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

 11:20 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They just stand there, for a time.

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

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

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

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

11:39 PM

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

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

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

"Because it's almost Midnight?"

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

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

"You have no !@#$ idea."

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

And they have company.

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

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

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

"Well, he's busy-"

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

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

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

"I'm not here as a friend."

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

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

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

"No, just me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your Mr. Chaos seems to think otherwise."

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

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

                                                                                        * * *

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                         * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                       * * *

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

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

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

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

And he's firing it.

                                                                                         * * *

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

"Something you're quite intimate with."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Think we need to step up the timetable?"

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ladies and Gentlemen. 

Let me present Frankie Goes to Hollywood. 

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe that's just how it should be.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

"Usually it's me," she admits. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You and me?"

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

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

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

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

"The Presidential assassination that wasn't."

"Costa Rica."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How you figure that?"

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

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

"There's that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what does my boyfriend do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1/1/12 - They Say This is the Golden Age

"Nothing changes, on New Years' Day."

Bono (that is, Paul David Hewson) wrote that more than 25 years ago. Every once in a while I have reason to visit that song, usually for silly !@#$ reasons that have nothing to do with the meaning behind the lyrics. Either that or they visit me by way of an 80's DJ with a limited back catalog and no !@#$ idea who John Foxx is (!@#$ Philistines)

But I'm splattered in someone else's blood, and for some reason the song is coming back to me. That line, especially, but of course "I will be killed again" is coming up for !@#$ air, too.

(It's actually "I will begin, again," but I know what I hear.)

I'm in Costa Rica, today -- about four miles Northwest from scenic and tiny Plazuela. About as far Northwest as you can get without falling off a cliff into the !@#$ Pacific. And the only thing around, other than a beach hotel we've taken over for the duration, is a large smoking crater that was HONEYCOMB's central HIVE.

"Was," until Myron and his boys drove his Tunnelator up through it like a drunk steroid-junkie leather daddy in search of a forced !@#$-slam in a toilet stall, that is. All there really is now is a shattered complex with a shut down reactor, hundreds of dead, dying, or mostly suicidal HONEYCOMB soldiers, thousands of broken and twitching giant metal bugs, and a few outlying structures we're going through with fine toothed combs in one hand, and big guns in the other.

Big !@#$ guns, like the one Myron just used on the prisoner we were interrogating.

Roll the !@#$ tape back a bit? Don't mind if I do.

Yesterday, I was in Washington D.C. enjoying New Years at the White House, for a change. Usually I spend it on the Flier with my Agents, having the party to end all parties, at least until next year. But, given the fact that the Flier is sitting in the Atlantic being rebuilt, well beyond the estimated date they gave me (!@#$ commie government contractor !@#$ !@#$) nand we're dealing with what's left of HONEYCOMB, the party's going to have to be postponed for a while. Which sucks !@#$ !@#$, but that's why we call it life.

The President and I were trying hard to not discuss certain matters that came up the last time we talked, but between what he and I didn't say I am reasonably assured that certain steps have been taken regarding a certain rival intelligence agency, its links to the late, unlamented Legion, and its dumb!@#$, supervillain-coddling Director. Given that, I don't feel the need to talk to some scandal-loving bottom feeder journalists I know.

But he can't help but ask me how things are going down in Costa Rica. Apparently, the Ambassador's been on the phone a lot, lately, and is gently relaying that country's growing unease at the COMPANY's presence inside their borders. I guess they don't like the fact that we're flooding their local businesses with yankee dollars?

Of course, this is by my third or fourth bottle of Tusker (say what you will about the man, he knows a good beer) and Dick Clark's face is about to drop, or maybe the ball is. So I tell the President that maybe he should ask their government where their concern's been all the years that HONEYCOMB's had their central !@#$ HIVE in their country. And maybe he should follow it up with "suck my mother!@#$ !@#$ you !@#$ !@#$."

Needless to say, that stops a few conversations, including our own. But a little later, after my liver's done what it normally does with a good beer buzz, I assure the President, on my way out, that I will go down to personally supervise the cleanup and see what we can do to expedite matters. Anything for an ally in whatever "war" we're fighting this week, right?

He makes a face like someone handed him a rotten lemon to chew on. Then I realize my kidneys have also dealt with the beer buzz how they normally do, only without the aid of the nearest bathroom. Which also !@#$ sucks, but it's nothing he's not used to.

(You should see what the veep does when he gets !@#$faced)

So instead of sleeping in all !@#$ day, brainslammed like a cheap nail that met a hammer forged by angry gods, I'm on a transport to Costa Rica. Of course we encounter chop. Of course I puke out the !@#$ window.

Of course I have to make a window to !@#$ puke out of.

Now, Myron's already down there to meet me, and he doesn't look happy. Oh no. In fact, he looks !@#$ pissed. Not at me, of course. But this isn't what he was expecting during the mop-up.

So I let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he should have read the file. It was all there. I even smack him over the head with it a few times so it'll sink in, and I won't have to do that in front of his people ever again.

Though, in honesty, the often clinical nature of our write-ups tend to leave a few things filtered out. And maybe this is what Myron's having the problem with.

Like the smell of the reclamation plants. There is nothing that can prepare you for the meat, chemical, and !@#$ stench of what's left of massive amounts of human bodies. And while you might be able to visualize the sight of hundreds of human bodies, picked clean of all usable organs and parts, actually !@#$ seeing them is another thing.

Especially when you consider that these bodies, mostly locals who get too close, or the kidnapped victims of HONEYCOMB operations around the globe, are about to be turned into pinkish-red slush, and then either pumped into their gardens as fertilizer, or fed to their soldiers as food.

But there's a few other bodies in there, too. And this is what has Myron currently frothing at the mouth, insane with anger, and clicking an empty gun at what's left of the head he just blew up all over me.

Point of fact: HONEYCOMB does not want you to join them. They do not do recruitment drives. They do not bring willing people into the fold. Either you were amongst the original engineers, or you got kidnapped and worked to death, or you were spawned in a machine, fed a personality, and put to work. 

But they will accept donations from interested parties.

HONEYCOMB has people all over the world, looking for potential donors. They want the smartest people they can find that are also in top physical condition, with minds that sit on that fine line between scientific detachment and unorthodoxy. And the occasional dip of the toe into the crazy pool is seen as an asset rather than a !@#$ deal breaker.

Once they find you, they scan you with their super science doohickeys, and find out if your genes are decent enough to pass their stringent qualifications. Then they slip you a puzzle to figure out, and if you get that far, they might just approach you with the offer.

The offer is simple: they want you to be a part of HONEYCOMB. But it's not what you might think. You will not be joining, as you would a company or military. You will be harvested for your genes and intelligence, which will be added to the group genepool, so as to make bigger, better, stronger, and smarter HONEYCOMB soldiers.

(It's a kind of immortality, I guess. But I know you can !@#$ guess what your pal SPYGOD has to say about that.)

The scary thing is how many of these kids say "yes." Scarier still is why.

You see, HONEYCOMB understands that these people have vivid imaginations. And they've probably spent their entire lives being told "no" when they want to exercise them. No, you can't do this. No, you can't do that. No, that's wrong. No, that's illegal. No, that's just sick. No, no, !@#$ no.

You know what happens to someone like that? Well, with any luck they eventually outgrow it, but chances are there's this beast raging inside them for the rest of their lives, waiting to come out.

As payment for being willing to !@#$ die (painlessly, admittedly) for HONEYCOMB, the group offers these kids a week in which anything they want will be given to them. !@#$ anything. At the week's end, it's the harvester, but until then, they get a large room, and anything they want.

You want a room full of action figures so you can play out the great battles you couldn't have after your parents tossed your toys? Done.

You want to !@#$ dozens, or even hundreds, of beautiful people? Or ugly ones? Midgets? Horses? Done.

You want to rape? Murder? Maim? Kill? Abuse children? Eat your weight in human flesh? Play "Hostel" or "Human Centipede?" 

Done.

The Tunnelator came up under the central Nexus of the HIVE without much !@#$ warning. The central area was trashed. The Freedom Week blocks are outside the central area, and didn't take much damage. This means that we've been going from block to block, since then, "liberating" them from college age sociopaths who have no idea why the lights went out on their private little paradises.

And some of those paradises... well, you know SPYGOD is a hard !@#$ man, son. But that hardness wasn't always there. I threw up and cried when I got to Auschwitz. I still mist up when I think of some of the things I've seen since then. Some of the things I've done.

But this? Well, some of this is about more than yours truly really wants to remember, right now. Not without several drinks.

Which is why I am not stopping Myron from doing what he's doing. He made the mistake of walking into the room after we'd pulling this whiny man-boy out of it, stark naked and covered in dried blood and human !@#$, and demanding to know why his week was canceled. He still had two days left!

Myron walked in there, flashlight in hand, and saw what he'd been doing. And to who. Or what, rather.

Then he walked out here, took the gun right off my holster, and started shooting. I don't remember when he started crying (maybe the third bullet) but I'm not sorry to see those tears. They're proof that there's still something inside us that can be so outraged by needless atrocity that, even when doing the obvious thing to the person who made it happen, our humanity's coming up for air in the sea of !@#$.

I might have to take it away a minute or two, though. Dry-firing's not good for a gun. But for now, let him pull the trigger and cry. It seems a fitting epitaph for this whole !@#$ place.

I can only hope it's all worth it. This last year's led me to nastier places that I'd thought it might, and even though I !@#$ wrote most of the files, I'm still constantly surprised by the !@#$ we're finding under the rocks we're turning over. 

(SPYGOD is listening to New Years Day (U2) and will be having something with very high alcohol content, soon)