse. She's been !@#$ed up since what happened to her grandfather. So, this really should be no surprise."

"I see no one's escorting her out, though," Fred replies: "I think that's why my friend's really so angry."

"Oh!" she nods, getting it: "Well, something you have to understand? And this isn't an excuse or anything, but trying to push her out would just wind up with a lot of people busted up. Badly."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. I mean, her and I are about the same age, but my dad always told me to stay away from her. He said her grandfather, Wayfinder? He told him some things about her that'd just make your blood run cold. She's not nice. At all."

"She looks like she's broken," Fred observes, watching as she withers under whatever the large woman is saying to her.

"She is, yeah." Antonia says: "I mean, you heard what happened to her grandfather, right?"

"I know he was killed during the Reclamation War, but no one wants to say how."

"Oh," she says, turning visibly pale: "Well, he didn't die well. That's what people don't want to talk about. Someone murdered him. Badly. I mean they chopped him up and.... well."

She shakes her head, not relishing the memory. Fred nods and holds up a hand: "Say no more. I got you."

"So yeah," Antonia continues, taking another drag off her silver stick: "She wasn't firing on all cylinders before? She's trashing her engine, now. Big time. All out of oil, rods thrown, doing five hundred in a school zone full of potholes. I think they're going to sober her up and get her out as soon as they can, but..."

"I got it," Fred says, extending his hand again: "Thank you for coming over and talking to us. I, for one, appreciate it. And I understand the delicate situation. We've got some interesting folks in our camp, too."

"I know!" she says, gushing as she takes it and shakes it: "Listen, I know you all don't like being treated like lab animals. And I wouldn't! I mean, not like that. But I would love to come and visit, sometime. I do mechanical engineering, you know. Just like dad, but obviously not like dad. He was a genius."

"But you'd like to come and see how we do things out in the Toon Nation?" Fred asks, smiling.

"Yes! Oh gosh, yes. I would. If that's okay? I mean, I know you all don't like it when people like me come poking around, but-"

Fred holds up a hand: "Antonia, it would be my honor to escort you around. Anytime."

She smiles like a child, and yet not. He smiles a little wider to see it happen, wondering what it might mean.

8:19 PM

"Not quite the kind of party you're used to, Faraj?" the Major asks, wondering if his superior's going to nurse the same drink all night long.

"Not quite, no," the man says, looking over the dance floor and smiling a little.

"Too much dancing?"

"Too many clothes," Faraj answers, dropping his subordinate a wink. Harvey coughs at that, and Brightstarsurfergirl giggles.

Hanami just stands there, smiling -- her eyes distant, as if fixed on something in the distance only she can see.

The Space Service folks up on the platform look extra sharp, tonight. This is the first time any of them have had a chance to roll out their star-white dress uniform, and the gold brocade is still fresh, the black piping still distinct.  And while they've got hats, they're mostly for funerals and other, solemn occasions -- which this is mostly definitely not.

Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir turns suddenly, his long, silver, braided hair whipping around as he does. The object of his concern turns out to be a beefy Japanese man in dark sunglasses with buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. He's wrapped in a loud, Hawaiian shirt and dress slacks, and while he doesn't have a drink, he has clearly had a few.

"Ju-San," Faraj says, bowing respectfully: "I am pleased to see you again, my friend."

The man snorts and waves him aside, stumbling up the platform. He's only got eyes for Hanami, clearly.

"Friend, please," Faraj says, trying to put himself between them: "I know that Straffer promised you we would do what we could, but you know-"

"Shi ne!" Ju San hisses, waving him away. Before Faraj can say anything, the Major's taking him aside -- "I think we should be elsewhere, now" -- and Faraj is too stunned to say anything else.

And then it's just the wide-eyed girl, the drunk man, and Brightstarsurfergirl, who's either escaped the man's notice or is simply invisible to him -- ruby hair and all.

"(Hanami)," the man says in Japanese, reaching out to take her arm: "(Hanami, do you remember me?)"

"(I do, yes,)" the android says, turning to look at him and smiling: "(You are Mister Ten, leader of the Organization. You were my superior. I worked very closely with you for many years.)"

Her smile, her tone, and her eyes do not flicker as she says these things. She seems friendly and engaging, but anyone who knew her from before would know that something was missing. Something vital and warm.

Something real.

"(Was that all I was to you?)" he asks, almost on the verge of tears: "(Was I... not a friend? Someone you cared for?)"

"(Of course. I held you in very high regard. I still do, though I am now with the Space Service.)"

"(Would you ever want to see me?)" he asks: "(As something more than my former employee? As a friend?)"

"(I do not understand,)" she says, her eyes going a little vacant.

"(I love you, !@#$ it!)" he says, trying not to shout, but failing: "(I've always loved you! Always!)"

"(I know,)" the android says, her smile not wavering, her tone not changing.

"(You know? Is that... is that all you can say? Do you love me, too?)"

The android looks at him, cocks her head to the side and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship.)"

"(But do you love me?)"

She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side, and smiles: "(Of course I do, Mister Ten. I love you very much. You are a good friend. I have always valued your friendship)"

"(Hanami... please... show me some emotion. Show me you care! Show me you're still in there, somewhere!)"

She looks at him, cocks her head to the other side again, and smiles -- shallow and automatic: "(Question not understood. Please rephrase?)"

The man looks at her eyes, and then closes his own. He drops to his knees and howls, holding her hand as though it's the only thing keeping him on the world, right now.

Hanami stands there, looking down at him, not realizing what's just happened. Brightstarsurfergirl walks up and puts a sympathetic hand on the man's shoulders, knowing that this couldn't have happened any other way.

And the party goes on around them, uncaring and loud. 

8:45 PM

"So how you been, Underman?" Blastman asks, grinning like a bastard to finally find someone to talk to.

"Myron," the poorly-dressed, unshaven man says, wishing to !@#$ he'd stuck it out at the now-crowded bar and gotten a !@#$ drink: "It's just Myron, now."

"Ah, that's nonsense," the older fellow says, clapping the younger man on the shoulder: "Once you're a Superhero, you're always a Superhero. You can't quit the life once you've gotten a taste for it."

"Really?" Myron says, looking at the man: "Because I thought I did."

The old guy's about to make some snappy rejoinder, but the intense look in the young man's eyes turn it to dust in his mouth before he can get another word in. So he purses his lips, nods, and goes back to drinking his own. And Myron, for his part, scans the crowd.

"Sorry," Myron says, eventually: "Just... I've been dealing with a few things, lately."

"Say no more," Blastman says, patting him on the arm: "Last couple months haven't been all that great, really. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself?"

"Maybe."

"Ah, what do I know?" Blastman sighs: "Here I am, working with one of my old enemies and a bunch of new kids, and half the darn time the French jump in and tell us to go soak our heads somewhere else."

"Sounds like you need a career change," Myron says, looking over the man's shoulder, and then elsewhere. 

"Maybe. You know anyone hiring fliers with a talent for smashing things with their head?"

"Some used car sales lot, somewhere," Myron replies, looking elsewhere: "All the other gimmicks are played out."

"Yeah. Who you looking for?"

"Oh, someone," Myron says, smiling a little: "I was hoping she'd be here, but..."

"But what?"

"But I keep forgetting, she's underage," Myron sighs: "Might not mean anything in this crowd."

"Probably not. Of course, there's some people who are old enough to drink that shouldn't be let near the darn bottle?"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you remember Wayfinder's daughter, right?"

Myron's ears prick up at that: "Yanabah? She's here?"

"Oh is she ever! Poor gal got sloshed way early, got in a fight on the dance floor. I think Josie managed to calm her the heck down, but I bet she's up and at it again by now."

"Okay then," Myron says, looking for her in the crowd: "Sorry to dash, but I think I need to talk to her."

"Oh, okay," Blastman says, watching at Myron dashes off: "I'll just... stand here, then. Yeah."

He finishes his drink and wonders who else he can talk to, here. Across the room, he sees Brainman (now Rakim) over with some of the others, having what appears to be a lively and fun conversation.

And the old hero stays right where he is, grousing at the indignity of it all.

9:00 PM

Right at the stroke of the hour, the music abruptly stops.

Everyone dancing boogies one or more steps further, and then stops, looking around in curiosity. Someone starts laughing and it carries. The lights come on a bit, and everyone starts to boo and laugh, and then they go down a little darker than before.

Over by the far wall, a shimmering light appears. It resolves itself with a blue glow that takes the form of a young man in a dark blue, form-fitting uniform that gives off no shadows or reflection.

The Nthernaut smiles and waves, and the room applauds -- somewhat warily, though. It's as if, after what happened on Christmas, they don't quite trust what he'll do next.

As the applause dies down, he smiles again, and seems to step in two directions at once. When he does, there are suddenly two of him, which garners some more applause. Then one of the two does the same, forming a total of three figures, all moving in time with one another.

And then, after the applause from that "trick" dies down a bit, a further bit of legerdemain occurs: two of the figures blur and change, and suddenly SPYGOD and Straffer are standing there - dressed in identical white suits.

The crowd gasps, applauds, and goes wild. The two men step closer, hug, kiss, and wave to the crowd.

"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how you show up to your party when you're under !@#$ing house arrest!" SPYGOD announces.  More applause and laughter, and suddenly there's a rush to get up and meet the hosts in their stolen, digital flesh.

"A nice trick," a suit-and-tie wearing Disparaître says to the shrouded person standing next to him as they observe from the back of the hall.

"Are you going to report it?" she asks, sipping at her cocktail.

"Of course not," he says, smiling a little.

"You are too soft on them," she snorts: "You could gain some major favors by being selfish, just this once."

"I do not care," he says: "Why would I risk promotion to anger a friend? I like where I am, now."

She smiles a little and goes back to her drink, wondering how to turn this to her advantage.

And the party goes on around them, unaware.

(SPYGOD is listening to Fascination Street (The Cure) and having a big bottle of Up Yours)

12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 1

7:00 PM

They say that the secret to any good party -- other than having the right mix of people -- is the venue. And they would be right, which is why people are willing to pay a lot of good !@#$ money to have someone find the perfect spot, book it, and get everything ready for them so they don't have to do it themselves.

Does that seem like an extravagance? Then consider three things:

1) Finding the right venue is sort of like Goldilocks legendary home invasion -- a question of too much, not enough, or just right. Too much space and the party seems sparsely-attended, and people think they're bored and go home, but too little space and the party seems overcrowded,  and then people get claustrophobic and angry and -- you guessed it -- go home. And while no one wants to party in a dump (unless they're hipsters, or something), if the place is too nice, everyone will be afraid to let loose for fear of breaking something irreplaceable.

2) This is Neo York City. Everything's expensive as !@#$ -- even the cramped dumps some people call party halls. If you want to get something decent for a lot of people, you either need an "in" or a lot of money. Sometimes both.

3) As this is Neo York City, everything is booked quite some time in advance, sometimes even years in advance, in fact. So if you decide to throw something impromptu for a few hundred people on a whim, you really need someone who can grease the palms and get a space in something other than an Elks Lodge.

So when Straffer told SPYGOD that he'd thrown together a New Years Eve party for a couple hundred people, out of seemingly nowhere, that is no small thing to have done. Especially since the amount of site-shopping, palm-greasing, and threats of bodily violence that must have occurred to make it happen had to have happened over the phone, while SPYGOD was either asleep or drunk in another room.

Having said that, one must also say that Lombardi's, out on 5th, isn't exactly what you'd call a great venue. Once upon a time it was a gymnasium, but then it fell on worse days and they had to sell. Whoever they sold it to had the idea to try and turn it into a restaurant, but that didn't work out too well, either, so it became -- in short succession -- a small concert hall, a large bar, and a large gay bar.

Finally, it was purchased by a trendy  guy who bought it got it at a really good price to try and turn it into a dance hall. This sort of worked, though it's more of a multipurpose sort of place, these days. Banquets and Bar Mitzvahs, mostly.

So tonight, when the staff throws the doors open, there's muted orange and yellow lights shining down from the sagging, cracked ceiling, along with silver paper stars and disco balls. The walls are covered up with white curtains so no one can see what they look like, underneath, or hear the traffic from 5th Avenue. The bar to the side of the raised, "wooden" dance floor has been draped in white linens, and the upholstery on the seats and couches on the other side of the floor is also white.

(It's meant to dazzle and hide the reality of things from the guests, obviously. Given the professions of most of them, this is highly appropriate.)

But all cover-ups and cosmetic treatments aside, the venue is perfect. It's neither too small nor too large, too fancy or too foul. And while it might have been a bit pricier than one would have liked, given the state of the actual hall itself, the fact that it was open on New Years Eve is nothing less than a miracle.

(That the miracle was obtained by mentioning the organizer's ongoing relationship with the Space Service -- a group of people who can and will atomize things from orbit -- needs no mention, here.)

7:25 PM

Randolph Scott stands over by the bar by the dance floor, looking like an advertisement for sobriety. There's circles under the circles under his eyes, and the cybernetic jacks and ports in the back of his skull are looking a little ragged. Almost conversely, he's dressed as impeccable as he's been in weeks: black suit, white shirt, shimmering silk tie.

And clearly, horribly alone.

As he finishes his third mimosa and goes to call for another from the clearly-bored bartender, he realizes someone's walking towards him from across the otherwise-empty hall. He turns to look, not immediately recognizing the tall, scowling woman who's approaching.

(Long black hair, Native American features, turquoise and silver jewelry in her hair, muscles like a horse, a small purse that clearly has at least one handgun in it.)

"You know, there's always one !@#$hole who shows up early," she snorts, clearly uncomfortable in her off-color party dress: "Usually it's me."

"It's gotta be someone," he says, gesturing to the seat next to his: "I've got an excuse, though."

"What's yours?" she asks, pointedly taking the seat next to that, but not without scowling just a little less.

"You get there on time, sometimes you miss the real story," he says, turning back to take his new drink.

"Reporter?"

"For my sins."

"You look like you've got one !@#$ of a backlog, then."

"You noticed, huh?" he says, trying not to let her rile him: "Yeah, this hasn't exactly been the best time of my life."

"Mine either," she admits, pointing to the bottle of Jack behind the bar, and indicating that the bartender should just bring it and a glass: "I think I liked it better when I was !@#$ing fighting an enemy, you know?"

"Don't you have enough now?" he asks, finally recognizing her out of uniform: "Well, until Christmas, anyway."

"Oh yeah," Yanabah snorts, having a serious, broken-neck pull from the bottle instead of the glass: "And you were there covering that, weren't you?"

"I was, yeah," he says, watching her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand: "I was there when the compound fell."

"And I was there when they started handing .50 caliber retirement packages to those !@#$ing worms that were tied up with them," she says, shaking her head as her sinuses riot: "I handed a few out, myself. Not a nice day."

"You mean the heroes that had gone over to the secessionists' side?"

"You know what I mean," scowling again.

"Well, there's a quite a few people who died that day-"

"I'm not being interviewed, !@#$face," she interrupts him, putting a hand up in his face without looking at him: "You want a statement, you go !@#$ing talk to someone gives a !@#$. I'm here to get drunk and..."

"And?" he asks, looking around the hand.

"And... get drunk," she sighs, putting the hand down: "Maybe get drunk, while I'm at it. And then get drunk when I'm done with that."

"Sounds like a plan," he says: "That's what I was here to do, too. But you know me. I'm still a reporter. Can't turn off the brain."

"Maybe if you pulled one of your !@#$ plugs?"

Okay. That did it. He scowls, gets up from his seat, and hands the bartender a bill for his own drinks.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, but he's already gone. She knows she should go after him, maybe give a better !@#$ apology, but she knows it wouldn't do any good at this point, if ever.

"Oh, Grandfather," Yanabah sighs, putting her hand on the top of the bottle, as if to convince herself to stop drinking from it: "Why was it you and not me?"

The bottle doesn't have any answers. It never does.

8:00 PM

It's exactly one hour after the party started, and -- as if by magic -- everyone starts to appear.

The Shadow People are here, in singles and pairs and the odd half-dozen. The remnants of the Freedom Force, some in party clothes and some in costume. The new kids, all dressed in their smart dress uniforms, and wondering if they should try and mingle with their elders or keep to themselves. The heroes from overseas, trying to find people they actually know in this mess, or else sticking to themselves in small knots and whirls at various points on the floor.

(The brightest lights from the new Space Service -- just arrived in their gold-brocaded dress whites and looking as smart as possible.)

Ambassadors from Atlantis, resplendent and moist in their weird pressure suits made from lesser creatures, wondering who they should talk to. Visitors from the Toon Nation, glowing under the lights and oh-so-happy to be here, tonight. Strange beings that no one seems to know the provenance of, but somehow got an invite, and don't seem to be acting out of turn, yet. The occasional Gay Republican, most of whom don't know what to make of the strange fellow who claims to be Benjamin Franklin, himself. 

(Superspies from a dozen or more countries, mostly keeping their own counsel.)

But no sign of the host, just yet.

Yes, he's under house arrest. He's under orders not to set foot from the apartment the Terre Unifee set up for him, until his trial. But since when does SPYGOD follow orders?

He'll be here, somehow. And they can hardly wait.

(Most of them, anyway.)

But in the meantime, there's the bar, the dance floor, and the DJ, who seems to know exactly what they need to hear right now. There's the lights and the bodies, the conversation and connections, and the thrumming and beat of the music that's become the soundtrack of their lives right now.

Now and forever, there is only the party. 

8:35 PM

"So how are you liking the new deal, so far?" the original New Man asks Skyspear as they lounge over in the chair pile, watching people dance like mad.

"I am not certain," she says, looking resplendent in her new uniform: "I like the sense of belonging, but it's very... I don't know the word in English."

"I never do, either, honey," Gosheven says, wincing as a very drunken Yanabah stumbles through the dancers, almost stepping on the tail of an upright, cartoon dog in a tuxedo. 

"Well, what's a time when you feel strange about it?" New Man asks, trying to not watch the resulting scuffle.

"Like when we need to go and do one thing, but then someone calls and tells us not to because someone else is going to deal with it," she says: "Or we should be dealing with something, but then we are called and told to go somewhere else. It is very confusing."

"I was going to say 'annoying,'" Mark Clutch says, returning with another drink for her: "But I guess that's life in the new reality for you."

"Well, it's not like we didn't have that before," New Man says, finishing his drink: "SPYGOD was infamous for telling us to do one thing and then changing course and telling us to do the exact opposite. It was like he was flipping coins, sometimes."

"It usually worked out, though," Gosheven offers: "From what I heard, anyway."

"Sometimes," Mark says, sitting down next to Skyspear and reflexively taking her hand in his: "Sometimes it was a big mess, too. I remember this one time-"

"Is it perhaps that the control is no longer coming from one of your own?" Skyspear asks, interrupting her lover: "That this is being done by a world government?"

"A French world government at that," Night Phantom says, suddenly appearing close to them. It's perhaps to their credit that his tendency to do this no longer startles them as much as it used to.

"Well, more people speak French than English," Skyspear says, winking at him.

"I think it's the nationality and not the language," Mark says, still a little stung at being run over in conversation (again).

"Yeah," New Man agrees: "SPYGOD may have been an insane bastard when he was in charge of our strategic talents, but he was our insane bastard. We knew what he was about-"

"Sometimes," Gosheven interrupts, snickering.

"And we knew where his loyalties lay," New Man continues: "Right smack under our feet. Flag, country, apple pie. No question. Now the Terre Unifee..."

He stops talking and looks askance. No one else needs to say anything more.

A young man in a green and white dress uniform (with a horrendous, still-healing scar on his left cheek) comes up to them, zeroing in on Mark: "Sir? Are you Mark Clutch?"

"I am, son," he says, getting up to shake his hand: "What can I do for you?"

"Green Fury, sir," he says, smiling a little: "Sorry to interrupt-"

"Oh, it's no interruption," New Man says: "Us old-timers were just grousing."

"At a party, no less," Gosheven chuckles.

"Well, that's what happens at your parties," Skyspear says, getting up and putting down her drink: "Pardon me? I think I will go and dance."

"Anyway, sir," Green Fury says, noticing how wistfully Mark looks after the woman walking away: "I was wondering... do you know if your sister will be here tonight?"

"My sister?" he asks, puzzled: "Oh, you mean Martha?"

"The Owl, yes," the young man smiles: "I had a few things I needed to thank her for."

"I'm not sure if she's coming or not," he says, his heart still hoping he's wrong: "Her and SPYGOD... well... there's been some friction. But you didn't hear that from me."

"I heard nothing," the young man says, putting a hand on his heart: "No, it's just that she really helped me out when some bad things went down, recently."

"Christmas?"

"Yes," he says, nodding sadly: "I guess we're all healing up from that."

"We are," Mark sighs, shaking the young man's hand again: "If I see her, I will send her straight to you, son."

"Thanks," he says, and leaves the old timers to their grousing.

"What happened to him?" Gosheven asks.

"Oh, he was from LA," New Man says, whistling: "Only honest guy in the bunch, apparently. It's a great day when your friends and teammates show up at your house to try and kill you."

"Is that what we've become?" Mark asks, sitting down and watching his lover dance to whatever weird disco-techno mashup the DJ's playing now (and looking oh-so-happy to be out there, alone).

"I think so," Gosheven answers, realizing the question wasn't necessarily about that young hero's predicament.

"I really prefer the original," the Night Phantom admits, not getting the subtext at all.

(SPYGOD is listening to Open (The Cure) and having a Sawtooth Ale )

12/30/12 - Just Looking, Watching Your Love Action

If you asked me, years ago, what I !@#$ing thought about love, I'd say I didn't really have the time for that !@#$.

I mean, !@#$, I was busy. I had my !@#$ing duty, my guns, my booze, and my !@#$ country. And if I wasn't using one to perform another for yet another, I was using the last one of them to !@#$ing forget the nastier details, or get ready for yet another !@#$ round of it.

But it's not that I was really too !@#$ busy for love, son. It was just that I didn't have the !@#$ time for what it did to me. Because love will !@#$ you up, as I'm sure you know.

And love in the capes and tights set? Oh, son, the things I could !@#$ing tell you. The !@#$ crazy hookups and drama. The !@#$ing complications and plot twists. The big, weird !@#$ moment when you !@#$ing realize you're in love with the person who's been trying to kill you for decades.

(!@#$, you've heard me go on, right? Right.)

So I !@#$ing avoided it, son. I kept it the !@#$ away. If I needed to get !@#$ed, I could find all the !@#$ sex I wanted, anytime. But love, itself, was just some weird !@#$ing concept I didn't want invading my world and turning it inside !@#$ing out like a noggin-punched octopus.

And then Straffer came along, and as hard as I !@#$ing tried, I realized I couldn't shut him out.

Why do I love my boyfriend? Oh, son, if you let me !@#$ing count the ways we'd be here for more years than you have left, on average. I could go on about his better attributes. His sense of command and power of presence. That amazing body of his and that cute pageboy blonde haircut. The way he takes no !@#$ from anyone and never lets me get away with any. His "ask no questions of the one you love and trust" policy when it comes to extracurricular activities..

!@#$, son. He orders Ladyboys up for me when he knows I need some strange. How !@#$ awesome is that?

So yeah, it's love. But love alone is kind of !@#$ empty. You have to wake it up, every so often. Go out of your way to do something and !@#$ing remind the other person, and yourself, that the love is !@#$ real, and matters. You have to !@#$ing do things to show you care, and not just the ones that are expected.

You have to be ready to !@#$ing drop everything else and give, just because.

And that's part of why I !@#$ing avoided love for so !@#$ing long, son. I was afraid I'd have to choose between love and duty, and, back then, I was sure which side would !@#$ing lose.

Now? Well, obviously I haven't had much of a !@#$ chance to show him that I can handle the love, what with him being presumed !@#$ing dead and replaced by a !@#$ alien piece of !@#$, and then being a head on a bed for a while. But he stuck by me through !@#$, and there's no way that will go unrewarded.

But today? Oh, son, today he just upped the !@#$ing ante so high, I don't know how I'm going to respond.

See, tomorrow's New Years Eve, as you well !@#$ing know. And, knowing SPYGOD, you know that, any other year, I'd be !@#$ing partying down with all my Agents, somewhere. Because it's my COMPANY and that's how we !@#$ing roll, right?

Well, last year, I didn't really get a !@#$ chance to do it. The Flier was gone, and we were having to !@#$ing clean up Costa Rica after OPERATION: BUGSMASH was good and done. So it was something of a !@#$ing working vacation, and it didn't really turn out all that !@#$ good, as you may well remember.

No, son. Last year, New Years Eve was spent at the !@#$ing White House, !@#$ing sitting there with the President who, at the time, wasn't entirely !@#$ing sure what to make of me. And then all sorts of bad !@#$ happened, and he was firing me, and then he was dead, and then the world was !@#$ing taken over.

And since then? !@#$ son, haven't had a time to catch a breath. And after everything that just happened, well... since I got tossed out of my own !@#$ COMPANY and put under !@#$ing house arrest by the French !@#$holes that run the world, now, a New Years party was the last !@#$ thing on my mind. Especially since there's no !@#$ way I can leave, and there's no !@#$ing way we could fit everyone in here.

I mean, !@#$, even if they let them in, Bee-Bee would probably !@#$ing shoot them all for disturbing his sleep. !@#$ing cat.

So what does my boyfriend do?

Oh son, that man I love? He !@#$ing arranges for a party to be held in my !@#$ honor, here in the city.

No !@#$, son. You heard that right. While I wasn't !@#$ing looking or hearing, he snuck around, made a few deals, and got the mother of all !@#$ing New Years parties organized. He handled the invites, the catering, the music, the security. He !@#$ing handled everything.

And, thanks to a few tricks he cobbled up? I'm even going to get to !@#$ing be there. Sort of. But I can't say too much about that, now can I?

(I just hope it'll go better than this last Christmas. Jesus !@#$ was that a disaster)

So I am going to get my !@#$ New Years party this year, son. I will have to do it by !@#$ing remote, and I will miss actually being with people. But !@#$ it, it's going to happen, no matter what.

Of course, this means I don't have a !@#$ thing to wear, but he swears he's got that !@#$ing covered, too. And just for that, I am going to pick him up, carry him into our bedroom, and !@#$ him up one side of the room and down the other until we're both sloppy, salty, and as broken as the bed slats are going to be. Because I love him and he's !@#$ing awesome, and awesome !@#$ing.

And if a rocket ride to and from Pluto is all I can give him right now, then he's gonna get it. Good and hard.

See you at the party, son. Come as you are, leave as something else.

And if you hear screaming for the next few hours? That's me shouting I LOVE YOU at the top of my !@#$ lungs.

Because I do. Oh !@#$ing God do I ever.

(SPYGOD is listening to Love Action (Human League) and having... well, figure it out)

12/20/12 - Like Magic It's Changing Everything in Sight

I've always been told it's a big !@#$ mistake to keep a diary, in my kind of work. And they're probably right. Look what it did to Tricky Dick, for !@#$'s sake.

But every so often, I give caution a big ol' middle finger, grab a pen, and scribble down what I'm thinking and feeling. Nothing Shakespearean, to be frank, but I like to remember what was going through my mind at times like these.

Especially a night like this one, which now seems !@#$ing ages ago. The night I got back to to America for the first time in !@#$ing months, after all that !@#$ I had to wade through, and could do it with my head held high again.

The night I could say that, yes, I !@#$ing won.

10/16/12

I made it back to the mainland a few hours ago, after I got the Lost City secured. Not that there's much to secure, anymore. The War Spawn left, and the Imago they didn't eat are being tossed into port-a-cells, to await interrogation and trial.

And yes, the Dragon is dead. I !@#$ed on him until he died. So that's done, and I have properly avenged the man he was, before GORGON took advantage of a dying man's fear, and created a weapon that could  have ended everything.

(Rest in peace, friend. I will always love you. I just wish I could have done more for you than killing the !@#$er who stole your face.)

Other than that, I have a number of very !@#$ing scary people (and things that just look like people) from Ju-Kikan watching over the entrances to the city to make sure no one !@#$ing goes into it. And The Dignitary's watching over all of that, too, and no one's going to !@#$ing mess with that. 

They're also watching over their Director, who had to fly back to Tokyo to deal with his little secret android secretary girl, who got banged up dealing with the Imago. Poor kid might not recover, and if she doesn't, we could be in for some !@#$.

A lot of !@#$, to be honest, but I don't want to to think about that right now, son.

No, I don't want to think about the weird armies I'm going to have to thank and pay off. I don't want to think about the Strategic Talents I'm going to have to promote, or bribe, or bury. I really don't want to think about all the little things that are going to need tending, or fixing, or whatever.

And that's why I haven't checked in with our headquarters, here in town, or let the Toons know I'm here. That's why I haven't called up Mr. USA to make sure everyone got back from the Antarctic, alright, or called up Randolph to let him know I'm !@#$ing available for the mother of all god!@#$ interviews. !@#$, son, I haven't even contacted our people in the Pacific to see if they found my !@#$ flying saucer, and my cat, yet.

(Believe you me, that fuzzball can take care of himself)

Right now I just want to party like it's the end of a war.

I didn't really get to do it, before, you know. I was too busy in the War, and no one really got a warm homecoming for Korea, or Vietnam. And while we've had celebrations and fanfares for the various, big !@#$ fights that have eclipsed the globe, here and there, all that !@#$ was just superheroes smacking the !@#$ out of someone.

Real wars involve common people. Ordinary men and women who go to fight an enemy, or have to hold down a homefront and deal with what goes on there. Citizens fighting for their rights when an enemy takes them, and either hunker down to survive or actively resist.

And when the whole world gets !@#$ing enslaved, that means the common people of the planet all took part in this war to take it back, which means they all have the right (maybe even the duty) to knock back a few, scream and yell and cheer, and say "we did this, friends and neighbors."

"This victory is ours."

Of course, some people have to take more credit than others, which isn't too terrible a thing. In fact, I was just in time to catch the President's speech on TV, thanks to one of the satellites they threw up in the last day or so.

It was downtown, up on the a big screen they projected up against a skyscraper. The moment he got on the crowd just went !@#$ing wild, like he was a !@#$ing rock star, or something.

Of course, he was a rock star, now. He'd lived, he'd died, and on the way back he'd saved the world. Not a bad day's work, provided you didn't look at the small details.

(Another thing for another day.)

One thing he said, towards the end, really stuck out:

"There will be rough times in the days ahead. There will be days when you wonder if you can go on, and if you should. There will be moments when you think the road is too long, and the challenge too much.

"On those days, you reach out a hand, and we will be there. Your friends, your neighbors, your loved ones, your government. We will all be there, and we will all help each other through this.

"Tonight, America is free. Tonight the world is free. Tonight we are all humans, together, victorious against a foe. And we will have justice for this crime that was committed upon us, yes, but let us put that down as a task for the tomorrow that we have all earned.

"Tonight, let a free people celebrate, all over the world, and say 'Thank God, we are free at last!'"

The crowd went wild there, as they did a whole lot of other places. And for a moment I was carried up and over, and forgot everything I was trying not to remember. I was just one with them, cheering and laughing and crying.

And I felt like I actually belonged to the common clay I've been transcending away from, all these years. 

So now I move unseen through the crowds that line and choke the streets of the city, so no one talks to me. It's kind of like that one old story where the country kid goes looking for his Loyalist uncle, only to get to town on the night they tarred and feathered the stupid, King-loving !@#$. Only no one knows this show is being put on for my benefit, and there's no need for masks or disguises, here.

Invisible, I see humanity at its best.

I watch the people as they party and dance in the streets. I see shopkeepers handing out free drinks to the throngs, people playing music from their windows, street vendors keeping them fed and hydrated. I see cheers and parades and people yelling and talking and laughing, free at last to do so without fear of death or accusation.

But I also see humanity at its worst. I see the burning houses of those who got rich and powerful by serving the Imago. I see the bent movie stars and news personalities having to run for their lives, and not always making it away clean and safe. I see the police do nothing, or, worse, help the looters and angry mobs.

And then, just as I'm wondering if I should call the authorities, or reveal myself as one, something amazing happens.

You know those super-kids I was collecting, all those years? One of the ones that I found here in LA (Green Fury, I think) steps up and stops a mob from crashing down on a small family from one of those !@#$ "news" outfits the Imago set up. He stands between the angry and the afraid and tells them that anyone could have picked by them to lie on their behalf. And if everyone really thinks about it, they just might remember that they got fooled, too.

It takes a while, but when it becomes clear he's not leaving, they eventually do. And when the reporter tries to think him, the kid smiles, tells him to shut up and start running, and then goes on to help someone else in a similar predicament.

(Kid bears watching, I think.)

I dance in a massive conga. I weep at the edge of the blast zone, north of town. I get drunk and cry and laugh and !@#$ a complete stranger behind a bar.

There are problems we need to fix, but that can wait until tomorrow. There are issues that need resolving, but we can !@#$ing argue about it later. And there are people who need our help, but that help starts here and now, with this party to end all parties, shaking the world underfoot and making the sky tremble with its fury.

"The Man in the Moon heard the far bellow; "Oho," quoth he, "the old earth is frolicsome tonight!""

And on that note, I think I'm going to quit writing, and start partying again. There's lots more to drink, and people to drink with, and I am going to get my fill of it all.

Because I can.

Because we're free.

* * *

On a lighter note, I'm now being informed that they found Bee-Bee. Poor !@#$ fuzzball washed ashore on some small island, after Lady Gilda went down, and was being worshiped by the natives as a God.

The locals only got it half wrong, but they weren't happy to give him up. And the little !@#$ wasn't happy to come back to civilization, either. So I think some Talents earned their emergency pay, tonight.

Would that we all did. 

(SPYGOD is listening to All Over The World (Pet Shop Boys) and having too many drinks to list here)