3/12/12 - Disco - Pt. 5 - Randolph Scott - Choose Your Self Like Your Enemy

San Francisco Chronicle
2/17/12
A-1 (below the fold)

SPYGOD Linked Journalist Disappears from Hospital

Randolph Scott of Alternet, and known associate of accused Presidential assassin SPYGOD, vanished from his hospital bed at San Francisco General Hospital sometime between 5 and 5:30 pm, last night, according to hospital authorities.

Mr. Scott had been receiving treatment for a fractured skull, suffered on the 25th of January. He was in a medically-induced coma and should not have been able to move, according to Dr. Lloyd Ledbetter.

"If someone knows where he is, please see that he is returned to medical care," Dr. Ledbetter begged the media at a sparsely-attended press conference, last night: "He is a very sick man."

Dr. Ledbetter could neither confirm nor deny that Agents from The COMPANY had attended to Mr. Scott's injuries in any way, prior to the President's assassination.

Randolph Scott was handpicked by SPYGOD to be his "chronicler of things" after last year's invasion of the super-nazis' Ice Palace in Antarctica. He stayed with SPYGOD while The COMPANY cleaned the installation up, and then left once the United Nations was brought in to oversee the operation.

After that, he began work on an award-winning series of stories in which he took the cloned, genetically-modified teenagers of the Ice Palace around the globe in order to break their programming. The series, "Welcome to the Real World," ran periodically on Alternet, up until his accident. It was briefly interrupted by "Black Angels and Amazons," in which Scott revealed the true extent of ABWEHR involvement in Muammar Gaddafi's Libya, and The COMPANY's involvement in its downfall.

Alternet's Managing Editor, Brian Snailthorpe, chose not to comment on the abduction, or rumors that Scott and he had argued over the news organization's decision to run the ailing superhero Gold Standard's story about SPYGOD having shot and killed President William McKinley.

Also unknown at this time are the whereabouts of the children of the Ice Palace. Following the abduction, they have refused any comment.

* * *

Dear America:

If you're reading this, then it means that I was right. By extension, it also means that SPYGOD was both right and wrong, though not necessarily about what you might believe as of this moment. 

It also means, to be blunt, that we're really !@#$ed. 

And I hate to say this, but as of this moment in time, typing these words out to you, I can't say for sure which way the !@#$ing is coming from. I don't know who's !@#$ing us, either, though I have some nasty suspicions as to whose face is hovering over the !@#$, grinning at their girth and wondering where to put the money shot.

(Sorry about all that. I've been on the run too long and haven't gotten a moment to deal with certain pent-up frustrations in a responsible, adult manner. I'll try to keep that out of it from here on out, but no promises.)

You see, I've got a big story to tell you. Maybe the biggest story I've ever told in my life. It's got heroes and villains, triumph and tragedy, and one !@#$ of a punchline lurking behind the scenes. 

How does it end? That I don't know yet. The beauty of this is that, writing on the run, I'm finding out the truth one step at a time, and sometimes it means I have to go back a few steps in order to go forward one. 

It's really !@#$ing crazy at times -- kind of like playing hopscotch while you're drunk and someone's shooting at your feet. 

But it's the first time I've been free to do this kind of thing, ever. To just write the !@#$ing story the way I'm living the !@#$ing story, which is to say very fast and fresh, without a lot of time to sleep between interviews and shoot-outs, some of which blur right into one another like something from an Evelyn Waugh novel. 

I don't know where this is leading, America, except somewhere. 

But where it started? Let me tell you what I know about that. 

Let me tell you about a dead President, and the man who has, hands-down, the most !@#$ing thankless job in the whole world after something like that happens. 

Let me tell you how he died. 

* * * 

Walter Reed National Military Medical Center

2/16/12

3:06 PM

"I'm very glad you gentlemen could come on down here," the chief pathologist says, nervously snapping his rubber gloves as they walk through into the heavily-guarded room where the President is undergoing autopsy. It's just the President, the pathologist, and the two men in suitcoats in here. Everyone else has been sent away in a hurry.

"Of course, sir," one of them says, standing a respectable distance from the dead body -- its skull a horrible, wet red bloom under the bright lights.

"We're happy to answer any questions you might have," the other says: "Or at least suggest better questions."

"Well, okay," the pathologist says, trying to shake off the sense that there's something... off about these two: "They said you were handling the weird stuff. This definitely qualifies."

"It's okay," one says: "Relax."

"Take a deep breath and tell us what you found," sound the other.

"Well, just to be sure... this is the President of the United States lying in front of me, right?"

"Of course," one says: "He came here directly from the Rose Garden, didn't he?"

"The chain of evidence was unbroken, wasn't it?" the other says.

"Well, that's just it," the pathologist says, walking over to a pile of readouts and showing the men: "I did the usual full battery of tests. Bloodwork, fluids, all that stuff. Not that it's needed in a case where the cause of death is this obvious, but under the circumstances, I want to be thorough. You do understand that?"

"Of course," one says.

"No one could fault you for that," the other says: "So what did you find?"

"Okay. From a biochemical perspective, this is the President. His DNA samples match perfectly. His bloodwork matches perfectly. Everything comes back a positive, 100% match."

"Alright, then. What's the issue?" one asks, clasping his hands behind his back. The other performs the exact same motion in the exact same way at the exact same time, as if they'd practiced. 

"Well, if this is the President, then what's this?" the pathologist asks, pulling the sheet down so they can see his lower abdominal region. There's an old and ragged scar, there, over on the lower right side, between waist and hip. 

"It looks like an appendectomy scar," one says. 

"It is an appendectomy scar," the pathologist says: "I haven't gone in to check, yet, but I've seen enough of them. But this isn't right, gentlemen. The President never underwent that procedure. But this scar... it's old. I'd say it was done when he was in his teens, and not very well, either."

"A mystery!" the other exclaims, leaning over to look.

"That is quite peculiar," one intones, pulling a small cellular phone out.

"No phones in here, please," the pathologist scolds.

"Oh, it's not a phone," one says, smiling: "Please continue."

"Okay. Well, we have the scar, but that's just the tip of the iceberg, here. He has other, smaller scars where there should be none, and no scars where there should be. And look at this, on the left thigh. That's a bullet wound, gentlemen. This man was shot, maybe five years ago."

"And the President wasn't ever shot in his life," the other says, strategically putting himself between the pathologist and one, who's moving towards the door with his cellphone in hand.

"And he's pretty unhealthy looking, too," the pathologist says: "Kind of skinny. Poor nutrition, bad exercise habits, but not sedentary, either. I'd say a hard life living rough might produce a body like this."

"So what are you saying, exactly?" the other asks.

"I'm saying... and this is going to sound crazy, gentlemen, so you might want to hold on to your hats. But while this is the President of the United States, I don't think this is the President of the United States."

There's a moment of silence, and both men smile. The pathologist doesn't like the look of those smiles.

"Who have you told?" the other asks as one turns around, doing something with the cell phone that the pathologist can't see.

"No one," he says, now realizing that something is definitely wrong, here, but not sure what he can do about it: "As soon as I realized that something was wrong, I... I sent everyone out, and called you."

"So no one knows yet," the other says.

The pathologist nods, feeling a trifle condemned right now.

"That's good!" the one says, walking back towards the table. The cell phone is stuck to the door, and for some weird reason the pathologist can't quite hear anything outside those swinging doors, anymore.

"It's a good thing you came to us, first," the other says, making a strange gesture with his hands: "You are a good man. You have done good things for your country."

"We will be very happy to have you working for us," one says, repeating the gesture, and smiles.

The light in the room goes weird, and then something happens. The Pathologist doesn't quite realize what he's seeing until it's too late, and then all he can do is scream and try to run. But he doesn't get far, and the screaming isn't heard by the guards outside the room.

The funeral happens a few days later, followed by the service at the church the day after. The Pathologist is seen around the edges of both, and casts a solemn but comforting figure. 

It's just that he smiles strangely, ever so often, and hums a certain, old tune at weird moments.

* * *

Now, I bet you're a little confused, there, America. I said the man died. But here he is, alive? I can hear you asking 'What is this !@#$, Schrödinger's Pathologist?'

Bear with me a while, America. Let me go on. You might not like the answer, but you will get one.

The Chief Pathologist was the first to be visited by these two men. They wouldn't be the last. Most of them were lucky enough to not have a need to scream, but there were exceptions.

Take the Secret Service Agent in charge of the White House's security arrangements, that day. Her name was Helen Linden. She was 47 years old, divorced with adult kids, and a dedicated Agent.

After what happened that day she'd been grilled left, right, and sideways about everything. She'd tried to remember every piece of information she could, even if it seemed minor or inconsequential, and insisted that all Agents there on the day do the same. 

She told them, via email, that it was the best way to honor their commitment to the President they'd lost, and the one they were now in the business of guarding.


Then, one day, maybe a week after the funeral, she called a meeting and told them all that she'd changed her mind. She told her Agents that they could relax a bit. The investigation was over, the manhunt was on, and the new President deserved all their attention.


It would be a good thing if they could go forward, like the President would have wanted, she told them, smiling all the while. 


At first, there was some grumbling, and some of it very vocal. But, one by one, other senior Agents came to agree with her -- often overnight. And they were certain to tell their subordinates and newer hands that, in spite of what they'd said before, it was time to put all that in the past. The investigation was over, the manhunt was on, and the new President deserved all their attention.


And they said -- with the exact same smile as their boss -- that the best way for everyone to make sure they went forward, like the President would have wanted, was to be happy to help out.


Especially in this way.


Not everyone was so happy to help, of course. There was a new Secret Service Agent on duty that day -- one lucky enough to have been some distance from SPYGOD's rampage, and therefore missed being SPYGOD VISIONed into near-catatonia or death. But he did see someone strange walking towards the Oval Office at some point: a man in an unfamiliar uniform that didn't match any of the Strategic Talent descriptions he'd been given.


After the assassination, that Agent tried to bring the issue up with his superiors, but after their sudden change of heart, no one wanted to listen about his theories of a possible accomplice. He was warned, then reprimanded, and then put on enforced early vacation with the understanding that, when he returned, his "unhelpful attitude" needed to stay in Jersey Beach, or wherever.


He just wasn't helping things. 


Two days into his vacation, the Agent was found dead in a horrendous, one-car smashup on Eastbound 301. Alcohol was in the car, and his stomach. A note back at his house indicated stress and anger, though not necessarily suicidal intent. Just another bad decision in a life that took a wrong turn, they said.


Another, smaller tragedy, blooming sick off of the tree of the nation's greater loss. 


His was far from the only such flower; there would be other strange, sad, and lonely deaths in the days ahead. They were all small people -- the folks you don't miss unless you know them -- who saw too much, or heard too much, or experienced the wrong thing at the wrong time, and then made the mistake of saying something to someone else.


And not long after making that mistake, they died. 

They died in their sleep, or on the roads. They died their own hand, or maybe someone else's. They suffered broken car brakes on the freeway at rush hour. They took vodka and sleeping pill overdoses, usually without notes. They were involved in carjackings gone horribly awry in bad, Maryland neighborhoods.


And none of them merited anything in the papers, past the initial story and their subsequent obituary.

But what of the Strategic Talents? What of the supermen and wonder women? Surely they don't count as little people. Surely one of them would stand up and cry "bull!@#$!" at some point?

Surely. 

* * *

Taos, New Mexico

3/10/12

5:45 PM

Wayfinder's home is hard to find unless you know what you're looking for. You have to go well out of town, up into the mountains to the East, and then get nearly lost over a maze of roads that aren't technically roads. And only after being turned around so many times you're sure you've gone in a total circle, you'll come out and see his modest, L-ranch house.

You might say that's just not very neighborly of him, but he'd just say "!@#$ you." His family and friends know how to find the place, and the only other people who'd bother are either superheroes or the government.

When he's not on the government's time, he'll be !@#$ed if he lets just anyone intrude on it.

Which is why the Sheriff's so puzzled about what's just happened, up there. He received a call, early this morning, from one of Wayfinder's few neighbors: something about a black car going up that road, followed by a bunch of really bad noises that spooked his livestock, which isn't so strange, knowing how Wayfinder deals with people who try and disturb him.

But then the same black car came back down the road, and the neighbor went up to the man's house to investigate, which led to a confused and somewhat panicked phone call to the Sheriff's office. So now here he is, wondering what to do next; wondering so hard, in fact, that he doesn't notice another car's pulled onto the property until its engine gets turned off. 

"So what exactly are we looking at, here?" the tall, rail-thin COMPANY liaison asks as he gets out of his car and walks over to the older man.

"Who the heck are you?" the Sheriff asks, spitting out the gum he's been chewing on and not extending a hand.

"Agent Oldman," he says, putting his hand down and getting out a badge with the other: "COMPANY. I handle Wayfinder's activities with us."

"Who called you in?" the Sheriff asks, looking closely at the badge like he's never seen such a thing before.

"We don't get called. We just arrive."

"Must be nice."

"Not really. So, like I asked?"

"Well, I can't rightly say," the Sheriff says, adjusting his hat and turning to look at the hole in the ground where the old man's L-ranch used to be. It's a neat hole: the kind you might find at a construction site as they prepare to put the concrete and bricks in to make the basement. Severed water pipes are soaking the bottom where they neatly end, as if sliced through.

"Is housenapping a crime in New Mexico?" the liaison asks, walking to the edge and looking down.

"That'd be funny if I had a better idea of what happened. Neighbor called when he heard weird noises. We get here and find this."

The liaison pulls out a small box with a number of antennae on it, and, after pressing a few buttons, waves it in the air in front of him. It beeps and bloops and makes weird noises, and then he looks at the readout and sighs.

"Time distortion effects," the man says, putting the box away: "Looks like someone took the house out of our time."

"And what the heck does that mean?" the Sheriff asks.

"It means that the house, and whoever was in it, just moved either forward, backward, or sideways in time. It also means that there's no way to find them unless we can get someone who's got an appropriate skill set. Or maybe a temporal ray or something. Time viewer, maybe."

"I didn't think the old man could do things like that."

"I don't think that was one of his things," the liaison says: "Maybe one of his family members?"

"Maybe," the Sheriff says, and then hands over a small, leather-bound book he's had in the front of his pants this entire time: "Well, if you're his handler, you should see this."

"What is it?" the liaison asks, taking the book.

"I can't say for certain. But I found this in his hidey hole. It might explain things."

"Hidey hole?" the liaison asks, opening the book.

"He always told me that if something bad was going to happen to him, he'd know about it ahead of time. And if he did, he'd leave me word someplace I could find it. That rock by your car's got a hollow spot under it. If he needed to leave me word, that's where he'd put it. And that's what he left in it."

The Agent looks at the book, and flips through it, puzzled. It looks like some kind of logbook, marking dates, times, and whereabouts of something or someone called "Mystery2." It looks fairly straightforward, though there are a lot of gaps and "?"s. That and some curious double entries, all circled in red.

"Well, thank you for this," he says to the Sheriff: "I'll call the Heptagon, have them get someone out here who does time. Maybe fix this, or at least make sure it doesn't get any worse."

"You do that," the man says, popping a stick of gum so he has something to chew. He doesn't offer the other guy any, and that's the liaison's cue to pack up and go.

The liaison stays at a Motel 6 just outside of Taos, that night. He has dinner at the McDonalds next door at 7 (Big Mac Meal, apple pie), a few drinks at a bar up the road at 10:30 (Tony's TV, 3 buds and a shot of jager, went home alone).

That night, somewhere around 1 in the morning, he frantically begins scanning pages of the book to his superior officer in the COMPANY. He does not explain exactly why, but the scans are all headed LOOK AT THE !@#$ING DATES!

Agent Oldman only gets six pages in, ending at around 1:15 AM. It covers about six months, from July of last year to January of this year. It's clear there's more in the book, but no more are sent.

Agent Oldman is never seen again. He does not check out. His effects are gone, his car is missing, and the book retrieved from Wayfinder's house is not found.

The night attendant at the Motel remembers seeing a black car pull into the parking lot, maybe a quarter after 1. He also remembers it leaving at 1:30. He thinks there were two men in it, but can't remember more than that.

The COMPANY still has no idea what happened at Wayfinder's place, only that the house is temporally dislocated, possibly with him and his family inside. Whether they did this, or someone did it to them, is unknown.

* * *

"Unknown." Has a pretty !@#$ing nasty ring to it, doesn't it?

 

Whereabouts unknown. Whereabouts deniable. You just !@#$ing vanish, like a rabbit in a hat, and all the authorities can do is chew gum and wonder what the !@#$ just happened.

Even if you're a !@#$ing superhero, you just vanish. 

Now, we're told that can't happen, here in America. We have due process of law. We have safeguards against Federal tyranny and watchdog organizations. We have a First Amendment and whistleblower protections and police that are on our side, not the state's.


We have inalienable rights, for !@#$s sake.


But that doesn't explain why there are so many people who've just died or gone missing after the President's assassination, now does it?

 

See, in other countries, when little people get in the way of something that's too big to be stopped by the likes of them, the big people make them go away in broad daylight. Dissidents are rounded up in mass arrests and shipped off to prison, never to be seen again. Sometimes the authorities don't bother with prison, and just ship them out of town, there to be shot and dumped into a deep, waiting ditch. 

And sometimes they don't even bother with the trip or the ditch, and just shoot them in their own homes, like rabid dogs found in an alley.

Things like that are not supposed to happen here. There would be an outcry. The media would !@#$ itself. There would be marches and demonstrations. Jesse !@#$ing Jackson and every left coast liberal actor worth their movie contract would get up and make PSAs. Riots in the streets. T-shirts for sale.

The inevitable Bob Dylan protest single, played over and over while LA burns yet again.

So what happens instead? People just sort of vanish. Dead in an accident. Missing in action. Gone down the memory hole in such a way that no one really thinks "killed" or "murdered" or "silenced."

And "conspiracy!" No one wants to think about that word. Conspiracies are for things like the Moon landing being a hoax, and the government causing Computer Hell themselves. No one wants to think about the c-word.

 But you want to know a secret? Remember when they tried to kill President Kennedy, all those years ago, and SPYGOD stopped them? Turns out there was a huge plot, and as they were taking that plot apart they found that a lot of the people they wanted to talk to kept dying just before they could get to them, or dying not long after they came around to ask what they knew. 

Finally, they unravel most of the !@#$ing thing, and they find out that all the dead people were on a list. Someone actually figured out who might have been able to connect the !@#$ing dots back to the people who wanted Kennedy dead, and arranged to have them thrown under the bus before they could finger someone who could rat on someone who could make a plea bargain and hand the whole pyramid to the Feds on a silver platter.

None dare call it "conspiracy." But if that isn't what that was, then I can't think of what else you call it. 

And if that isn't what this is...?

So tell me, America: how safe do you feel, right now? How secure? 

How certain are you that you don't know too much, or didn't see something that someone doesn't want you to have seen? Are you sure you didn't talk to someone too long about something a little too touchy for certain people? Did you make the wrong joke with the wrong person at the wrong time?

How long before you learn to smile like a dead man, or just become one?

I don't know how long you have. I don't know a god!@#$ thing, right now, except that I've got the mother of all stories wiggling like a fish on the hook, and I might not live long enough to get that !@#$er scaled, battered, and in the pan. 

But if I'm gonna go, I'm gonna go with the pole* in my hand. And that's a promise, America.

(*Urg, sorry. I do need to get laid.)

* * *

Arlington, Virginia

3/12/12

9 PM

The worst thing about having to pack up his apartment, Jess has found, is trying to get used to doing it with one hand.

If he still had his job, he probably could have been fitted with a decent prosthetic, instead of making do with a bandaged, healing stump. Of course, if he still had his job, he wouldn't be having to move out of the apartment in the first place. And if he hadn't lost his job by being the Secret Service Agent who pretty much blew his primary duty -- protecting the President from harm -- he'd still have some friends to help him out with it.

But as it is, he's got nothing left for him here, in this lousy apartment complex where his neighbors either don't like him or argue too loudly -- sometimes both. His friends have evaporated. His job prospects suck. His parents would only let him move back home if he gave up his cat, and he wouldn't do that, so he's off to crash with his crazy uncle the lobster surgeon in Baltimore.

(And is his cat even remotely grateful? !@#$ no. Little !@#$er is doing his best to get in the way, even now -- demanding attention and affection as his little, one-bedroom world comes down around his furry ears.)

"You are just not being helpful, Rusty," Jess says, skritching the kitty behind the ears. The cat seems to like it for a moment, but then stiffens, growls, and quickly leaves the room, casting a nasty look at the door as he goes.

A door that knocks just a second later.

Something in Jess' gut tells him to get out -- to run for the sorry excuse for a porch and try to monkey-swing his way down to the ground floor. But that would be silly and stupid, wouldn't it? Who would really be trying to mess with him?

He sighs, gets up, and goes to the door. Just as he's almost halfway there the lock does something he's never seen it do before -- unlock from the other side while he's inside.

The door opens up rather swiftly, revealing two smiling men in suitcoats. It's the same guys who saw him in the hospital while he was healing, and wanted to know about certain things.

"Hello, Mr. Friend," one says, walking into the apartment and standing to one side of the door.

"I hope you don't mind us walking in on you like this," the other says, closing the door behind them and putting something that looks like a cell phone on it.

"Um, what do you want?" Jess asks, wishing to !@#$ he still had a gun permit, and suddenly realizing he can't hear the neighbors arguing about the President's speech, anymore: "I don't think you're actually allowed to just barge in-"

"Details, details," one says, waving a hand.

"We just needed to ask about that day, one more time," the other adds, waving another hand.

"Just to be sure."

"Crossing the 't's, dotting the 'i's."

"I'm sure you understand."

"Surely."

"Yeah..." Jess says, wondering if he can somehow turn on his cell phone and call his parents without them noticing: "So what did you need to know?"

"You said there were three people in the Oval Office..." one says.

"... but then there were only two?" the other finishes.

"Yeah, that's right," Jess says: "The guy in the weird uniform just disappeared. I have no idea where he went. It was just the President and SPYGOD and, well, you know how that went."

He waves his stump up and tries to smile. Something about the way the two men smile back is very !@#$ing unnerving.

"Was that before or after you felt something weird coming from the Oval Office?" the one asks.

"Something... just not quite right," the other adds.

"Well," Jess starts to say, but then falls silent. He did feel something distinctly strange coming from the Oval Office, just before SPYGOD showed up and all !@#$ broke loose. But he didn't tell them that, and had told no one that.

And he had distinctly decided to not tell these two that when they came in to his hospital room, back in February, because something had told him not to.

"Well, I didn't really," Jess stammers: "I mean... the guy was weird. The guy in the weird uniform? So maybe I felt a little weird because his uniform was so weird. But, feeling weird weird? No. Not really."

They smile a little stranger, and he knows he's !@#$ed.

"It's okay, Jess," one says, making a strange gesture with his hands.

"We know the truth,' the other adds, making the same strange gesture.

"We don't blame you for not wanting to share it, but we have our ways."

"Our little, strange ways."

The light in the apartment goes strange, for a second, as though all the illumination was being sucked out of where it belonged and moved to the space between the two men. 

"You're a good man, Jess," one says, as the light begins to take on a shape: "You tried so very hard to do your job."

"And you've suffered because of it, and quite unfairly," the other adds, as the shape becomes humanoid, and gains depth and substance: "It's time you were rewarded."

"What... who are you?" Jess screams, stepping back and trying to find something -- anything -- to defend himself with: "What the !@#$ do you want?"

"We want you, Jess," both men say simultaneously. As they do, their faces crackle and hiss like televisions do when they lose signal, and Jess can see that their skin is transparent.

And underneath the skin are skulls with baleful, silver eyes.

Between them appears a nude male, his face also a transparent-skinned, skullfaced mockery. It takes Jess a moment to realize that the man's an exact replica of him, right down to the mangled hand and gall bladder surgery scars.

"The new world will need you, Jess," the newcomer says in a strange, flat voice: "Please join us. Join with me."

Jess doesn't scream. He realizes that he's !@#$ed. And he knows he has two choices: surrender or suicide.

He doesn't like either, but he'll be !@#$ed if he lets some skullfaced mother!@#$er take his identity.

So he turns to run to the porch, figuring he can probably crash through the door and leap for the ground. Maybe he can at least get as far as the next apartment down, like he should have done the moment these !@#$ers came around-

But then there's hands on his shoulders, and he's flying into the wall. The impact breaks his nose and chips a tooth, and he falls down around his ankles, gasping at how !@#$ painful that was.

"Join with me," the naked monster says, towering over Jess and reaching down for his smashed face.

"!@#$ you," Jess mumbles, lashing out with his feet at the thing's naked !@#$s. A solid hit doesn't even deter it, but it at least propels Jess out of its reach and towards the porch. For a moment he thinks he's home free, but then it grabs hold of his leg and, wrenching it out of joint, yanks his head right back into arms' reach.

"You will join us," one says as the monster takes hold of Jess's face with his hands, and puts his thumbs over his eyes.

"All you need is love," the other says as Jess realizes what's about to happen, and finally allows himself to scream.

The screaming is rudely interrupted by a gunshot, and shattered glass. The thumbs are interrupted in mid-push, and the now-headless monster flops back onto the floor, jerking like a dying fish.

One and the other shudder as if they felt the monster's death -- and maybe they did -- but as their faces turn human again, and they head for the door, they're not quite shot to pieces by a volley of high-explosive bullets coming through the porch door. Nasty, gory bits of the two are splattered all over Jess' wall, and for a moment, as he watches their hipless legs flop and flutter on their way to the ground, he wonders how the !@#$ he's going to get his security deposit now.

The porch door is completely shot out, but the person who comes through it is kind enough to open it up properly before stepping through. Jess looks up at the fellow, and thinks he knows him from somewhere. Is it SPYGOD, come to rescue him? Or is he here to kill him, instead?

But no. It's not SPYGOD. The eyepatch the young fellow's wearing sort of makes him  look like the assassin, and the black leather getup doesn't hurt, but it's not him. He's a lot younger, for one thing, and has a lot less hair.

(Bad scarring all over the back of his head, too. Almost borglike, in a way.)

As the fellow strides over and looks down, a few other people come in from the porch. They're also young, and wearing similar black leather get-ups. They're also beautiful and blonde, and armed to the teeth -- speaking German as they prod and kick the twitching remnants of the three things they just executed.

"Um, thanks...?" Jess says, and the bald, eyepatched fellow squats down on his knees to regard him: "Do I know you?"

"Randolph Scott," the man says, extending a hand: "Outlaw journalist. Sorry about the mess."

"Don't mention it," Jess says, gladly accepting a hand up: "What... I mean... er..."

"I would like the favor of an interview with you, Mr. Friend," Scott says: "In return, I can offer some protection, or at least a drop off someplace safe. If you stay here I can't guarantee your safety, though. You know too much, and they won't stop coming after you until you're dead. Or sort of dead."

"Well, if you put it like that?" Friend says: "Can we, um.... my cat?"

Scott smiles: "We got room on board. Grab cash and any ID that doesn't have a magnetic strip on it, anything else personal you want that has no computer gear. Discs and flash drives are okay. Me and the kids need to poke around the mess a bit and then we're !@#$ing out of here."

"Okay..." Jess says, heading for his room to try and extricate Rusty from under the bed: "But where are we going?"

"After the story of a lifetime, Mr. Friend," Scott replies, pressing a button. Suddenly, out by the porch, a COMPANY Platform appears, hovering in space. A gangplank ties it to the concrete platform, outside.

"And what's that story going to be?"

"!@#$ed if I know, just yet," Scott shrugs, grinning as he pulls out a really large gun, cocks it, and shoots what's left of One's head: "Hopefully we'll all live long enough to see it in print."

"Okay, then" Jess says, not entirely certain this is at all wise, but having the feeling that, whatever happens next, his best next move is to get in the invisible hovercraft and vanish with the crazy man, his kids, and his guns. 

God knows, he's done worse.

(SPYGOD is listening to Positive Role Model (Pet Shop Boys) and having a State Pen Porter)

3/12/12 - Disco - pt 4: Colonel Richter - Screaming And Shouting And Everything's Blinding

"... and so, I hope you'll join me in welcoming the brave people of Cuba back to the free world," the President says, smiling into the camera they've set up in the Oval Office: "Now that their tyrant is at last gone, having shielded America's enemies for the last time, they will once more know the taste of liberty and opportunity. It will not be an easy path for them, but, like the good neighbors we've wanted to be for some time, now, America will be happy to help.

"Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to explain our actions, and I hope that, while you may not agree with what's happened, you'll at least now understand why it was done. And to our friends in the Republican party, I can only say 'Mission Accomplished.'

"Thank you, God bless you, and God bless America."

The camera light goes off, and as soon as the man behind the camera gives him the all-clear, the President's face falls like a rock.

"!@#$ me," he mutters, waving a hand to one of his many assistants: "Someone get me a !@#$ing beer."

"I think that was excellent, sir," his media adviser says, snapping her fingers at the battery of assistants to make the beer come just a little faster: "I know you weren't happy about the mission accomplished thing, but trust me. Come November, that's going to be total gold."

"Come November I'm going to need psychiatric help," the President sighs, getting his beer, getting up from the desk, and loosening his tie as he walks out of the office. He walks right into a logjam of pollsters, advisers, and -- most importantly -- Colonel Richter, who he's been looking forward to seeing about as much as he's been looking forward to his next prostate exam.

"Walk with me, Colonel," he says, waving off his other advisers, including the fawning media adviser lady: "And fair warning, if I hear the words 'I'm sorry to say' come out of your mouth, I'm having you assigned someplace very cold."

"I understand, sir," Richter says: "I have prepared a full report on the Cuba situation for you-"

"Does it involve the key phrase 'I !@#$ed up, big time'?" the President asks, slugging the beer down in one epic chug and tossing the glass into a nearby trashcan.

"Not in so many words, sir, no," Richter says, trying not to scowl: "But there is, indeed, an element of that."

"Well, as long as one of you chuckleheads understands," he says, leading the man to an office and slamming the door behind them. A number of advisers and high-ranking military and intelligence personnel are already there, waiting, and stand as soon as he enters.

"Understands what, sir?"

"Oh, goodness me. Where to begin? How about I really did not need to be !@#$ing woken up and informed that we'd liberated a country without my knowledge?"

"Sir, as our report points out, we had a limited amount of time to get hold of SPYGOD," Richter says as the President walks over to the far side of the room's one, long table and sits down, whereupon the other people sit down as well. No one offers the Colonel a seat, but the man doesn't seem inclined to ask if he can take a load off, either.

"And that's why you jumped the gun and ordered The Flier into Cuban airspace, over Havana, and blasted his whereabouts to kingdom come, all done without properly informing your new Director," the President says, pouring himself a large glass of water.

"My orders said 'no stone unturned,' 'no holds barred,' and 'dead or alive,' sir. And they were your orders."

The President nods: "And it wasn't really anyone's fault that, as it turned out, Fidel Castro was there."

"No, sir. We had negative information on that. So the liberation of Cuba in the course of this action was entirely accidental."

"But I understand that The Dragon suggested you not take the course of action that you did?"

"He did, sir. Yes. But I'm beginning to suspect he has... ulterior motives."

"Don't we all?" Asks someone from the CIA the Colonel's never seen before, giving him that special smile: "So New Man's decision to take you off the case, entirely, put The Dragon in charge, and punish you by promoting you to White House liaison... I guess that must have played right into his supposed ulterior motives? That must really stick in your !@#$ing craw, there, Colonel."

Colonel Richter grits his teeth, looks askance, and then, with a deep sigh, says: "Look, sir -- sirs. There's things I could say, and things I could tell you, and we all know how that's going to go. How about we say I !@#$ed up, but at least we've come out ahead in the deal, and work to keep moving forward?"

"How about you remember that I'm your boss' boss' boss' boss' boss, and don't talk to me like that again?" the President says, having some more water: "And then, maybe, while we're working on that, you can remind yourself that, thanks to your having !@#$ed up, I have a number of people in my own party trying to mount a primary challenge, because they think I'm a power-mad idiot who's let getting revenge for my friend's death go to my head."

"Yes, sir-"

"And that doesn't even begin to cover what the right wing noise machine is saying!" The President interrupts, slapping the desk: "Can you imagine this !@#$? If a Republican had done this, they'd be cheering him! Calling him the greatest President of our time! Reagan and Bush and Bush all wrapped up in one big, bursting reefer, all ready to go out back smoke yourself stupid. But because there's this 'D' by my name on the ballot, it's treason."

"Yes, sir."

"So, while you're standing there, being all conciliatory and wanting to move forward, past your stupid, !@#$ing mistake, maybe you can explain to me how that works. Why is it that, when they do it, it's America first patriotism, but when someone like me does it, it's outright criminal?"

"Sir, with all due respect, I'm the only Full Bird Colonel I know that doesn't vote mainline Republican," Richter says: "That's part of the reason your predecessor had me in this position in the first place. And, yes, I know we got off to a bad start, and that was my fault. And I'm sure this is not helping-"

"And you're still forgetting who your boss' boss' boss'-"

"Yes, sir. You outrank me by a factor of five, if not more. But if this is my last day in this uniform, I'm going to go out telling you the truth, and trying to fix my mess. If the President will allow me to do so. Sir."

"Just what branch of the US Armed Forces did you attain the rank of Colonel in, sir?" one of the Military advisers asks. A high ranking Marine, no doubt here to discuss how things went at Camp Zebra, in Guantanamo Bay.

"That's classified, sir."

"Of all the-" the Marine starts to say, but the President waves him down.

"The Colonel is right, gentlemen. It's not a question of how badly he !@#$ed up. If we want to play that game, we'll be here all !@#$ing week, and go nowhere. Let's start with what we know, and go forward from there."

"Do we have to go through all the basics again?" Someone from the NSA asks.

"Let's start from the House of Blood and go forward," the President sighs: "Bottom line? As near as we can figure out,  we all got played. And we got played hard."

"That's putting it mildly, sir," Richter says: "Case in point. The occasional strategic asset known as Gosheven escaped COMPANY custody at around 5 AM. One minute he was asleep in a tank in the Flier's medical bay. The next, he'd just vanished."

"How does something like that happen?" The CIA man asks, obviously unimpressed.

"The best we can figure is that his molecular control is so excellent that he was able to turn himself intangible," Richter says.

"That wasn't quite what I was getting at-"

"No, sir. But that's the issue at hand. We haven't been getting it."

"Explain, please," the President says.

Richter takes a deep breath. Where to !@#$ing begin?

"Alright," he says, finding an empty chair and plopping his !@#$ down in it: "Now, you've all seen the reports on SPYGOD's movements since the assassination, at least those we know about. There's about 15 days where he just vanishes. Just like that. He could be anywhere, doing anything, talking to anyone. We have no idea. He's just gone. Not even Wayfinder can locate him.

"So we have the idea of having Wayfinder look after known associates. Sure enough, a whole boatload of them are found going to the Keys, all at the same time. And they get there, and we're pretty !@#$ sure he's there, too. So we go in, and he hands us our kiesters-"

"We know all this, Colonel," the Marine says, snapping the report down on the table: "When do we get to something we don't know?"

"How about now, sir?" Richter says, indicating a page in the report: "Why did so many COMPANY Agents live through that ordeal?"

"He killed a lot of them at the house-" The CIA man says, but falls silent when Richter holds up a hand.

"He didn't kill them, sir. As near as we can tell, Crazyface did. And judging from the state of some of the bodies, it's clear that some of them were forcefully disabled in such a way that they would be alive, but unable to do anything against his team, and then killed by Crazyface. And the person in the house with him was this vampire hunter guy, who is, I can safely say, no !@#$ when it comes to dealing with extraneous personnel."

"So you're saying that, except from this Crazyface person, no one in his team was killing anyone?" The President asks, seeming to get the point.

"That's right, sir. And some of what I got from Gosheven before he vanished backs that up. SPYGOD told his people to not kill our personnel. And when he was being directly targeted, you'll recall that he chose to knock Mrs. Liberty out, use the Diffusion Cannon on our Agents instead of more lethal weaponry, and then did that stunt with the hot sauce and the cannon to knock them all out in one go."

"And how is this significant?" The NSA guy asks, steepling his fingers before his face.

"He just killed the President of the United States of America, sir. Why doesn't he want to kill anyone who's out to capture or kill him for that crime?"

"Sentimentality," the CIA person sniffs: "Our files indicate that he's too soppy for his own good."

"Sir, with respect, bull!@#$," Richter says, snapping another, much larger file down: "Yes, he might get a little maudlin now then. I know I would if I was him. But this is a man who shoots his own people when they go rogue or sell him out. This is the man who kills the Strategic Talents who go over the edge, or start heading for the other side. Some of the !@#$ he's done for this country has been... well, you must have read the report. There's some scary !@#$ in there."

"So, if we can dispense with the profanity," the President says: "What we should take away, here, is that this is a man who's not afraid to kill his own people when the situation warrants. But he's not killing the people who are out to catch him. He's trying to disable us, instead."

"Exactly, sir," Richter continues: "And while I'm not 100% sure of what happened at Detention Camp Zebra, I'm sure the pattern's going to fit. No casualties? Non-lethal force only?"

"That would be correct, Colonel," the Marine says, looking a little miffed to have to answer someone else's question: "They slipped in using our own security protocols, overcame the camp's minimal staff in such a way as to disable without killing, much less maiming, and then held tight until they were extricated. They even left us a timed message informing the base's medical wing to come to the camp and look after the people they'd attacked."

"Are they alright?"

"They're fine, actually. That Japanese fellow with the ghost army just put them to sleep. Woke right up after we got them out of the building. Pretty darned spooky, actually."

"And what about the Machinemarines you sent after them?" Richter asks: "The ones who followed the trackers they picked up in The Z?"

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with you knowing about those, Colonel-"

"Gentlemen? No !@#$ing contests, please?" The President says, waving his hands: "We're here to exchange information. Let's be open, okay?"

"The Navy found them unconscious but generally in one piece in Gibraltar," the Marine replies, albeit begrudgingly: "They had their homing beacons turned on so we'd know where to find them."

"And what did they say happened?" Richter asks.

"Well, when they got to that space vehicle SPYGOD was piloting, they entered in on a fight. Apparently, half of his crew of misfits had gone rogue on him. So there was a three-way fight for a little while, but..."

"But the Japanese guy put them under, and that's all they know."

"That would be correct, Colonel. May I ask how you know that?"

"Because that's what a Cuban superspy named Ombra told us when he came around, about an hour ago," Richter explains, handing two dossiers across the table to the President: "We found him and Whisper sitting at a table in a somewhat disreputable drinking establishment in Warsaw. The patrons said an older man had come in, earlier in the evening, in the company of a Japanese man, and these two. They also said that these two appeared to have been drinking already, because they were moving so strangely, but I think we have Chinmoku's ghosts to thank for that."

"What else did they say?" the CIA man asks, suddenly quite interested.

"Well, the other two had a few drinks with each other, and talked for about a half an hour. Then they shook hands, bowed, whatever, and went their separate ways, leaving these two behind. And when the manager of the establishment went to see about payment, those two proved to be unconscious with their eyes open. We had a worldwide lookout for people matching certain descriptions, so when the emergency calls were made, we heard about it."

"Is she up and awake?" the CIA man asks.

"No, Whisper is not. Which is a shame, because while Ombra can tell us what SPYGOD had him take from Camp Zebra, he has no idea why. For some reason he was less rattled by the sight of his own, impending death than she was."

"Is that what he does?" the Marine asks, looking a little pale.

"That's one of the things he does. He's supposedly the only person to survive mastering that path of martial arts. I think we can see why, now-"

 "That's beside the point," the CIA man sputters: "When will she be awake enough to question?"

"Hopefully soon."

"Have you considered using the N-Machine to find out what she knows?"

"Woah, that's..." the President stammers: "That's more than a little final, don't you think?"

"Sir, you have to understand something," the CIA man says, sitting up in his chair and tapping the relevant handout: "What was taken from The Z? Who was taken? There are no words for how powerful he is. I'm sure the Marines can verify that. The cell structure was fortified with a failsafe that would have turned him to sludge if anyone else had tried to remove his cryo-coffin, and for good reason."

"And I agree with the gentleman from the Company, actually," Richter says: "Miserable little !@#$ hasn't done our country a lick of good for years, quite frankly. But the truth is that she may not even know what the endgame is, much less the next step. Ombra said she didn't know, and I tend to believe him at this point."

"It'd be better to find out-"

"But while we're both not entirely dead set against turning her brains to tapioca," Richter interrupts: "You have to remember the process isn't 100% accurate. Also, some people have been trained to resist it. She received training with rogue, former Soviet agents, and we don't know what all for. So there's a chance she learned that trick."

"That would be a useful skill to have," the NSA guy offers: "It'd guarantee some offers for her line of work, having a pick-proof brain."

"But every moment we wait-" the CIA guy tries to emphasize, but the President holds up a hand.

"I think, in spite of recent evidence to the contrary, we can trust the Colonel in this matter. Now, you said they picked them up in Warsaw. I'm certain those trackers were going the whole time?"

"They certainly were, sir."

"So what happened between Gibraltar and Warsaw?"

"I'm glad you asked, Mr. President," Richter says, handing over some more reports: "The first stop was in Madrid. He stopped at the world-renowned National Institute for Inter-Dimensional Studies, and stole everything off their mainframe. Again, he didn't kill anyone."

"What is on their mainframe, exactly?" the Marine asks: "What do these people do?"

"Every time we encounter someone who claims to come from a parallel world, or alternate reality, or find something that clearly does come from such a place, the NIIDS winds up involved in one way or another. So every single piece of information about the subject is somewhere in that organization's files."

"And now he has them all," the CIA guy sighs: "What else?"

"Then came scenic Zurich. Now, we have no idea what he was doing there. But I suspect that SPYGOD has numerous things squirreled away all over the world, so it wouldn't be out of the question for him to have at least one account in Switzerland. Maybe a strongbox or two. He could have gotten anything. He could have stopped off for coffee. We don't know, but he was there for an hour and a half."

"Then what?" The President asks.

"Paris," Richter smiles: "Now, this is especially good. Did you know there's an International Museum of Criminal Art in Paris?"

Everyone around the table blinks, and Richter just smiles: "It's one of Direction Noir's side projects. One of their old Directors had what you might call a flair for the dramatic."

"A little swishy, in other words?" the Marine asks.

"Come on, you know you can't talk like that, anymore," the President chides him.

"Yeah, a little swishy," Richter spits back: "That man kicked more Nazi !@#$ than we did, sir. And he did it earlier than we did, too. Whatever DN's turned into, these days, back during World War II it was something else."

"Go on, please," the CIA guy says, clearly less than amused: "Tell them what the museum does?"

"It acts as a trophy room for everyone that Direction Noir has ever nabbed. They have the finest collection of Axis Supersoldier costumes, weapons, and paraphernalia anywhere on the planet. And they have first crack whenever someone France is allied with gets their hands on someone from ABWEHR. In fact, when the COMPANY liberated the South Pole, back in May, America made a substantial donation."

"So what did he take?" the President asks.

"Thor's armor," Richter says, and the entire room gets very, very quiet.

"That's..." the Marine says, going even more pale than before: "That's some... really concerning news, Colonel."

"Yeah, that is," Richter says.

"And they just kept this stuff on display? As art?" the NSA guy shouts.

"Well, all the stuffings and gizmos were supposedly taken out, and some of it was replications. But Thor's stuff couldn't be disassembled, just copied. They had the real one in a vault downstairs. It didn't turn out to be so burglar-proof."

"So he stole a young man who can use interdimensional powers," the CIA guy says: "Then he steals a wealth of information on our dealings with other dimensions, and the armor of a man who claimed he came from another dimension."

"Plus something from Switzerland," the President says, really wanting another !@#$ing beer: "Hopefully it was just chocolate."

"And you want to know why he won't kill his own countrymen?" the CIA says: "It's pathetically obvious. He's about to use these objects to threaten the entire world, probably to take it over. And he wants as many people on his side as he can get. If he hurt or killed our military personnel, he'd have two strikes against him. As it is, he's only got the one."

"You mean killing the President?" the Marine asks.

"No, I mean threatening the world. Most of you armed forces types didn't even like the man, remember?"

The Marine gets red in the face and just about jumps the table, but Richter holds out a hand: "Now let's say that's true. Why is he sparing lives overseas, too?"

"He's found a good rhythm and doesn't want to break it?"

"Possibly," Richter says: "But we need to remember the man's politics. He was extremely conservative, and quite distrustful of what he saw as one world government. So if he's not interested in ruling it, then why would he threaten the world? What could they have to offer him?"

"He was also a natural liar," the NSA man says: "It could have been a front."

The CIA man nods and applauds, and Richter's about to say something when a vibration in his own coat pocket draws his attention. He's about to ignore it, but realizes it's that vibration, and, with some annoyance, sighs: "I apologize, gentlemen. I think I need to take this call. It might be news about Whisper or something.

He gets up and walks away from the table, leaving the men to argue and almost come to blows over loyalty to the late President. As that goes on behind him, he puts the phone up to his face: "Richter."

"Do you know who this is?" the voice asks, quite familiar in its tones and cadence.


"I think so. Is this... Mr. USA?"

"It's (REDACTED), yes."

Richter's face goes almost white in disbelief, and then, before he can say anything, the voice on the other end continues: "Don't say anything. Don't raise your voice. If you tell them you're talking with me, the President will die." 

"Are you threatening him?" Richter hisses.

"I'm not threatening him, Colonel. I'm simply telling you that his life is in danger. But not from me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he's got people everywhere. He's global at this point. He got help to kill the previous President, and he's got help watching the new one, now. You're in a conference room with him and a few other people? Any one of them could be one of his agents."

"How do you know where I am?"

"It's a long story. Bottom line, I'm on his trail. I've been following him since Cuba. I know where he's going, but I'm not going to stop him until he's just about ready to do his plan."

"Why. The !@#$. Not?" Richter asks.

"Sir, with respect, I fought alongside this man for years. I worked with him for a long time. I've seen him at his best and at his worst. And I know it's impossible to sneak up on him unless he's extremely distracted. And when he's about to let loose with one of crazy, Rube Goldberg plans? That's just about the only time he is."

"So what are you asking?" Richter asks.

"If your people find out where he is, tell them to back up a bit. Just watch. Let me handle him."

"And why the !@#$ should we do that, sir?"

"Because no one's who they say they are, anymore, except for me. If you tell them you talked to me, that'll make his people go into overdrive, and he'll speed up the plan. And the plan most likely means another President dies. Do you really want that?"

Richter turns and looks at the President, who's slumped in his chair as the CIA, NSA, Marines, and god knows who else argue with each other.

"No, I really don't," he says, turning around: "And I owe you for a few times, sir. So I will respectfully agree to this plan. But if he turns this plan on, and you're not there-"

"I'm there, now, sir," Mr. USA says: "And you wouldn't believe where."

The phone line does dead. Richter sighs, and, turning, shrugs as he walks back.

"That was about Whisper" he says, sitting down: "Dumb !@#$ thinks she's Wilma Flintsone. Shall we continue?"

And as they argue, he prays to every god he knows that he just made the right decision.

(SPYGOD is listening to Somebody Else's Business (Pet Shop Boys) and having a Lord Chesterfield Ale)

3/12/12 - Disco - pt 3: Myron - Seventy, Eighty, Ninety, Party

It's 8:35 PM in Washington DC. This means it's 8:35 AM in Hong Kong. And this is highly relevant to Myron -- better known as Underman -- because he's spent the last few hours locked up in his office, trying to save someone's !@#$ from all the way around the world.

"Okay, then," Myron says into his secured headset, looking at satellite info on his computer -- sharp enough to see the mercenaries moving across the Chungking Mansions' rooftops -- and determining the best course of action: "Can you fight your way to the roof?"

"The roof?" Dosha Josh asks on the other end.

"Team one's on the move, Dosha. That means you've got twenty seconds before they're up on your landing. If you can get to the roof, there will be someone there, waiting for you."

"I hope he brought some transportation, Myron. This is going to be a short trip, otherwise."

"He is transportation, Dosha," Myron says, preparing to call in the person in question: "Now hang the !@#$ up and run."

He doesn't -- hang up, that is -- but Myron does, and immediately puts through a call to the transportation.

"Yeah, Anil? You get the photo?"

"Yes, I did," the young man on the other end says, somewhat petulantly: "The resolution is total !@#$. I'll be lucky if I don't teleport into the !@#$ing dock ferry."

"That would be kind of bad, yes."

"Okay, so I get this guy, and keep him safe, and then do that thing for you...?"

"And then we're clear, yes," Myron says, rolling his eyes: "He's on the move. Give him about ten seconds... um, wait, they're firing at him. Make that twenty. When you get to the roof, hit the people rappelling down."

"I'm not going to sing them a song. Anything else?"

Myron's about to ask something, but there's a loud and insistent knock on the door. This time he doesn't think it's going away, either.

"No, I think that'll be all, sir," he says for the benefit of anyone listening in: "I'll get that report to you as soon as possible."

"Um, okay," Anil says, and disconnects. Myron quickly disconnects the flash drive from the computer he was using, and prays it all works out the way it's supposed to.

It has to, for all their sakes.

Myron sighs, smiles, and puts the drive someplace very secret and secure on his person. Then he puts on his sunglasses, and takes a brief second to get into character: Myron Volar - Prison Director at the Heptagon - day 6 on the job.

When he opens the door, he's still smiling, but not as much. "Yes?" he asks the Agent who's been knocking away for the last five minutes.

"Sir, were you okay in there?" The breathless lout asks, looking rather nervous: "I didn't hear anything-"

"Private conversation, Agent," he says, closing the door behind them: "Very private. What did you need?"

"It's Dr. Yesterday, sir. He's almost finished with the device."

"Oh, good," Myron says, pulling his belt back a cinch and letting the Agent lead him: "That'll be a good thing to have, now won't it?"

* * *

It's been an interesting six days since Myron clawed, kicked, and bit -- literally - his way into this job. 

Six days of applying his technical know-how to make the cells and prison procedures as secure as they were when he was a prisoner here, himself, barely six months ago. Six days to impress New Man to the point where he doesn't feel the need to check up on him every few hours, just to be sure he's not going to freak out and stand up for SPYGOD, again. Six days to make him seem above reproach, and his Road to Damascus moment completely genuine.

Also six days to make sure he built enough backdoors and tricks into the system that he can do whatever the !@#$ he wants, and no one but him will know. Six days to figure out who's still loyal to SPYGOD, underneath it all, who's a now-satisfied malcontent, and who's been brought in to replace the more overt loyalists and thinks this is just a good job with the unique perks of being able to smack around supervillains.

(And six days to work on his special sunglasses, which are just about ready for a field test.)

On the way down to where Dr. Yesterday is working, Myron notes at least five separate, two-man teams of Specials: guards in weird, insectile armor with opaque, blue facemasks and sizable, underslung gauss rifles.

The Specials operate at the behest of the Director of The COMPANY, supposedly, but every time Myron tries to talk around the subject with New Man, the fellow doesn't seem to be able to articulate just how much control he actually has over them. It's like they just appeared, not long after the !@#$ went down with SPYGOD, and no one really knows what's up with them. 

(Myron's theory is that they answer to Colonel Richter; he seems the type to command a faceless legion of well-armed thugs, anyway.)

They go down the main elevator to the central computer hub, far under the Heptagon, which is where Dr. Yesterday has been working all this time. When they get there, Myron's pleased to see that the scene of the last few days -- entire banks of computers pried apart, and their wiry, live guts strewn all over the floor -- has been mostly reversed, and everything's mostly back together, again.

"Ah, Underman," the Doctor says, smiling and extending a hand to shake. He's quite tall, rail-thin, and dressed in corduroy pants and a questionable sweater, and sporting a jet black, pencil-thin mustache that does not go with his balding, grey pate and wrinkled face.

"Myron, please," Myron gently corrects him, taking his hand in both of his and smiling: "I like to think I've moved up a bit in the world."

"Ah, yes. Of course," Yesterday laughs, with a *wink*. Then he smiles, rather self-consciously, and waves a hand over the banks of computers: "It is accomplished, my friend!"

"The Anti-SPYGOD device?"

"Yes!" Yesterday confirms, and hands Myron a small, white box with a clicker button: "This will activate it from anywhere in the Heptagon. There are also going to be alarm buttons all over the place, at critical junctures, in the security rooms, and so on. You can have your people install them, actually. They're just battery-operated boxes, independent of the power grid."

"I'm surprised you didn't have your helpers along to do that for you?" Myron asks, smiling. For a moment it looks like the smile on Yesterday's face is about to drop off, but he quickly recovers.

"They're all engaged in research at the South Pole. You know how that is." *wink wink*

"So how does this work, exactly?"

"Well, it's a bit complicated," Yesterday replies with jazz-hands and another *wink*:

"Try me?"

"Basically, it creates a counter-signal, jamming the flow of information that he gets from that Chandra Eye of his. Should cause nausea, disorientation, confusion, sense deprivation... a really nasty package, all in all. Kind of like being tasered in the corpus callosum."

Myron nods, knowing how wonderful that would probably feel: "And how long can we safely leave it on?"

"I recommend short, one second bursts. Unless your really don't want him to be able to answer any questions, and in that case just leave it on for a full minute or two. It should turn him into a big, gay rutabega."

The doctor laughs, and Myron smiles, hoping he doesn't see how fake it is. He adjusts his glasses while pretending to examine the clicker, pressing a hidden button as he does. And then looks back at the doctor.

What he sees almost makes him drop the box, grab his gun, and do the obvious thing. That he does not is testament to the sense of self control that going through COMPANY training gave him.

But that he's seeing what he's seeing confirms something he's been wondering for some time. It means quite a few things -- terrible things. And it means that, tonight, when no one's looking, he's probably going to cry himself to sleep.

He really liked Dr. Yesterday.

"Well, I think that's all I need to know, then?" he says, hoping to cut this short.

"Yes indeed," the doctor says, putting a hand on Myron's shoulder and *winking* again: "You just leave everything to me, young Myron. We've got this whole town wired up, with multiple transmitters. He so much as shows his eyepatched face here, we'll get him."

"Good to know," Myron says, wishing he could unsee what he just saw, and being extremely grateful when the Doctor takes his hand off his shoulder and he can leave.

Going back up the elevator, with the Agent, he tries to be calm and center himself. He knew this was a possibility. He knew. It's why he made the glasses in the first place.

But now that he knows... well, he knows he has one less avenue to turn to when the !@#$ hits the fan. And he knows it's going to.

Still...

He grabs his communicator and calls the Doctor, who picks up right away: "Yes, Myron?"

"I'm sorry. Where are my manners? I totally forgot to ask about your wife. How is she doing?"

Another weird pause: "Well, she's busy down at the South Pole, too. You understand."

"Yes, I do. Be sure to give her my best. It's been forever since I've seen her."

"Yes, I will," he says, and disconnects.

So what does that mean, then? Is she dead, too? Replaced? Or is she alive, still, and just unaware of what's happened?

"You okay, sir?" the Agent asks.

"Yes, Agent," Myron lies: "Never better."

And then the elevator doors open, they step out, and he realizes just how !@#$y a lie that is.

* * *

Later, in his office, Myron has a very large, very stiff drink in order to calm his nerves. And then he mentally smacks himself for not having seen this coming.

His glasses don't just negate GORGON's stealth technology, allowing him to see their False Face agents for what they actually are. They also allow him to see the tech in operation.

And that's how he knows that every single !@#$ing Special Guard in the Heptagon is a !@#$ing GORGON agent.

There's maybe 70, 80, 90... a !@#$ing hundred of those well-armed and armored creeps out there, either on duty or just an alarm away from being on duty. And they're all GORGON. 

Every. Single. !@#$ing. One.

And if they're all GORGON, chances are !@#$ good that the Specials on board The Flier, guarding New Man and various, sensitive areas are also False Faces. Which means that it's going to be even harder to get word to the right people about what he's doing, and why.

"Buck up, Underman," he mutters under his breath, trying to regain his composure. He's got everything in place, doesn't he?

He's made friends with the Indians, and they know what to do. While he was out, hunting for enemy agents, Anil left a message that they were safe and sound and hiding out in Lahore, so there's that.

He's got trick cuffs on him at all times. Several pairs, in fact.

And he knows what to look for when SPYGOD shows back up again, as he said he would, back then.

So all he has to do is wait. For how long, he can't be certain, but the pieces are in place. He just has to hold it together until then, and hope no one sees what he's doing...

Wait.

He thinks for a moment. Considers something.

He chuckles.  Snorts.

Actually !@#$ing laughs.

He looks at his special, "They Live" sunglasses. Could it really be that simple?

"Oh yes," he says, downing most of his drink and getting up: "It could really be that !@#$ing simple."

He goes over to his tinkering corner of the office, gets some electronics from his bash box, and sends word that he's super mega-!@#$ing busy and can't be disturbed until, oh, next month.

"'Be seeing you,'" he quotes to himself, ready to engineer some massive payback.

(SPYGOD is listening to Time on My Hands (Pet Shop Boys) and having a Hairy Eyeball)

3/12/12 - Disco - pt 2: Aaron - Love and Crime and Collaboration

There's a spot in the White House basement where a room used to be, a few decades ago. But it's not there, anymore.

More to the point, as far as anyone knows, it's never been there at all.

The door's been covered up with impregnable metal, and that section of wall boarded and painted over. The architectural drawings have all been changed or replaced by authentic-seeming fakes. And the people who knew about it are either dead, dying, or sworn to several degrees of secrecy.

Sworn, in fact, to an agency that will know if they are even thinking about reneging on their agreement, and will take drastic steps to ensure they do not.

The room, like a certain telephone in the Oval Office, is a holdover from a much different era. An era in which the man who was President through most of the 80's rolled into office not only on the backs of his predecessor's many failures, but with the aid of a number of interests that didn't often see eye to eye anymore, if they ever did. A unique conjunction of big business, social conservatives, and religious zealots clasped hands and put him into the Oval Office, all hoping for certain paybacks for having done so. Some were well-rewarded for their time, others not so much.

But there was another, more sublimely powerful force made certain that he stayed there: an ever-present army of anonymous but highly charismatic men in black suits and sunglasses, with voices like booming thunder, and ways to not only know the truth, but get you to speak it from your own lips.

Call them The Backers, for want of a better, more spiritually-charged term.

With the aid of these beings, America went through a number of great changes in that decade. The crazed, hyper-kinetic excesses of the 60's and 70's were beveled away, and turned into streamlined, "on message" things that could be better controlled, or accounted for. The wildness of the era was played down, origin stories were changed from on high, and certain embarrassing facts were switched around to better suit the national mood -- as well as the desires of that one, mysterious force.

And, for a time, things in America made sense, again -- even if they really didn't. 

But those times are long since gone. The man who invited that force into the White House had his allowed two terms, and then slipped away into the mists of history. And the person who next occupied the mansion decided he didn't want those august beings overlooking his shoulders, much appearing from nowhere, clicking their fingers, and expecting him to jump out of his chair and come running.
  
No, this man had spent his time carefully amassing power, and he was not about to hand it over to the likes of them.

So he quietly assembled even more power, when he could be assured -- through fair means and foul -- that no one was looking. He gathered co-conspirators, made plans, and found patsies and dupes. And then he got one last, crucial thing on board -- the lynchpin for the entire plan.

In late 1988, during the waning days of his predecessor's Administration, a silent coup took place under the guise of transferring the White House's considerable keys from one man to the other. The guests of honor were informed, face to face, that they were no longer welcome at the party, and should leave as soon as possible. And when they attempted to protest, their irresistible force somehow met an immoveable object, and they had no choice but to leave as instructed -- leaving only an indestructible telephone to mark their passing.

In less than a single day, in spite of their great power, the Backers were sent packing -- consequences be darned. How that was even possible is something that not many are entirely certain of. It's said that only SPYGOD knows the whole story, and, if he but knew how quickly his relationship with the new President would sour, he might not have been as apt to help, if only to get one more screw in on the fellow.

And that would have been the death-knell of that plan, because it involved SPYGOD slowly and gently convincing a certain person -- the last being anyone could have ever suspected -- that America needed to be in charge of its own destiny, once again.

Somehow, SPYGOD turned an Angel, and poor Aarondiel -- better known as Aaron -- has been quietly paying for his betrayal ever since.

The night he stood against the Backers, Aaron lost his backing. His powers were greatly diminished, his tools of office roughly stripped from him, and all hopes of redemption and forgiveness eternally denied. True, they left him eternity in a divine, perpetual body, but that was a punishment -- perhaps the cruelest of all.
 
The last quarter of a century has been a massive exercise in humility for him. Where once he was the light, now he dwells in the shadows. Where once he was grace, he is now stumbling through temptation.

Where once he could uplift with his very presence, now he wallows in the dirt -- his life a near-endless sentence of binges and depravity, punctuated by the occasional moment of kind and selfless sacrifice.

Like now.

No one sees him enter the White House, dressed only in a long, well-worn, white robe and ratty, old sneakers. The President is talking on the television, telling his people that the events of recent days are actually a good thing, and hoping someone believes him. His advisers are waiting in the wings, getting ready to talk about a few key subjects they can't ignore, much less control.

No one sees him go downstairs, into the basement, either. They certainly don't see him walk down the one hallway that no one likes to linger in for too long, for some weird reason.

And he's completely unseen as he walks into wall where there was once a door, back when he stood behind the President at all times and kept him safe from harm.

Behind the wall is a blazing fire -- brighter than the Sun, yet colder than deep space. The fire emanates from a golden sword that has been stuck halfway into the concrete floor. It's been here ever since the night that the Backers were told to leave, and is all that's keeping them from returning, here, to pick up where they left off.

Aaron regards it for a moment, realizing how immensely easy it would be to pull the sword and change everything. It would utterly destroy his body, and condemn him to an eternity as a fully aware cloud of charred molecules. But he could do it.

"Temp-ta-tion," he sings. It's breathtakingly beautiful, however sarcastic.

Instead, he pulls out what he's been asked to deal with. It's a black business card -- one that smells faintly of cat !@#$.

He regards it, knowing that -- even if he can't quite see what it looks like, anymore -- it is, at its core, one of the most foul things in existence. And, keeping that in mind, he tosses it right at the sword, whereupon it shudders, curls, smolders, and then burns with a poisonous, red flame.

(He can just barely hear it screaming. For that he is eternally grateful.)

As soon as it's gone, the sword's flame changes, somewhat. It's no longer as bright, now -- as if something vital to its makeup had just been altered on the metaphysical level. 

Once he's registered that fact, Aaron walks back out again. The President's finishing up his speech, unaware of anything that's just happened, here. Hopefully it will stay that way.

Up to the next floor, then out an entrance no one really knows about. Through the fence, and the throngs of anti-war protesters, complaining about this latest affront to peace, love, and understanding. Past it all, expecting at any moment to be surrounded by disapproving, black-suited beings he once called brothers, but may now no longer call upon.

Of course, that doesn't happen. They probably have no idea that he's just done this. And that's why he's the one who has.

It's a quick trip to Dupont Circle, and a large, red-brick hotel where once stood a nice place to drink, but now is only a sorry, hippie-run brewpub collective -- one currently under heavy renovation due to an unfortunate misunderstanding, last June. But it soldiers on in spite of ongoing reconstruction, as the owners have decided to turn the misfortune into a post-modern selling point.

Waiting inside a booth, wearing sunglasses that never go out of style, is a beautiful fellow who looks like he stepped out offstage with Led Zeppelin: paisley shirt open to the navel, painted-on blue jeans, and black high boots that don't quite stop. He's drinking something foofy and not quite to his liking, but it's the best this artsy hovel had to offer.

"Is it done, then?" the Beautiful Stranger asks.

"It is," Aaron says, scooting in across from him after signaling for a drink. The somewhat brain-damaged waitress with multicolored hair seems to know what he wants without his asking, which is just as well as she has problems with hearing, these days.

"But will it work?" he presses, taking a long drink through a short straw.

"I think so."

"So does this make us partners in crime, then?"

"I like to think it makes us allies in salvation."

The Stranger hisses and shudders: "That word again."

"Would you like a different one?"

"Please."

"I had to take a step down to save the world. You've needed to take a step up. Perhaps we are sharing a car seat along the great curve."

"Yes, but where is this car going to, brother?"

Aaron shakes his head: "That word again."

"Would you like a different one?"

"Please."

"'Friend in need,'" the Beautiful Stranger says, extending a daintily-manicured hand across the table to shake. Aaron hesitates only a second before grasping it, firmly.

They both smile. It's enough to break your heart on ten different levels.

"You two... such a nice couple..." the waitress says, plunking Aaron's beer on the table and stumbling away. They immediately let go of each other and go back to drinking, all too aware that things are going to get worse from here on out.

Much, much worse.

(SPYGOD is listening to In the Night (Pet Shop Boys) and having an Angry Angel )