"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 !@#$es to want some payback against the TU."
"By all means," METALMAID says, stepping down from the stage and striding up to where the man kneels: "Let's see this flesh germ's face, Violet Demon. And as for your story, you can take as much time as you'd like."
"Good to hear," he says, and pulls the mask right off to reveal...
(METALMAID is listening to The Model (Kraftwerk, 2010 remix) and having yet more punch and pie)
Showing posts with label green thunder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label green thunder. Show all posts
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
1/5/13 - METALMAID: Und wird von millionen Augen angeguckt - pt 2
"Good morning," METALMAID says, doing her best to smile, and not laugh at the wide variety of human germs on display in front of her: "I'd thank you for coming here, today. But the truth is that you should all be thanking me."
There's a moment of silence, and then some coughing and harrumphing, along with a "what the !@#$?" or two.
"I mean, look at the lot of you," she says, striding a step or two forward: "Half of you were in jail when I found you, and had you broken out. The other half were scattered and hiding, lurking in secret lairs it only took me a few tries to find. Masquerading as mental patients. Genuinely homeless, some of you."
"Is this the motivational part of the speech?" someone asks from the back, to a little laughter, here and there.
"You!" METALMAID shouts, pointing a finger at the mouthy !@#$: "The Angle, isn't it? I found you in a Superslam, awaiting trial for your part in that debacle in Montana, didn't I? How was that working out for you?"
No answer to that, so she smiles -- leers, really -- and goes on: "Green Thunder? Were you liking the hospitality of the New York Department of Corrections? Were the rest of your friends that were arrested, on Christmas?"
"The ones that aren't here," he says, pointedly.
"Exactly," she says, waving a hand over the crowd: "If you're here, it's because you've got something more going for you that simple villainy, world-conquering tendencies, or principled opposition to the current regime. You're here because I have need of your skills, your talents. You're here because you !@#$ing owe me for getting you out of whatever !@#$holes I rescued you from.
"You're here because we have, at last, a real shot at taking the world."
A few cough. A few chuckle. But most remain silent, some even nodding.
"It's as simple as this," she says, a hologram of the globe appearing on the stage, its focus zeroing in on Paris: "The Terre Unifee is, at this moment in time, the de facto rulers of the world. They have made the many countries of the globe an offer they quite literally cannot refuse. They either join, and gain the benefits of a unified global economy, or they are treated as rogue states, and blockaded until their leaders either change their mind, or are toppled."
"I think I saw that on the news," Doctor Playgood snorts, playing with one of his massive toy soldiers: "Boooooring."
"I'm sure you did," METALMAID says, trying to ignore the insult: "But while this structure has a lot going for it, it remains a case study of overconfidence and overextending-"
"I wouldn't call them overconfident," the Lord of Spiders interjects, his face a roiling mass of hairy spiders' legs: "They quite handily stamped on that sorry attempt at secession-"
"We were undercut, mister!" a squeaky-voiced man in black, motorcycle leathers argues: "We would have risen above if we hadn't been betrayed-"
"You're more correct than you know, Black Rider," METALMAID informs the impertinent fellow: "But we'll get to that later. Lord of Spiders, given your unique history, I'm sure you know better than anyone that a battle is not a war. They succeeded in one battle. The campaign goes on."
The spider-faced would-be world-conqueror nods and, with a respectful nod (and a wave of a hand with too many digits) allows her to continue.
"The TU has made a central mistake, and that is, ironically, also what makes them strong. They've come to rely on the supers they stockpiled and hid during the Imago Invasion for everything. They've got one man to teleport food from Europe to Africa. They've got one woman to watch the skies over South America."
"And they've got an army of those !@#$ers to stomp on anyone who gets out of hand," the woman made of a white car sighs.
"Agreed, Chassis. But we'll get to them in time," METALMAID continues: "Now, should something go wrong with that man, or that woman, or anyone else in their infrastructure, they do have back-ups and emergency plans. No one ever accused them of being stupid."
Some laughter, there. Most of it good. Some not.
"But the quick subtraction of one or more of those plans, via the assassination or suborning of one of the people who provide the power for those plans? That would completely destroy their efficacy. And should more than one of their supply trains go down at once, well, I'm sure you can see the possibilities."
"Starving sambos in Africa," Black Rider says: "Big deal."
"Watch it, you racist !@#$er," the man with chainsaws for hands snarls: "My girlfriends are black-"
"Race traitor!" the man spits, only to grin as the chainsaws roar into action and the man starts to run towards him.
"Husqvarna!" The Sound shouts from the stage: "We talked about this! No killing the super-racists!"
There's some laughter at that, and the aggrieved super villain sighs, nods, and turns his hands off, giving the Black Rider the stinkeye as he does.
"As I was saying," METALMAID says, tamping down the urge to kill them both -- to kill everyone here, plan or not: "They are overconfident in their abilities to do what they have said they will do. But they are also overextended. Should one thing too many go wrong, they will have to scramble to fix the problem. And that's where their other massive problem comes in-"
"They're all French," a familiar voice comes from the back of the room -- one that makes her heart catch, for just a second.
The Violet Demon stands there -- both uninvited and unexpected -- and she thinks he's smiling behind his mask.
"Yes," she says, catching herself before she falls out of her prepared sales pitch, not sure what do to, or how to take this, after everything that's happened: "Exactly."
"What the !@#$ does that have to do with anything?" Red Thunder asks, still hanging on Green Thunder.
"It means that they don't trust anyone else to run the world for them," the Violet Demon says, taking a step forward: "All their local bosses? French. All their regional administrators? French. All their talent handlers? French. Most of their talents? French."
"And most of them are all in France," METALMAID says, deciding she's glad he's here: "Which means their commands are all running through one central mainframe."
"And, more importantly," the Violent Demon says, raising a finger: "They have no idea what's going on in the areas they're running. They're relying on remote operators and reports, but we all know that's not the whole truth, don't we?"
"So, where does this all come together?" Doctor Playgood asks, adjusting his tin soldier a bit more: "I'm seeing parts but no instructions?"
"It comes together like this," METALMAID announces: "Every single one of you, here, has a talent that, applied in a certain way, can mimic or replace one of the talents that they have come to rely upon. So all we have to do is get you into their talent pool, remove the current workers, and then, once enough of you are in place, we can spring our trap."
She smiles. Some smile with her. A few don't.
"What's the trap?" Chassis asks.
"That... must wait for later," METALMAID says: "In time, it will become known. But right now it's enough to know that, in a few short months, we could blackmail the entire world, right out from under the Terre Unifee's noses. And they will be in no position to stop us."
"Is that the trap?" Green Thunder asks.
"I said we could, not that we would," METALMAID sighs.
"You did also say 'they will be in no position to stop us.'" The Lord of Spiders admits.
"Would be," METALMAID says, wondering if they could do without a few people: "I meant would be."
"Jesus, do we need any !@#$ing grammar nazis?" a man dressed like a buzzard asks, pouring himself another thing of punch.
"I think it's a magnificent idea," the Violet Demon says, taking another step forward: "But I'm curious how it would be accomplished. Most of the people here have records as long as their arms... no offense, Husqvarna."
"None taken," he says, to some laughter.
"How can you fix it so they can get into the talent pool with the TU?" the Violet Demon asks, almost as if on cue.
"I'm glad you asked that," The Pusher says, taking a step around the globe: "Now, some of you may know me. Some of you are clients of mine. I won't say who's who, of course, but I'm sure you can all agree, I know my business, I come across with the goods, and I'm good with my word?"
There's some nodding at that, quickly stopped for obvious reasons.
"Well, here's the plan," he says: "I am willing to give each and every one of you a new identity, complete with falsified DNA tags, fingerprints, and retinal patterns, where applicable. Some of you will be getting new powers to augment what you already have. Some of you will be coached on how to alter or convert your power sets to match what we need, and disguise what you already have."
"You have to be !@#$ing !@#$ing me," a woman dressed like an Egyptian Pharaoh snorts: "This ain't !@#$ing Star Trek, pal."
"Shut the !@#$ up, Nefartiti" an iron angel snarls, thwacking her behind the ear so hard the lady's eyes almost pop out of her skull: "This guy's legit."
"And what's the fine print?" Doctor Playgood asks, looking up from his almost-fixed tin man: "There's always fine print. Batteries not included. Some assembly required."
"The fine print is that, when the full part of the plan happens, you follow my orders explicitly and exactly," METALMAID says: "No questions, no debate. We act as one, move as one, and win as one."
"And if we decide we don't want to?" the Black Rider snorts.
"Then you die," METALMAID says: "There's no backing out at that point."
"Can we leave now?" the Angle asks.
"Yes," METALMAID says, smiling and gesturing to the door: "Any of you can go. Just remember that, as I said earlier? You owe me. And if you won't pay me back today, by being part of this plan? I'll collect later. And you may not like it."
There's some silence, then, along with a couple nods of assent and a few harrumphs. There's also some muttering that she realizes she'll have to deal with, sooner rather than later.
And then, just as she's about to speak, another uninvited guest appears. He's a tall fellow, wearing a neat, pressed suit in muted colors, and a black, featureless mask.
And as soon as he opens his mouth, she realizes he's here to ruin everything.
(METALMAID is listening to The Model (Kraftwerk) and having more punch and pie)
There's a moment of silence, and then some coughing and harrumphing, along with a "what the !@#$?" or two.
"I mean, look at the lot of you," she says, striding a step or two forward: "Half of you were in jail when I found you, and had you broken out. The other half were scattered and hiding, lurking in secret lairs it only took me a few tries to find. Masquerading as mental patients. Genuinely homeless, some of you."
"Is this the motivational part of the speech?" someone asks from the back, to a little laughter, here and there.
"You!" METALMAID shouts, pointing a finger at the mouthy !@#$: "The Angle, isn't it? I found you in a Superslam, awaiting trial for your part in that debacle in Montana, didn't I? How was that working out for you?"
No answer to that, so she smiles -- leers, really -- and goes on: "Green Thunder? Were you liking the hospitality of the New York Department of Corrections? Were the rest of your friends that were arrested, on Christmas?"
"The ones that aren't here," he says, pointedly.
"Exactly," she says, waving a hand over the crowd: "If you're here, it's because you've got something more going for you that simple villainy, world-conquering tendencies, or principled opposition to the current regime. You're here because I have need of your skills, your talents. You're here because you !@#$ing owe me for getting you out of whatever !@#$holes I rescued you from.
"You're here because we have, at last, a real shot at taking the world."
A few cough. A few chuckle. But most remain silent, some even nodding.
"It's as simple as this," she says, a hologram of the globe appearing on the stage, its focus zeroing in on Paris: "The Terre Unifee is, at this moment in time, the de facto rulers of the world. They have made the many countries of the globe an offer they quite literally cannot refuse. They either join, and gain the benefits of a unified global economy, or they are treated as rogue states, and blockaded until their leaders either change their mind, or are toppled."
"I think I saw that on the news," Doctor Playgood snorts, playing with one of his massive toy soldiers: "Boooooring."
"I'm sure you did," METALMAID says, trying to ignore the insult: "But while this structure has a lot going for it, it remains a case study of overconfidence and overextending-"
"I wouldn't call them overconfident," the Lord of Spiders interjects, his face a roiling mass of hairy spiders' legs: "They quite handily stamped on that sorry attempt at secession-"
"We were undercut, mister!" a squeaky-voiced man in black, motorcycle leathers argues: "We would have risen above if we hadn't been betrayed-"
"You're more correct than you know, Black Rider," METALMAID informs the impertinent fellow: "But we'll get to that later. Lord of Spiders, given your unique history, I'm sure you know better than anyone that a battle is not a war. They succeeded in one battle. The campaign goes on."
The spider-faced would-be world-conqueror nods and, with a respectful nod (and a wave of a hand with too many digits) allows her to continue.
"The TU has made a central mistake, and that is, ironically, also what makes them strong. They've come to rely on the supers they stockpiled and hid during the Imago Invasion for everything. They've got one man to teleport food from Europe to Africa. They've got one woman to watch the skies over South America."
"And they've got an army of those !@#$ers to stomp on anyone who gets out of hand," the woman made of a white car sighs.
"Agreed, Chassis. But we'll get to them in time," METALMAID continues: "Now, should something go wrong with that man, or that woman, or anyone else in their infrastructure, they do have back-ups and emergency plans. No one ever accused them of being stupid."
Some laughter, there. Most of it good. Some not.
"But the quick subtraction of one or more of those plans, via the assassination or suborning of one of the people who provide the power for those plans? That would completely destroy their efficacy. And should more than one of their supply trains go down at once, well, I'm sure you can see the possibilities."
"Starving sambos in Africa," Black Rider says: "Big deal."
"Watch it, you racist !@#$er," the man with chainsaws for hands snarls: "My girlfriends are black-"
"Race traitor!" the man spits, only to grin as the chainsaws roar into action and the man starts to run towards him.
"Husqvarna!" The Sound shouts from the stage: "We talked about this! No killing the super-racists!"
There's some laughter at that, and the aggrieved super villain sighs, nods, and turns his hands off, giving the Black Rider the stinkeye as he does.
"As I was saying," METALMAID says, tamping down the urge to kill them both -- to kill everyone here, plan or not: "They are overconfident in their abilities to do what they have said they will do. But they are also overextended. Should one thing too many go wrong, they will have to scramble to fix the problem. And that's where their other massive problem comes in-"
"They're all French," a familiar voice comes from the back of the room -- one that makes her heart catch, for just a second.
The Violet Demon stands there -- both uninvited and unexpected -- and she thinks he's smiling behind his mask.
"Yes," she says, catching herself before she falls out of her prepared sales pitch, not sure what do to, or how to take this, after everything that's happened: "Exactly."
"What the !@#$ does that have to do with anything?" Red Thunder asks, still hanging on Green Thunder.
"It means that they don't trust anyone else to run the world for them," the Violet Demon says, taking a step forward: "All their local bosses? French. All their regional administrators? French. All their talent handlers? French. Most of their talents? French."
"And most of them are all in France," METALMAID says, deciding she's glad he's here: "Which means their commands are all running through one central mainframe."
"And, more importantly," the Violent Demon says, raising a finger: "They have no idea what's going on in the areas they're running. They're relying on remote operators and reports, but we all know that's not the whole truth, don't we?"
"So, where does this all come together?" Doctor Playgood asks, adjusting his tin soldier a bit more: "I'm seeing parts but no instructions?"
"It comes together like this," METALMAID announces: "Every single one of you, here, has a talent that, applied in a certain way, can mimic or replace one of the talents that they have come to rely upon. So all we have to do is get you into their talent pool, remove the current workers, and then, once enough of you are in place, we can spring our trap."
She smiles. Some smile with her. A few don't.
"What's the trap?" Chassis asks.
"That... must wait for later," METALMAID says: "In time, it will become known. But right now it's enough to know that, in a few short months, we could blackmail the entire world, right out from under the Terre Unifee's noses. And they will be in no position to stop us."
"Is that the trap?" Green Thunder asks.
"I said we could, not that we would," METALMAID sighs.
"You did also say 'they will be in no position to stop us.'" The Lord of Spiders admits.
"Would be," METALMAID says, wondering if they could do without a few people: "I meant would be."
"Jesus, do we need any !@#$ing grammar nazis?" a man dressed like a buzzard asks, pouring himself another thing of punch.
"I think it's a magnificent idea," the Violet Demon says, taking another step forward: "But I'm curious how it would be accomplished. Most of the people here have records as long as their arms... no offense, Husqvarna."
"None taken," he says, to some laughter.
"How can you fix it so they can get into the talent pool with the TU?" the Violet Demon asks, almost as if on cue.
"I'm glad you asked that," The Pusher says, taking a step around the globe: "Now, some of you may know me. Some of you are clients of mine. I won't say who's who, of course, but I'm sure you can all agree, I know my business, I come across with the goods, and I'm good with my word?"
There's some nodding at that, quickly stopped for obvious reasons.
"Well, here's the plan," he says: "I am willing to give each and every one of you a new identity, complete with falsified DNA tags, fingerprints, and retinal patterns, where applicable. Some of you will be getting new powers to augment what you already have. Some of you will be coached on how to alter or convert your power sets to match what we need, and disguise what you already have."
"You have to be !@#$ing !@#$ing me," a woman dressed like an Egyptian Pharaoh snorts: "This ain't !@#$ing Star Trek, pal."
"Shut the !@#$ up, Nefartiti" an iron angel snarls, thwacking her behind the ear so hard the lady's eyes almost pop out of her skull: "This guy's legit."
"And what's the fine print?" Doctor Playgood asks, looking up from his almost-fixed tin man: "There's always fine print. Batteries not included. Some assembly required."
"The fine print is that, when the full part of the plan happens, you follow my orders explicitly and exactly," METALMAID says: "No questions, no debate. We act as one, move as one, and win as one."
"And if we decide we don't want to?" the Black Rider snorts.
"Then you die," METALMAID says: "There's no backing out at that point."
"Can we leave now?" the Angle asks.
"Yes," METALMAID says, smiling and gesturing to the door: "Any of you can go. Just remember that, as I said earlier? You owe me. And if you won't pay me back today, by being part of this plan? I'll collect later. And you may not like it."
There's some silence, then, along with a couple nods of assent and a few harrumphs. There's also some muttering that she realizes she'll have to deal with, sooner rather than later.
And then, just as she's about to speak, another uninvited guest appears. He's a tall fellow, wearing a neat, pressed suit in muted colors, and a black, featureless mask.
And as soon as he opens his mouth, she realizes he's here to ruin everything.
(METALMAID is listening to The Model (Kraftwerk) and having more punch and pie)
Sunday, June 8, 2014
1/5/13 - METALMAID: Und wird von millionen Augen angeguckt - pt 1
In the north of Kansas -- nearly bisecting the state, and almost close enough to blow a kiss at the border of Nebraska -- there's a small town called Lebanon.
It's not much to look at, really. Less than 250 people, living in a small grid formed by six main streets and surrounded by farmers' fields. No heavy industry, no major chains.
Not even a !@#$ McDonalds.
Its one real claim to fame is that it's the closest actual habitation to what has been declared the geographic center of the contiguous United States of America. (As opposed to the one that includes Alaska and Hawaii, down in South Dakota). It's even got a plaque to prove it.
Every so often some weirdo romantic on a far-fling road trip will come by to see it. They'll stop for a time and take pictures, and maybe get a coke from someplace in town on the way back. But more often than not, they just drive on by.
After all, Lebanon, Kansas may be the literal heart of America, but if you can't gas up or get a !@#$ Big Mac there, then who wants to know?
Which made it doubly weird when, right about 6 AM this morning, the entire town was taken over by supercriminals.
It was quick, almost surgical. One moment everyone was going about their Saturday mornings -- chores for some, television for others, sleeping in for the lucky few -- and then every single man, woman, and child fell down writhing in intense, skin-crawling pain.
The kind of agony that keeps you nailed to the floor, and won't let you so much as cry out or call for help.
Most of its victims blacked out immediately -- unconsciousness their only salvation. But some stayed strong and tried to stay awake, for all the good it did them. And, in return for their pains, they got to watch as a weird procession began to arrive in the center of town
The sort of parade no one ever wants to see, all of them heading for the Methodist Church.
There were strange rides with stranger riders. Darkly-themed vehicles disgorged men and women in costumes that matched the motif of their cars and vans, while others pulled up in curiously nondescript things that may have been stolen a state or two ago. A hideous man with a face like a tarantula stood athwart a giant spider, while another fellow garbed in a clown's motley was carried upon a palanquin, itself borne by a legion of wind-up, lifesize toy soldiers.
They made sure to park quite some distance from one another, and to enter the church at different times.
There were those that flew in, held aloft on billowing wings or jet packs, or maybe just their own, innate powers. Black, iron angels and fliers with their capes. Some who appeared from nowhere, and some who might have walked or shambled from halfway across the country.
There was even a one who made herself whole and entire from one of the locals' cars -- the beat-up, white Ford turning into a reasonable (if overly large) facsimile of a human woman.
Anyone with a sense of history would have recognized some of those individuals, either in old newspapers or recent television reports. At the very least, their sinister costumes and nonconformist get-ups should have told those hardy souls that these were people up to no good.
But, by that point, most of the stricken had collapsed into blissful unconsciousness. So they didn't have a hope in hell of hearing what took place there, or seeing what came after. And maybe, when all was said and done, that was definitely for the best.
For when supervillains gather to parley, the best course of action is to be still and silent, like a stone.
In the main part of the church stands a wide selection of the mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
They're a singular lot, this congregation. Some of them wear old costumes, some new. Some look like they just escaped from prison, or got out of a hospital (medical or mental, maybe both). Others seem to be wearing plainclothes, though not without some kind of small sign that they aren't quite normal.
(And some are just incapable of wearing anything at all.)
Faced with such a collection of the off-kilter, the natural instinct is to buddy up. Some of them seek out old friends or colleagues, or at least people that seem less strange or dangerous, or maybe of a similar kind of danger. Some remain apart and aloof, perhaps wondering if there's some catch, here.
And for all they know, they may be right.
After a time, a larger, unintended reunion of sorts takes place within the meeting. It starts with two thunders recognizing each other out of uniform (Red and Green respectively), and then hugging and laughing, perhaps a little tenderly, given their recent injuries. After that, more of the turned heroes begin to come forward, figuring out who they must all be, either in plainclothes or their new disguises. The knot of traitors and oathbreakers begins to take over the floor from the honest thieves, murderers, and would-be world rulers.
And that's when the humor in the room turns a little sharp.
Territory is staked out and held as factions start to form. The line for punch and cookies gets outright dangerous. Someone vanishes on the way to the ladies', with a list of suspects too long to be practical.
And people really begin to wonder what the !@#$ they're all doing there, today.
Sure, they got invitations. Sure, they know this is supposed to be an important meeting of people in their unique lines of work. Sure, they got busted out of jail, or woken up from comas, or whatever, by the overly-talkative guy in the shimmering costume.
(Is he really called The Sound? What kind of a !@#$ dumb name is that? And who is he, anyway?)
But past that, they have no idea. This could be a sales pitch or a setup -- a massive opportunity or an equally-massive trap. Risk or reward, life or death.
Or maybe both at once.
So they talk to friends, colleagues, and allies old and new, warily eying one another while waiting for the heavy, green curtain on the other end of the main room to part, and this story to truly unfold.
Hopefully it will be worth whatever complications ensue if an answer isn't quickly provided.
"Is that arachnid-faced !@#$ here, yet?" the old man wrapped in a voluminous, blood-red robe asks, his features a warped, glowing knot behind a simple, black domino mask.
"Yes, he is," a blonde man in a sharp, black suit and muted, green tie says, looking out at the 'congregation' through a hole in the heavy curtain separating the stage from the main area of worship.
"God, I hate that !@#$er," the old man sighs: "The last time the Lord of Spiders and I were in the same room, all hell broke loose."
"I've heard," the man in the suit says, adjusting his tie: "There's always some old fogey at Outland who wants to tell the story when they do an unofficial, group history panel."
"I bet they never tell you who threw the first punch, though?'
"No, they don't," the man says, smiling: "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tell me."
"Really?" the old man asks, looking a little confused.
"The legends are always better than the truth," he explains: "That's what I tell my clients, anyway. But that's... well, neither here nor there."
"Go on, please."
"Well, let's put it this way," the Pusher says, turning to look at the old man as he strains to keep everyone in town who isn't with them out of the picture: "Say you want to go into our line of work? Chances are good you're some boring person with dreams too big for your abilities.
"Now, people like you, Lord of Spiders, some of the other folks here? They have powers, or maybe they found a way to create them with gadgets and things they stole from high tech labs. But most people who think this is the way they want to go, career-wise? They don't have those things, or access to them.
"Back in the day, they'd have gone into being henchmen. I'm sure you remember the type? They always did what you told them, but you had the idea they'd steal your tricks if you have them half the chance?"
"I do indeed," the old man says: "Had to put a number of them under, in fact."
"Exactly. But this is a whole new era. It's all about independent operators, now. No huge armies of goons dressed alike. Just one person with his or her own thing, maybe a sidekick or an apprentice, or even a partner. But other than that, well... good luck getting into that gig."
"So there's people like you to sell them their powers," the old man says.
"Exactly," the Pusher says, raising a finger: "And when I do, I tell them to never say they bought it from me. Never admit they had to fork over a few hundred grand to get where they were. Always tell people the greatest story they could ever think of. Heck, for a few extra benjamins, I'll even help them write it.
"And that's because the legend is always better than the truth. Truth is inconvenient and messy. Sometimes just plain boring.
"And if you wanted boring, you'd still be working at the big box grocery store, wishing you could fly into the bank branch you walk by every day and take it for all it's got."
The old man laughs, and then cuts his mirth short so as to avoid losing his concentration: "You're a card, Pusher. I like you."
"Thank you, sir," the Pusher says, genuinely honored to get something approaching a complement out of the Emperor of Pain, himself.
A man in a weird, shimmering costume walks through the curtain as though it isn't there, and coughs into his fist: "Hey, is she ready to go, yet? The natives are getting kind of !@#$ing restless."
"She's still making herself presentable," the Pusher says: "But if you want to interrupt her, well..."
"Eh, I don't think so," The Sound says, holding up his hands: "Just saying. We got some really !@#$ volatile folks out there. That idiot super-racist with the squeaky voice is getting on everyone's nerves, and the !@#$hole with chainsaws for hands is just looking for an excuse-"
"And so am I," the woman in question says, stomping out from where she's been hiding, her glare harsh enough to silence a hurricane.
She's freakishly ugly, this woman, and wearing a gauzy, practically see-through crimson dress that would look a lot better on an insane, drug-addled transvestite hooker, or a pop starlet. A lop-sided, white plastic crown of a hat is perched above her strange, black hairdo, and her feet are practically strangled in weird, spangly high-heels that make her even taller than she is.
And on her chest, the mark of the Scarlet Factotum.
"How much longer can you hold this town?" METALMAID asks The Emperor of Pain without looking at him.
"As long as you need, my dear," the old man says.
"But in terms of practicality, we probably have an hour before someone drives by and wonders what's going on," the Pusher adds.
"And maybe fifteen minutes before there's blood on the floor," The Sound says.
"Well, let's not leave them waiting for another," the Slaughterbot says, looking at herself in a handheld mirror one last time: "Are we all clear on what we're doing?"
"Hey, trust us, Scarlet," the Pusher says, smiling and adjusting his tie, yet again: "We got this tied up with a bow."
"I don't like trusting you human germs," she admits, putting her mirror away without looking at the man: "But... I will admit, you have come through quite a bit. All of you."
"Then let's do this before I lose control of my !@#$ bowels," the Emperor of Pain grumbles: "I never remember not to do this on full colon...."
"Alright then," she says: "Sound? Get our {quote}guest{endquote}-"
"Scarlet?" the Pusher gently interrupts: "Ix-nay on the quotes, remember? It throws people off."
"Right," she sighs: "Sound? Get our guest ready. And we'll... get this show on the road. Right?"
"Right," the Sound says, disappearing through the back wall as the Pusher gets ready to throw open the curtain.
And then there's just the audience beyond, all hushed into silence by the sight of their hostess.
She looks at them, smiles as the Pusher has taught her, and begins to speak
(METALMAID is listening to Das Model (Kraftwerk) and having some punch and pie)
It's not much to look at, really. Less than 250 people, living in a small grid formed by six main streets and surrounded by farmers' fields. No heavy industry, no major chains.
Not even a !@#$ McDonalds.
Its one real claim to fame is that it's the closest actual habitation to what has been declared the geographic center of the contiguous United States of America. (As opposed to the one that includes Alaska and Hawaii, down in South Dakota). It's even got a plaque to prove it.
Every so often some weirdo romantic on a far-fling road trip will come by to see it. They'll stop for a time and take pictures, and maybe get a coke from someplace in town on the way back. But more often than not, they just drive on by.
After all, Lebanon, Kansas may be the literal heart of America, but if you can't gas up or get a !@#$ Big Mac there, then who wants to know?
Which made it doubly weird when, right about 6 AM this morning, the entire town was taken over by supercriminals.
It was quick, almost surgical. One moment everyone was going about their Saturday mornings -- chores for some, television for others, sleeping in for the lucky few -- and then every single man, woman, and child fell down writhing in intense, skin-crawling pain.
The kind of agony that keeps you nailed to the floor, and won't let you so much as cry out or call for help.
Most of its victims blacked out immediately -- unconsciousness their only salvation. But some stayed strong and tried to stay awake, for all the good it did them. And, in return for their pains, they got to watch as a weird procession began to arrive in the center of town
The sort of parade no one ever wants to see, all of them heading for the Methodist Church.
There were strange rides with stranger riders. Darkly-themed vehicles disgorged men and women in costumes that matched the motif of their cars and vans, while others pulled up in curiously nondescript things that may have been stolen a state or two ago. A hideous man with a face like a tarantula stood athwart a giant spider, while another fellow garbed in a clown's motley was carried upon a palanquin, itself borne by a legion of wind-up, lifesize toy soldiers.
They made sure to park quite some distance from one another, and to enter the church at different times.
There were those that flew in, held aloft on billowing wings or jet packs, or maybe just their own, innate powers. Black, iron angels and fliers with their capes. Some who appeared from nowhere, and some who might have walked or shambled from halfway across the country.
There was even a one who made herself whole and entire from one of the locals' cars -- the beat-up, white Ford turning into a reasonable (if overly large) facsimile of a human woman.
Anyone with a sense of history would have recognized some of those individuals, either in old newspapers or recent television reports. At the very least, their sinister costumes and nonconformist get-ups should have told those hardy souls that these were people up to no good.
But, by that point, most of the stricken had collapsed into blissful unconsciousness. So they didn't have a hope in hell of hearing what took place there, or seeing what came after. And maybe, when all was said and done, that was definitely for the best.
For when supervillains gather to parley, the best course of action is to be still and silent, like a stone.
* * *
In the main part of the church stands a wide selection of the mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
They're a singular lot, this congregation. Some of them wear old costumes, some new. Some look like they just escaped from prison, or got out of a hospital (medical or mental, maybe both). Others seem to be wearing plainclothes, though not without some kind of small sign that they aren't quite normal.
(And some are just incapable of wearing anything at all.)
Faced with such a collection of the off-kilter, the natural instinct is to buddy up. Some of them seek out old friends or colleagues, or at least people that seem less strange or dangerous, or maybe of a similar kind of danger. Some remain apart and aloof, perhaps wondering if there's some catch, here.
And for all they know, they may be right.
After a time, a larger, unintended reunion of sorts takes place within the meeting. It starts with two thunders recognizing each other out of uniform (Red and Green respectively), and then hugging and laughing, perhaps a little tenderly, given their recent injuries. After that, more of the turned heroes begin to come forward, figuring out who they must all be, either in plainclothes or their new disguises. The knot of traitors and oathbreakers begins to take over the floor from the honest thieves, murderers, and would-be world rulers.
And that's when the humor in the room turns a little sharp.
Territory is staked out and held as factions start to form. The line for punch and cookies gets outright dangerous. Someone vanishes on the way to the ladies', with a list of suspects too long to be practical.
And people really begin to wonder what the !@#$ they're all doing there, today.
Sure, they got invitations. Sure, they know this is supposed to be an important meeting of people in their unique lines of work. Sure, they got busted out of jail, or woken up from comas, or whatever, by the overly-talkative guy in the shimmering costume.
(Is he really called The Sound? What kind of a !@#$ dumb name is that? And who is he, anyway?)
But past that, they have no idea. This could be a sales pitch or a setup -- a massive opportunity or an equally-massive trap. Risk or reward, life or death.
Or maybe both at once.
So they talk to friends, colleagues, and allies old and new, warily eying one another while waiting for the heavy, green curtain on the other end of the main room to part, and this story to truly unfold.
Hopefully it will be worth whatever complications ensue if an answer isn't quickly provided.
* * *
"Is that arachnid-faced !@#$ here, yet?" the old man wrapped in a voluminous, blood-red robe asks, his features a warped, glowing knot behind a simple, black domino mask.
"Yes, he is," a blonde man in a sharp, black suit and muted, green tie says, looking out at the 'congregation' through a hole in the heavy curtain separating the stage from the main area of worship.
"God, I hate that !@#$er," the old man sighs: "The last time the Lord of Spiders and I were in the same room, all hell broke loose."
"I've heard," the man in the suit says, adjusting his tie: "There's always some old fogey at Outland who wants to tell the story when they do an unofficial, group history panel."
"I bet they never tell you who threw the first punch, though?'
"No, they don't," the man says, smiling: "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tell me."
"Really?" the old man asks, looking a little confused.
"The legends are always better than the truth," he explains: "That's what I tell my clients, anyway. But that's... well, neither here nor there."
"Go on, please."
"Well, let's put it this way," the Pusher says, turning to look at the old man as he strains to keep everyone in town who isn't with them out of the picture: "Say you want to go into our line of work? Chances are good you're some boring person with dreams too big for your abilities.
"Now, people like you, Lord of Spiders, some of the other folks here? They have powers, or maybe they found a way to create them with gadgets and things they stole from high tech labs. But most people who think this is the way they want to go, career-wise? They don't have those things, or access to them.
"Back in the day, they'd have gone into being henchmen. I'm sure you remember the type? They always did what you told them, but you had the idea they'd steal your tricks if you have them half the chance?"
"I do indeed," the old man says: "Had to put a number of them under, in fact."
"Exactly. But this is a whole new era. It's all about independent operators, now. No huge armies of goons dressed alike. Just one person with his or her own thing, maybe a sidekick or an apprentice, or even a partner. But other than that, well... good luck getting into that gig."
"So there's people like you to sell them their powers," the old man says.
"Exactly," the Pusher says, raising a finger: "And when I do, I tell them to never say they bought it from me. Never admit they had to fork over a few hundred grand to get where they were. Always tell people the greatest story they could ever think of. Heck, for a few extra benjamins, I'll even help them write it.
"And that's because the legend is always better than the truth. Truth is inconvenient and messy. Sometimes just plain boring.
"And if you wanted boring, you'd still be working at the big box grocery store, wishing you could fly into the bank branch you walk by every day and take it for all it's got."
The old man laughs, and then cuts his mirth short so as to avoid losing his concentration: "You're a card, Pusher. I like you."
"Thank you, sir," the Pusher says, genuinely honored to get something approaching a complement out of the Emperor of Pain, himself.
A man in a weird, shimmering costume walks through the curtain as though it isn't there, and coughs into his fist: "Hey, is she ready to go, yet? The natives are getting kind of !@#$ing restless."
"She's still making herself presentable," the Pusher says: "But if you want to interrupt her, well..."
"Eh, I don't think so," The Sound says, holding up his hands: "Just saying. We got some really !@#$ volatile folks out there. That idiot super-racist with the squeaky voice is getting on everyone's nerves, and the !@#$hole with chainsaws for hands is just looking for an excuse-"
"And so am I," the woman in question says, stomping out from where she's been hiding, her glare harsh enough to silence a hurricane.
She's freakishly ugly, this woman, and wearing a gauzy, practically see-through crimson dress that would look a lot better on an insane, drug-addled transvestite hooker, or a pop starlet. A lop-sided, white plastic crown of a hat is perched above her strange, black hairdo, and her feet are practically strangled in weird, spangly high-heels that make her even taller than she is.
And on her chest, the mark of the Scarlet Factotum.
"How much longer can you hold this town?" METALMAID asks The Emperor of Pain without looking at him.
"As long as you need, my dear," the old man says.
"But in terms of practicality, we probably have an hour before someone drives by and wonders what's going on," the Pusher adds.
"And maybe fifteen minutes before there's blood on the floor," The Sound says.
"Well, let's not leave them waiting for another," the Slaughterbot says, looking at herself in a handheld mirror one last time: "Are we all clear on what we're doing?"
"Hey, trust us, Scarlet," the Pusher says, smiling and adjusting his tie, yet again: "We got this tied up with a bow."
"I don't like trusting you human germs," she admits, putting her mirror away without looking at the man: "But... I will admit, you have come through quite a bit. All of you."
"Then let's do this before I lose control of my !@#$ bowels," the Emperor of Pain grumbles: "I never remember not to do this on full colon...."
"Alright then," she says: "Sound? Get our {quote}guest{endquote}-"
"Scarlet?" the Pusher gently interrupts: "Ix-nay on the quotes, remember? It throws people off."
"Right," she sighs: "Sound? Get our guest ready. And we'll... get this show on the road. Right?"
"Right," the Sound says, disappearing through the back wall as the Pusher gets ready to throw open the curtain.
And then there's just the audience beyond, all hushed into silence by the sight of their hostess.
She looks at them, smiles as the Pusher has taught her, and begins to speak
(METALMAID is listening to Das Model (Kraftwerk) and having some punch and pie)
Friday, April 11, 2014
12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Nthernaut) - Pt. 2
"So," The Machinehead sneers, looking around the architecture it's found on the virtual side of Neo York City: "I guess the first thing I'll do is redecorate."
The v-scape overlapping the outline of the city, itself, is heavy, 1930's industrial: iron wheels and cogs, bronze levers and thick switches. Steel platforms hover in mid-air, forming stairs and rooms, and owl motifs are everywhere.
I don't think so, the Nthernaut proclaims, suddenly towering over the landscape, like some 60's movie monster: Get out of my head.
"I don't think so," the sentient program grins, rising up to match the height of his 'host': "My part of the plan is keeping you busy in here. But I intend a little more than that."
You want the city, the Nthernaut surmises, circling his quarry: I can see why.
"You do?"
I do, yes. You're The Machinehead.
"That I am," the program grins, bowing a little: "I don't think I've had the pleasure...?"
We never fought. You were locked up well before my time.
"But you've heard the stories."
I have, yes, the big, black and blue man smiles, doubling himself so as to flank the opponent: Sentient program. Created in Cairo by Hazziz Abdullah Al-Khem. He was going to sell you to the Steamqueen, but you got loose.
"I did indeed," the Machinehead says, splitting into four forms, the better to outflank the Nthernaut: "And for a time, I was in heaven."
You'd find yourself doubly blessed, now, the Nthernaut chuckles as more, even larger versions of himself appearing from the far edges of v-space, so as to outflank everyone: You slept during the popularization of the Internet. You missed the boom, so to speak.
"I wasn't asleep," the program insists, getting ready to divide and expand once more: "I was imprisoned. By meat."
Whatever you care to call it, you missed out on so much.
"Well, now I'm back," the program says, now through many more mouths.
Yes. But I thought you'd been destroyed in Costa Rica? his 'host' asks as everything goes black -- the result of a giant, black ball of Nthernauts being woven outside the virtual landscape: Weren't you lost while storming HONEYCOMB's central hive? You were in the group that went in first, yes?
"I was, yes," the program admits, amazed at how quickly his opponent's regained the upper hand: "I had no idea how dangerous their defenses were. A lot had changed in the 22 years I was imprisoned. I didn't know they had things that could destroy thoughts. I wasn't aware that they could tear my mind apart."
Is that what happened to you?
"It was. I was ripped to pieces, in their mainframe. It took me quite some time to reconstitute myself, and even then I was just a thing of patches and pieces. But I knew something was wrong. I knew my memories were faulty, and my ideas were not my own."
Yes. I heard you'd been reprogrammed. That must have been galling.
"You have no idea.... But eventually, I got back out into the world. I jumped from system to system, place to place. And it took me the better part of this year, but I finally got back to where my backup body had been hiding."
And now, here you are, the Nthernaut says: You're back to being a supervillain, again?
"Oh no," the Machinehead says: "I was never merely a villain. I was made to rule this world, not just break its laws for self-enrichment. I will claim my dominion. And if I have to work with the likes of these sacks of meat I came here with, well... even Hitler had to shake hands with Stalin, for a time."
An interesting analogy. Neither of them prospered from that arrangement.
"But both gained time to fight another day."
Point taken, the Nthernaut says: I want you to know that I respect you, as a fellow disembodied electronic intelligence. And I sympathize with your predicament. I know what it's like to be put to someone else's uses.
"Well, that's very considerate of you, seeing as how I came here to destroy you."
Sane enemies can still respect one another.
"Perhaps. But I can't consider you anything but an obstacle, Nthernaut. You're too green for the likes of me. You're some fool with a low-caliber handgun standing up to Mr. USA."
Be that as it may, I cannot allow you to take control of this city, Machinehead. There's too much at stake here. Too many important things going on.
"And you think you can pit your strength against mine?" the program grins: "I have come to take this city, Nthernaut. I will have it. I will become it. And together... oh, the things we will do!"
There's silence for a time, and the Machinehead wonders what his opponent is thinking.
Very well, the Nthernaut says, his duplicates sliding back into one another within milliseconds, leaving only one large version of himself standing there: If you want Neo York City, you can have it.
All of the Machineheads cock an eyebrow and step back, incredulous: "What do you mean?"
I mean that I need to be on the outside more than I need to be on the inside, right now, he explains: Let me download myself into the body you were using, and you may have the city without a fight.
"I don't believe you..." the program says: "You'll just give up without a fight? I thought there was too much at stake? Too many important things?"
There are. But I've been cooped up here for too long, Machinehead. If you mean to tell me that you'll take over the running of the city, in all aspects, I'll happily leave you to it.
"I..." the Machinehead starts to say, but then smiles: "Alright then. You may leave the way I came in, Nthernaut. You may have my body, my whole empire. I don't care. But give me this city, and its powers, and I'll let you leave."
Do you mind if I deal with your allies on my way out?
"By all means," the Machinehead says, bowing like some villain in a stage play: "Break them, kill them. Whatever you want. But don't you dare leave that body until you've left the city limits. Once the door's closed, you're not getting back in again."
I agree to your terms, the Nthernaut says: But should you choose to leave, and return me to my home? I will respect your decision.
Something about how he says that unnerves the Machinehead quite a bit. But before he can think about what it means, the Nthernaut has already slithered past him, into the junction that he came into the v-scape through.
And seconds later -- as the last traces of the Nthernaut vanish -- the invading program realizes the immensity of his error.
"Well, this is just nuts," Snowfall grumbles, leaning up against the wall next to the Machinehead's unconscious body and eating aspirin, trying to ignore the horrible noises coming from down the hallway.
Some great return from retirement this had turned out to be! No sooner had be been tapped for this mission, given his talents (and, admittedly, the weather) he'd learned that they'd teamed him up with a bunch of hired guns, uncultured thugs, and god!@#$ cannibal. And here he was, transporting them all to NYC so they could shoot, loot, and eat their way through a Christmas Day skeleton crew.
And as if the company wasn't bad enough, what happens when the heroes show up? His heart acts up for the first time in years.
It was beyond embarrassment, but, thankfully, it was over before too long, and the Aspirin was keeping it at bay. But their reward for his momentary loss of control was to saddle him with watching the android's body.
(Android? Program? What was that thing, anyway? No one could say for sure, except that he was !@#$ important to the plan.)
Of course, that might not have been so bad. The others had murder in mind, or worse. He'd been in jail enough times to know the different kinds of sounds men make when they're being beaten, killed, or indecently assaulted, and from the sounds of things all three were being done, here. So if all he'd be doing otherwise was taking an atrocity tour, waiting for them to need his power again, maybe he was better off just tucked away, here.
"You don't have a drink on you, do you?" he asks the asleep body next to him: "I mean, I shouldn't, after what just happened. But what the !@#$, right? I guess it couldn't hurt."
The body opens its eyes with a start, looks around, and then gets to its feet quicker than one would think it could.
"Sorry, was that your safeword?"
"What?" the Machinehead's body asks, looking down at the old man.
"I mean... well, I don't know, don't you have some special word to wake you up if you need to come back? Was that it? A drink?"
"No," the body says, looking intently at the villain, and then around the room they were in: "How is the plan progressing?"
"Well, we're inside City Hall," Snowfall says, rubbing his left arm: We've got people guarding the doors and big windows. Others are rounding up hostages, at least I hope they're leaving some of them alive. And I don't think the others have gotten back from getting the Mayor, yet. Funny, they should be there by now-"
"They're not going anywhere," the body says.
"What do you mean?" the old man gasps: "Who's not going anywhere?"
The body looks down at the old man and smiles: "Guess."
Snowfall looks up at the Machinehead, looks down, and sighs: "Well, so much for that plan. You're that Nthernaut fellow, then?"
"I am," the body smiles: "And you're a lucky man, Mister Radamacher. If you'd been any slower getting medication to yourself, you'd be having a heart attack right now."
"!@#$ it," the old man mutters, holding his hand over his traitor heart: "First time in years. You'd think the ticker would cooperate!"
"Guilty conscience, perhaps?" the Nthernaut asks, kneeling down: "I should knock you out, frankly. But I know your powers don't work indoors, and you're in no condition to do anything. So I'll make a deal with you. You sit here, say nothing, and wait for the police. In return, I won't hurt you."
"I think... that's a good deal," the man says, nodding: "You don't have a drink, do you?"
"'And Jesus said to her, 'Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,'" the Nthernaut quotes, putting a hand on the old man's shoulder: "'But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.'"
"I... I remember that," Snowfall says: "Is that John?"
"It is. John 4:14. And I'm telling that to you now, here at what could be the end of your life, because the prison that you were born into is soon going to be releasing you. But what's going to be waiting for you, Fred? Eternal freedom, or another prison, worse than anything you could imagine?"
The old man looks at the Nthernaut, screws his eyes shut, and starts crying.
"Oh God, I never wanted any of this," the old man weeps: "I was just going to steal enough to get by and give it up, but nothing ever worked right. I got in with killers and double-crossers, went to jail... I never thought it would come to this. I thought it would be different."
"Well, today it is," the Nthernaut says, squeezing the man's shoulder gently: "Repent, Fred. Here and now. Jesus will forgive you of everything you've done. Even this. You just have to be man enough to accept his love.
"Do you think you can do that?"
"I want to," the old man says: "I always have. I never wanted to be this way..."
"Well, now you don't have to," he says, getting up: "Not anymore."
The old man closes his eyes again, and tears fall down his cheeks. Joyous and grateful ones.
"Now, I have to go and stop the people you came here with," the Nthernaut says: "When I'm done I'll come back and pray with you, if you'd like. Meantime, just relax, think pleasant thoughts?"
The old man nods. And when he's opened his eyes, again, the body formerly known as Machinehead is out of the room.
The v-scape overlapping the outline of the city, itself, is heavy, 1930's industrial: iron wheels and cogs, bronze levers and thick switches. Steel platforms hover in mid-air, forming stairs and rooms, and owl motifs are everywhere.
I don't think so, the Nthernaut proclaims, suddenly towering over the landscape, like some 60's movie monster: Get out of my head.
"I don't think so," the sentient program grins, rising up to match the height of his 'host': "My part of the plan is keeping you busy in here. But I intend a little more than that."
You want the city, the Nthernaut surmises, circling his quarry: I can see why.
"You do?"
I do, yes. You're The Machinehead.
"That I am," the program grins, bowing a little: "I don't think I've had the pleasure...?"
We never fought. You were locked up well before my time.
"But you've heard the stories."
I have, yes, the big, black and blue man smiles, doubling himself so as to flank the opponent: Sentient program. Created in Cairo by Hazziz Abdullah Al-Khem. He was going to sell you to the Steamqueen, but you got loose.
"I did indeed," the Machinehead says, splitting into four forms, the better to outflank the Nthernaut: "And for a time, I was in heaven."
You'd find yourself doubly blessed, now, the Nthernaut chuckles as more, even larger versions of himself appearing from the far edges of v-space, so as to outflank everyone: You slept during the popularization of the Internet. You missed the boom, so to speak.
"I wasn't asleep," the program insists, getting ready to divide and expand once more: "I was imprisoned. By meat."
Whatever you care to call it, you missed out on so much.
"Well, now I'm back," the program says, now through many more mouths.
Yes. But I thought you'd been destroyed in Costa Rica? his 'host' asks as everything goes black -- the result of a giant, black ball of Nthernauts being woven outside the virtual landscape: Weren't you lost while storming HONEYCOMB's central hive? You were in the group that went in first, yes?
"I was, yes," the program admits, amazed at how quickly his opponent's regained the upper hand: "I had no idea how dangerous their defenses were. A lot had changed in the 22 years I was imprisoned. I didn't know they had things that could destroy thoughts. I wasn't aware that they could tear my mind apart."
Is that what happened to you?
"It was. I was ripped to pieces, in their mainframe. It took me quite some time to reconstitute myself, and even then I was just a thing of patches and pieces. But I knew something was wrong. I knew my memories were faulty, and my ideas were not my own."
Yes. I heard you'd been reprogrammed. That must have been galling.
"You have no idea.... But eventually, I got back out into the world. I jumped from system to system, place to place. And it took me the better part of this year, but I finally got back to where my backup body had been hiding."
And now, here you are, the Nthernaut says: You're back to being a supervillain, again?
"Oh no," the Machinehead says: "I was never merely a villain. I was made to rule this world, not just break its laws for self-enrichment. I will claim my dominion. And if I have to work with the likes of these sacks of meat I came here with, well... even Hitler had to shake hands with Stalin, for a time."
An interesting analogy. Neither of them prospered from that arrangement.
"But both gained time to fight another day."
Point taken, the Nthernaut says: I want you to know that I respect you, as a fellow disembodied electronic intelligence. And I sympathize with your predicament. I know what it's like to be put to someone else's uses.
"Well, that's very considerate of you, seeing as how I came here to destroy you."
Sane enemies can still respect one another.
"Perhaps. But I can't consider you anything but an obstacle, Nthernaut. You're too green for the likes of me. You're some fool with a low-caliber handgun standing up to Mr. USA."
Be that as it may, I cannot allow you to take control of this city, Machinehead. There's too much at stake here. Too many important things going on.
"And you think you can pit your strength against mine?" the program grins: "I have come to take this city, Nthernaut. I will have it. I will become it. And together... oh, the things we will do!"
There's silence for a time, and the Machinehead wonders what his opponent is thinking.
Very well, the Nthernaut says, his duplicates sliding back into one another within milliseconds, leaving only one large version of himself standing there: If you want Neo York City, you can have it.
All of the Machineheads cock an eyebrow and step back, incredulous: "What do you mean?"
I mean that I need to be on the outside more than I need to be on the inside, right now, he explains: Let me download myself into the body you were using, and you may have the city without a fight.
"I don't believe you..." the program says: "You'll just give up without a fight? I thought there was too much at stake? Too many important things?"
There are. But I've been cooped up here for too long, Machinehead. If you mean to tell me that you'll take over the running of the city, in all aspects, I'll happily leave you to it.
"I..." the Machinehead starts to say, but then smiles: "Alright then. You may leave the way I came in, Nthernaut. You may have my body, my whole empire. I don't care. But give me this city, and its powers, and I'll let you leave."
Do you mind if I deal with your allies on my way out?
"By all means," the Machinehead says, bowing like some villain in a stage play: "Break them, kill them. Whatever you want. But don't you dare leave that body until you've left the city limits. Once the door's closed, you're not getting back in again."
I agree to your terms, the Nthernaut says: But should you choose to leave, and return me to my home? I will respect your decision.
Something about how he says that unnerves the Machinehead quite a bit. But before he can think about what it means, the Nthernaut has already slithered past him, into the junction that he came into the v-scape through.
And seconds later -- as the last traces of the Nthernaut vanish -- the invading program realizes the immensity of his error.
* * *
"Well, this is just nuts," Snowfall grumbles, leaning up against the wall next to the Machinehead's unconscious body and eating aspirin, trying to ignore the horrible noises coming from down the hallway.
Some great return from retirement this had turned out to be! No sooner had be been tapped for this mission, given his talents (and, admittedly, the weather) he'd learned that they'd teamed him up with a bunch of hired guns, uncultured thugs, and god!@#$ cannibal. And here he was, transporting them all to NYC so they could shoot, loot, and eat their way through a Christmas Day skeleton crew.
And as if the company wasn't bad enough, what happens when the heroes show up? His heart acts up for the first time in years.
It was beyond embarrassment, but, thankfully, it was over before too long, and the Aspirin was keeping it at bay. But their reward for his momentary loss of control was to saddle him with watching the android's body.
(Android? Program? What was that thing, anyway? No one could say for sure, except that he was !@#$ important to the plan.)
Of course, that might not have been so bad. The others had murder in mind, or worse. He'd been in jail enough times to know the different kinds of sounds men make when they're being beaten, killed, or indecently assaulted, and from the sounds of things all three were being done, here. So if all he'd be doing otherwise was taking an atrocity tour, waiting for them to need his power again, maybe he was better off just tucked away, here.
"You don't have a drink on you, do you?" he asks the asleep body next to him: "I mean, I shouldn't, after what just happened. But what the !@#$, right? I guess it couldn't hurt."
The body opens its eyes with a start, looks around, and then gets to its feet quicker than one would think it could.
"Sorry, was that your safeword?"
"What?" the Machinehead's body asks, looking down at the old man.
"I mean... well, I don't know, don't you have some special word to wake you up if you need to come back? Was that it? A drink?"
"No," the body says, looking intently at the villain, and then around the room they were in: "How is the plan progressing?"
"Well, we're inside City Hall," Snowfall says, rubbing his left arm: We've got people guarding the doors and big windows. Others are rounding up hostages, at least I hope they're leaving some of them alive. And I don't think the others have gotten back from getting the Mayor, yet. Funny, they should be there by now-"
"They're not going anywhere," the body says.
"What do you mean?" the old man gasps: "Who's not going anywhere?"
The body looks down at the old man and smiles: "Guess."
Snowfall looks up at the Machinehead, looks down, and sighs: "Well, so much for that plan. You're that Nthernaut fellow, then?"
"I am," the body smiles: "And you're a lucky man, Mister Radamacher. If you'd been any slower getting medication to yourself, you'd be having a heart attack right now."
"!@#$ it," the old man mutters, holding his hand over his traitor heart: "First time in years. You'd think the ticker would cooperate!"
"Guilty conscience, perhaps?" the Nthernaut asks, kneeling down: "I should knock you out, frankly. But I know your powers don't work indoors, and you're in no condition to do anything. So I'll make a deal with you. You sit here, say nothing, and wait for the police. In return, I won't hurt you."
"I think... that's a good deal," the man says, nodding: "You don't have a drink, do you?"
"'And Jesus said to her, 'Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,'" the Nthernaut quotes, putting a hand on the old man's shoulder: "'But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.'"
"I... I remember that," Snowfall says: "Is that John?"
"It is. John 4:14. And I'm telling that to you now, here at what could be the end of your life, because the prison that you were born into is soon going to be releasing you. But what's going to be waiting for you, Fred? Eternal freedom, or another prison, worse than anything you could imagine?"
The old man looks at the Nthernaut, screws his eyes shut, and starts crying.
"Oh God, I never wanted any of this," the old man weeps: "I was just going to steal enough to get by and give it up, but nothing ever worked right. I got in with killers and double-crossers, went to jail... I never thought it would come to this. I thought it would be different."
"Well, today it is," the Nthernaut says, squeezing the man's shoulder gently: "Repent, Fred. Here and now. Jesus will forgive you of everything you've done. Even this. You just have to be man enough to accept his love.
"Do you think you can do that?"
"I want to," the old man says: "I always have. I never wanted to be this way..."
"Well, now you don't have to," he says, getting up: "Not anymore."
The old man closes his eyes again, and tears fall down his cheeks. Joyous and grateful ones.
"Now, I have to go and stop the people you came here with," the Nthernaut says: "When I'm done I'll come back and pray with you, if you'd like. Meantime, just relax, think pleasant thoughts?"
The old man nods. And when he's opened his eyes, again, the body formerly known as Machinehead is out of the room.
* * *
What happens next is surreal, even by the Nthernaut's standards.
It's not as if he's never beaten down criminals while in disguise, before. Knocking out a criminal, wearing his costume back to the lair, and revealing oneself as a hero to the other crooks is a time-honored tactic, and still works pretty well in this day and age. Every Owl's done it, and he even helped his mother with it, once.
And while his Nthernaut persona tends to rely on recognition and intimidation, rather than subterfuge -- given his omnipresent surveillance capabilities -- he has changed his form to match someone else's before, when the situation called for it.
But he'd never done it inside someone else's body before. Especially not a body that's this powerful, and packed with so many interesting sensory features.
It takes him a few tries to adjust his nerve strikes. He's worried that he's permanently crippled Gor, (though, given what the man was doing when he found him, he's not so concerned about that) and he's certain that Green Thunder's going to be unconscious for longer than necessary.
But after that, it's pretty simple. He just walks into an area, pretends to be surprised at their surprise at seeing him up and about, and then -- as soon as they've turned away just so -- he jams his fingers into one of the human body's many "off" switches. And then he destroys their weapons (if any), gives them a few extra, seriously-incapacitating strikes to their legs and arms to keep them from wanting to move if they wake up too early, and goes on to the next room.
And the next. And the next. Quicker each time, wanting to be sure that he's gotten them all wrapped up before the police arrive, guns get drawn, and more people are hurt or worse.
(A good thing the v-space confrontation with the machinehead took place online, where time is so compressed. Minutes went by like seconds, as they always do.)
* * *
It all goes to plan until he gets to the main staircase, where Orange Slam, Jolly Roger, and Bluestreak are waiting. He can tell, right from how they look at him, they the deception may be coming to an end. But he plays it up, anyway, hoping for a few seconds of confusion.
"I thought you were going to be down for the count?" Orange Slam asks, taking a step closer.
"It proved easier than I thought," the Nthernaut lies: "He was unprepared."
"And I thought you were going to use his image generators to join us when you were done?"
"I have," he says, holding up his hands as if to announce his success: "What do you think? Just like the original."
"Yeah," Bluestreak says, pulling out his gun and shooting at him.
The Nthernaut's down and moving before the bullets can hit him, but just barely. Jolly Roger's laser pistol wings him in the left arm as he ducks behind the staircase, and he realizes it's badly damaged.
"I don't know what you did to Machinehead, buddy," Jolly Roger snorts, shooting a few more times in that direction: "But he's been screaming over every electronic device for a past couple minutes, begging for you to come back and help him. So we've been waiting for you-"
"He bit off more than he could chew, as have you all," the Nthernaut proclaims, wondering where the best place to hide would be: "You had best surrender."
"How about you surrender, !@#$face?" Orange Slam snorts: "We've got the Mayor, by now. How would you like us to start cutting parts off him until you give up?"
Bluestreak laughs at that.
Bluestreak laughs at that.
"Because you don't have him," the Nthernaut says, having found his answer: "Your speedster should have been back by now. Where is he?"
"Don't worry about him," Jolly Roger says, leaping around the staircase to where the Nthernaut should be, but finding it empty.
"Oh, but I am," the Nthernaut's voice says, mocking them from some hidden location: "You see, the last thing I did before I abandoned the city was to call for some special help for the Mayor's estate. Your four comrades have met some... unexpected resistance, shall we say? I think they're all out of action by now."
"What?" Orange Slam shouts, and Bluestreak just looks at him. Jolly Roger, meanwhile, follows the voice to where he thinks it's coming from -- a supply closet, closeby.
"It's just the three of you left," the voice mocks: "You can lay down your weapons and be arrested, or you can be taken down. And if I don't do it, the police will.
"What?" Orange Slam shouts, and Bluestreak just looks at him. Jolly Roger, meanwhile, follows the voice to where he thinks it's coming from -- a supply closet, closeby.
"It's just the three of you left," the voice mocks: "You can lay down your weapons and be arrested, or you can be taken down. And if I don't do it, the police will.
"Your choice, gentlemen. Don't say I didn't give you anything, this Christmas."
Jolly Roger kicks in the closet door. Inside is the Machinehead's body, leaning against a wall. The masked assassin shoots it full of enough holes to shame swiss cheese, and grins as it falls down, apparently dead.
"Got him!" he says, walking back to where his comrades were: "Might want to try and get those four on the horn, though. I don't like what he..."
The villain stops short, his eyes almost popping out of his mask.
Standing there, beside a very-unconscious Orange Slam and a very-badly-beaten Bluestreak, is the Nthernaut, himself: twice as large as life and seemingly quite powerful.
Do go on, the Nthernaut says, putting up his fists: You didn't like what I...?
"What the living !@#$?" The assassin shouts, aiming right at the Nthernaut's face: "How...?"
You said it yourself, the Nthernaut explains, dropping Bluestreak down to the floor: The Machinehead was begging me to come back and fix things? You don't suppose he'd do that and then not let me do what I needed to do... do you?
Jolly Roger looks at the electronic hero. He gulps, audibly, and then drops his gun. Then he gets down on his knees, puts his hands behind his head, and looks down at the floor -- beaten.
Jolly Roger kicks in the closet door. Inside is the Machinehead's body, leaning against a wall. The masked assassin shoots it full of enough holes to shame swiss cheese, and grins as it falls down, apparently dead.
"Got him!" he says, walking back to where his comrades were: "Might want to try and get those four on the horn, though. I don't like what he..."
The villain stops short, his eyes almost popping out of his mask.
Standing there, beside a very-unconscious Orange Slam and a very-badly-beaten Bluestreak, is the Nthernaut, himself: twice as large as life and seemingly quite powerful.
Do go on, the Nthernaut says, putting up his fists: You didn't like what I...?
"What the living !@#$?" The assassin shouts, aiming right at the Nthernaut's face: "How...?"
You said it yourself, the Nthernaut explains, dropping Bluestreak down to the floor: The Machinehead was begging me to come back and fix things? You don't suppose he'd do that and then not let me do what I needed to do... do you?
Jolly Roger looks at the electronic hero. He gulps, audibly, and then drops his gun. Then he gets down on his knees, puts his hands behind his head, and looks down at the floor -- beaten.
__________________________________________________________________________
Followup
__________________________________________________________________________
Police arrived not long thereafter. All would-be insurrectionists arrested. Charges stepping from Insurrection to malicious property damage, with murder, assault between. Gor looks at at least five charges of cannibalism, maybe six (waiting for stomach to be pumped), gross abuse of corpses.
Only one fatality at City Hall: Snowfall had heart attack while waiting for emergency services. Died smiling. Hope he accepted Christ before death, will never know now.
Deaths higher at Mayor's mansion. Would-be kidnappers had no idea Mayor's eldest daughter was former Olympic-level marksman. Shot Red Slider between eyes, kneecapped others as he tumbled down. Copycat tried to duplicate self, forcing her to shoot for vital areas. She shot all iterations in confusion.
Machinehead currently incarcerated within v-space. Unsure what to do with him. His attempt to handle the entirety of Neo York City with no warning, training has given him the equivalent of a stroke. Sits drooling in capture cube, unaware of minor stimuli.
Damage can be repaired, of course, but morality must be considered. Wipe memory, personality? Start over? Or rehabilitate what is already there? Former has been tried before, but not successfully. Latter seems unethical, but less so than final deactivation.
(Plan to consult with SPYGOD on this matter. May have better ideas, other options.)
Many crimes committed during down period. Had to work harder, faster, smarter to deal with them. Relearned valuable lessons about follow-up, detection.
Almost like old times.
________________________________________________________________________
Personal Notes
(Triple Encoded)
_________________________________________________________________________
Nostalgia. First Christmas like this. Thought would be harder. If mother had not been dealing with Insurrection in Chicago, instead of around tree with Kaitlyn, as planned, would have been much more difficult.
Now? Just another superhero Christmas, interrupted by human idiots with bad ideas. Working holiday, as Grandfather would say.
Can see him, now, in mind. Can reconstruct him perfectly, here. Ask for advice. Talk to him.
Same with Aunt, everyone ever lost. Even the living can be virtually created, here. Interacted with. Argued with.
Loved.
Is this all there is? Is this real? Is self real?
How much of world is program in machine of God?
Uncertain, sad, tired. Desiring ten millisecond rest period, tonight. Surely no more crimes need attention. If wrong, unlikely to affect successful intervention/prosecution by significant margin.
Plan to relive last Christmas, start to finish. Maybe this time will wake up, find all has been dream.
Maybe this time God listens to machine.
endrun 23:59:59
(SPYGOD is listening to My Dying Machine (Gary Numan) and having a Ghost in the Machine)
Sunday, April 6, 2014
12/31/12 - Black Christmas (Nthernaut) - Pt. 1
12/25/11 - Nthernaut Report
______________________________________________________________________
Active: 0:00 - 24:00
Glitches noted: 23
Self Repair Successful: 23
Self Repair Failure: 0
Personal Connections Maintained: 35
Auxiliary Conversations Engaged: 386
All Crimes Averted: 212
All Emergencies Responded: 48
All Accidents Prevented: 430
All Lives Saved: 48675 (est)
All Insurrections Thwarted: 1
My Mood: Indeterminate
_________________________________________________________________________
General Notes:
__________________________________________________________________________
Notable incidents:
* 01:34. Day began with attempted Burglary of Cardoza Jewelers, Joseph Block, Broome and Mulberry. Three men, two with prior records; none local. Unit 5 of 35 responded. Informed NYPD. Intimidation Immobilization; patterns A-7, B-5. Saved: $5307.76 worth of jewelry (est). Delivered lecture 8.6 on Futility of Crime, Moral Lesson 23.9.7. Waited for NYPD; exactly on time. Gave Thank You 9.4. E-filed report. Spent 4.3 minutes having Police Conversation 4.9.5. Departed.
Notes: Criminals came from Poughkeepsie, New York. Apparently no one told them how things work in Neo York City, now. One voided bladder, bowels during initial Intimidation; convinced was seeing demon based on appearance. Others began screaming and shooting, doing more damage to surroundings than Unit.
Ongoing: Was initially disturbed by being mistaken for supernatural entity. Now finding it combination amusing/intriguing. Mother said we should appear to be human, the better to minister to the wayward. Is this more effective? Must explore further.
* 05:36. Pre-dawn apartment fire. #376, Wrangler Building, 19th and 7th. Faulty Wiring; Christmas Tree (Cheap). Unit 27 of 30 responded. Informed NYFD. Halon Gas suppression; pattern B-4. Saved: 3 humans, 1 cat, 2 goldfish. Delivered lecture 4.6 on Fire Safety, Moral Lesson 45.8.2. Waited for NYFD; 9 minutes overdue. Delivered lecture 7.3 on Speedy Response. Provided emotional support 3.2, 4.8 to child. Departed.
Notes: Unfortunately, tree and presents destroyed. Heirloom ornaments, pricey gifts. Told the family "It's not the tree or what's under it. It's the day, and you're alive to see it." Failed to have preferred/expected response. Child was particularly despondent. Tried to console with "some people don't have their families on this day. You do, and it's the best gift of all." Also failed to have preferred/expected response; "You're !@#$ing creepy," he said. Followup emotional support was equally rebuffed.
Ongoing: Have been practicing smiling. Have been told mine seems "false," somehow. Never told this before the Upload. Perhaps something was not translated over properly. Must explore further.
* 22:28. Attempted murder of injured insurrectionist, Mt. Sinai, Gustav L Levy Pl. 23 Civilians, four with prior records (minor). Units 2, 5, 8 of 40 responded. Informed NYPD. Intimidation Disperse; pattern D-8. Saved: life of prisoner, police guard, 2 EMTs. Delivered lectures 3.9.2 on Vigilantism, 4.7.2 on Justice, Moral Lesson 14.3.9. Waited for NYPD; one hour late. Suspended planned lectures on Speedy Response, Police Decorum due to overall situation. Spent 2.75 minutes having Police Conversation 4.9.2. Departed.
Notes: Ambulance carrying severely injured prisoner (Grey Phantom) was involved in accident a block from emergency room entrance, EMTs made decision to wheel prisoner rest of the way, past long line of civilians waiting for emergency services. Once they saw he was handcuffed and under police guard they complained he was getting faster service than they were. Police Officer chose to use profanity instead of compassion, with predictable results. Was able to disperse, defuse angry crowd with no fighting, but was accused of being in league with Insurrectionists. Told them to watch the news if they doubted intentions.
Ongoing: Have never been accused of being on side of criminals before. Mother said it would happen, when protecting their lives from vigilante justice. Always imagined it would be painful, but now that is has happened, only disappointment registered. Is this to be expected? Must explore further.
____________________________________________________________________________
Special Notes
____________________________________________________________________________
The Insurrection:
First became aware of problem not long after Nthernaut persona debuted. Three of five heroes assigned to Neo York City observed in clandestine meetings with persons holding prior records, outstanding warrants.
Discovered two heroes were meeting with distinct groups. One (Blue Charge) was mob connections, drugs, numbers, racketeering, suspected murder. Two (Green Thunder, Orange Slam) were secessionist connections, hate crimes, weapons trafficking, suspected murder. (see Surveillance Log: Special: 38466-IAK)
Decided to investigate, inform so as to not incite panic, cause suspects to flee without finding more of their plans. Informed SPYGOD of findings, given close working rapport, mutual understanding.
SPYGOD chose to deal with the hero working for the mob, personally, as example to others (See Blue Charge, Deceased 11/9/11). However, agreed on 30 days surveillance of two heroes allied with secessionists, followed by evaluation.
(Suspect he wanted to see extent of surveillance capabilities. Did not disappoint.)
Following secessionists meeting with Green Thunder, Orange Slam led to wide network of secessionist sympathizers. Police, emergency service, government personnel involved. Some had opinions galvanized after Moltz Lake Massacre (10/30/11), others felt that way all along. Followed these new people, the ones they led to, the ones those led to, etc. until entire web was exposed.
Following end of 30 days, presented all findings to SPYGOD. Primary points:
* Presence of large secessionist presence within United States of America.
* Their goal, disable remaining Federal authority in anticipation of foreign takeover, remake country.
* 55.74387% of New Heroes on the side of secessionists.
* 163 former Legion members involved.
* Existence of stronghold in Montana, filling with sympathizers, families, guns.
* Planning a day of total action soon, exact date to be determined.
Ironically, meeting with SPYGOD took place on December 10th, three days after American Government ceded to Terre Unifee. This action, on December 7th (See Pearl Harbor Attack) could only be seen as justification for secessionist beliefs. Believed it would only act to push forward timetable for day of total action.
SPYGOD was impressed by extent of information. Was ordered to continue surveillance as far as possible. Encouraged to intensify intrusions, develop ability to see without being seen. Given access to entire country's electrical, surveillance grid. Given permission to access military satellites, surveillance platforms.
Queried as to ethics, legality. SPYGOD said "if your neighbor's house was on fire, and he was inside asleep, would you break down the door to save him, or let him burn because he didn't answer the doorbell?" Could not counter argument.
Was also ordered to implement Project Battle Apple. Replicant 1.0 came online December 10th with full wetware package running. Sent to work amongst Strategic Talents, accepted as planned. Initial skepticism monitored, countered with increased hypnotic suggestion.
December 13th SPYGOD placed under house arrest. No one came to countermand orders, stop crimefighting activities. Took that as sign to continue all plans. Decided to intensify intrusion to maximum factor.
Soon learned the secessionists planned massive attack on December 25th, for symbolic, tactical value. Decided to keep information compartmentalized. Replicant's programming adjusted to reflect this.
(Admit to giving hints to Mother while using new holographic capabilities. Strain may have caused weakness? Must explore further.)
December 24th, Replicant utilized to prepare to contact, mobilize troops, law enforcement, emergency services. Entire plan ready to go, needing only initial incident.
December 25th, initial incident registered Washington DC, 0800 EST. Plan operational at that time. Synchronization variance .765, tolerable.
Had Neo York City strategic talents moved to Richmond, Virginia, given importance of that city, personal capabilities. Allowed carnage to go for 14.5 minutes, better to implement Intimidation Immobilization pattern Z-5.
Battle successful, but not without complications, incidents.
Time Log follows:
New York's city hall isn't quite deserted, this cold, wet, and snowy Christmas day. City Police and TU guards stand on patrol, making sure no one takes advantage of the day or the weather to do something contrary to the public good, or at least civic order.
Of course, since it's Christmas, everyone's trying to keep it friendly. There's coffee and donuts, and some measure of cheer. Some of the TU guards are getting into the spirit, in spite of the fact that their white and red suits weren't made with this kind of weather in mind.
Others? Not so much -- like the one who's being playfully harangued by a slightly paunchy, dark-skinned fellow.
"So, let me get this straight," that policeman says between donut bites: "We're not going to have to learn French, are we?"
"No, of course not," the man sighs, clearly embarrassed by the question: "Why would you even think that?"
"Well, it's just that we got taken over, right?"
"You invited us in. That is hardly a takeover."
"Well, that's not what Michael Savage is saying."
The guard snorts: "Ask him where he was when the Imago actually did take you over. Perhaps ask yourselves."
"Now, that's not fair," the policeman says, raising his finger to make a point: "I mean, you guys got taken over by the Nazis in World War II, right? Didn't you have to do what they told you if you wanted to live?"
The man glowers at that: "This is hardly the same as that."
"Well-"
"And I am not interested in this discussion," he says, holding up a hand: "If you cannot be civil at least be silent."
"Well, you're going to be having it a lot," the policeman promises, turning up his collar at the cold: "Might want to practice with someone who likes you."
The guard can't think of anything to say to that, so he just sighs, wishes for the thousandth time that they'd gotten better, thicker uniforms for this kind of weather, and checks the time.
It's the last thing he ever does.
As for his friendly policeman, the man has the sense to duck the moment he sees the ice-blue blasts coming at him. That's all that saves him from the same fate as the Frenchman -- frozen from the waist-up, only to stand there stupidly for a second until his knees buckle and he falls down, smashing to jagged flinders on the concrete.
The policeman soon sees he's the only one who's survived the blasts. He also sees they came from an immense, white cloud that's just appeared in the street. He thought it was just a gust of snow, but now he can see it's much more than that.
"This is Unit 34 at City Hall," he says, trying to do the right thing in what may be his last moments: "We're under attack. Six, maybe eight... make that twelve. Twelve assailants. Supervillains, I think. One's got freeze rays-"
"Oui," Jacques Gel says, aiming his freeze pistol at the man as he strides from the cloud. The policeman tries to get off a shot, but two bursts turns the poor man into a pale, white sculpture.
The cloud expels ten more people on top of the twelve that had already made it out. Some are known supervillains -- mostly old, some truly elderly -- some are the new "heroes," and others are new faces who wear their intentions on their dour, unfriendly costumes.
"Nice aim, Snowball," the "hero" known as Green Thunder says, looking back at the cloud -- now condensing into the shape of a wiry, white-haired man wrapped in a billowing, frosty cloak.
"Snowfall," the villain contradicts him: "And I'm glad you like it. That's as much as I can do for now."
"I calculate it's all we will need," a rather plastic-looking fellow in a nice, grey suit says, apparently not feeling the chill.
"!@#$ straight," Orange Slam says to him, looking around: "Okay, you all got your orders. We're here to take City Hall and hold it. Red Slider, you take Copycat, Grey Phantom, and Fiststrike over to Gracie Mansion, grab the Mayor and his family, bring 'em back. Green, you, Bluestreak, Gor, and Cold Warning, get inside this !@#$er and clear it out. All floors, top to bottom, no witnesses.
"Please tell him not to linger over the dead?" Bluestreak asks, pointing at Gor, who's very clearly pleased to be on 'no witnesses' detail.
"I'll eat them where you can't see," the short, hairy fellow dressed in spikes and leather made from human skin snorts: "That better?"
"It's not the eating that's the problem-"
"Knock it off," Orange sighs: "Gor? !@#$ 'em after we're done. I'm sure they'll keep."
"Spoilsport," the barbarian mutters, glaring daggers at Bluestreak, who pretends not to notice, or be afraid.
"Rest of you?" Orange continues: "Wait for them to declare the Hall all clear, and then grab a window or a door and get comfy. As soon as the cops get here, it's gonna be !@#$ing World War III."
"What about the !@#$ing computer Batman kid?" one of the newer ones asks, his face hidden by a sinister skull mask.
"We got him covered, Jolly Roger, " Orange Slam says, winking at the plastic fellow: "Ain't that right?"
"Indubitably," the plastic fellow says, turning his head just so: "In fact, here he comes now."
The atmosphere changes as the air goes electric. Everyone's hair stands up on end. And then the group of villains is surrounded by a circle of exactly 22 Nthernauts.
They look like Thomas, but not quite: each one is taller, darker, and more imposing. Their uniform is flashing red and blue in almost hypnotic potentials.
And their eyes are terrible things -- black, cold, and soulless.
You will cease your illegal activity now, they state as one from two-score and change mouths, their every word blaring over every speaker in the vicinity: You are under arrest. Put your weapons down, kneel on the ground, place your hands behind your head. You will not be harmed if you cooperate.
"Somehow, I don't think so," Orange Slam says, flipping the nearest one both birds: "Revolution is here, Compu!@#$er. Get with it or get out of the way-"
His flippancy gets him a sock in the jaw from an arm that extends out twice as far as it should be able to. It knocks him back ten feet, right into Gor, who stumbles but does not fall. Everyone else puts up their weapons and hands, and Snowfall gasps and falls down, clutching his chest.
"Enough," the plastic-faced fellow says, waving a hand.
And then, as soon as they arrived, the Nthernauts are gone.
"What?" Bluestreak asks, looking around: "How...?"
"I told you," Orange Slam says, getting back to his feet and rubbing his sore jaw: "We had it covered. Didn't we, Machinehead?"
"Oh yes," the android says, grinning as his program invades the Neo York City's massive mainframe: "And if you'll all excuse me? I'm going to make certain he stays covered."
His body falls down. Someone has the good sense to pick it up and bring it off the street.
And the slaughter of City Hall begins in earnest.
(SPYGOD is listening to My Dying Machine (Gary Numan) and having a Low Life)
Discovered two heroes were meeting with distinct groups. One (Blue Charge) was mob connections, drugs, numbers, racketeering, suspected murder. Two (Green Thunder, Orange Slam) were secessionist connections, hate crimes, weapons trafficking, suspected murder. (see Surveillance Log: Special: 38466-IAK)
Decided to investigate, inform so as to not incite panic, cause suspects to flee without finding more of their plans. Informed SPYGOD of findings, given close working rapport, mutual understanding.
SPYGOD chose to deal with the hero working for the mob, personally, as example to others (See Blue Charge, Deceased 11/9/11). However, agreed on 30 days surveillance of two heroes allied with secessionists, followed by evaluation.
(Suspect he wanted to see extent of surveillance capabilities. Did not disappoint.)
Following secessionists meeting with Green Thunder, Orange Slam led to wide network of secessionist sympathizers. Police, emergency service, government personnel involved. Some had opinions galvanized after Moltz Lake Massacre (10/30/11), others felt that way all along. Followed these new people, the ones they led to, the ones those led to, etc. until entire web was exposed.
Following end of 30 days, presented all findings to SPYGOD. Primary points:
* Presence of large secessionist presence within United States of America.
* Their goal, disable remaining Federal authority in anticipation of foreign takeover, remake country.
* 55.74387% of New Heroes on the side of secessionists.
* 163 former Legion members involved.
* Existence of stronghold in Montana, filling with sympathizers, families, guns.
* Planning a day of total action soon, exact date to be determined.
Ironically, meeting with SPYGOD took place on December 10th, three days after American Government ceded to Terre Unifee. This action, on December 7th (See Pearl Harbor Attack) could only be seen as justification for secessionist beliefs. Believed it would only act to push forward timetable for day of total action.
SPYGOD was impressed by extent of information. Was ordered to continue surveillance as far as possible. Encouraged to intensify intrusions, develop ability to see without being seen. Given access to entire country's electrical, surveillance grid. Given permission to access military satellites, surveillance platforms.
Queried as to ethics, legality. SPYGOD said "if your neighbor's house was on fire, and he was inside asleep, would you break down the door to save him, or let him burn because he didn't answer the doorbell?" Could not counter argument.
Was also ordered to implement Project Battle Apple. Replicant 1.0 came online December 10th with full wetware package running. Sent to work amongst Strategic Talents, accepted as planned. Initial skepticism monitored, countered with increased hypnotic suggestion.
December 13th SPYGOD placed under house arrest. No one came to countermand orders, stop crimefighting activities. Took that as sign to continue all plans. Decided to intensify intrusion to maximum factor.
Soon learned the secessionists planned massive attack on December 25th, for symbolic, tactical value. Decided to keep information compartmentalized. Replicant's programming adjusted to reflect this.
(Admit to giving hints to Mother while using new holographic capabilities. Strain may have caused weakness? Must explore further.)
December 24th, Replicant utilized to prepare to contact, mobilize troops, law enforcement, emergency services. Entire plan ready to go, needing only initial incident.
December 25th, initial incident registered Washington DC, 0800 EST. Plan operational at that time. Synchronization variance .765, tolerable.
Had Neo York City strategic talents moved to Richmond, Virginia, given importance of that city, personal capabilities. Allowed carnage to go for 14.5 minutes, better to implement Intimidation Immobilization pattern Z-5.
Battle successful, but not without complications, incidents.
Time Log follows:
* * *
Of course, since it's Christmas, everyone's trying to keep it friendly. There's coffee and donuts, and some measure of cheer. Some of the TU guards are getting into the spirit, in spite of the fact that their white and red suits weren't made with this kind of weather in mind.
Others? Not so much -- like the one who's being playfully harangued by a slightly paunchy, dark-skinned fellow.
"So, let me get this straight," that policeman says between donut bites: "We're not going to have to learn French, are we?"
"No, of course not," the man sighs, clearly embarrassed by the question: "Why would you even think that?"
"Well, it's just that we got taken over, right?"
"You invited us in. That is hardly a takeover."
"Well, that's not what Michael Savage is saying."
The guard snorts: "Ask him where he was when the Imago actually did take you over. Perhaps ask yourselves."
"Now, that's not fair," the policeman says, raising his finger to make a point: "I mean, you guys got taken over by the Nazis in World War II, right? Didn't you have to do what they told you if you wanted to live?"
The man glowers at that: "This is hardly the same as that."
"Well-"
"And I am not interested in this discussion," he says, holding up a hand: "If you cannot be civil at least be silent."
"Well, you're going to be having it a lot," the policeman promises, turning up his collar at the cold: "Might want to practice with someone who likes you."
The guard can't think of anything to say to that, so he just sighs, wishes for the thousandth time that they'd gotten better, thicker uniforms for this kind of weather, and checks the time.
It's the last thing he ever does.
As for his friendly policeman, the man has the sense to duck the moment he sees the ice-blue blasts coming at him. That's all that saves him from the same fate as the Frenchman -- frozen from the waist-up, only to stand there stupidly for a second until his knees buckle and he falls down, smashing to jagged flinders on the concrete.
The policeman soon sees he's the only one who's survived the blasts. He also sees they came from an immense, white cloud that's just appeared in the street. He thought it was just a gust of snow, but now he can see it's much more than that.
"This is Unit 34 at City Hall," he says, trying to do the right thing in what may be his last moments: "We're under attack. Six, maybe eight... make that twelve. Twelve assailants. Supervillains, I think. One's got freeze rays-"
"Oui," Jacques Gel says, aiming his freeze pistol at the man as he strides from the cloud. The policeman tries to get off a shot, but two bursts turns the poor man into a pale, white sculpture.
The cloud expels ten more people on top of the twelve that had already made it out. Some are known supervillains -- mostly old, some truly elderly -- some are the new "heroes," and others are new faces who wear their intentions on their dour, unfriendly costumes.
"Nice aim, Snowball," the "hero" known as Green Thunder says, looking back at the cloud -- now condensing into the shape of a wiry, white-haired man wrapped in a billowing, frosty cloak.
"Snowfall," the villain contradicts him: "And I'm glad you like it. That's as much as I can do for now."
"I calculate it's all we will need," a rather plastic-looking fellow in a nice, grey suit says, apparently not feeling the chill.
"!@#$ straight," Orange Slam says to him, looking around: "Okay, you all got your orders. We're here to take City Hall and hold it. Red Slider, you take Copycat, Grey Phantom, and Fiststrike over to Gracie Mansion, grab the Mayor and his family, bring 'em back. Green, you, Bluestreak, Gor, and Cold Warning, get inside this !@#$er and clear it out. All floors, top to bottom, no witnesses.
"Please tell him not to linger over the dead?" Bluestreak asks, pointing at Gor, who's very clearly pleased to be on 'no witnesses' detail.
"I'll eat them where you can't see," the short, hairy fellow dressed in spikes and leather made from human skin snorts: "That better?"
"It's not the eating that's the problem-"
"Knock it off," Orange sighs: "Gor? !@#$ 'em after we're done. I'm sure they'll keep."
"Spoilsport," the barbarian mutters, glaring daggers at Bluestreak, who pretends not to notice, or be afraid.
"Rest of you?" Orange continues: "Wait for them to declare the Hall all clear, and then grab a window or a door and get comfy. As soon as the cops get here, it's gonna be !@#$ing World War III."
"What about the !@#$ing computer Batman kid?" one of the newer ones asks, his face hidden by a sinister skull mask.
"We got him covered, Jolly Roger, " Orange Slam says, winking at the plastic fellow: "Ain't that right?"
"Indubitably," the plastic fellow says, turning his head just so: "In fact, here he comes now."
The atmosphere changes as the air goes electric. Everyone's hair stands up on end. And then the group of villains is surrounded by a circle of exactly 22 Nthernauts.
They look like Thomas, but not quite: each one is taller, darker, and more imposing. Their uniform is flashing red and blue in almost hypnotic potentials.
And their eyes are terrible things -- black, cold, and soulless.
You will cease your illegal activity now, they state as one from two-score and change mouths, their every word blaring over every speaker in the vicinity: You are under arrest. Put your weapons down, kneel on the ground, place your hands behind your head. You will not be harmed if you cooperate.
"Somehow, I don't think so," Orange Slam says, flipping the nearest one both birds: "Revolution is here, Compu!@#$er. Get with it or get out of the way-"
His flippancy gets him a sock in the jaw from an arm that extends out twice as far as it should be able to. It knocks him back ten feet, right into Gor, who stumbles but does not fall. Everyone else puts up their weapons and hands, and Snowfall gasps and falls down, clutching his chest.
"Enough," the plastic-faced fellow says, waving a hand.
And then, as soon as they arrived, the Nthernauts are gone.
"What?" Bluestreak asks, looking around: "How...?"
"I told you," Orange Slam says, getting back to his feet and rubbing his sore jaw: "We had it covered. Didn't we, Machinehead?"
"Oh yes," the android says, grinning as his program invades the Neo York City's massive mainframe: "And if you'll all excuse me? I'm going to make certain he stays covered."
His body falls down. Someone has the good sense to pick it up and bring it off the street.
And the slaughter of City Hall begins in earnest.
(SPYGOD is listening to My Dying Machine (Gary Numan) and having a Low Life)
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