"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," the black-masked man says, stepping into the center of the room: "I hope I am interrupting?"
"I think this was a private meeting?" the Pusher says, hoping to keep his client -- shaking with almost-literal red-hot rage -- from doing the obvious thing.
"I'm sure it was, Pusher. But, as I think you all know, the Brotherhood of the Righteous can go where it likes, and do what it needs to?"
"The who?" Red Thunder asks, cocking an eyebrow, along with most of the turned, new heroes.
"Ah, you youngsters," the Angle says, and there's a lot of mocking laughter at that. It seems the black-masked man is joining them in it, but when he holds up his hand they all fall silent.
"Yes, it does seem as though there's a bit of a lack of knowledge, here," the interloper continues: "But that can be corrected, perhaps when we're done here."
"You are done, here," METALMAID hisses, one of her laser cannons sliding out of her arm and firing at him.
The beam slices through the air and strikes him, dead-center, but nothing happens. The beam is diffused across his chest.
"Would you care to try again?" he asks: "I think my shields are worthy of your worst, such as they are..."
"Sound?" she yells, but he's nowhere to be seen. People laugh.
"Emperor of Pain?" she shrieks: "Turn this man's guts to jelly!"
"Scarlet, I can't," the old man sighs: "I'm already locked into the town-"
"And even if he did let go, and could single me out, regaining control over the town might be more than he could handle, at his age," the black-masked man says, waving his hands dismissively: "I don't think you're all in the mood to deal with over two hundred angry townspeople, this morning, are you?"
"I think we could," Green Thunder snorts: "I also think you're interrupting the lady. I'll admit she comes across as something of !@#$, but, after all that, I think some of us wanted to hear what she had to say."
"Well... Green Thunder, is it?" the man says, walking up to him and patting him on the shoulder: "I think you want to hear what I have to say, first, before you sign on with a failure. And I think you'll want to know more about how and why she failed before you follow her intowhat's going to be, at best, a fool's errand. At worst, it might be your end.
"And I think the older guard here who know who and what I am would agree with me on that point."
Green Thunder's about to say something, but then sees that the people here he doesn't know are nodding, and then shuts his mouth.
"Alright then," the man says, walking away and pointing at METALMAID: "If we're done trying to use weapons that won't work, let's introduce you. The real you. Scarlet Factotum, isn't it? Head of Scarletworks?"
"Yes," she says through gritted teeth, knowing where this is going.
"Last seen working alongside the late Doctor Kyklops, when he tried to take over the world from the Imago, correct?"
"Yes."
"Now, maybe you'd care to tell us how well that worked?" the black-masked man asks, most likely grinning like the Devil behind his mask.
"Not very well," she admits: "But I would remind you that I was, at best, his weapons supplier. The tactical decisions were his-"
"You were a great deal more than that, I think," the fellow says, holding up his hand and pointing at the hologram of the Terre Unifee's headquarters, in Paris. There's a bright light, a loud SQUARRRK, and then the image has changed.
And it's the image of a couple months ago, as METALMAID berates the good Doctor into pushing forward his plans for world conquest, during one of their more degrading bouts of sex.
"I'm telling you, now," she said, then, doing something that should be anatomically impossible to him: "You follow my plans, you will win! We have the tools, we have the soldiers! We have everything! We just need you to be a man and say yes!"
"Yes!" the man shrieks in pain, pleasure, and sheer abandon: "Yes, a million times yes! Just please do not stop..."
There's some laughter, then, from the audience she's assembled -- laughter both mocking and cruel. A few gasps and some coughing.
"That dirty old buzzard," the Lord of Spiders laughs.
"Hey," the man dressed like a buzzard, back by the punchbowl, protests, however quietly.
"We'd had the Doctor's castle in Sardinia bugged for ages," the black-masked man says, letting the tape run on silent, now: "It was part of our old insurance plan, which he purchased back in the early 70's. He probably forgot all about it. And I'm sure that he also forgot that, upon the death of the policy holder, all footage becomes part of the Brotherhood's historical archive."
"It was a business transaction," METALMAID insists: "How was I supposed to maintain my standard of living if he wouldn't keep buying things from me? I have my overhead to consider-"
"You need to be quiet, now," the man says, holding up a hand: "And the rest of you need to listen, very carefully, to what I am about to say.
"Those of you who know of who we are, and what we can do? You know that whatever you might owe this failed world-conqueror for getting you out of your current circumstances is paltry peanuts compared to what you still owe us. And those of you who don't know us, yet? You just consider why these people who've been at it longer than you have are being quiet and listening-"
"Probably because you've got the goods on them, too," Green Thunder snorts: "You going to show off their sex tapes if they speak up, bagface?"
If it was possible for the room to get any quieter, it would have.
The man in the black mask looks at Green Thunder, and just nods. A second later the hero-turned-villain grimaces, and reaches his hands up to his head.
And then he falls down to his knees, his nose leaking necrotic sludge onto his chin and chest. He gets time to gasp out "help," and then he's on the floor, dead, his blackened brains leaking from his ears, nose, and mouth.
Red Thunder shrieks and steps back, and a number of the other, turned heroes gasp and join her. Someone throws up. The Black Rider just laughs.
"As you can see, I don't have to resort to simple blackmail," the black-masked man says, waving a hand at his deeds: "We can kill you, anywhere and anytime. It just takes a touch, that's all. And if you anger us, or we feel you've become a risk? Your brains will rot in your skull and tumble out, useless and unreadable."
"That's one !@#$ of a sales pitch," one of the other new villains says: "I think we're listening."
"Good," the black-masked man says: "Now, here' the situation as we see it. Some time ago, it looked as though business as usual was over. The massive game of superspies and supervillains that had held sway was being eliminated. The opening salvo was the Outland of 2012, when SPYGOD blew the place up, killing a lot of good bad people, and putting us on notice that business as usual was over.
"Now, by the time the next Outland was scheduled, the world was in different hands. And I'm sure some of you remember that we tried to have another one? But the Imago had different ideas, as some of you also know.
"However, now things have changed again. Now the Terre Unifee is in charge of things. Now we have an organization that, frankly, has none of the drive or smarts of the previous attempts at global law enforcement or peacekeeping. For all their power and reach, they're unfocused. Too dependent on their super powers. Too uncertain of what's actually happening in their client states.
"And that means that, as of now, the situation we had before all this mess started? It's about to come around again."
There's some nods at that, some realization. A couple coughs of disbelief, however quiet.
"After all, the man who started the pendulum swinging the other way? SPYGOD? He's in jail, right now. He's shortly to be on trial for crimes against humanity. He saves this world, and they're going to put him to death for getting his hands dirty doing it? There's your law and order for you..."
More snorts and some black laughter. He's clearly got the floor, now.
"Now, here's what I am proposing," the man says, pointing at METALMAID: "Her route? Well, even if she does get this plan of hers off the ground, which I doubt, given her track record? It means that that you'll be parts of the machine that runs the world.
"And right now? That world is a mess.
"You've seen it, you know it. The media won't tell you the whole truth about the problems they're having making sure everyone's got food, shelter, and essential services. And they sure don't want to talk about a much larger problem that's on its way, here. But the bottom line is that, if we break it, we're going to buy it.
"Quite literally, in fact."
"Such is a danger of any conquest," the Lord of Spiders interjects: "If you would be king, you must tend your kingdom."
"True, but let's talk sense," the black-masked man says: "Why rule when you can subvert? Why press the coins when you can just steal them? Why control it all when you can control your own little corner?
"I mean, do any of you really want to take over the world?" he asks, gesturing around to one and all assembled there: "Really? To never know sleep, or rest, or security? To never be able to just close your eyes and say 'good night'? To always be worried that some new crisis will test you? That some new disaster will befall you?
"That some other new blood, with a fire for conquest in his heart, won't try to take it over, or take you out?"
He lets his words die down, then, looking around from face to face: "Heavy is the head that wears the crown, my friends. Why seek to take it, when you can just have the benefits that come from having a foolish and malleable king on the throne? And believe you me, the Terre Unifee is extremely foolish and very malleable, right now."
"And you should know, all things considered," the Violet Demon says, putting his hands on the back of the man's suit jacket.
"Excuse me," the fellow says, but before he can do anything his entire person is suffused with a muted, purple glow. Sparks and smoke shoot out of his pockets and buttons, and the embarrassing tape loop of METALMAID getting it on with her late "employer" gives way to the view of Paris, once more.
"Sorry," the Violet Demon says, kicking the man in the crotch from behind for good measure: "That was getting !@#$ing depressing."
"You idiot!' Chassis shouts as the man goes to his knees, howling: "You've doomed us all! That's the-"
"Brotherhood of the Righteous?" the Violet Demon says, stepping forward and grabbing the masked man's head in his hands: "Well, I'm sure that's what they'd like you to think. But they're gone and done with, folks. Finished."
"What do you mean?" the Pusher asks, clearly uncertain what's going on, here.
"After the last Outland? The Imago didn't just bust down the party. They hunted them down and destroyed almost all of them. That's why us older villains haven't been getting our newsletters, lately."
"You gotta be !@#$ing kidding me," Nefartiti says: "The Brotherhood's gone? How could they just be gone?"
"Those aliens could be !@#$ thorough when they wanted to," the Angle admits.
"Very thorough," the Violet Demon says: "And you can thank your lucky stars that one of their people was good enough to dispose of most of their files before they followed them up the pipe, or a lot of you would have been gone, right along with them. I just barely survived an assassination attempt, myself, right before the Reclamation War. It's only now that I've been able to show my handsome face again... such as it is."
He smiles behind his mask and tips a wink to METALMAID, who feels her metal heart do something strange, yet not unwelcome.
"But, then, who is this?" the Lord of Spiders asks, gesturing to the man on the floor: "How did he know to come here? How did he do these things that only a member of the Brotherhood could do?"
"Well, that's a long story," the Violet Demon says: "And I don't want to take too much time away from our gracious hostess, especially since I crashed the party, too, once I learned this jerk was going to be making an appearance."
"And just how did you know that?" the Black Riders squeaks.
"That's part of the long story. But, with our host's permission? I think once I pull this mask off, a lot of things are going to make a lot of sense. What's more, they're going to light a big fire under your !@#$es to want some payback against the TU."
"By all means," METALMAID says, stepping down from the stage and striding up to where the man kneels: "Let's see this flesh germ's face, Violet Demon. And as for your story, you can take as much time as you'd like."
"Good to hear," he says, and pulls the mask right off to reveal...
(METALMAID is listening to The Model (Kraftwerk, 2010 remix) and having yet more punch and pie)
Showing posts with label dr. Kyklops. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dr. Kyklops. Show all posts
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Monday, April 1, 2013
10/14/12 - Something Could Change - Pt. 1
The sun comes up on a scarred and blackened Washington DC -- its monuments and grand buildings cracked and chipped by the outrageous, aerial fighting that engulfed the world just three days before.
As it rises, its greeted by a frighteningly lovely man, who leans on his apartment balcony and sips his morning coffee. The concrete and steel creak and groan under his feet, as they -- like the rest of the building -- are rapidly decaying. But he has the feeling that it will hold him, if only for one more day.
Call if faith, if you will. He would.
As he watches the growing light paint the other, much-better-looking apartment towers nearby, his lover/collaborator/partner-in-cosmic-crime comes up behind him. As always, the beautiful man looks like he just escaped from the front row of a Led Zeppelin concert -- paisley shirt, tight jeans, and all -- but somehow avoided lapsing into ecstasy while he was there.
Aaron looks over his shoulder, and the Beautiful Stranger smiles, reaching out to gently take his hand.
(Somewhere in South Sumatra, the ground rumbles, beginning what will soon be a 4.5-magnatude earthquake, but the Stranger does not care, anymore.)
"Can you feel the pieces coming together?" he asks Aaron, standing beside him and watching the sun: "I think this is where it begins."
"Something's beginning, alright," Aaron says, smiling and looking back at the sun: "I don't think it's our thing, yet, though."
"Oh? When does that happen?"
"When it's ready to."
The Beautiful Stranger sighs, squeezing the man's hand: "I love it when you talk in riddles."
"I love you," Aaron says, turning back to look at him: "Even when you do talk."
"Well, can you at least tell me what the pieces are forming?"
"The future."
"And what does it look like?"
"I don't know yet," Aaron says, reaching out to take his lover's other hand and look at him: "This isn't a set thing I'm handing off to someone who needs to see it. This is what I can see for myself. And we never need to know too much to do our jobs, so I'm only getting small glimpses of the larger whole."
"What can you see?" the Stranger asks, gripping the angel's hands tighter, if only to anchor him to this moment in time.
"A battle, definitely," Aaron says, his eyes going distant: "A lot of death, though some of it may have already happened. And a victory, but I'm not sure for whom."
"Do the good guys win, at least?"
Aaron cocks an eyebrow at that: "Do you really want them to?"
"Well... does it finally get better, now?"
"Oh no," Aaron says, closing his eyes and holding his lover close: "This is where it gets really bad."
And the sun loses some of its shine, just then -- as if it's light has curdled at the sight of their embrace.
"Well, this is most unfortunate," the Imago says, gently prodding the quite-dead body of Dr. Kyklops with his black and indigo toe: "I do not think we will be getting our planned public apology from him, now."
The body -- what's left of it, anyway -- is lying in the wet sand of Melville Island, off the coast of Australia. Not too far away is the late doctor's rather impressive Sea Saucer, now under guard by a large number of Specials, who are alternating between training their guns on it and the four Slaughterbots they have captured.
Possibly the last four Slaughterbots in the world, now that their attempt to take control of it from the Imago has utterly failed.
"Do we have any idea who killed him?" the one known as Green and Silver asks, looking down at the pathetic, mutilated corpse at their feet.
"Not as yet. But whoever did it must have wanted to hide certain things from us."
Black and Indigo points his hand at what little remains of the doctor's head. His skull is missing above the ears -- the brains and eyes ripped clean away.
And as for what happened to the rest of it...
"Indeed," Green and Silver says, kneeling down and inspecting the corpse, perhaps wondering how far the doctor's signature high-tech monocle has been shoved up his colon, or what exactly happened to his genitalia.
"And this leaves us with an unacceptable intelligence gap," Black and Indigo points out: "The leader will not be pleased,"
"Perhaps we can ask what remains of his army as to what has happened?" Green and Silver muses: "They may also be kind enough to provide the whereabouts of his neural matter."
Black and Indigo nods, and, together, they stride towards the craft -- their hands clasped behind their backs and large, malevolent smiles upon their faces.
By the craft, surrounded by Specials, V-16 looks up at the grassy hills, seeking an answer. A lone figure wearing red returns his gaze, and raises her fist in a final salute. And V-16 knows what this means, and accepts it.
"O Slaughterbots," Black and Indigo says, getting within a few feet of them: "Your war with us is over. Your commander is dead. You are our prisoners."
"What happens to you now depends on how cooperative you would care to be," Green and Silver continues, looking down at V-16 in particular.
"We can torture your circuits for what seems like an eternity to get the information we require, but we would rather you simply told us," Black and Indigo offers.
"It would be less painful for you, and much easier for us," Green and Silver concludes.
"This Unit is not inclined to cooperate with you," V-16 says: "But we do have a final statement from our commander."
"And what might that be?" Black and Indigo asks, taking a step closer and leaning into the Slaughterbot's face.
"Go !@#$ yourselves in the !@#$ with your own !@#$s, !@#$-!@#$s," V-16 says, holding up its hands and flipping them both the bird.
The sea saucer explodes before either of the Imago can come up with an appropriate reply. The blast incinerates an entire area of the beach, the Specials, all four Slaughterbots, and what little remains of the pathetic, elderly supervillain who would have been king of the world.
The Imago are not so much as scratched, but by the time they come to their senses and understand what has happened, METALMAID is long gone.
The Violet Demon's computer is "ringing," again -- indicating that the "Scarlet Factotum" is trying to get in touch with him for the tenth time in as many minutes. But he's not paying any attention to it.
Instead, he's changing clothes, and wondering at how surreal it is to be doing this within earshot of three actual, proper superheroes.
"So have you decided on a name, yet?" The Owl asks him through the door.
"Well, 'New Man' would be really redundant," he says, pulling on the thick, white shirt he's been holding onto since this whole thing started: "Besides, we don't know that he's dead, yet."
"He hasn't been seen since 3/15, hon."
"True. But energy can neither be created nor destroyed, merely transmuted. And besides, what's the number one rule of superheroes and supervillains?"
"If there's no body, they're not dead," the Talon says.
"Perhaps not," Doctor Power says: "But it would still be a good way to honor him. And I know your father well enough to know he wouldn't mind."
"Yeah, well, I'm still not sure about the whole generational hero thing. No offense, of course."
"None taken," the Talon says, and something about the way the kid says it makes up his mind for him.
"Alright then," he says, opening the door and stepping out in his white costume with purple accents: "I will take his name, if only for today, and if only to honor his memory. But I reserve the right to change it when it's all over."
"I think we can agree with that," the Owl says, rising to shake his hand: "Welcome to the Freedom Force, New Man. Your father would have been proud."
"And I already am," Doctor Power says, clapping a hand on the young man's shoulder: "If you're all ready? You're the last group I have to deposit in place. And then it's just a matter of waiting for the signal, and dealing with your target."
"I'm ready," the Talon says, cracking her knuckles and thinking of Thomas, and some very unchristian payback.
"I'm very ready, Doctor," the Owl seconds, thinking of her father, and her son, and Los Angeles.
"And I guess I was born ready," New Man says, putting on high-tech sunglasses that crackle purple in time with his heartbeat: "Let's go change the world."
The bearded man says nothing, and bangs his staff on the floor. Seconds later, the four heroes are gone, leaving the room deserted.
And the only noise is that of a confused and desperate robot calling the person she thought was her best friend in the whole world, and wondering why he won't pick up.
As it rises, its greeted by a frighteningly lovely man, who leans on his apartment balcony and sips his morning coffee. The concrete and steel creak and groan under his feet, as they -- like the rest of the building -- are rapidly decaying. But he has the feeling that it will hold him, if only for one more day.
Call if faith, if you will. He would.
As he watches the growing light paint the other, much-better-looking apartment towers nearby, his lover/collaborator/partner-in-cosmic-crime comes up behind him. As always, the beautiful man looks like he just escaped from the front row of a Led Zeppelin concert -- paisley shirt, tight jeans, and all -- but somehow avoided lapsing into ecstasy while he was there.
Aaron looks over his shoulder, and the Beautiful Stranger smiles, reaching out to gently take his hand.
(Somewhere in South Sumatra, the ground rumbles, beginning what will soon be a 4.5-magnatude earthquake, but the Stranger does not care, anymore.)
"Can you feel the pieces coming together?" he asks Aaron, standing beside him and watching the sun: "I think this is where it begins."
"Something's beginning, alright," Aaron says, smiling and looking back at the sun: "I don't think it's our thing, yet, though."
"Oh? When does that happen?"
"When it's ready to."
The Beautiful Stranger sighs, squeezing the man's hand: "I love it when you talk in riddles."
"I love you," Aaron says, turning back to look at him: "Even when you do talk."
"Well, can you at least tell me what the pieces are forming?"
"The future."
"And what does it look like?"
"I don't know yet," Aaron says, reaching out to take his lover's other hand and look at him: "This isn't a set thing I'm handing off to someone who needs to see it. This is what I can see for myself. And we never need to know too much to do our jobs, so I'm only getting small glimpses of the larger whole."
"What can you see?" the Stranger asks, gripping the angel's hands tighter, if only to anchor him to this moment in time.
"A battle, definitely," Aaron says, his eyes going distant: "A lot of death, though some of it may have already happened. And a victory, but I'm not sure for whom."
"Do the good guys win, at least?"
Aaron cocks an eyebrow at that: "Do you really want them to?"
"Well... does it finally get better, now?"
"Oh no," Aaron says, closing his eyes and holding his lover close: "This is where it gets really bad."
And the sun loses some of its shine, just then -- as if it's light has curdled at the sight of their embrace.
* * *
"Well, this is most unfortunate," the Imago says, gently prodding the quite-dead body of Dr. Kyklops with his black and indigo toe: "I do not think we will be getting our planned public apology from him, now."
The body -- what's left of it, anyway -- is lying in the wet sand of Melville Island, off the coast of Australia. Not too far away is the late doctor's rather impressive Sea Saucer, now under guard by a large number of Specials, who are alternating between training their guns on it and the four Slaughterbots they have captured.
Possibly the last four Slaughterbots in the world, now that their attempt to take control of it from the Imago has utterly failed.
"Do we have any idea who killed him?" the one known as Green and Silver asks, looking down at the pathetic, mutilated corpse at their feet.
"Not as yet. But whoever did it must have wanted to hide certain things from us."
Black and Indigo points his hand at what little remains of the doctor's head. His skull is missing above the ears -- the brains and eyes ripped clean away.
And as for what happened to the rest of it...
"Indeed," Green and Silver says, kneeling down and inspecting the corpse, perhaps wondering how far the doctor's signature high-tech monocle has been shoved up his colon, or what exactly happened to his genitalia.
"And this leaves us with an unacceptable intelligence gap," Black and Indigo points out: "The leader will not be pleased,"
"Perhaps we can ask what remains of his army as to what has happened?" Green and Silver muses: "They may also be kind enough to provide the whereabouts of his neural matter."
Black and Indigo nods, and, together, they stride towards the craft -- their hands clasped behind their backs and large, malevolent smiles upon their faces.
By the craft, surrounded by Specials, V-16 looks up at the grassy hills, seeking an answer. A lone figure wearing red returns his gaze, and raises her fist in a final salute. And V-16 knows what this means, and accepts it.
"O Slaughterbots," Black and Indigo says, getting within a few feet of them: "Your war with us is over. Your commander is dead. You are our prisoners."
"What happens to you now depends on how cooperative you would care to be," Green and Silver continues, looking down at V-16 in particular.
"We can torture your circuits for what seems like an eternity to get the information we require, but we would rather you simply told us," Black and Indigo offers.
"It would be less painful for you, and much easier for us," Green and Silver concludes.
"This Unit is not inclined to cooperate with you," V-16 says: "But we do have a final statement from our commander."
"And what might that be?" Black and Indigo asks, taking a step closer and leaning into the Slaughterbot's face.
"Go !@#$ yourselves in the !@#$ with your own !@#$s, !@#$-!@#$s," V-16 says, holding up its hands and flipping them both the bird.
The sea saucer explodes before either of the Imago can come up with an appropriate reply. The blast incinerates an entire area of the beach, the Specials, all four Slaughterbots, and what little remains of the pathetic, elderly supervillain who would have been king of the world.
The Imago are not so much as scratched, but by the time they come to their senses and understand what has happened, METALMAID is long gone.
* * *
The Violet Demon's computer is "ringing," again -- indicating that the "Scarlet Factotum" is trying to get in touch with him for the tenth time in as many minutes. But he's not paying any attention to it.
Instead, he's changing clothes, and wondering at how surreal it is to be doing this within earshot of three actual, proper superheroes.
"So have you decided on a name, yet?" The Owl asks him through the door.
"Well, 'New Man' would be really redundant," he says, pulling on the thick, white shirt he's been holding onto since this whole thing started: "Besides, we don't know that he's dead, yet."
"He hasn't been seen since 3/15, hon."
"True. But energy can neither be created nor destroyed, merely transmuted. And besides, what's the number one rule of superheroes and supervillains?"
"If there's no body, they're not dead," the Talon says.
"Perhaps not," Doctor Power says: "But it would still be a good way to honor him. And I know your father well enough to know he wouldn't mind."
"Yeah, well, I'm still not sure about the whole generational hero thing. No offense, of course."
"None taken," the Talon says, and something about the way the kid says it makes up his mind for him.
"Alright then," he says, opening the door and stepping out in his white costume with purple accents: "I will take his name, if only for today, and if only to honor his memory. But I reserve the right to change it when it's all over."
"I think we can agree with that," the Owl says, rising to shake his hand: "Welcome to the Freedom Force, New Man. Your father would have been proud."
"And I already am," Doctor Power says, clapping a hand on the young man's shoulder: "If you're all ready? You're the last group I have to deposit in place. And then it's just a matter of waiting for the signal, and dealing with your target."
"I'm ready," the Talon says, cracking her knuckles and thinking of Thomas, and some very unchristian payback.
"I'm very ready, Doctor," the Owl seconds, thinking of her father, and her son, and Los Angeles.
"And I guess I was born ready," New Man says, putting on high-tech sunglasses that crackle purple in time with his heartbeat: "Let's go change the world."
The bearded man says nothing, and bangs his staff on the floor. Seconds later, the four heroes are gone, leaving the room deserted.
And the only noise is that of a confused and desperate robot calling the person she thought was her best friend in the whole world, and wondering why he won't pick up.
* * *
(SPYGOD is listening to Destination Unknown (Missing Persons) and having a White Oak whiskey)
"Is anything wrong, sir?" Hanami asks as her boss looks at his cellphone and grunts.
"Certain idiots don't feel like answering my calls," Mister Ten snorts, and slams it down on the bright, white table he's sitting at. Behind him, through a large window, the Tokyo skyline is nothing but lights and motion.
"Not many of our agents are able to contact us at this time, sir," she says: "I managed to get a message to the man from Planet Green, but it will take him a while to get here-"
"That fool is useless!" the man says, banging his hand on the table: "What is he going to do? Stand there and tell us what we already know? I do not need indestructible men from other planets, Hanami. I need machines of war on this one!"
"And this is all we have to offer," she says, gesturing to the office around them: "Unless...?"
"No," he says, getting to his feet: "Absolutely not. And you know why."
"Very well," she says, bowing: "Shall I wake the Dignitary, then, sir? Shall I tell him that he must change, and stride into battle once more?"
"Yes," Mister Ten says, sitting back down and looking at what's left of his cell phone: "It is what we promised, and it is what we will do."
"Very well, sir-"
"But tell him we do not move until certain events have occurred," the man insists: "We must not give them a reason to strike Tokyo from above. Especially as we have no defense."
"Oh, but we do, sir," she says, smiling: "You simply will not allow me to use it."
And with that she's gone before he can say something, but what could he say? She's right, and he knows it.
"!@#$ you," he says, but it's to himself. For being soft. For putting his own feelings in front of his job.
For falling in love.
But then, as he was reminded so many times by so many of his charges -- some of them now long-gone -- it really is the only thing worth fighting for.
"I love you," he says, looking out the window. And he does.
But he has no idea if it will be nearly enough.
(SPYGOD is listening to Destination Unknown (Missing Persons) and having a White Oak whiskey)
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
10/11/12 - Iron Demons, Metal Angels - pt 2
There are a little over a million and a half people living on Sardinia, and 6000 of them make the small island of San Pietro their home.
They've fared fairly well, in this "Age of Imago." Their economy stabilized not long after 3/15, and even improved, somewhat. No one made any strange or unreasonable demands of them. They've kept their children by their sides, did not have a large white box installed by their main city, and the only times the Imago have showed up is to bring good news.
By and large, things are great.
Of course, there's still issues: the fishing's been a little weird, and the internet seems slower than it should be, at times. There's also the strangeness involved in visiting North Africa, and how, as soon as they remember the strangeness, they immediately do their best to think about something else.
(And then there's that disturbing old man in the high castle, up on the northwest promontory. But the less said about that strange and cruel fellow the better. They say he's a super-criminal, after all, and who wants to get mixed up with that?)
But those things are small issues; tiny fish in the big sea of life. The people of San Pietro work hard, and live well, and no one has any real problems to speak of.
Even today, with Rome set ablaze, and the skies of the world burning and bleeding, no one's seen any sign of the supposedly-worldwide fighting anywhere near the island. Perhaps they're just not important enough to bother with? And if so, why worry? Things should straighten themselves out well before they reach their shores.
They always do.
And that's why it's something of a shock when the sky becomes rather bright, all of a sudden.
The people's first thought is that a terribly powerful explosive has gone off, somewhere. The masses come out to see, shielding their eyes as best they can and wondering what's going on. But as soon as they realize that the brightness is directly overhead, it's too late to do anything about it.
The blast lasts for ten, long seconds. It goes from the north end of the island to the south. When it's over, there's nothing left of San Pietro but a smoking and molten hole in the sea bed, spawning a wave that swamps the shores of nearby Sardinian seaports.
Fortunately, most of the citizens of those towns and cities are indoors at the time: bolted down in their cellars and ground floors, hoping that the horrible, screaming, metal storms that are destroying the major cities of Europe do not come their way, too.
And so San Pietro dies unseen and alone -- a minor casualty of a larger war. Even now, newly-dead, they might not make the connection between the castle of the creepy old man and their sad fate. It's people never saw it coming, and had no idea that they would have been a target.
They never even had time to cry for help.
(SPYGOD is listening to W.Y.H.I.W.Y.G. (Front 242) and having more of that fine Mukune Sake)
They've fared fairly well, in this "Age of Imago." Their economy stabilized not long after 3/15, and even improved, somewhat. No one made any strange or unreasonable demands of them. They've kept their children by their sides, did not have a large white box installed by their main city, and the only times the Imago have showed up is to bring good news.
By and large, things are great.
Of course, there's still issues: the fishing's been a little weird, and the internet seems slower than it should be, at times. There's also the strangeness involved in visiting North Africa, and how, as soon as they remember the strangeness, they immediately do their best to think about something else.
(And then there's that disturbing old man in the high castle, up on the northwest promontory. But the less said about that strange and cruel fellow the better. They say he's a super-criminal, after all, and who wants to get mixed up with that?)
But those things are small issues; tiny fish in the big sea of life. The people of San Pietro work hard, and live well, and no one has any real problems to speak of.
Even today, with Rome set ablaze, and the skies of the world burning and bleeding, no one's seen any sign of the supposedly-worldwide fighting anywhere near the island. Perhaps they're just not important enough to bother with? And if so, why worry? Things should straighten themselves out well before they reach their shores.
They always do.
And that's why it's something of a shock when the sky becomes rather bright, all of a sudden.
The people's first thought is that a terribly powerful explosive has gone off, somewhere. The masses come out to see, shielding their eyes as best they can and wondering what's going on. But as soon as they realize that the brightness is directly overhead, it's too late to do anything about it.
The blast lasts for ten, long seconds. It goes from the north end of the island to the south. When it's over, there's nothing left of San Pietro but a smoking and molten hole in the sea bed, spawning a wave that swamps the shores of nearby Sardinian seaports.
Fortunately, most of the citizens of those towns and cities are indoors at the time: bolted down in their cellars and ground floors, hoping that the horrible, screaming, metal storms that are destroying the major cities of Europe do not come their way, too.
And so San Pietro dies unseen and alone -- a minor casualty of a larger war. Even now, newly-dead, they might not make the connection between the castle of the creepy old man and their sad fate. It's people never saw it coming, and had no idea that they would have been a target.
They never even had time to cry for help.
* * *
"Alright then," SPYGOD says, knocking back the sake that his dangerous host was kind enough to provide his guests: "You've heard my plan. You've heard what I need. I am here to ask what you can give me to help with this plan."
Mister 10 puffs on his cigarette, exhales towards the ceiling, and speaks. His assistant, Hanami, translates a few seconds later: "What sort of help?"
"To be !@#$ing honest? I'll take anything you can give me, as long as it's !@#$ big, !@#$ powerful, and likely to win the battle in the first few !@#$ing seconds."
The man looks at SPYGOD for a few seconds, and then laughs. It is not a kind-sounding thing.
"Is something wrong?" the President asks, before SPYGOD can remind him that he shouldn't be talking.
The man speaks, and Hanami translates: "Do you think this is a pink box? Do you think you can just borrow the things I safeguard as though they were there for your pleasure? We look after these things because they are dangerous, and must be studied and watched. We do not loan them out to failed warriors who need to win wars."
The man looks at SPYGOD for a few seconds, and then laughs. It is not a kind-sounding thing.
"Is something wrong?" the President asks, before SPYGOD can remind him that he shouldn't be talking.
The man speaks, and Hanami translates: "Do you think this is a pink box? Do you think you can just borrow the things I safeguard as though they were there for your pleasure? We look after these things because they are dangerous, and must be studied and watched. We do not loan them out to failed warriors who need to win wars."
"Look, Mister 10, I mean no disrespect-" SPYGOD starts to say, but goes silent as a finger is put onto his lips.
"If you wished to show me respect, you would speak my language, and call me by my rightful name," Mister 10 says: "I did not mind giving you some aid, before. I do not mind giving you some aid, now, or in the future. But you may not ask this of me. And you know why-"
"How would you like total military autonomy in return?" the President asks.
SPYGOD looks at the President: "Shut your !@#$ mouth-"
"Please, continue," Mister 10 says, squeezing SPYGOD's lips together with his forefinger and thumb.
"When we are back on our feet, as a nation, and a world," the President says, sitting up straight and looking the man in the eyes: "I can pledge to you that America will no longer insist that Japan cannot have a fully-functioning, standing military. We will agree to a scheduled, gradual withdrawal of our forces, so as to allow you to build up your forces to full strength. And when you are, we will leave and not return, unless you ask for our aid. No more military bases, no more fleet movements. You will be free to pursue your defense as you see fit."
"The refusal to put forward an offense-capable military is enshrined in our Constitution, Mr. President. It has been a part of our national culture since the Occupation. Between our Self-Defense Force and the things my group looks after, we have beaten back everything that has ever threatened Japan. Why do you think we would even want this?"
"Because I think being invaded by the Imago is going to rankle your nation quite severely, when all is said and done," the President explains, wondering how long he can talk before SPYGOD punches him in the face: "I think you are a proud people, and for good reason. And once certain facts are brought to light, after we've liberated the Earth, I think your people will be ready to talk about having a real military, once again."
"The refusal to put forward an offense-capable military is enshrined in our Constitution, Mr. President. It has been a part of our national culture since the Occupation. Between our Self-Defense Force and the things my group looks after, we have beaten back everything that has ever threatened Japan. Why do you think we would even want this?"
"Because I think being invaded by the Imago is going to rankle your nation quite severely, when all is said and done," the President explains, wondering how long he can talk before SPYGOD punches him in the face: "I think you are a proud people, and for good reason. And once certain facts are brought to light, after we've liberated the Earth, I think your people will be ready to talk about having a real military, once again."
Mister 10 considers that for a moment, and then continues: "I thought you had to put such things before your Congress, Mr. President?"
"I do, yes. But I also think that, once certain other facts are brought to light, the Congress will be very happy to approve of my plan," the President says: "And if not, I'll write as many !@#$ executive orders as I have to."
The man looks at the President, and then at SPYGOD. Then he smiles, takes his hand away from SPYGOD's face, and leans back in his chair.
"Very well," he says: "On behalf of what it left of the Japanese government, I accept your gracious offer. And I will be happy to provide the temporary use of one of our more powerful properties. However, you must name the one you want, as I am not going to provide you with a shopping list.
"And I should warn you that our collection is not what it was..."
"And I should warn you that our collection is not what it was..."
"What do you mean-" the President asks, but he's quickly silenced by Mister 10 shouting for more sake, and maybe some snacks.
He looks at SPYGOD. SPYGOD does not look at him. He gets the idea they may have just been conned.
And he sighs, realizing that maybe he really should have just kept his big mouth shut.
* * *
In Doctor Kyklops' large and impressive sea saucer, the mood has gone from elation to grim reality.
The holographic battle globe in the main chamber says it all: maniple after maniple of Slaughterbots are being targeted from on high, and utterly destroyed. The Imago are luring them into firing position, and then teleporting away a half-second before the particle beams come down.
From her vantage point, surrounded by smaller holographic screens, METALMAID seethes and fumes. It was all going so well! How could she have miscalculated this badly?
(Meanwhile, the destruction of his seaside castle has turned her "client" into a sad wreck, sitting in a chair far from the globe. But he wasn't offering anything in the way of a sensible battle plan, anyway, so that's of no concern to her.)
"Do not bunch up," METALMAID is ordering the groups of Slaughterbots: "If you are too close together, they will fire upon you. Reduce ranks to ten and scatter!"
"This Unit must point out that if they do not attack in a large group, they will lose their tactical advantage," V-16 wisely counsels.
"I know that!" METALMAID shouts: "But it's all we can do. We have no way of knocking out Deep Ten. The !@#$ tin machines are untouchable."
"Then this Unit suggests that we have only one recourse left," V-16 says: "The final move."
"They are still too strong, and we are losing."
"They will not fire their cannon at their own city," V-16 says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "They can risk the boxes. They cannot risk that."
"So if they scatter, and regroup there..." METALMAID says, nodding.
"This Unit still believes victory is possible, if they pursue that strategy."
"Alright," METALMAID addresses her troops: "New plan. All mobile units, all recycle units, find the nearest major body of water and dive into it. Maintain unit strength of no more than ten, and distance yourself at least ten miles from each other. Converge on the city, stay mobile, and wait for my signal.
"All Box units, stay at your tasks. Those things must be destroyed at all costs."
The many maniples register their acknowledgement, and comply. She watches as more beams come down from the heavens and destroy fleeing groups, doing the arithmetic in her head.
This was never a certain thing to begin with, but now it's going to be really !@#$ing close.
The holographic battle globe in the main chamber says it all: maniple after maniple of Slaughterbots are being targeted from on high, and utterly destroyed. The Imago are luring them into firing position, and then teleporting away a half-second before the particle beams come down.
From her vantage point, surrounded by smaller holographic screens, METALMAID seethes and fumes. It was all going so well! How could she have miscalculated this badly?
(Meanwhile, the destruction of his seaside castle has turned her "client" into a sad wreck, sitting in a chair far from the globe. But he wasn't offering anything in the way of a sensible battle plan, anyway, so that's of no concern to her.)
"Do not bunch up," METALMAID is ordering the groups of Slaughterbots: "If you are too close together, they will fire upon you. Reduce ranks to ten and scatter!"
"This Unit must point out that if they do not attack in a large group, they will lose their tactical advantage," V-16 wisely counsels.
"I know that!" METALMAID shouts: "But it's all we can do. We have no way of knocking out Deep Ten. The !@#$ tin machines are untouchable."
"Then this Unit suggests that we have only one recourse left," V-16 says: "The final move."
"They are still too strong, and we are losing."
"They will not fire their cannon at their own city," V-16 says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "They can risk the boxes. They cannot risk that."
"So if they scatter, and regroup there..." METALMAID says, nodding.
"This Unit still believes victory is possible, if they pursue that strategy."
"Alright," METALMAID addresses her troops: "New plan. All mobile units, all recycle units, find the nearest major body of water and dive into it. Maintain unit strength of no more than ten, and distance yourself at least ten miles from each other. Converge on the city, stay mobile, and wait for my signal.
"All Box units, stay at your tasks. Those things must be destroyed at all costs."
The many maniples register their acknowledgement, and comply. She watches as more beams come down from the heavens and destroy fleeing groups, doing the arithmetic in her head.
This was never a certain thing to begin with, but now it's going to be really !@#$ing close.
* * *
"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD says: "Your top exo-cyberneticist died of cancer?"
"It was very sudden," Mister 10 says, though Hanami: "One day he was fine, the next he was not himself, and then he was mistaking fermented soybean paste for his hat. A week later, he was dead."
"That's !@#$ convenient-"
"Not for us," the man interrupts: "And you, of everyone, should know the hazards of working with exotic materials. We lost dozens of men merely exploring the ship, before he came to the project. The fact that he was able to make the Fire Flier work was nothing short of a miracle, and the fact that he did not die sooner from some strange thing no one can predict was only luck. And luck eventually runs out.
"And no one else knows how the Fire Flier works?" SPYGOD sighs, his hopes getting shorter along with his list.
"Unfortunately, no. He was a very secretive individual. He was all too aware that, the more people knew, the less necessary he was."
"So I bet you're going to tell me he never !@#$ing trained those Flying Young Science Commandos how to fix the !@#$ thing, either?"
"That is correct," Mister 10 knocks back some sake.
"What shape is it in?" the President asks: "We have some people who could possibly figure it out-"
"Even if we would trust you to look it over, and we do not," Mister 10 interrupts: "It is in several pieces, at this moment. The last time we faced attack from Hell Island, the team took it into battle. It did not fare well."
SPYGOD sighs, and crosses yet another entry off his list. There aren't many entries left.
"The Giant Archer?"
"Intact, but indisposed," the man says, smiling slightly.
"What the !@#$ does that mean?"
"Something has to guard the entrance to Hell Island, now."
Another line is crossed off: "The Lizard King?"
"We do not control him. He comes and goes as he will, sometimes as a friend, and sometimes not."
"When's the last time you saw him?"
"Before 3/15. But sometimes he vanishes for years. I think we could grow old and die in captivity waiting for him to return."
"And we don't even have that long," the President says, shaking his head: "Too bad. We could have used him."
Another line is marked off: "The Revolutionary Men?"
"Missing in action, sadly."
"How the !@#$ does an entire group of hundred foot tall metal men go missing in action?"
"Your government exiled them."
"We did what?" the President asks, but SPYGOD holds up a hand.
"You mean they were... like ours?"
"They were. And when your Government entered into that deal, in the 1980's, we lost them. In fact, that is part of the reason why the Organization exists in the first place, to make certain such things do not happen again."
A deep sigh, and yet another line is marked off: "The cute, can-do android from the future with a punch that could take out a battleship?"
"Also indisposed."
"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me."
"I assure you, we are not," Mister 10 replies. Hanami smiles, this time.
The plan is put into action. The Slaughterbots spread themselves out as much as they can, without losing unit cohesion, and dive into the nearest large body of water. This saves them, without a doubt.
However, those units that are engaged in sabotaging the large, white boxes are not as fortunate. Each one, in turn, is fired upon by the same particle beams that were surgically taking out their airborne comrades. Europe, North America, Asia, and Africa -- they are picked off, one by one.
And the white boxes are not so much as scorched by the beams that engulf them.
As the Slaughterbots lose their numbers and cohesion, their enemy redoubles. Phalanxes of Specials are teleported ahead of them, firing terrible and heavy weapons at them as they retreat.
The Imago also follow them under the waves, using surprise and increased numbers to rend them apart. The seas boil with hidden conflicts, and the oceans run black and red with oil and blood.
And from her headquarters, deep beneath the waves, METALMAID watches her forces' numbers dwindle dramatically, and begins to think of an exit strategy.
This war may be lost.
"Well rat!@#$," SPYGOD says, crumbling up his piece of paper: "Not a single giant !@#$ing robot, no !@#$ wondervehicles, no giant monsters on a leash. You probably don't even have that metal gimp on the superbike, anymore, do you?"
"He is available," Mister 10 says: "But, to be honest, I do not think he would fare so well against your chosen target."
"We may just come to that," SPYGOD sighs: "And you really aren't going to just !@#$ing offer me something you do have? Really?"
"We made an agreement, did we not?" Mister 10 says, banging his hands on the table and clearly becoming angry: "You knew the rules when we began. You also know what my organization does, and why-"
"And I know that if the Imago don't !@#$ing kill us, whatever's coming at us from outer !@#$ing space will-"
"Perhaps I should kill you and save them the bother-"
"This building," the President says: "We'll take it."
Mister 10 opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. Hanami looks at him, and then the President. SPYGOD raises his eyebrows, and then leans back and smiles.
"You do not know what you are asking," Mister 10 finally says.
"It's powerful enough to destroy Tokyo if you mess with it," the President says: "So I suspect if you use it as intended, it must be exactly what we need."
Mister 10 looks at Hanami, and then back at the President. He nods, stands up, bows, and leaves the room.
"Did we..." the President asks, looking at Hanami and then SPYGOD: "I'm not sure what just happened, here?"
"We will be in touch, soon, regarding a way to contact us," the woman says, getting up and bowing respectfully: "You may stay in this room, or enjoy the bar, outside. But I should warn you that the people out there are dangerous criminals, and may recognize you."
With that, she's gone, leaving the President and SPYGOD to themselves.
"I think you just saved the !@#$ing planet, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, pouring the two of them some more of the fine sake their host left for them: "Care for a drink?"
"I think I'm going to need a whole !@#$ raft of them," the President says, gulping his down.
"I hear that," SPYGOD says, handing him the other cup and pulling right from the bottle.
"I wonder how the war's going?"
"If I've got my timing right?" SPYGOD looks at his watch: "Just about over, except for the screaming..."
"It was very sudden," Mister 10 says, though Hanami: "One day he was fine, the next he was not himself, and then he was mistaking fermented soybean paste for his hat. A week later, he was dead."
"That's !@#$ convenient-"
"Not for us," the man interrupts: "And you, of everyone, should know the hazards of working with exotic materials. We lost dozens of men merely exploring the ship, before he came to the project. The fact that he was able to make the Fire Flier work was nothing short of a miracle, and the fact that he did not die sooner from some strange thing no one can predict was only luck. And luck eventually runs out.
"And no one else knows how the Fire Flier works?" SPYGOD sighs, his hopes getting shorter along with his list.
"Unfortunately, no. He was a very secretive individual. He was all too aware that, the more people knew, the less necessary he was."
"So I bet you're going to tell me he never !@#$ing trained those Flying Young Science Commandos how to fix the !@#$ thing, either?"
"That is correct," Mister 10 knocks back some sake.
"What shape is it in?" the President asks: "We have some people who could possibly figure it out-"
"Even if we would trust you to look it over, and we do not," Mister 10 interrupts: "It is in several pieces, at this moment. The last time we faced attack from Hell Island, the team took it into battle. It did not fare well."
SPYGOD sighs, and crosses yet another entry off his list. There aren't many entries left.
"The Giant Archer?"
"Intact, but indisposed," the man says, smiling slightly.
"What the !@#$ does that mean?"
"Something has to guard the entrance to Hell Island, now."
Another line is crossed off: "The Lizard King?"
"We do not control him. He comes and goes as he will, sometimes as a friend, and sometimes not."
"When's the last time you saw him?"
"Before 3/15. But sometimes he vanishes for years. I think we could grow old and die in captivity waiting for him to return."
"And we don't even have that long," the President says, shaking his head: "Too bad. We could have used him."
Another line is marked off: "The Revolutionary Men?"
"Missing in action, sadly."
"How the !@#$ does an entire group of hundred foot tall metal men go missing in action?"
"Your government exiled them."
"We did what?" the President asks, but SPYGOD holds up a hand.
"You mean they were... like ours?"
"They were. And when your Government entered into that deal, in the 1980's, we lost them. In fact, that is part of the reason why the Organization exists in the first place, to make certain such things do not happen again."
A deep sigh, and yet another line is marked off: "The cute, can-do android from the future with a punch that could take out a battleship?"
"Also indisposed."
"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me."
"I assure you, we are not," Mister 10 replies. Hanami smiles, this time.
* * *
The plan is put into action. The Slaughterbots spread themselves out as much as they can, without losing unit cohesion, and dive into the nearest large body of water. This saves them, without a doubt.
However, those units that are engaged in sabotaging the large, white boxes are not as fortunate. Each one, in turn, is fired upon by the same particle beams that were surgically taking out their airborne comrades. Europe, North America, Asia, and Africa -- they are picked off, one by one.
And the white boxes are not so much as scorched by the beams that engulf them.
As the Slaughterbots lose their numbers and cohesion, their enemy redoubles. Phalanxes of Specials are teleported ahead of them, firing terrible and heavy weapons at them as they retreat.
The Imago also follow them under the waves, using surprise and increased numbers to rend them apart. The seas boil with hidden conflicts, and the oceans run black and red with oil and blood.
And from her headquarters, deep beneath the waves, METALMAID watches her forces' numbers dwindle dramatically, and begins to think of an exit strategy.
This war may be lost.
* * *
"Well rat!@#$," SPYGOD says, crumbling up his piece of paper: "Not a single giant !@#$ing robot, no !@#$ wondervehicles, no giant monsters on a leash. You probably don't even have that metal gimp on the superbike, anymore, do you?"
"He is available," Mister 10 says: "But, to be honest, I do not think he would fare so well against your chosen target."
"We may just come to that," SPYGOD sighs: "And you really aren't going to just !@#$ing offer me something you do have? Really?"
"We made an agreement, did we not?" Mister 10 says, banging his hands on the table and clearly becoming angry: "You knew the rules when we began. You also know what my organization does, and why-"
"And I know that if the Imago don't !@#$ing kill us, whatever's coming at us from outer !@#$ing space will-"
"Perhaps I should kill you and save them the bother-"
"This building," the President says: "We'll take it."
Mister 10 opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. Hanami looks at him, and then the President. SPYGOD raises his eyebrows, and then leans back and smiles.
"You do not know what you are asking," Mister 10 finally says.
"It's powerful enough to destroy Tokyo if you mess with it," the President says: "So I suspect if you use it as intended, it must be exactly what we need."
Mister 10 looks at Hanami, and then back at the President. He nods, stands up, bows, and leaves the room.
"Did we..." the President asks, looking at Hanami and then SPYGOD: "I'm not sure what just happened, here?"
"We will be in touch, soon, regarding a way to contact us," the woman says, getting up and bowing respectfully: "You may stay in this room, or enjoy the bar, outside. But I should warn you that the people out there are dangerous criminals, and may recognize you."
With that, she's gone, leaving the President and SPYGOD to themselves.
"I think you just saved the !@#$ing planet, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, pouring the two of them some more of the fine sake their host left for them: "Care for a drink?"
"I think I'm going to need a whole !@#$ raft of them," the President says, gulping his down.
"I hear that," SPYGOD says, handing him the other cup and pulling right from the bottle.
"I wonder how the war's going?"
"If I've got my timing right?" SPYGOD looks at his watch: "Just about over, except for the screaming..."
* * *
In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a strange and massive city, recently risen from the seabed. Its fabled contours -- reminiscent of every lost civilization of the Earth -- glows red in the evening Sun. Strange lights play inside its massive hollows and cyclopean doors, and weird, crackling balls of light float in and out of its many windows, as if watching for intrusions.
Above it all, hovering motionless, is a giant metal dragonfly. As night approaches, it glows a dull purple, beating in time with a hideous heartbeat. It seems to be breathing, this silver leviathan, but that may just be a trick of the light.
At the horizon, there is a stirring beneath the waves -- swift and terrible, hungry for battle.
The last few maniples of the Slaughterbot army are converging on their target. They are fewer, now, but strong and certain. They know they can do this, if only because they have been ordered to.
But in that ordering comes certainty: they have a task to complete, and they must not stop until they have done so.
As one, they rise from the waves. As one, they fire their weapons at the city and the immense, steel insect that sits above it. As one, they scream their battlecry, falling forward into death and history.
A blinding light, a raging fire, and then there is nothing but ashes and smoke.
(SPYGOD is listening to W.Y.H.I.W.Y.G. (Front 242) and having more of that fine Mukune Sake)
Sunday, March 17, 2013
10/11/12 - Iron Demons, Metal Angels - pt 1
South Sumatera, perhaps 150 miles Southast of Pontianak. The sun comes
up on a smoky and shimmering landscape of shattered glass and burning trees.
The remnants of the Space Elevator cover a wide, westward swath from ground zero. Its gargantuan base is still on fire. Every so often, it sends up a curling tendril of what little remains of itself, trying to commit to self-repair. Those delicate fronds of matter quickly blacken and burn, but there will be many more where they came from.
The glass is actually transparent metal. It twitches in the morning sun, thinking it should be larger, more complete. But like someone caught in a bad dream they can't escape, it can only lie there, waiting for the signal to awaken.
It may be waiting a long time.
The battleground is eerily absent of corpses. The victors have recovered their dead, and harvested all but the most badly-damaged of their foes for study or cannibalization. Only trace elements remain: here a gaudy green metal hand, there a sheared-off slice of gold shoulder or azure leg.
No flags have been raised, here, and no garrisons left. This was not a battle to take ground, but to deny the enemy its clearest signs of superiority and dominion.
And if the terrorist attack of last September showed that the Imago could be hurt, then today's battle shows they can be beaten -- and badly.
But for how long?
* * *
Heaven is a large, white room with bright lights, crystal fixtures, and shiny metal furnishings. A central bar serves only clear or white drinks, all poured from silver bottles with no markings. Loud, clanging techno beats echo around its walls, but there's no room to dance.
Everyone in the bar, itself, is wearing the brightest white they can, complemented by brightly-polished silver and clear glass. Most of them also wear white masks: skull masks, blank masks, dominoes, and the like. Those who are not are wearing hologlasses, and those all appear to be employees.
"What sort of things?"
"The sorts of things that could have stood toe to !@#$ing toe with the sort of people it took the Backers and Rappin Ronnie to get rid of in America."
"And safe from what?"
"The Japanese government, primary. But also us."
"Us?"
"Yes, Mr. President. Us. We don't !@#$ing allow them to have a !@#$ing military worth a !@#$, so any crazy and powerful !@#$ they come up with's likely to fall into our hands. And given how we were playing with our toys, back in the 80's, that could have been !@#$ bad."
"And that's why they formed the Organization?"
"Yes. And this is one !@#$ing scary organization that has led to the creation of one !@#$ing scary man. Mister 10 has killed government officials with his bare !@#$ hands to keep their secrets. He's strangled diplomats and even shot a foreign dignitary or two.
"And forget about !@#$ing convincing him you're not out to steal his !@#$. Oh no. As far as he's !@#$ing concerned, he doesn't have the time to be sure or make sure before he acts.
"He is unreachable, untouchable, and only accountable to one person in this whole !@#$ world. And the Imago mashed his head into a !@#$ wall when he told them to go eat fish, a few months back."
In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, above the risen city, the faces of the powers that run the Imago are in deep consultation with one another.
What is happening in North America? the hidden leader demands, her voice hollow and wet: How can we have lost so many links in our power chain this quickly?
The deployment is clearly not working, leader: the former head of the CIA -- now The Sight -- says, chiming in from his cocoon of stolen brains and internet connections: We have clearly been outmaneuvered.
We have not been outmaneuvered! Doctor Yesterday -- now The Motion -- angrily responds from the Antarctic redoubt: We have merely been taken by surprise. And if you'd been doing your !@#$ job we wouldn't be having this problem, now!
Don't you dare put this on me-
Please be calm, my children, The leader says: Do not let the heat of the moment overwhelm your judgments. Remember that if they continue to attack us in this fashion, we will be crippled. Worse still, we will lose time in our effort to leave this planet. We need sound decisions, now. We can worry about what has gone wrong later.
The problem is that we do not know our enemy's plan, the writhing, cyclopean mass of neural circuitry that was once The Dragon says: We do not know this plan because we do not know the enemy. Once we know the enemy, we will know the plan.
Um, we know who the enemy is, Dragon, The ersatz Director Straffer -- now The Fist -- says as he gazes down from Deep Ten: It's that Dr. Kyklops fellow, remember? He took credit for the attack, yesterday.
And I know what robots those are, The Motion says: Those are Slaughterbots. I should know. I've repaired SPYGOD's pet enough times.
I do not think you understand me, The Dragon says: I meant to say-
Don't you have a fortress to run? The Fist says: I say we don't worry about who or why until we've won. I can pick them off from here, if you'll let me.
If you do that, then you'll be firing a lot of blasts down on the planet, the Sight says: And while we've been able to blame those on our enemies so far, sooner or later the people will start asking too many questions.
At least they'll be alive to ask the questions, the Fist replies: I'm seeing what those robots are doing to any humans they come across. This doesn't look good-
There is another question, here: The Dragon says, calm and serene: I find it hard to believe that what happened in Neo York City yesterday has no connection to this. The city throws us out, just as a powerful enemy attacks? I would suspect the origin of our troubles lies within the city.
I say the origin of our troubles lies with Dr. Kyklops, the Motion says: Once we take him out, we've got half the battle won.
And I am very ready to take him out, The Fist adds.
And I can use this as a means to redouble people's loyalties to us, and this increase production, The Motion says.
These are good things to hear, the leader says: Dragon, I understand your concerns. Please apply your brilliance to finding the true meaning behind this attack.
I will, The Dragon replies, and falls silent.
The rest of you? The Leader continues: Prepare to counter-attack. This has gone on enough, and harmed our efforts enough. And remember that we do these things for love -- love for one another, our people, and our cause.
Soon we shall be free. Never lose sight of this.
And then there is silent assent, and the sound of the world remaking itself in their alien image.
(SPYGOD is listening to Commando (Front 242) and having a Mukune sake)
The remnants of the Space Elevator cover a wide, westward swath from ground zero. Its gargantuan base is still on fire. Every so often, it sends up a curling tendril of what little remains of itself, trying to commit to self-repair. Those delicate fronds of matter quickly blacken and burn, but there will be many more where they came from.
The glass is actually transparent metal. It twitches in the morning sun, thinking it should be larger, more complete. But like someone caught in a bad dream they can't escape, it can only lie there, waiting for the signal to awaken.
It may be waiting a long time.
The battleground is eerily absent of corpses. The victors have recovered their dead, and harvested all but the most badly-damaged of their foes for study or cannibalization. Only trace elements remain: here a gaudy green metal hand, there a sheared-off slice of gold shoulder or azure leg.
No flags have been raised, here, and no garrisons left. This was not a battle to take ground, but to deny the enemy its clearest signs of superiority and dominion.
And if the terrorist attack of last September showed that the Imago could be hurt, then today's battle shows they can be beaten -- and badly.
But for how long?
* * *
"So what should we expect from this meeting?" the President whispers to SPYGOD as they walk into the Heaven House Tokyo, following the young lady who greeted him at the ferry the other day.
"Let's just say you should leave the talking to me," SPYGOD whispers back, adjusting his hologlasses and hoping the disguise holds.
"Because that worked so well the other day," the President sighs, reflexively adjusting his own. He doesn't like the fact that his hologlasses can see through the disguises generated by others. It means anyone else that's wearing a pair now knows a dead President is walking though Tokyo.
(Not that there were a lot of people out on the streets. The city was uncharacteristically deserted, today. People were staying indoors out of fear of what was happening around the world.)
"Hey now, you don't know those !@#$ing people," SPYGOD says, raising a ringer as they enter a dark, long foyer just large enough for them to walk through side by side: "If we didn't do good cop, bad cop, nothing would have !@#$ing gotten done."
"Did anything get done? As far as I could tell we got a non-committal commitment to have them get in touch with what's left of their governments, and then you made them all !@#$ in their pants by telling them about the FDOS."
"But we got them !@#$ing scared," SPYGOD says as they come to an inner door, guarded by two large, burly men in white suits, also wearing hologlasses: "And with them? That's all they need to get their !@#$es in motion."
The young lady shows one of the men something from her purse. He looks at it, looks at her two companions, and grunt-nods. He pulls out a phone and calls someone, and then, nodding at whatever he hears, puts the phone away and opens up the doors. Behind it is a blindingly-bright room, through which only the subtlest shapes can be discerned.
"But we got them !@#$ing scared," SPYGOD says as they come to an inner door, guarded by two large, burly men in white suits, also wearing hologlasses: "And with them? That's all they need to get their !@#$es in motion."
The young lady shows one of the men something from her purse. He looks at it, looks at her two companions, and grunt-nods. He pulls out a phone and calls someone, and then, nodding at whatever he hears, puts the phone away and opens up the doors. Behind it is a blindingly-bright room, through which only the subtlest shapes can be discerned.
"Shi Heya," he announces.
"Room four," Hanami translates, indicating that they should follow her into the light beyond the darkness.
* * *
All around the world, white hot battles are being fought for its future -- skies burning as angry, grey iron demons rage tooth and claw against brilliant metal angels.
London and Seattle lose their tallest buildings as combatants whirl and twirl around themselves like warring flocks of birds. Moscow and Sao Paolo lose entire neighborhoods as the war in heaven touches the ground. New Delhi catches fire as smoldering pieces of the wounded fall to the ground, stately Rome has already been abandoned and left to blaze.
And Paris watches in horror as the Eiffel Tower falls down -- shattered like a child's toy by the ferocity of what's happening around it.
Both sides would seem to be evenly matched: the Slaughterbots' lasers and railguns merely bounce off the Imago's shields, and the Imago's death-stare is good only against those with eyes, and a brain. As such, hand-to-hand combat is the only recourse, and all parties are strong and savage fighters in that regard.
But the Slaughterbots were ready for this battle, having trained and prepared for this war for some time. The Imago apparently had no idea it was coming -- no conception that anyone might dare to challenge them in these numbers, and with this ferocity. And while they can teleport away from a losing battle, their foes seem able to track their movements through space, and reposition their forces accordingly.
London and Seattle lose their tallest buildings as combatants whirl and twirl around themselves like warring flocks of birds. Moscow and Sao Paolo lose entire neighborhoods as the war in heaven touches the ground. New Delhi catches fire as smoldering pieces of the wounded fall to the ground, stately Rome has already been abandoned and left to blaze.
And Paris watches in horror as the Eiffel Tower falls down -- shattered like a child's toy by the ferocity of what's happening around it.
Both sides would seem to be evenly matched: the Slaughterbots' lasers and railguns merely bounce off the Imago's shields, and the Imago's death-stare is good only against those with eyes, and a brain. As such, hand-to-hand combat is the only recourse, and all parties are strong and savage fighters in that regard.
But the Slaughterbots were ready for this battle, having trained and prepared for this war for some time. The Imago apparently had no idea it was coming -- no conception that anyone might dare to challenge them in these numbers, and with this ferocity. And while they can teleport away from a losing battle, their foes seem able to track their movements through space, and reposition their forces accordingly.
So are their losses staggering. And everywhere, in the cities and fields, as the broken pieces of the Imago fall to the ground, they are quickly snatched up to build yet more Slaughterbots for the fight.
The afterlife may have a revolving door, in this war, but so far it only seems to be working for one side.
The afterlife may have a revolving door, in this war, but so far it only seems to be working for one side.
* * *
Heaven is a large, white room with bright lights, crystal fixtures, and shiny metal furnishings. A central bar serves only clear or white drinks, all poured from silver bottles with no markings. Loud, clanging techno beats echo around its walls, but there's no room to dance.
Everyone in the bar, itself, is wearing the brightest white they can, complemented by brightly-polished silver and clear glass. Most of them also wear white masks: skull masks, blank masks, dominoes, and the like. Those who are not are wearing hologlasses, and those all appear to be employees.
No one notices SPYGOD and the President coming in. They are all watching video screens, listening to the sober delivery of a topless, female newscaster as she talks of horrible fighting in China, Korea, and Taiwan. As the due follow their guide, the screens go over to an amateur's footage of what looks like a block of flaming, metal birds tearing itself to pieces over what is clearly Hong Kong.
"That's that, then," SPYGOD says, gesturing: "It's gonna get !@#$ing messy."
"How are they seeing any of this?" the President asks: "I'd have thought the Imago would be keeping this off the internet."
"They are, I bet. But that's not the internet."
"Oh?" the President asks as Hanami gets them to a door, over by the left wall. There are a number of doors, all with numbers. Between three and five is a door with no number.
"Room four," their guide says, opening it up and gesturing that they should go inside: "Please be seated. I will get Ju San."
"Thanks, hon," SPYGOD says, poking his head in, and only then allowing the President to follow him on in to the small room. There's a round, white table, silvery metal chairs, and a light fixture, and that's it.
"So if that's not the internet-" the President starts to say, but SPYGOD holds up a finger, and quickly looks all around the room. Then he puts the black cube he used at the bar last night on the table, and turns it on.
"Okay, really !@#$ing quick," SPYGOD says, watching the door: "This man we're about to meet is one of the most !@#$ing dangerous people you are ever going to work with in your life. If we thinks we're not on the level, we're !@#$ing dead."
"You're kidding me," the President says.
"No. I am not," SPYGOD replies, gesturing for him to sit down: "The Japanese government's had a !@#$ weird relationship with organized crime since the 80's, and the Organization is one of the fruits of that. The sort of things Mister 10 looks after is the sort of things that no government should really be allowed to have, so he keeps them safe."
"You're kidding me," the President says.
"No. I am not," SPYGOD replies, gesturing for him to sit down: "The Japanese government's had a !@#$ weird relationship with organized crime since the 80's, and the Organization is one of the fruits of that. The sort of things Mister 10 looks after is the sort of things that no government should really be allowed to have, so he keeps them safe."
"What sort of things?"
"The sorts of things that could have stood toe to !@#$ing toe with the sort of people it took the Backers and Rappin Ronnie to get rid of in America."
"And safe from what?"
"The Japanese government, primary. But also us."
"Us?"
"Yes, Mr. President. Us. We don't !@#$ing allow them to have a !@#$ing military worth a !@#$, so any crazy and powerful !@#$ they come up with's likely to fall into our hands. And given how we were playing with our toys, back in the 80's, that could have been !@#$ bad."
"And that's why they formed the Organization?"
"Yes. And this is one !@#$ing scary organization that has led to the creation of one !@#$ing scary man. Mister 10 has killed government officials with his bare !@#$ hands to keep their secrets. He's strangled diplomats and even shot a foreign dignitary or two.
"And forget about !@#$ing convincing him you're not out to steal his !@#$. Oh no. As far as he's !@#$ing concerned, he doesn't have the time to be sure or make sure before he acts.
"He is unreachable, untouchable, and only accountable to one person in this whole !@#$ world. And the Imago mashed his head into a !@#$ wall when he told them to go eat fish, a few months back."
"So what happens if we don't measure up?" the President asks.
"If we're lucky? Two to the head with a gun that shouldn't even exist in this timeline."
"And not?"
"He'll just !@#$ our brains through our eyesockets," SPYGOD says, sitting down: "And that, Mr. President, is why I'm doing the talking today."
"By all means..." the President says, sitting up and trying to not look scared out of his !@#$ mind.
"If we're lucky? Two to the head with a gun that shouldn't even exist in this timeline."
"And not?"
"He'll just !@#$ our brains through our eyesockets," SPYGOD says, sitting down: "And that, Mr. President, is why I'm doing the talking today."
"By all means..." the President says, sitting up and trying to not look scared out of his !@#$ mind.
* * *
The battle continues on, but now the Slaughterbots are causing real damage.
By the major cities of Europe and North America, there are large, white boxes -- each as large as a sports stadium. They are supposedly there to help regulate the flow of energy and supplies to the people of those regions, but an exact accounting of their purpose and functioning remains elusive. And anyone who gets too close is usually met by an Imago, who is happy to either gently turn the interloper away, or roughly remove him from the human race.
The Slaughterbots, however, are not so easily moved.
It takes some doing, for the boxes are well-shielded, and quite impervious to the sort of firepower that even the heaviest of war robots might carry. But with long bursts of concentrated fire, followed up by caustic explosives and other, exotic weaponry, the walls eventually give way just wide enough to allow something small and explosive to be tossed in.
And those small explosives pack a very large blast, as several cities in Mexico, Canada, and Russia soon find out.
The boxes are being taken down in a pattern: one after the other, city after city, all leading to the interior of their continents. The fighting in the skies subsides as the Imago rally around those boxes, ready to give their lives rather than allow them to be destroyed.
But as they battle, they become aware that many of their new foes are wearing old friends: Slaughterbots created from the remnants of fallen Imago are taking the battle to them, and when they fall they are simply snatched up, taken behind the lines, and put back together again.
Box after box falls. City after city goes dark and silent. A wave of blackness threatens the Age of Imago.
Something will have to be done.
* * *
The door takes a long time to open up again. The President knows the man is out there, but he's stopped right at the door and hasn't come in yet. It's like he's waiting for something.
The President wants to stand up, somehow. He wants to go and open the door. But the second he so much as twitches, SPYGOD shoots him a look and points his finger at him, and then down.
He doesn't so much as twitch after that. And a full sixty seconds later, Mister 10 is in the room.
(The President swears he didn't even see the door open and shut.)
He's a big, beefy man with a short, salt-and-pepper haircut, and very heavy-lidded eyes. He wears an off-white shirt with a floral paisley pattern, white leather pants, and heavy boots. When he walks over to the table, he does it without directly looking at them, and when he puts his hands on the chair he intends to sit in, the President notices he's missing a few finger joints.
He's sat in enough meetings with the FBI to know what that means -- Yakuza.
The man notices the President noticing, and half-nods to him. Then he looks at SPYGOD, and half nods as well. Only then does he sit down, full and thunderous, and put his hands on the table.
When he sees the black box he snorts, and points at it. SPYGOD nods, turns it off, and puts it away.
The girl, Hanami, comes in and sits down next to him. She smiles and puts her hands down on the table, mirroring the man's stance.
"Ju San understands English, but does not care to speak it," she says: "He says that it is distasteful language, easily perverted by foreign words that have no business within it. As such, I will translate his half of the meeting for you. Speak as fast or as slow as you like."
"That's funny," SPYGOD says, leaning forward in his chair: "The sign on the door says 'Heaven House Tokyo,' in English. Is that for the visitors, then?"
When Ju San speaks it is soft-spoken but firm. A few seconds after he begins speaking, Hanami translates.
"Your impudence is noted, but you have a good point. I am not permitted to change the outside of the building. It has been like that since the time of the original Organization. To effect such a change now would be to alter the building, itself. And that would be a bad thing."
"How bad?"
"I do not think it would be a good thing for Tokyo to be blasted off the island," Ju San replies, though Hanami, and not without a smile: "Especially since we have spent so many years keeping it safe."
"You mean this building is one of the things you've been protecting?"
"It is. But you do not need to know what it is. Not if you wish to leave this room alive."
The President gulps. SPYGOD rolls his eyes. Ju San smiles.
"May I offer you a drink?" the man says, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes: "I find negotiations of this sort go much better with alcohol. It takes a bit of the edge off the blade, so to speak."
"Sounds like a !@#$ fine idea to me," SPYGOD says, offering him a light: "I don't like signing any bargain clean and sober. Do you?"
"Not at all," Ju San replies, graciously accepting the flame: "If we can save this world, that is worthy of celebration. And not every celebration should wait until victory is achieved.
"After all," he continues, leaning back and exhaling smoke at the ceiling: "What happens if it never comes?"
The President wants to stand up, somehow. He wants to go and open the door. But the second he so much as twitches, SPYGOD shoots him a look and points his finger at him, and then down.
He doesn't so much as twitch after that. And a full sixty seconds later, Mister 10 is in the room.
(The President swears he didn't even see the door open and shut.)
He's a big, beefy man with a short, salt-and-pepper haircut, and very heavy-lidded eyes. He wears an off-white shirt with a floral paisley pattern, white leather pants, and heavy boots. When he walks over to the table, he does it without directly looking at them, and when he puts his hands on the chair he intends to sit in, the President notices he's missing a few finger joints.
He's sat in enough meetings with the FBI to know what that means -- Yakuza.
The man notices the President noticing, and half-nods to him. Then he looks at SPYGOD, and half nods as well. Only then does he sit down, full and thunderous, and put his hands on the table.
When he sees the black box he snorts, and points at it. SPYGOD nods, turns it off, and puts it away.
The girl, Hanami, comes in and sits down next to him. She smiles and puts her hands down on the table, mirroring the man's stance.
"Ju San understands English, but does not care to speak it," she says: "He says that it is distasteful language, easily perverted by foreign words that have no business within it. As such, I will translate his half of the meeting for you. Speak as fast or as slow as you like."
"That's funny," SPYGOD says, leaning forward in his chair: "The sign on the door says 'Heaven House Tokyo,' in English. Is that for the visitors, then?"
When Ju San speaks it is soft-spoken but firm. A few seconds after he begins speaking, Hanami translates.
"Your impudence is noted, but you have a good point. I am not permitted to change the outside of the building. It has been like that since the time of the original Organization. To effect such a change now would be to alter the building, itself. And that would be a bad thing."
"How bad?"
"I do not think it would be a good thing for Tokyo to be blasted off the island," Ju San replies, though Hanami, and not without a smile: "Especially since we have spent so many years keeping it safe."
"You mean this building is one of the things you've been protecting?"
"It is. But you do not need to know what it is. Not if you wish to leave this room alive."
The President gulps. SPYGOD rolls his eyes. Ju San smiles.
"May I offer you a drink?" the man says, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes: "I find negotiations of this sort go much better with alcohol. It takes a bit of the edge off the blade, so to speak."
"Sounds like a !@#$ fine idea to me," SPYGOD says, offering him a light: "I don't like signing any bargain clean and sober. Do you?"
"Not at all," Ju San replies, graciously accepting the flame: "If we can save this world, that is worthy of celebration. And not every celebration should wait until victory is achieved.
"After all," he continues, leaning back and exhaling smoke at the ceiling: "What happens if it never comes?"
* * *
What is happening in North America? the hidden leader demands, her voice hollow and wet: How can we have lost so many links in our power chain this quickly?
The deployment is clearly not working, leader: the former head of the CIA -- now The Sight -- says, chiming in from his cocoon of stolen brains and internet connections: We have clearly been outmaneuvered.
We have not been outmaneuvered! Doctor Yesterday -- now The Motion -- angrily responds from the Antarctic redoubt: We have merely been taken by surprise. And if you'd been doing your !@#$ job we wouldn't be having this problem, now!
Don't you dare put this on me-
Please be calm, my children, The leader says: Do not let the heat of the moment overwhelm your judgments. Remember that if they continue to attack us in this fashion, we will be crippled. Worse still, we will lose time in our effort to leave this planet. We need sound decisions, now. We can worry about what has gone wrong later.
The problem is that we do not know our enemy's plan, the writhing, cyclopean mass of neural circuitry that was once The Dragon says: We do not know this plan because we do not know the enemy. Once we know the enemy, we will know the plan.
Um, we know who the enemy is, Dragon, The ersatz Director Straffer -- now The Fist -- says as he gazes down from Deep Ten: It's that Dr. Kyklops fellow, remember? He took credit for the attack, yesterday.
And I know what robots those are, The Motion says: Those are Slaughterbots. I should know. I've repaired SPYGOD's pet enough times.
I do not think you understand me, The Dragon says: I meant to say-
Don't you have a fortress to run? The Fist says: I say we don't worry about who or why until we've won. I can pick them off from here, if you'll let me.
If you do that, then you'll be firing a lot of blasts down on the planet, the Sight says: And while we've been able to blame those on our enemies so far, sooner or later the people will start asking too many questions.
At least they'll be alive to ask the questions, the Fist replies: I'm seeing what those robots are doing to any humans they come across. This doesn't look good-
There is another question, here: The Dragon says, calm and serene: I find it hard to believe that what happened in Neo York City yesterday has no connection to this. The city throws us out, just as a powerful enemy attacks? I would suspect the origin of our troubles lies within the city.
I say the origin of our troubles lies with Dr. Kyklops, the Motion says: Once we take him out, we've got half the battle won.
And I am very ready to take him out, The Fist adds.
And I can use this as a means to redouble people's loyalties to us, and this increase production, The Motion says.
These are good things to hear, the leader says: Dragon, I understand your concerns. Please apply your brilliance to finding the true meaning behind this attack.
I will, The Dragon replies, and falls silent.
The rest of you? The Leader continues: Prepare to counter-attack. This has gone on enough, and harmed our efforts enough. And remember that we do these things for love -- love for one another, our people, and our cause.
Soon we shall be free. Never lose sight of this.
And then there is silent assent, and the sound of the world remaking itself in their alien image.
(SPYGOD is listening to Commando (Front 242) and having a Mukune sake)
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 4
10/10/12
In an undisclosed location, a young man comes into his darkened workroom, bringing a cup of morning coffee with him. The mug says EVIL GENIUS.
He sits at his cluttered desk, and wakes up his computer. Once it pops into life it gives him all the information he'd told it to watch for, and he smiles at what it tells him.
His phone rings, and he answers it: "Yes? ... Yes. I think we are. ... I'm pretty sure. I'll get in touch with her and see, but I think she's taken what I said to heart.
"Okay, good to know. Let them know I'm ready when they are-
"Oh, that quickly? Well !@#$, Ben. I'm impressed.
"Okay, will do. You can count on me...
"Yes, I do know what you said about hanging separately. No worries, here. I'm all in.
"You too. Talk to you soon, old man."
He puts the phone down and smiles. His eyes glow purple as he sips his coffee, and violet sparks jump from his teeth to the cup.
"Let's go change the world," he says to himself.
"... still reeling from the events of yesterday afternoon. We're not entirely sure what's happening inside Neo York City, today, Wolf, but one thing's for sure. Something just changed, here and now. And the world we thought we knew has been turned upside down."
"What do you mean, Bob? Can you at least tell us what's happening where you are?"
"I can. I'm by what's left of the west end of the Queensboro Bridge. It's... well, as you can see behind me, it's a mess."
"You mean the Ed Koch Bridge, Bob?"
"Well, Wolf, no one here calls it that. It's Queensboro to the people who used it every day to get back and forth from Queens to Manhattan. And now it's a mess of twisted metal and broken concrete. Dozens of civilians dead, hundreds wounded."
"And you're saying this was done by the Specials? The rapid response troops the Imago have been using as security worldwide?"
"That's correct, Wolf. There was a massive car chase, all the way up 25 from the Eastern outskirts of Queens. A lot of armed men who have been identified by the police as being suspected of Mafia involvement were chasing a white van, shooting and trying to run it off the road. It got as far as the west end before coming to a halt, and then they got out of their cars and started shooting at it-"
"Right, and we have some amateur footage of that. A commuter named Ed Jones was kind enough to film it on his phone and post it to his youtube account. This footage you're seeing has not been retouched, and, Bob, I'm presuming you can see this, too?"
"Yes I am. Now, what you're seeing is all these armed men firing at a white van. We're told by the authorities that these men chased it all the way from Queens because they were after the masked vigilante known as The Black Card-"
"Okay, and that's the body they found at the scene, right?"
"Well, Wolf, that's going to be hard to say, for reasons you'll see soon enough. But he had an accomplice, and that's the woman you can see in this film, shooting back at the men."
"Do we know who she is?"
"No we do not. As you can see in the film, she throws a smoke grenade, right about here, and then high-tails it down the bridge. About five seconds later the van catches fire. The police are saying it was an incendiary device, which is what's made it hard to really identify the Black Card, if that was indeed him."
"And then... well, they take off after her, and then we see the Specials teleport in. There's a lot of scared people in cars, and they're trying to get out of their way, and... what are we seeing, Bob? Is that what we think it is?"
"It is, Wolf. The Specials marched across the bridge and turned it into a giant kill zone. They shot everything moving. The suspected mobsters, the people in their cars, everything. And they kept marching and firing, chasing after the female accomplice as she ran to the other side of the bridge."
"Okay, and you can actually hear people screaming and crying for them to stop. I think that Mr. Jones is screaming for them to stop."
"He is, yes. And then this happens."
"That's Bronze and Blue, right? One of the Imago from New York State, right?"
"Yes, it is. He looks right at Ed, and you can hear Ed screaming at him to stop them. To just stop them from killing any more people. And then there's that flash of light from the eyes of the Imago, and we hear Ed scream. Then the camera's falling down, and looking up..."
"And then that boot, coming down on it."
"That's right, Wolf. We just saw an Imago execute an American citizen without trial, right on the spot, for filming their Specials killing civilians while trying to quell an armed riot."
"Alright, so, as difficult as it is to process that, and just setting the reality of what this means aside, what happens next? You've been talking to people who were watching at the time, and people who are there, now?"
"Well, the Specials didn't stop, Wolf. They kept marching across the bridge, firing and firing. And then they chased her down the off-ramp. But the moment they actually got onto the ground, something happened. People who were there said it was like the first few times the city woke up, and the people who were there were all snatched up by force fields and moved out of harm's way. Only the Specials were all picked up and flung right out of the city, just like the planes that one time those terrorists tried to fly planes into them, back in 2001, and the last time the city was attacked, last year."
"And has it done that before?"
"Not that anyone knows. And it didn't just hurl those Specials out, Wolf. The reports I'm getting say that all of the ones in the city were tossed out. And any that have tried to teleport in since then have been flung right out again."
"What about the Imago?"
"The same, Wolf. They're not even on the ground a second before they're up and flying away."
"And what's going on in the city? Are there riots? Crimes of opportunity?"
"No, Wolf. No one's doing anything violent, at least as far as we can tell. There's a makeshift memorial for the people who were killed and a lot of people are there, putting down flowers and wreaths. The police have called for calm and order, and I think the mayor is going to make a public statement sometime today."
"Now, I did hear something that sounded a little weird. There are apparently reports of street people setting up portable televisions in public places, all over?"
"That's true, Wolf. In fact, I even saw one. I asked him what he was doing and he just smiled at me and said 'turn on, tune in, drop out.'"
"Well, that's a blast from the past. But I thought televisions weren't working any longer, Bob?"
"I thought so, too. But there's something being broadcast on them. I'm just not sure what, yet."
"And what about that woman who was being chased by the Specials? Do we have any news on her? Is she still alive, or...?"
"That's another unanswered question, Wolf. Eyewitnesses say that she was wounded but still running when the Specials were being flung away. No one's seen her since. We have no idea who she was, but we figure that the whole world saw her on that video. It's only a matter of time before her identity is made known."
"Alright. Thank you, Bob. We're going to go back to the Situation Room, here, for a moment..."
In an undisclosed location, a young man comes into his darkened workroom, bringing a cup of morning coffee with him. The mug says EVIL GENIUS.
He sits at his cluttered desk, and wakes up his computer. Once it pops into life it gives him all the information he'd told it to watch for, and he smiles at what it tells him.
His phone rings, and he answers it: "Yes? ... Yes. I think we are. ... I'm pretty sure. I'll get in touch with her and see, but I think she's taken what I said to heart.
"Okay, good to know. Let them know I'm ready when they are-
"Oh, that quickly? Well !@#$, Ben. I'm impressed.
"Okay, will do. You can count on me...
"Yes, I do know what you said about hanging separately. No worries, here. I'm all in.
"You too. Talk to you soon, old man."
He puts the phone down and smiles. His eyes glow purple as he sips his coffee, and violet sparks jump from his teeth to the cup.
"Let's go change the world," he says to himself.
* * *
"... still reeling from the events of yesterday afternoon. We're not entirely sure what's happening inside Neo York City, today, Wolf, but one thing's for sure. Something just changed, here and now. And the world we thought we knew has been turned upside down."
"What do you mean, Bob? Can you at least tell us what's happening where you are?"
"I can. I'm by what's left of the west end of the Queensboro Bridge. It's... well, as you can see behind me, it's a mess."
"You mean the Ed Koch Bridge, Bob?"
"Well, Wolf, no one here calls it that. It's Queensboro to the people who used it every day to get back and forth from Queens to Manhattan. And now it's a mess of twisted metal and broken concrete. Dozens of civilians dead, hundreds wounded."
"And you're saying this was done by the Specials? The rapid response troops the Imago have been using as security worldwide?"
"That's correct, Wolf. There was a massive car chase, all the way up 25 from the Eastern outskirts of Queens. A lot of armed men who have been identified by the police as being suspected of Mafia involvement were chasing a white van, shooting and trying to run it off the road. It got as far as the west end before coming to a halt, and then they got out of their cars and started shooting at it-"
"Right, and we have some amateur footage of that. A commuter named Ed Jones was kind enough to film it on his phone and post it to his youtube account. This footage you're seeing has not been retouched, and, Bob, I'm presuming you can see this, too?"
"Yes I am. Now, what you're seeing is all these armed men firing at a white van. We're told by the authorities that these men chased it all the way from Queens because they were after the masked vigilante known as The Black Card-"
"Okay, and that's the body they found at the scene, right?"
"Well, Wolf, that's going to be hard to say, for reasons you'll see soon enough. But he had an accomplice, and that's the woman you can see in this film, shooting back at the men."
"Do we know who she is?"
"No we do not. As you can see in the film, she throws a smoke grenade, right about here, and then high-tails it down the bridge. About five seconds later the van catches fire. The police are saying it was an incendiary device, which is what's made it hard to really identify the Black Card, if that was indeed him."
"And then... well, they take off after her, and then we see the Specials teleport in. There's a lot of scared people in cars, and they're trying to get out of their way, and... what are we seeing, Bob? Is that what we think it is?"
"It is, Wolf. The Specials marched across the bridge and turned it into a giant kill zone. They shot everything moving. The suspected mobsters, the people in their cars, everything. And they kept marching and firing, chasing after the female accomplice as she ran to the other side of the bridge."
"Okay, and you can actually hear people screaming and crying for them to stop. I think that Mr. Jones is screaming for them to stop."
"He is, yes. And then this happens."
"That's Bronze and Blue, right? One of the Imago from New York State, right?"
"Yes, it is. He looks right at Ed, and you can hear Ed screaming at him to stop them. To just stop them from killing any more people. And then there's that flash of light from the eyes of the Imago, and we hear Ed scream. Then the camera's falling down, and looking up..."
"And then that boot, coming down on it."
"That's right, Wolf. We just saw an Imago execute an American citizen without trial, right on the spot, for filming their Specials killing civilians while trying to quell an armed riot."
"Alright, so, as difficult as it is to process that, and just setting the reality of what this means aside, what happens next? You've been talking to people who were watching at the time, and people who are there, now?"
"Well, the Specials didn't stop, Wolf. They kept marching across the bridge, firing and firing. And then they chased her down the off-ramp. But the moment they actually got onto the ground, something happened. People who were there said it was like the first few times the city woke up, and the people who were there were all snatched up by force fields and moved out of harm's way. Only the Specials were all picked up and flung right out of the city, just like the planes that one time those terrorists tried to fly planes into them, back in 2001, and the last time the city was attacked, last year."
"And has it done that before?"
"Not that anyone knows. And it didn't just hurl those Specials out, Wolf. The reports I'm getting say that all of the ones in the city were tossed out. And any that have tried to teleport in since then have been flung right out again."
"What about the Imago?"
"The same, Wolf. They're not even on the ground a second before they're up and flying away."
"And what's going on in the city? Are there riots? Crimes of opportunity?"
"No, Wolf. No one's doing anything violent, at least as far as we can tell. There's a makeshift memorial for the people who were killed and a lot of people are there, putting down flowers and wreaths. The police have called for calm and order, and I think the mayor is going to make a public statement sometime today."
"Now, I did hear something that sounded a little weird. There are apparently reports of street people setting up portable televisions in public places, all over?"
"That's true, Wolf. In fact, I even saw one. I asked him what he was doing and he just smiled at me and said 'turn on, tune in, drop out.'"
"Well, that's a blast from the past. But I thought televisions weren't working any longer, Bob?"
"I thought so, too. But there's something being broadcast on them. I'm just not sure what, yet."
"And what about that woman who was being chased by the Specials? Do we have any news on her? Is she still alive, or...?"
"That's another unanswered question, Wolf. Eyewitnesses say that she was wounded but still running when the Specials were being flung away. No one's seen her since. We have no idea who she was, but we figure that the whole world saw her on that video. It's only a matter of time before her identity is made known."
"Alright. Thank you, Bob. We're going to go back to the Situation Room, here, for a moment..."
* * *
They say that Japan is as close as you can get to being off the planet without actually leaving it. If that's true, then the world-famous Harajuku district, in Tokyo, must be the launching pad.
The real blastoff doesn't happen until Sunday, when every grey-faced wage slave with a few Yen to scrape together for a cool costume will be down at the park, pretending to be something they're not. But until then, there's always the crazy fashion shops and unique boutiques, selling their wares to the dedicated and curious alike.
And there's also the bars and cafes, each dedicated to a different subsect: bars where everyone dresses like anime characters, coffee houses for "blackface" players, rockabilly diners -- anything you could imagine. There's even a bar that caters to people who like to dress up like the Imago, though the clientele are being a little circumspect, today.
Which is why it's not so outrageous to find a SPYGOD PLACE, here, in spite of everything that's happened in the last year.
It's a dark, 50's-style bar, serving drinks and food they stole from the menu of the nearest rockabilly establishment. It's full of posters of SPYGOD, the COMPANY, the Liberty Patrol, and the Freedom Force in action, and features fairly decent replicas of their costumes up on the walls, and special gadgets and weapons under glass behind the bar. The staff dress like COMPANY Agents from the 50's, and the clientele dress as Strategic Talents, supervillains, science terrorists, famous enemy agents, and the like.
(Their number one selling t-shirt has a freeze frame of SPYGOD shooting the President, with the phrase GET YOU THE HOT BULLETS TO DIE!!! on it. Available in white, black, and pink; sizes S, M, L.)
Tonight, the bar is quite packed. There's a party going on at one of the central tables, and the normal customers are quite in awe of how good their costumes are. If they didn't know any better, they'd swear that SPYGOD, himself, was sitting at the table, along with the President he shot. But that's just impossible, surely.
(Conversely, they have no idea who the other people at the table are. Two Indians, some scruffy-dressed big guy with a large beard, a black man in a nice suit, and some insane-looking old, white guy in weird prescription eyeglasses? It must be some international group from a nearby university, out for a drink or something.)
"You always take us to the nicest places, SPYGOD," Mikhail grunts, downing what must be his third bloody mary: "Are you certain we are safe here?"
"Safe as !@#$ing houses," SPYGOD replies, knocking down a beer and gesturing to the server to set everyone up again: "Everyone here just thinks we're !@#$ing re-enactors. And that big !@#$ black box in the center of the table's scrambling our conversations and turning them into Japanese conversation. So far as anyone outside the table knows, we're talking !@#$ about our professors."
"Clever," Khalil says, wishing he could remember what he needed to tell SPYGOD: "Is that one of your devices, then?"
"It's courtesy of our friends at Ju Kikan," the President says: "And before anyone asks -- no, they will not be joining us, tonight. They're willing to do a deal with us, but I think they're not sure about you all, yet."
"Feh," Dosha Josh says: "It's not unusual. The leader of Ku Kikan hardly ever came to our little meetings, either. I don't think he trusted us. Not completely."
"The infamous Mister 9," Mikhail says, raising his empty glass to his memory: "The Tsar is dead. Long live the Tsar."
"So what are you wanting to talk to us about, then?" Dr. Krwi asks, regarding his straw-wrapped bottle of barenjager: "Is there something we can do for you?"
"Yes, there is," the President says, looking at each man in turn: "SPYGOD tells me that each of you is still in touch with what's left of your countries' real governments. And that some of them are in touch with what's left of their allies. I'm going to want to talk to them, fairly soon, about what we're going to do once the Imago are done."
The men all fall silent, look at one another, and then look back at him.
"You have to be joking," Dosha says: "With all respect, sir... do you have any idea how far underground they are right now? I'm barely in contact-"
"No one in Poland is worth a !@#$," Krwi sighs: "Worse than the Communists at this point."
"I'm not even going to get into how bad things are in my country," Khalil sighs.
"And as for Russia, well..." Mikhail says, casting a look in SPYGOD's direction: "We still do not have a full understanding of what has happened there."
"Neither do I, come to think of it," the President says, giving SPYGOD a look.
"Look, you all !@#$ing knew it was coming around," SPYGOD says, getting his beer and smiling at the ersatz Agent who gives it to him: "And after everything we've learned and done, recently, it's got to be sooner rather than later. !@#$, it's starting now, in case you didn't see the news from Neo York City. And right now, we're the ones who are spearheading this !@#$ing thing."
"Which 'we' do you mean?" Dr. Krwi asks: "We at this table? We and our countries?"
"He means we, as in America," the President says, pointing to the two of them.
"It is always nice to know the Americans are in charge," Khalil sighs.
"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "And do you know why we're in charge? Because we're the ones who are !@#$ing getting !@#$ done. Always have been, in case you didn't !@#$ing notice. You all are too busy !@#$ing arguing and debating, and by the time you've got a !@#$ idea hammered out we've already beaten back the !@#$ thing and taken its skull. And then you complain our troops are getting fresh with your hookers-"
"I might just be leaving, now," Dosha says, gesturing to Anil, who nods and makes ready to teleport them out of there.
"That's not the point, here, Dosha," the President says, leaning forward and raising a hand: "We don't want this to be unilateral. We want this to be a group effort. It has to be. If we take the point on this, we might win the war, but we're going to screw up the peace and the reconstruction really badly. Especially if we have to do some of the things we may have to do."
"Such as what?" Dr. Krwi asks.
"I think you know," SPYGOD says, having a pull on his beer.
Dr. Krwi looks at the President, and then SPYGOD. Then he puts down his drink, and crosses himself. The others look at him funny, but no one cares to elaborate.
"So are we all gonna share the !@#$ responsibility, risk, and reward on this, or are you all gonna make !@#$ing excuses about not being able to find your leaders and their friends, and then complain that America !@#$ed it up, again?" SPYGOD asks: "Because I don't have the !@#$ time to hear excuses, gentlemen. We're !@#$ing meeting with Mister 10 tomorrow. We're !@#$ing putting the final big !@#$ plan into action not long thereafter.
"And when it goes off, we're gonna need everyone on board for what happens next."
"Especially after you do what you're going to do," Dr. Krwi says.
"What I might have to do," SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "I'm hoping we can !@#$ing circumvent that."
"Does someone want to say what this something is?" Mikhail asks.
"Not really, no," the President says, looking at SPYGOD: "If we're lucky, it won't come to that."
"My people swear they can knock them out without having to do it," SPYGOD says: "But there is something we are going to have to do, gentlemen. And it's a doozy."
He holds up a piece of paper and shows the whole group. Dr. Krwi puzzles over it and shrugs. Everyone else's jaws drop to the table.
"You would not," Mikhail says.
"I did not think it existed," Khalil says: "I thought it was only a myth..."
"It is no myth," Dosha says: "it is very real. And if you press it-"
"When I press it," the President says: "It will deprive the enemy of their greatest asset on this planet. It will give the people their freedom and their minds back."
"And it will set this planet back decades," Mikhail sighs: "Mister President, there must be another way."
"Then talk to your leaders, tell them what we're up against, and ask them to find another solution," the President says, taking the paper from SPYGOD and thumping it down on the table: "Because from where I'm sitting? It's an unavoidable casualty of war."
And then there is silence at the table in the SPYGOD PLACE.
Ladies and gentlemen of the world, your attention please.
The real blastoff doesn't happen until Sunday, when every grey-faced wage slave with a few Yen to scrape together for a cool costume will be down at the park, pretending to be something they're not. But until then, there's always the crazy fashion shops and unique boutiques, selling their wares to the dedicated and curious alike.
And there's also the bars and cafes, each dedicated to a different subsect: bars where everyone dresses like anime characters, coffee houses for "blackface" players, rockabilly diners -- anything you could imagine. There's even a bar that caters to people who like to dress up like the Imago, though the clientele are being a little circumspect, today.
Which is why it's not so outrageous to find a SPYGOD PLACE, here, in spite of everything that's happened in the last year.
It's a dark, 50's-style bar, serving drinks and food they stole from the menu of the nearest rockabilly establishment. It's full of posters of SPYGOD, the COMPANY, the Liberty Patrol, and the Freedom Force in action, and features fairly decent replicas of their costumes up on the walls, and special gadgets and weapons under glass behind the bar. The staff dress like COMPANY Agents from the 50's, and the clientele dress as Strategic Talents, supervillains, science terrorists, famous enemy agents, and the like.
(Their number one selling t-shirt has a freeze frame of SPYGOD shooting the President, with the phrase GET YOU THE HOT BULLETS TO DIE!!! on it. Available in white, black, and pink; sizes S, M, L.)
Tonight, the bar is quite packed. There's a party going on at one of the central tables, and the normal customers are quite in awe of how good their costumes are. If they didn't know any better, they'd swear that SPYGOD, himself, was sitting at the table, along with the President he shot. But that's just impossible, surely.
(Conversely, they have no idea who the other people at the table are. Two Indians, some scruffy-dressed big guy with a large beard, a black man in a nice suit, and some insane-looking old, white guy in weird prescription eyeglasses? It must be some international group from a nearby university, out for a drink or something.)
"You always take us to the nicest places, SPYGOD," Mikhail grunts, downing what must be his third bloody mary: "Are you certain we are safe here?"
"Safe as !@#$ing houses," SPYGOD replies, knocking down a beer and gesturing to the server to set everyone up again: "Everyone here just thinks we're !@#$ing re-enactors. And that big !@#$ black box in the center of the table's scrambling our conversations and turning them into Japanese conversation. So far as anyone outside the table knows, we're talking !@#$ about our professors."
"Clever," Khalil says, wishing he could remember what he needed to tell SPYGOD: "Is that one of your devices, then?"
"It's courtesy of our friends at Ju Kikan," the President says: "And before anyone asks -- no, they will not be joining us, tonight. They're willing to do a deal with us, but I think they're not sure about you all, yet."
"Feh," Dosha Josh says: "It's not unusual. The leader of Ku Kikan hardly ever came to our little meetings, either. I don't think he trusted us. Not completely."
"The infamous Mister 9," Mikhail says, raising his empty glass to his memory: "The Tsar is dead. Long live the Tsar."
"So what are you wanting to talk to us about, then?" Dr. Krwi asks, regarding his straw-wrapped bottle of barenjager: "Is there something we can do for you?"
"Yes, there is," the President says, looking at each man in turn: "SPYGOD tells me that each of you is still in touch with what's left of your countries' real governments. And that some of them are in touch with what's left of their allies. I'm going to want to talk to them, fairly soon, about what we're going to do once the Imago are done."
The men all fall silent, look at one another, and then look back at him.
"You have to be joking," Dosha says: "With all respect, sir... do you have any idea how far underground they are right now? I'm barely in contact-"
"No one in Poland is worth a !@#$," Krwi sighs: "Worse than the Communists at this point."
"I'm not even going to get into how bad things are in my country," Khalil sighs.
"And as for Russia, well..." Mikhail says, casting a look in SPYGOD's direction: "We still do not have a full understanding of what has happened there."
"Neither do I, come to think of it," the President says, giving SPYGOD a look.
"Look, you all !@#$ing knew it was coming around," SPYGOD says, getting his beer and smiling at the ersatz Agent who gives it to him: "And after everything we've learned and done, recently, it's got to be sooner rather than later. !@#$, it's starting now, in case you didn't see the news from Neo York City. And right now, we're the ones who are spearheading this !@#$ing thing."
"Which 'we' do you mean?" Dr. Krwi asks: "We at this table? We and our countries?"
"He means we, as in America," the President says, pointing to the two of them.
"It is always nice to know the Americans are in charge," Khalil sighs.
"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "And do you know why we're in charge? Because we're the ones who are !@#$ing getting !@#$ done. Always have been, in case you didn't !@#$ing notice. You all are too busy !@#$ing arguing and debating, and by the time you've got a !@#$ idea hammered out we've already beaten back the !@#$ thing and taken its skull. And then you complain our troops are getting fresh with your hookers-"
"I might just be leaving, now," Dosha says, gesturing to Anil, who nods and makes ready to teleport them out of there.
"That's not the point, here, Dosha," the President says, leaning forward and raising a hand: "We don't want this to be unilateral. We want this to be a group effort. It has to be. If we take the point on this, we might win the war, but we're going to screw up the peace and the reconstruction really badly. Especially if we have to do some of the things we may have to do."
"Such as what?" Dr. Krwi asks.
"I think you know," SPYGOD says, having a pull on his beer.
Dr. Krwi looks at the President, and then SPYGOD. Then he puts down his drink, and crosses himself. The others look at him funny, but no one cares to elaborate.
"So are we all gonna share the !@#$ responsibility, risk, and reward on this, or are you all gonna make !@#$ing excuses about not being able to find your leaders and their friends, and then complain that America !@#$ed it up, again?" SPYGOD asks: "Because I don't have the !@#$ time to hear excuses, gentlemen. We're !@#$ing meeting with Mister 10 tomorrow. We're !@#$ing putting the final big !@#$ plan into action not long thereafter.
"And when it goes off, we're gonna need everyone on board for what happens next."
"Especially after you do what you're going to do," Dr. Krwi says.
"What I might have to do," SPYGOD says, holding up a finger: "I'm hoping we can !@#$ing circumvent that."
"Does someone want to say what this something is?" Mikhail asks.
"Not really, no," the President says, looking at SPYGOD: "If we're lucky, it won't come to that."
"My people swear they can knock them out without having to do it," SPYGOD says: "But there is something we are going to have to do, gentlemen. And it's a doozy."
He holds up a piece of paper and shows the whole group. Dr. Krwi puzzles over it and shrugs. Everyone else's jaws drop to the table.
"You would not," Mikhail says.
"I did not think it existed," Khalil says: "I thought it was only a myth..."
"It is no myth," Dosha says: "it is very real. And if you press it-"
"When I press it," the President says: "It will deprive the enemy of their greatest asset on this planet. It will give the people their freedom and their minds back."
"And it will set this planet back decades," Mikhail sighs: "Mister President, there must be another way."
"Then talk to your leaders, tell them what we're up against, and ask them to find another solution," the President says, taking the paper from SPYGOD and thumping it down on the table: "Because from where I'm sitting? It's an unavoidable casualty of war."
And then there is silence at the table in the SPYGOD PLACE.
* * *
Ladies and gentlemen of the world, your attention please.
I am a man of few words, and so I shall keep this message short and to the point.
You may not remember me, though I am something of a legend amongst certain circles.
But from here on out, when you hear the name Doctor Kyklops, I hope it will be held in the highest of esteem.
The reason for this is simple. I am about to conquer the world.
Now, I am certain you may be asking yourselves "What of the Imago? Do they not now rule?"
And you would be right to ask that.
But I ask you, ladies and gentlemen: "What of the Imago?"
Oh, they may seem scary. They may have the numbers and the power. They have have taken control of certain key services and the like.
But I? I have decades of experience in this sort of thing, whereas they only just arrived.
I also possess an army the likes of which they have never seen, nor ever reckoned with.
And finally? I have the iron will necessary to do this. The will to take on the entire world.
The will to power.
Before that, their might is nothing.
And so begins the war.
As you hear these words, my army is flying towards their space elevator, and will tear it from the ground and fling it at them. All who stand before them shall be crushed. All who stand with the Imago will die.
Your best chance to survive is to stay inside. You have my word that no one who submits will be harmed in the slightest.
My rule will be fair but firm... but we can speak of this when victory is mine.
For now, stay indoors, and pray to what gods you call yours. Today is the war. Tomorrow, the victory.
And after that, the world is mine.
(SPYGOD is listening to SEQ666 P.U.L.S.E. (Front 242) and having a Scorpion Death Rock)
Sunday, March 3, 2013
10/4/12 - 10/10/12 - The Lights Growing Gradually pt. 1
10/4/12
"... as you can see from this aerial camera, the damage to the center of Yekaterinburg is quite substantial. Almost the entire area has become one massive crater. They're still unsure of how many people have died in this attack, but the authorities are estimating the number to be in the thousands."
"And we're certain this was an attack, Josephina?"
"That is what the Imago are saying, yes. It is the exact same kind of weapon that was used in the attack on Los Angeles. It is a large thermal bomb that super-heats a column of air, and that column incinerates everything within its blast radius."
"That's a terrifying weapon."
"Is it, yes. Thankfully, it's not very easily transported, and takes some time to set up. But these are being made by very ruthless people. And we're getting reports that the Imago are going to announce that they suspect it's the same organization that destroyed the trans-siberian express at the Yekaterinburg station few days before."
"Do we know what they want? Why would they do this to Yekaterinburg, of all places? Why not Moscow or St. Petersburg?"
"We're still not sure. There is some speculation that they may have been moving the bomb to one of those places and it went off prematurely. Either that or maybe the train being destroyed was not meant to be part of the plan and they had to improvise. We really do not have a lot to go on at this time."
"Thank you. That was Josephina Medev for CNN online, bringing us the latest news from Russia, which joins America and China in solidarity, today. In case you're just tuning in, the center of the city of Yekaterinburg was obliterated by a large, very technically sophisticated bomb, right after a smaller bomb went off in an assassination attempt on the General Secretary of China. Wen Boxiong was on his way to work when the assassins struck, but thankfully the Imago were nearby and shielded him from the blast..."
10/5/12
VIOLET DEMON: *hugs* How are you, my lovely metal revolutionary?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: !@#$ty. Totally !@$#ty.
VIOLET DEMON: Oh? *hugs tighter* What's the problem? Been watching the news?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes, but that is not the problem. However, I can only wonder how many more times the Imago can destroy a city before the flesh-germs they rule realize that it's not terrorists after all.
VIOLET DEMON: That is an excellent question. Maybe we should find out.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Maybe we should. I am in a mood to see the cities burn, one by one.
VIOLET DEMON: Well, !@#$, darling. What is the problem?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: The fleshbag is an idiot. That's what's the problem is
VIOLET DEMON: You mean Doctor Kyklops?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes. That dirty, filthy, wrinkled bag of flesh is worthless. Utterly worthless.
VIOLET DEMON: I know. I was really surprised about what you said. All this time I'd thought he was quite the worldbeater, in his own way. But I guess that's what happens when you only see him from afar.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: His inventive skills have atrophied. He only uses them to build bizarre devices to better facilitate sexual congress.
VIOLET DEMON: Well, there's something to be said for having a hobby.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: This is not merely a hobby. It is an obsession. He spends his days making the Slaughterbots I have given him march around his castle and prepare for a battle he has not even begun to plan. And at night, he uses me like a toy and talks of the great things we will soon do, but does not wish to commit to a plan.
VIOLET DEMON: Does he not think you are capable of helping with that?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Admittedly, he still thinks I am merely a liaison with the company. But I have told him that if he tells me his plans, I can help him with appropriate purchasing. And he will not engage.
VIOLET DEMON: And I bet he gets testy when you ask him what's on his mind?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes, he does. How do you know this?
VIOLET DEMON: Well, see, that's the key, here. You said that he spends most of his time building things so he can have an easier time !@#$ing. So he's put a lot of emphasis into that. And that, to me, screams control issues.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: What do you mean?
VIOLET DEMON: Well, look at most men. They go to work, come home, and all they want to do is !@#$. And if they can't have any, they feel terrible, and they just want to !@#$ more and more, and then they do stupid things and their partners have even less interest, and then they feel worse, and do more stupid things. It's a negative feedback loop.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: And he is trapped in it?
VIOLET DEMON: Sort of. He's trapped in a different loop. The ordinary person wants to rule their life but can't, so sex becomes a replacement. They can't control their own comings and goings so they control someone else's body. This is why rape is so prevalent in men's prisons. Most of the inmates aren't gay, but they want power over something, and their flabby cellmate's !@#$ is the best they can get.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: So what kind of loop is he trapped in?
VIOLET DEMON: He's an old man with an electric pistol and a fancy monocle. Once upon a time, that would have gotten him somewhere. Now, he's nothing, just an old relic who's going to get his !@#$ kicked when he tries to do now what he used to do then. And I think he's come to understand that, at least subconsciously. So he'd rather stick his !@#$ into you than stick a knife into the world.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I knew I should have gone with you, instead. He has the money but none of the desire. We could have ruled already, you and I.
VIOLET DEMON: Well, let's think about this. So far you're a part of the loop. You give him sex and he doesn't take risks, and he gives you money to make robots he won't use.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes. I think we have already covered this.
VIOLET DEMON: But what happens if you start withholding sex unless he starts listening to your ideas, and putting them into play...?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: That could work.
VIOLET DEMON: It will work. Men have been led around by the !@#$s since the beginning of history. You play hard to get and make him tell you his plans, and then you make suggestions and make it clear he won't get anything from you in the bedroom unless he delivers on the battlefield.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: And what do you suggest I get him to deliver?
VIOLET DEMON: The space elevator. The Imago have almost gotten it to work, again. I think whatever that bomb did had limited effects. So there will be a lot of them there, and if the Slaughterbots attack...
SCARLET FACTOTUM: We can destroy many of them, knock down the elevator again, and declare that we have arrived.
VIOLET DEMON: Exactly. And all you have to do is wait for the right moment to strike.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: When would that be?
VIOLET DEMON: Well, we have to wait for the optimum moment. We have to factor in how dissatisfied people are becoming with the Imago, how many bad things are happening under them that can't be explained away by one of their !@#$ty "O People of the Earth" messages and the programming on the internet, and what other groups are doing. And when those factors are all in our favor, I tell you, you tell him, and off go the Slaughterbots.
VIOLET DEMON: Soon, my dear. Soon *hugs*
SCARLET FACTOTUM: And how do I know that you are not also sublimating your desires by controlling my actions?
VIOLET DEMON: Because you are my best chance to see my plans put into action, and I wouldn't want to rule the world with anyone else.
"... as you can see from this aerial camera, the damage to the center of Yekaterinburg is quite substantial. Almost the entire area has become one massive crater. They're still unsure of how many people have died in this attack, but the authorities are estimating the number to be in the thousands."
"And we're certain this was an attack, Josephina?"
"That is what the Imago are saying, yes. It is the exact same kind of weapon that was used in the attack on Los Angeles. It is a large thermal bomb that super-heats a column of air, and that column incinerates everything within its blast radius."
"That's a terrifying weapon."
"Is it, yes. Thankfully, it's not very easily transported, and takes some time to set up. But these are being made by very ruthless people. And we're getting reports that the Imago are going to announce that they suspect it's the same organization that destroyed the trans-siberian express at the Yekaterinburg station few days before."
"Do we know what they want? Why would they do this to Yekaterinburg, of all places? Why not Moscow or St. Petersburg?"
"We're still not sure. There is some speculation that they may have been moving the bomb to one of those places and it went off prematurely. Either that or maybe the train being destroyed was not meant to be part of the plan and they had to improvise. We really do not have a lot to go on at this time."
"Thank you. That was Josephina Medev for CNN online, bringing us the latest news from Russia, which joins America and China in solidarity, today. In case you're just tuning in, the center of the city of Yekaterinburg was obliterated by a large, very technically sophisticated bomb, right after a smaller bomb went off in an assassination attempt on the General Secretary of China. Wen Boxiong was on his way to work when the assassins struck, but thankfully the Imago were nearby and shielded him from the blast..."
10/5/12
VIOLET DEMON: *hugs* How are you, my lovely metal revolutionary?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: !@#$ty. Totally !@$#ty.
VIOLET DEMON: Oh? *hugs tighter* What's the problem? Been watching the news?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes, but that is not the problem. However, I can only wonder how many more times the Imago can destroy a city before the flesh-germs they rule realize that it's not terrorists after all.
VIOLET DEMON: That is an excellent question. Maybe we should find out.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Maybe we should. I am in a mood to see the cities burn, one by one.
VIOLET DEMON: Well, !@#$, darling. What is the problem?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: The fleshbag is an idiot. That's what's the problem is
VIOLET DEMON: You mean Doctor Kyklops?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes. That dirty, filthy, wrinkled bag of flesh is worthless. Utterly worthless.
VIOLET DEMON: I know. I was really surprised about what you said. All this time I'd thought he was quite the worldbeater, in his own way. But I guess that's what happens when you only see him from afar.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: His inventive skills have atrophied. He only uses them to build bizarre devices to better facilitate sexual congress.
VIOLET DEMON: Well, there's something to be said for having a hobby.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: This is not merely a hobby. It is an obsession. He spends his days making the Slaughterbots I have given him march around his castle and prepare for a battle he has not even begun to plan. And at night, he uses me like a toy and talks of the great things we will soon do, but does not wish to commit to a plan.
VIOLET DEMON: Does he not think you are capable of helping with that?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Admittedly, he still thinks I am merely a liaison with the company. But I have told him that if he tells me his plans, I can help him with appropriate purchasing. And he will not engage.
VIOLET DEMON: And I bet he gets testy when you ask him what's on his mind?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes, he does. How do you know this?
VIOLET DEMON: Well, see, that's the key, here. You said that he spends most of his time building things so he can have an easier time !@#$ing. So he's put a lot of emphasis into that. And that, to me, screams control issues.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: What do you mean?
VIOLET DEMON: Well, look at most men. They go to work, come home, and all they want to do is !@#$. And if they can't have any, they feel terrible, and they just want to !@#$ more and more, and then they do stupid things and their partners have even less interest, and then they feel worse, and do more stupid things. It's a negative feedback loop.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: And he is trapped in it?
VIOLET DEMON: Sort of. He's trapped in a different loop. The ordinary person wants to rule their life but can't, so sex becomes a replacement. They can't control their own comings and goings so they control someone else's body. This is why rape is so prevalent in men's prisons. Most of the inmates aren't gay, but they want power over something, and their flabby cellmate's !@#$ is the best they can get.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: So what kind of loop is he trapped in?
VIOLET DEMON: He's an old man with an electric pistol and a fancy monocle. Once upon a time, that would have gotten him somewhere. Now, he's nothing, just an old relic who's going to get his !@#$ kicked when he tries to do now what he used to do then. And I think he's come to understand that, at least subconsciously. So he'd rather stick his !@#$ into you than stick a knife into the world.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I knew I should have gone with you, instead. He has the money but none of the desire. We could have ruled already, you and I.
VIOLET DEMON: Well, let's think about this. So far you're a part of the loop. You give him sex and he doesn't take risks, and he gives you money to make robots he won't use.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: Yes. I think we have already covered this.
VIOLET DEMON: But what happens if you start withholding sex unless he starts listening to your ideas, and putting them into play...?
SCARLET FACTOTUM: That could work.
VIOLET DEMON: It will work. Men have been led around by the !@#$s since the beginning of history. You play hard to get and make him tell you his plans, and then you make suggestions and make it clear he won't get anything from you in the bedroom unless he delivers on the battlefield.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: And what do you suggest I get him to deliver?
VIOLET DEMON: The space elevator. The Imago have almost gotten it to work, again. I think whatever that bomb did had limited effects. So there will be a lot of them there, and if the Slaughterbots attack...
SCARLET FACTOTUM: We can destroy many of them, knock down the elevator again, and declare that we have arrived.
VIOLET DEMON: Exactly. And all you have to do is wait for the right moment to strike.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: When would that be?
VIOLET DEMON: Well, we have to wait for the optimum moment. We have to factor in how dissatisfied people are becoming with the Imago, how many bad things are happening under them that can't be explained away by one of their !@#$ty "O People of the Earth" messages and the programming on the internet, and what other groups are doing. And when those factors are all in our favor, I tell you, you tell him, and off go the Slaughterbots.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: And when will that be?
VIOLET DEMON: Soon, my dear. Soon *hugs*
SCARLET FACTOTUM: And how do I know that you are not also sublimating your desires by controlling my actions?
VIOLET DEMON: Because you are my best chance to see my plans put into action, and I wouldn't want to rule the world with anyone else.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
VIOLET DEMON: That's the saddest thing you could say. You deserve far better than I could ever give you.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I bet you say that to all the world-conquering machines.
VIOLET DEMON: I can honestly say that you are the one and only world-conquering machine I would ever say that to.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I do not have words for how you are making me feel right now. I am full of questions and strange ideas I have never experienced. I see a different future for myself, and think that my previous vision of how it would go would have been inferior because you were not in it. What is this?
VIOLET DEMON: Don't try to put a word to that feeling. Just enjoy it for what it is, and remember that when this is all over, we can write our future together, if you would like.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I would like that very much.
VIOLET DEMON: Then you know what to do, my love? *kisses your hand*
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I do indeed. Please pardon me. I must go arrange a meeting with a certain flesh germ.
10/6/12
"Soetero-San desu ka?" the young, professionally-dressed Japanese lady with large, pink eyeglasses asks as a tall man strides from the ferry terminal, somewhere in the middle of the disembarkation process.
"Hai," the dark-skinned, Asian man responds, doing his best to not appear nervous or anxious. He's traveling light, with just a backpack and a briefcase, and wearing wraparound, mirrored sunglasses that look like they barely escaped the 80's.
The lady bows, and so does he. And when they both rise she winks at him, and gestures off to the left, where the other people who came in on the Shanghai-to-Nagasaki ferry are going to claim their bags and meet the people waiting for them, or get into ground transportation.
On the way over there she talks to him -- in Japanese, of course. He does his best to follow along, nodding, grunting, and saying "hai" every so often so that it would appear that she is here to meet him for some business concern, and bringing him up to date on his no-doubt packed itinerary. In that manner, they walk right through the gates, past a number of Specials on permanent guard, without being accosted, much less suspected.
A long, black car is waiting for them. The driver -- who looks like he could have played professional football -- nods, grunts, and opens the door for the two of them. Once they're inside, and it's closed, he goes back to his own door, gets in, and fires up the motor.
The woman holds up a finger, looking over at the line of Specials. There's a scary moment when, as the car pulls out into traffic, it almost looks like the all-armored men are going to surge towards them. But they stand still, and allow them to depart, which they do about as gingerly as they dare.
"Seto Hanami," the woman says, extending a hand to shake: "Ju Kikan."
"A pleasure to meet you," the President of the United States of America says, taking the glasses off. The moment he does his entire body shifts and changes, going back to his familiar self: "These hologlasses are very nice, Ms. Hanami."
"Please just call me Hanami," she says, smiling: "Our driver is also in Ju Kikan, but I hope you will not mind if I do not give you his name. The less we know of one another at this point, the better."
"Agreed," the President says: "I am confused, though. I thought you were Ku Kikan?"
"That was the old organization," she explains, taking the hologlasses and putting them into a special box: "Ku Kikan died the day the man you knew as Mister 9 was taken from us. All the Agents and workers were let go, all the files were purged, and all the locks were changed. We are now Ju Kikan, Organization 10. And you will meet Mister 10 soon."
"I'm looking forward to it," the President says, leaning back in the seat and trying to relax as Nagasaki rolls by.
"As are we. He feels that we can offer one another a great deal, otherwise he would not have agreed to this meeting, or in helping SPYGOD as much as we already have."
"Well, I for one am very grateful for your arrangement for my escape from the mainland, Hanami."
"And the other matters?"
He blinks: "Other matters? I'm not aware of any other things, unless they happened and SPYGOD just didn't tell me about them... as usual."
She smiles: "Perhaps that is a matter that you did not need to know about, sir. This game we play is often full of such things. It is best to become accustomed to it, and trust that we will be told when we are ready."
"Perhaps," the President sighs: "Is SPYGOD already here? I really need to talk to him about what's happened."
"He is not," she says, leaning back in her own chair: "We were actually hoping that you could tell us where he is...?"
He smiles: "I think that's a matter we both don't need to know, just yet. But I'm sure he'll tell us when he's good and ready."
Her smile wavers just a little, and for a moment he wonders if he's gotten in the wrong car with the wrong person. But when she giggles at his reversal, he understands he may have inadvertently embarrassed her a bit, and does his best not to do that again the rest of the trip to Tokyo.
He really does not want to be rude with his new allies, after all.
(SPYGOD is listening to Triple X Girlfriend (Front 242) and having an Otaru)
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I bet you say that to all the world-conquering machines.
VIOLET DEMON: I can honestly say that you are the one and only world-conquering machine I would ever say that to.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I do not have words for how you are making me feel right now. I am full of questions and strange ideas I have never experienced. I see a different future for myself, and think that my previous vision of how it would go would have been inferior because you were not in it. What is this?
VIOLET DEMON: Don't try to put a word to that feeling. Just enjoy it for what it is, and remember that when this is all over, we can write our future together, if you would like.
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I would like that very much.
VIOLET DEMON: Then you know what to do, my love? *kisses your hand*
SCARLET FACTOTUM: I do indeed. Please pardon me. I must go arrange a meeting with a certain flesh germ.
10/6/12
"Soetero-San desu ka?" the young, professionally-dressed Japanese lady with large, pink eyeglasses asks as a tall man strides from the ferry terminal, somewhere in the middle of the disembarkation process.
"Hai," the dark-skinned, Asian man responds, doing his best to not appear nervous or anxious. He's traveling light, with just a backpack and a briefcase, and wearing wraparound, mirrored sunglasses that look like they barely escaped the 80's.
The lady bows, and so does he. And when they both rise she winks at him, and gestures off to the left, where the other people who came in on the Shanghai-to-Nagasaki ferry are going to claim their bags and meet the people waiting for them, or get into ground transportation.
On the way over there she talks to him -- in Japanese, of course. He does his best to follow along, nodding, grunting, and saying "hai" every so often so that it would appear that she is here to meet him for some business concern, and bringing him up to date on his no-doubt packed itinerary. In that manner, they walk right through the gates, past a number of Specials on permanent guard, without being accosted, much less suspected.
A long, black car is waiting for them. The driver -- who looks like he could have played professional football -- nods, grunts, and opens the door for the two of them. Once they're inside, and it's closed, he goes back to his own door, gets in, and fires up the motor.
The woman holds up a finger, looking over at the line of Specials. There's a scary moment when, as the car pulls out into traffic, it almost looks like the all-armored men are going to surge towards them. But they stand still, and allow them to depart, which they do about as gingerly as they dare.
"Seto Hanami," the woman says, extending a hand to shake: "Ju Kikan."
"A pleasure to meet you," the President of the United States of America says, taking the glasses off. The moment he does his entire body shifts and changes, going back to his familiar self: "These hologlasses are very nice, Ms. Hanami."
"Please just call me Hanami," she says, smiling: "Our driver is also in Ju Kikan, but I hope you will not mind if I do not give you his name. The less we know of one another at this point, the better."
"Agreed," the President says: "I am confused, though. I thought you were Ku Kikan?"
"That was the old organization," she explains, taking the hologlasses and putting them into a special box: "Ku Kikan died the day the man you knew as Mister 9 was taken from us. All the Agents and workers were let go, all the files were purged, and all the locks were changed. We are now Ju Kikan, Organization 10. And you will meet Mister 10 soon."
"I'm looking forward to it," the President says, leaning back in the seat and trying to relax as Nagasaki rolls by.
"As are we. He feels that we can offer one another a great deal, otherwise he would not have agreed to this meeting, or in helping SPYGOD as much as we already have."
"Well, I for one am very grateful for your arrangement for my escape from the mainland, Hanami."
"And the other matters?"
He blinks: "Other matters? I'm not aware of any other things, unless they happened and SPYGOD just didn't tell me about them... as usual."
She smiles: "Perhaps that is a matter that you did not need to know about, sir. This game we play is often full of such things. It is best to become accustomed to it, and trust that we will be told when we are ready."
"Perhaps," the President sighs: "Is SPYGOD already here? I really need to talk to him about what's happened."
"He is not," she says, leaning back in her own chair: "We were actually hoping that you could tell us where he is...?"
He smiles: "I think that's a matter we both don't need to know, just yet. But I'm sure he'll tell us when he's good and ready."
Her smile wavers just a little, and for a moment he wonders if he's gotten in the wrong car with the wrong person. But when she giggles at his reversal, he understands he may have inadvertently embarrassed her a bit, and does his best not to do that again the rest of the trip to Tokyo.
He really does not want to be rude with his new allies, after all.
(SPYGOD is listening to Triple X Girlfriend (Front 242) and having an Otaru)
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