12/29/12 - Fata Morgana, She Keeps to Herself.

So, House Arrest.

I've gone on about it before, and how much it !@#$ing sucks. I mean, don't get me !@#$ing wrong, I'd much rather be here in my own bed, with my boyfriend, my music, (and, yes, my cat) than sitting in some super-slam, somewhere, along with all the !@#$ers I've locked up.

I mean, I have been !@#$ing jailed, before. It's usually some !@#$ing misunderstanding that gets cleared up well before I actually have to !@#$ing break out, or something. Nothing terrible. !@#$, by the time the government would !@#$ing call up and tell them to let me the !@#$ out they were just about ready to let me go, anyway, after what usually happened when they got my !@#$ pants off for the intake shower.

Yeah, you !@#$ing figured it'd be something like that, wouldn't you? You're getting to know me too !@#$ing well, son.

(Maybe we should do something about that...)

But no, son. I can live with being !@#$ing stuck here. I can live with having to watch the !@#$ world go apart when I'm not at the wheel. I can even !@#$ing handle !@#$ty post-Christmas TV with limited options due to the !@#$ channel package they arranged for this dump.

No, it's this not drinking thing that's really !@#$ing getting to me.

Oh, sure. They !@#$ing let me drink. They're still sending up my hooch when I !@#$ing require it, along with the daily food drop. Whiskey, beer, vodka, beer, port, beer, wine, beer, beer, beer...

But I'm not !@#$ing being allowed as much as I used to be. And that is a serious !@#$ problem.

You see, son, I'm used to drinking somewhere around twice my !@#$ body weight in alcohol every !@#$ day. And if you think that sounds extremely !@#$ing excessive, well, you'd be !@#$ing right. But I have what can be called a genuine medical excuse, as opposed to that wimpy rewrite of a certain metal-clad superhero by my least favorite homophobic writer.

It's this !@#$ alien peeper in my noggin, son. The Chandra Eye tells me everything that's going on around me, and a whole lot of that !@#$'s nothing I need to know. So I need to be pretty !@#$ing boozed up to be able to handle what this  of mine's telling me. Otherwise I get knocked off my !@#$ !@#$ and onto the floor.

And I gotta !@#$ing tell you, son, I've been sitting on the ground a !@#$ of a lot, lately.

Fortunately, there are other things that can be done. I've got all kinds of interesting herbal remedies running around this place. The Martians !@#$ing owe me big-time, so they've got me done up on enough of their so-called cocaine to kill one of their living mountains. And while it's not !@#$ing dulling me, the way the booze does, it is getting my brain working fast enough to handle everything I'm seeing.

And do you know what it's !@#$ing showing me? The !@#$ing deleted scenes reel.

Yeah. You remember me talking about alternate timelines and all that crazy !@#$? Well, it turns out that, if you're !@#$ing able to ride some of what this weird !@#$ alien thing in my head's got to tell me, then it's possible to see how some past choices might have !@#$ing panned out, if I'd zigged instead of zagged, said "no" instead of "yes," !@#$ed this one instead of that one. You get the !@#$ing idea.

Well, just my luck I can't !@#$ing see these alternatives before I make my !@#$ choices. All I can do is make the best !@#$ choice I can, and every so often I get a quick !@#$ glimpse of what would have happened otherwise, but never with a whole !@#$ lot of preamble.

So I'll just be sitting there, !@#$ing some ladyboy in the mouth from across the !@#$ room, and I'll have a sudden flash of being shot to !@#$ing pieces by Superscience Commies from the other !@#$ side of the Moon, and I'll flip the !@#$ out and shoot the room up around my date, only to remember that almost happened back in !@#$ing 1960-whatever, and obviously I made the right choice to not !@#$ing open the airlock, and just press the red button and shove them the !@#$ out of the ship, now didn't I?

(Doesn't do the poor ladyboy any good, but hey, I always !@#$ing tip well if firearms get inadvertently involved.)

So imagine this, son. I'm sitting here, staring at the wall, and all these decisions I !@#$ing made, five, ten, twenty or more years ago are all coming back to !@#$ing haunt me, one after the other. And for once, I can actually !@#$ing see them coming, and know what the !@#$ they were from.

Now how the !@#$ do you like that?

It's not like I can !@#$ing steer this boat, of course. That would just be the bees knees, as they used to !@#$ing say. But I can at least make some sense of them, now. Maybe even follow one option into another, and a little further out...

What's it like? Well, !@#$, son, don't you ever wonder what would have happened if you'd !@#$ing asked that person out, back in !@#$ing high school? Or gone to that party your parents told you they'd !@#$ing kill you if they found out you went? Or not went to it, thus avoiding wondering if they !@#$ing knew you went and just kept !@#$ing quiet all those !@#$ years?

Yeah. Really weird.

So I've seen all kinds of things, tonight. I've seen me not agreeing to !@#$ing go to Camp Rogers, and just spending the war in some prison, somewhere, so I wouldn't !@#$ing talk to anyone. I've seen me not kill Hitler, that night, and not have to !@#$ing deal with ABWEHR all these !@#$ years. I've seen me not develop that weird hate-love relationship with the Dragon, and seen myself finally just snap his !@#$ing neck in Hong Kong in 1997, during the handover.

...

Yeah. That's a lot to process, son. A !@#$ of a lot. I'm finding I'm having to just shrug and let a lot of it !@#$ing go, so I don't go !@#$ing crazy with regret or anger or self-loathing or something.

But one thing that keeps coming back? One !@#$ing thing I can't just sort of shrug off?

One decision I really would give !@#$ing anything to do over?

A little over two months ago, I had someone's life in my hands, and instead of telling someone who needed to know about it, I kept it quiet because I was !@#$ing afraid he'd !@#$ up, go soft, and ruin the whole !@#$ thing for me.

I was afraid that when it came to his own !@#$ family, he'd choke and call off the !@#$ war.

And I should have known better. I should have !@#$ing known!

Should have...

...

Well, truth is, it didn't matter. Either way, we didn't get to the Ice Palace in time. My team was too late, either way.

But in this other reality, where I actually did !@#$ing confide in the President, he only hesitated a half second before telling me to get a team and get it going. He told me he trusted me to !@#$ing deal with it.

And when I had to tell him we failed? Yeah, he broke. And I don't !@#$ing blame him. But he had the family that remained to lift him up, and he got through it.

And...

Well, I can't see more than two more steps down the !@#$ing line from there. So I have no idea if he would have been complicit in my house arrest. I have no idea if he'd be defending me or leaving me out to !@#$ing dry. I don't know for certain.

All I know is that, when some of the !@#$ started to come down our way, he looked at me like he trusted me to make the right decision, in spite of everything.

And that says a !@#$ of a lot to me.

...

So yeah. My boyfriend's gone to bed, and told me to come when I can't stand to watch anymore. My cat's !@#$ing drunk and useless, as always. And all I've got are scenes from a film that went off-track, about two and a half months ago.

Or maybe longer than that.

...

Is love enough, son? Is pain all we have when the curtain comes !@#$ing down?

Because I'd give my life for this world, you understand. A million times over. You know that. You know that. 

But what if it's not enough to be willing to die? What if I have to be able to do the right thing, for once?

And how will I know what it is when I see it?

...

You better go, son. I think that !@#$ing deleted scene's coming back around, and this time I might just shoot it away.

And if I hit some of those !@#$ing video cameras, outside, hoping to catch me in the nude, again, then all the !@#$ing better.

Nite nite, now.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Underwater Boys (Shriekback) and having not nearly enough booze )

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 8.

So, scandals.

I've been involved in enough of them to know how they !@#$ing go, son. And I think the best thing I can !@#$ing liken them to is a bad !@#$ing fart.

Now I know you know what I'm !@#$ing talking about, son. Imagine you've shoveled down half your weight in Indian curry that may have been made from a dead dog they found in the !@#$ing alley behind the restaurant, and drank five bottles of overpriced "imported" beer that may have been bottled next to where they found the pooch for all you !@#$ing know. And, now that you're working on some slimy concoction they jokingly call a dessert, you feel this gassy rumbling and thundering between your stomach and your !@#$hole.

And you  know how !@#$ bad this is going to be.

Now, in a perfect world, you'd get up, wander somewhere semi-deserted, and expel it out of earshot (and, more importantly, immediate noseshot). That way, as long as you don't !@#$ out half of what you ate in the process, you can just flee that !@#$ing stinkcloud of doom like you'd scamper away from some crazy-eyed greenhorn bugchaser at the leather bar.

But then, on your way to the can, you trip over your shoelaces or fail to hold it in for one, crucial second while getting around someone's chair... and then BOOM.

Next thing you know the whole !@#$'s room's filled up with the horror of what you've been eating. Everyone's holding their noses and screaming. Someone !@#$ing throws up, the manager threatens to kill you, and the EPA kicks down the !@#$ door to take you to a containment unit in the name of public safety.

Because's there's no !@#$ question you're the culprit.

Got all that? Well, that's scandal for you, son. One wrong !@#$ word, one wrong !@#$ move, and the stink-lines appear over your !@#$ing head like you're Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon.

And they don't !@#$ing go away for a long !@#$ time.

So, I'd just shoved my big !@#$ foot straight down my big !@#$ mouth and out of my big !@#$ !@#$hole, in court, and it was sticking out so far I could !@#$ing hop to work. The bad !@#$ing vibes were swirling around me like the smell of that bad Indian food doomfart. And I knew there was no !@#$ing getting away from it.

Not this time, anyway.

See, in the past, I could always find a way to !@#$ing deflect it. I could !@#$ing blame it on mind control, finger some third-rate supervillain from the Legion, shoot them full of !@#$ing holes, and call it a day. I could tell the press to shove it and hope some other scandal came along to take me off their mind, or arrange to have another scandal come along.

Now? I ain't got !@#$. The Legion is gone. The COMPANY doesn't really exist, right now. I have no real support structure to get my fine, gay !@#$ out of trouble once I get into it.

And boy, was I ever in it, after that little admission, and that was just a !@#$ing taste of treats to come.

See, I got on the plane for America feeling like a !@#$ing pariah, and wondering when those horse-eating !@#$ers were going to start throwing rotten tomatoes and stale baguettes at me. And I got off the plane to a mob of !@#$ing reporters who wanted to know what the !@#$ was going on, and what did I mean by what I said, and what about Hawaii?

What about Hawaii...

...

And then I went to the White House for Thanksgiving dinner, and wound up having to kill someone after dessert. Which is when everything I'd worked for since the President was !@#$ing kidnapped went right down the !@#$ing toilet, leaving only the bad smell behind.

Which is why I'm in this well-heeled prison apartment, with my boyfriend and my cat, and awaiting trial. Not for having killed that person at the White House, but because of it.

(If that makes any !@#$ing sense? But if it doesn't now, trust me, it !@#$ing will.)

No son, I'm being tried because I couldn't do the impossible in the middle of a war, but someone else did.

* * *

Let's talk about Hawaii. 

There was a cube on Kauai, by Waimea. I sent Mister Chaos, Ironface, and Brightstarsurfergirl there to knock out the Specials around it. And then they were to hold down the fort and nail anything the enemy sent West, towards the Lost City.

At least so far as they knew.

The truth was that I put them there for damage control, as I wasn't a hundred percent sure of any of them. Ironface had a bad !@#$ing habit of losing his !@#$ and attacking his friends, Brightstarsurfergirl gets tied into the whole !@#$ universe and goes flyabout if her meds are just a little off.

And Chaos? Well, his dad, Captain Chaos, was able to cause disruptions in physical laws by looking at something, but he couldn't control exactly what happened. He'd look at a car and want it to stop moving, but instead he'd reverse gravity and next thing you know the !@#$ thing was heading for the !@#$ing stratosphere.

Now, back in the War, when we needed massive amounts of !@#$ing destruction, that was great. But come peacetime, that never !@#$ing worked out too well. I mean, if you needed to catch someone who was in the car, and he went into !@#$ing orbit, well... there you go.

(We solved that problem by partnering him up with someone who could fly, in case you wondered.)

So his son comes along, and his power set is controllable, in an uncontrollable way. He could keep the effects contained within one area, and if anything got outside, they'd be reversed. Which was good because he had a habit of seriously overdoing it, and we'd have to move his victims away to bring them back to normalcy.

So, given their little problems, I figured we were better off keeping the three of them away from anything sensitive. And !@#$, they might learn something while they were !@#$ing cracking heads. Like control, maybe. Or how to !@#$ing pay attention.

But then, after I !@#$ing tell them not to attack the cube, because it's full of kids (not that they !@#$ing know that) they go in there and start blowing !@#$ up, anyway. And that would have been !@#$ing tragic on its face, except that they got disgustingly lucky not too long into the war.

And we owe it all to The Fist trying to !@#$ing kill them from trans-lunar orbit.

* * *

Ironface is crying, now. Black, gritty oil is leaking from his tin and glass eyes, shorting out external circuits as they course down his face and chest, but he doesn't care. He's crying and screaming and smashing things because he can't stop, anymore.

He just can't.

"Come back, sweetie..." Brightstarsurfergirl is saying, flying after him on her ruby board. Broken bodies wash to the sides of the corridors as she goes -- things that were once children, but now only resemble what happens when a small boy or girl is stretched out past the point of skeletal collapse, and then welded back together with metal clamps and bone glue.

Ironface killed a hundred of them before he ripped off one's robes and saw what he'd been killing, all along. Now he's regretting it. 

Now they're all regretting coming here.

"up is !@#$ed this !@#$," Mister Chaos says, looking around, seeing the energies at play, and wondering what it all means.

He reaches out to take hold of the wall, and it gives up its secrets to him. Suddenly, he knows everything, and understands why SPYGOD told them not to come here. 

"off feeding of are kids they...." he stammers, almost in danger of losing his chaostrance, but for the music he's listening to: "kids just. kids..."

There's an explosion nearby, and then another. The whole cube shakes, and it brings him back into the here and now, the then and when. 

"'they shot the pope...'" he sings, letting it all go wrong around him: "'they shot his !@#$... it's over now... that's what I said...'"

The explosions continue. White light falls in from the crack they made in the ceiling when they broke into this place. Chaos knows what it is a split second before it comes down to scour them all clean.

Particle cannon fire. 

And, smiling, he raises his hands to the sky and lets the power wash over him, and then through. Just enough to get a taste of the death he's being denied, today. And just enough to know its shape, and how to bend it.

How to change it. 

And he does. 

* * *

According to the debriefing we had, about a week later, Brightstarsurfergirl comes to a couple minutes later, and finds out that she's alive, somehow. Must be something to do with how she can !@#$ing handle cosmic radiation, I figure.

Ironface wasn't so !@#$ing lucky, poor bastard. She said that there was a robot-shaped shadow up against a wall and a few scorched parts on the ground in front of it. I guess that's the way that goes...

...

So she flies over to where she left Chaos, and finds him !@#$ing sprawled out on the floor, alive and human, again. All around him are children. And they're alive and whole and wondering what the !@#$ happened to them, because they can't !@#$ing remember a thing.

Last thing they can remember, they were coming into the doorway of the box and being told something special was going to happen. And then everything goes mercifully blank. 

What happened? Well, son, somehow, Mister Chaos turned that big !@#$ing wave of destructive energy into something else entirely. He made it heal them all. He made it bring them back to life, in some cases. He made it like nothing had ever happened to them. 

And when he woke up, an hour later, he couldn't stop !@#$ing smiling.

Of course, I ask him how he did that, and he just !@#$ing shrugs. He had no idea. And I don't !@#$ing think he ever will, either.

But that's how the ten thousand kids in that !@#$ing white cube lived while every other kid in every other white cube died, that day. 

And that was somewhere around a billion kids, son.

I mean, can you even !@#$ing conceive that? A billion. People throw big numbers around and no one ever gets any !@#$ing clue as to what they really mean. But a billion?

Hitler killed kids, too, but how many were in that ten million? Not even a !@#$ing drop in the pond compared to what I ordered my people to do, that day.

And you could say, yeah, they were already dead. And yeah, they were. And yeah, maybe there was nothing you could have !@#$ing done about it, either.

But then you look at that, and you wonder if maybe there wasn't something we could have done, if we'd just tried.

If...

...

Yeah.

So, there I am, and I !@#$ing had homicide for dessert at the White House thanksgiving, and the only reason I wasn't in !@#$ing jail, or worse, is because one of !@#$ of an extenuating circumstance. And instead of everyone being grateful and saying "hey, way to go, SPYGOD. Tough choice, tough world, tough man," suddenly people are asking about the White Boxes, and Hawaii, and everything else. 

And that's about when I just know that I ate the !@#$ing dead dog curry and sharted out the mother of all !@#$ scandals into my pants on the way to the can.

Stink lines and all.

* * *

Now, I bet you're wondering what, exactly, I noticed at the trial? That little thing I've been playing close to my chest?

Well, it was just a look between the Prosecutor and the Judge, at some point during my testimony. At the time I really didn't think anything of it, because I was too !@#$ing busy trying to save my fine gay !@#$ from looking like a fool, or a monster. But I did notice, and something made me !@#$ing file it away for later.

So it's a week after what happened at the White House, on Thanksgiving. And me and my man are heading through NYC, and we get set on by some !@#$ paparazzi.  Now, me, I'd just !@#$ing shoot the !@#$holes on sight, but Straffer's a cool cucumber, and figures out some way to get us past them and into where we were going. And he figures out how to tell me by just looking at me, and then where we need to go.

And you know how he looks at me, right?

Well, I remember, at some point, that's how the Prosecutor looked at the Judge. Like they were sharing a secret plan that had another secret behind it. The sort of secret that you really don't want people knowing.

(Not such a secret in my case, of course)

And, a week ago, I got it confirmed thanks to some little birdies in the TU. The Judge and the Prosecutor are carrying on something of a big !@#$ affair, and don't think anyone actually knows.

Now, there's not a lot I can !@#$ing do with that info, now. I can't even !@#$ing bring it up without sounding like a !@#$ing hypocrite, or some kind of wuss. But it means that Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud, whose ancestors did not like me all that !@#$ing much, conspired with his Prosecutor to put the !@#$ing screws into me when he got a chance.

And we've !@#$ing seen what's happened since, haven't we?

Yes we have.

...

Another drink, I think. This story needs a !@#$ing ending, and that's just what you're going to get.

If only everything was that easy.

(SPYGOD is listening to Return of the She King (Dead Can Dance) and having a Taj Mahal)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 7.

Okay, so, in the space of just 24 little !@#$ing hours, the tables have turned, flipped over again, and broken into !@#$ing firewood.

Suddenly, I'm the responsible adult at the party, because half the people I went to Paris with want to !@#$ing kill Mr. USA, and the other half are helping me hold them the !@#$ back. All because America's greatest hero admitted, in court, that he'd been !@#$ing helping the Imago all along.

Not because he wanted to, of course. But the piece of !@#$ wrapped in human skin that's supposed to be me from Alter Earth was pretending to be me, and making him do and not do things on their behalf, or else he'd kill his wife and kids. And since he thought he was !@#$ing me, and he knew what I could do if I put my !@#$ing mind to it, he was sufficiently scared enough to do !@#$ing nothing to stop it.

But while Mr. USA had no idea what was really !@#$ing going on, he knew he was doing wrong. But he couldn't help it because he was in love, and scared, and worried for their lives.

Yeah, it sounds like a !@#$ing spandex soap-opera plot, son. But it's real. !@#$ing !@#$ real. And yours !@#$ing truly had to !@#$ing drive the bus on it, which meant I had to put myself between people who had been friends less than a day earlier and keep things from !@#$ing degenerating into a !@#$ing Jerry Springer episode.

I think I actually used the phrase "We're !@#$ing doing their work for them" at least three times. And if that doesn't !@#$ing qualify me for a seat in cliche !@#$, I don't know what does. 

Luckily, that was the end of the Imago testifying, right then and there. So no more nasty revelations came out, at least from them.

(I mean, they !@#$ing tried to get the guy that was the former head of the CIA, aka The Sight, up on the platform to talk. But he was plugged into the Internet when we pulled the !@#$ plug on it, and it !@#$ing fried his brains. So we wound up with a wasted !@#$ day of weird answers, word salad, and the occasional scream when it all came together for him, again.)

After that, they got us back on the !@#$ing stand, over the next few days And it was pretty much by the numbers. The Owl talked about what happened to her family, what she saw in LA, and what happened during the Reclamation War. New Man talked about how they !@#$ing infiltrated the COMPANY, and what they did to him afterwards. My man talked about what they'd tried to do to him, and explained exactly what the !@#$er that had been pretending to be him had been using his weapons platform for.

(Nothing about what happened on Alpha Base Seven, though. We'd agreed to keep that quiet.)

Myron telepresenced in and told about what he'd seen, and had to do because of it, but he did it without looking at me. I think he !@#$ing knew that I knew, by then.

And yes, son, Winifred brought the house down with what she had to say, as expected. She actually !@#$ing managed to keep it together for most of it, in spite of her ordeal. I think being massively !@#$ing angry at Mr. USA and me helped.

By the time it got to me, I was looking out at an !@#$ing empty courtroom, friends-wise. The Owl and Talon left after her deposition, and New Man left after Winifred's. So it was just me, Straffer, Mr. USA, and Winifred in that courtroom, and Straffer was having to sit between Mr. USA and Winifred to keep her from having a direct line-of-sight for her patented Death Stare.

So I !@#$ing got up there, smiled, tried not to !@#$ing threaten the !@#$ Prosecution with a gunshot to the !@#$ing face when he asked for my full name, and answered their questions as best as I could. I told them about Unit 731, GORGON, and Imago, and the big !@#$ connection between the three. I told them about the things we knew about, what what we didn't know until just now. And I told them how we'd been fooled, and how we'd fooled them, and a lot of what had been done to !@#$ing save the world from them once I got back and moving.

And throughout it all, the Imago were just !@#$ing looking at me, as if they were waiting for me to say something. I did my best to not !@#$ing look at them, just because I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence any more than I already !@#$ing had.

So this went on for two whole !@#$ing days, them asking questions and me talking and trying to avoid looking at the defendants.  And it's three in the !@#$ing PM on the day before we break so us American witnesses could have Thanksgiving at home (which the TU was !@#$ing nice enough to do for us) and I'm so !@#$ing talked out it's a wonder my !@#$ing jaw hasn't fallen out of my !@#$ mouth.

And that's when I !@#$ it all up.

* * *

Prosecutor: Now, there is one thing I am curious about, and perhaps you could enlighten the court.

SPYGOD: Ask away, Jacques. I got all !@#$ing day.

(Laughter)

Judge: The witness will kindly keep decorum, and a clean tongue. 

SPYGOD: My apologies, your honor. Long day.

Prosecutor: I know, and we do appreciate your willingness to tell us as much as you have, or at least as much as you can. My question is regarding these so-called White Boxes. The ones that the Imago told us were schools, but were actually... harvesting camps.

SPYGOD: Yes. I don't think there's anything I can add to what that piece of... what the defendant known as Dark Star had to say regarding them. She pretty much told you the whole story. 

Prosecutor: So you did know what they were?

SPYGOD: Yes, I did. 

Prosecutor: How long did you know for?

SPYGOD: Well, I had a really nasty idea, right from the beginning. Generally, whenever anyone wants to take a whole group of children away from their parents for what's supposed to be their own good, there's something !@#$ suspicious going on. I think there's any number of indigenous people around the world that could-

Prosecutor: That issue aside, could you tell us how you learned for certain, and when?

SPYGOD: How is going to remain a secret. But as for when, that would have been towards the end of September. Maybe the 23rd. 

Prosecutor: You cannot say or you will not say?

SPYGOD: The date or how?

Prosecutor: How, Msr. SPYGOD.

SPYGOD: The how involves a very long !@#$ story, more than half of which is classified. Let's just say that someone who could get into something you couldn't just walk into went in there, for me, and told her story to someone who was used to dealing with people like that. And then I heard it from him, and adjusted my plans accordingly.

Prosecutor: Are either of these two persons able to testify?

SPYGOD: No. They're both dead. 

Prosecutor: I see. How did they die?

SPYGOD: That's classified. 

Prosecution: I think that, in the interests of the overall search for truth, some redactions can be made to the testimony for public consumption-

SPYGOD: No. No redactions, no black lines. You want the truth? I'll give you as much as I'm able to give you. You want to nail them to the wall with that truth? I'll help as much as I can. But either we clear the courtroom and it's just you, me, the judge, the dancing monkey, and the three pieces of filth sitting down behind him, and I'll tell you the whole !@#$ story, you just accept that I can't tell you certain pieces.

Prosecutor: Well then.

Defense. Dancing monkey?

Judge: The witness will kindly refrain from referring to the defense as a circus attraction.

(Laughter)

Judge: Order! The court will remain in order!

SPYGOD: So are we done asking about that?

Prosecutor: Very well. Let's proceed on the fact that you knew what these things were before you put the plan to retake the world together?

SPYGOD: Sounds good to me.

Prosecutor: I have read the reports of how the fight went that day. The beginning, the changes of the battle, the climax, the end result. It is quite a terrifying thing.

SPYGOD: It is, yes. 

Prosecutor: And all of this went according to plan?

SPYGOD: Well, since we're being honest? We lucked out, to be frank. If it hadn't been for the bravery of quite a few people that I hadn't been counting on, or that I thought were out of the game, we might not be having this conversation right now.

Prosecutor: Yes, I've looked at the movements, especially as regards the White Boxes. At first, you were telling your people to attack some of them, but not all of them. And then, at one point, you tell them all to attack all of them.

SPYGOD: Yes. That is what happened.

Prosecutor: What is the difference between the boxes?

SPYGOD: Well, the ones I had them attacking initially were the junction boxes. They had some that harvested energy from their... prisoners. And then they had ones that collected the energy from other White Boxes and redirected. When... Dark Star was talking about the cars that ran on children, they were getting their energy from those junction boxes. 

Prosecutor: So why did you tell them to attack all of them?

SPYGOD: There was a point where things went badly, and I decided we couldn't take the risk of them being able to draw any power from any of them. 

Prosecutor: Did the people attacking the boxes know what they were attacking?

SPYGOD: No. They did not. 

Prosecutor: Why did you not tell them of this?

SPYGOD: Because I didn't feel it should make any difference. 

(gasps)

* * *

Yeah, son. That's right about when I !@#$ing realized that I'd just said something I shouldn't have. Between the gasps and how the Prosecutor was looking at me the same !@#$ing way he'd looked at Green and Yellow and Dark Star. I also caught the Judge just !@#$ing glaring at me, right about then.

But you know, when you're down on your face and you're getting kicked in the !@#$, you know you have to take a few more kicks to the !@#$ before you can get up and kick back. So I rode it, figuring I could turn the thing back around.

I really shouldn't have done that, though. I really should have !@#$ing put my foot down and said no more questions. But I didn't !@#$ing think...

...

Yeah. So he looked at me like I was Hitler and he'd just caught me at the gay rodeo while wearing a Little Bo Peep costume, stammered a bit, and went on.

* * *

Prosecutor: They should not have known that the structures they were attacking were full of children?

SPYGOD: No. 

Prosecutor: In God's name, monsieur. Why not?

SPYGOD: Because they weren't children, anymore. They were raw material for the enemy to use. I had to deny the enemy that raw material in order to win the war-

(Crosstalk, gasps)

Prosecutor: That is...

SPYGOD: Monstrous. Is that what you're going to say?

Prosecutor: At least.

SPYGOD: What did you do, that day?

Prosecutor: Me?

SPYGOD: Yes, you. We were fighting to free the entire world from an enemy that was willing to put your children in energy removal machines and turn them into walking scarecrows. What did you do that day?

Prosecutor: I hid in our apartment's basement garage. 

SPYGOD: That's right. You hid. All of you !@#$ing hid. And before that, you were obeying orders. And with some of you it was because you didn't know any better. And for some of you, well, maybe you had an idea or two. But--

Judge: The witness will kindly refrain from calling the trial's audience into account-

SPYGOD: Now you let me !@#$ing finish! All of you. You're all sitting there in judgment of what I did. I made terrible decisions. People died. Men and women in the prime of their lives who knew what they were getting into died. People who had no idea what was going on died. Children died. The weak and helpless and totally ignorant died. 

Well, that's war, folks. That's what a world war is. And I have seen enough of them to know that, when you declare total war, and go after an enemy that's taken control of your lands, and your people, you don't worry about who your bombs are going to hit or how many people might get killed when you do this operation or that one. You go forward. You prosecute the war. 

And you can only pray that, when you're done, more of you are left standing than the enemy. And that's what I did. And that's why I did it. 

(silence)

Prosecutor: So... would it be fair to say, in your assessment, that there was no other way to win this war, other than killing all these children?

SPYGOD: Oh no. There was a way. There was a primary plan that, if it had gone according to plan, would have dropped every single one of those tin-plated mother!@#$ers right where they stood. But things didn't work out at the last minute, and that plan fell apart. So we had to go with another plan.

Prosecutor: And I suppose the reasons that fell apart are classified as well?

SPYGOD: No, but I don't feel like entering the personal failures of a number of scared and desperate people into the official record. 

Prosecutor: ... ? 

SPYGOD: That's all I'm saying. And I really shouldn't have even said that.

Prosecutor: So when that plan did not work, you went with the other plan. And this is why these children are dead.

SPYGOD: Yes.

Prosecutor: And you consider those children to have been raw materials, rather than prisoners of war?

SPYGOD: I do, yes. But even if they had been prisoners of war, that would not have deterred me, any more than it deterred the Allies back during the War, or any nation that went after certain groups of religious zealots after the Computer Hell virus. If they put a playground or a mosque in front of the training center, we'll blow it up to get to the training center. That's war.

Prosecutor: Well, that's... an interesting viewpoint.

SPYGOD: It's a sad viewpoint is what it is. And it's sad because it's realistic. It's the total, !@#$ed-up reality of total war, and it takes totally !@#$ed-up people to deal with it. And that's why you have totally !@#$ed-up people like me make those decisions in total war, and people like you hide in their basement garages and !@#$ themselves. 

Prosecutor: Well-

SPYGOD: And I'm sorry for the !@#$ing stream of foul language, your honor. But that's what it comes down to in the end. War is !@#$ing !@#$. And I walked through that !@#$ to save the world because it had to be done. And better me than you to bear those decisions.

Prosecutor: And we do not get a say in how those decisions are made?

SPYGOD: Did you expect me to call you in the middle of the battle and ask for your !@#$ opinion?

Prosecutor: Do we not get a say in how those decisions are made?

SPYGOD: Woah, there, chief. You're not Nathan Hunt and I'm not the Joker. Now, if you don't like the job I do, you can bring that up with your leaders, but-

Prosecutor: How many billions of children are dead right now because you decided they weren't worth saving?

SPYGOD: Too !@$# many. But there was no way they could have been saved. They were dead the moment they walked into those boxes. And if you don't believe me, ask your other witnesses-

Dark Star: Tell them about Hawaii, SPYGOD.

SPYGOD: Excuse me?

Prosecutor: Hawaii? What about Hawaii?

SPYGOD: Now look, that was a !@#$ing fluke. One in a !@#$ing million. 

Prosecutor: I'm waiting to hear an explanation.

SPYGOD: You're not getting one. I'm done.

Judge: You will sit in your seat and-

SPYGOD: I am !@#$ing done!

Defense: Your honor, with all respect, as much as I love seeing the Prosecution treat one of his witnesses as a hostile witness without asking the Court for its permission, first, I should point out that this court was not called to lay charges against this witness. It was called to ascertain my clients' involvement in what took place throughout the world over the last several months. And this line of questioning stopped being about that quite some time ago.

Judge: Very well. Prosecution, do you wish to continue treating this man as a hostile witness?

Prosecution: No, your honor. I do not. I suppose these are matters that could be brought up in a subsequent case.

Judge: Very well. The witness is dismissed, and this court will stand adjourned for the next two days. We will convene on Sunday, the 24th, at 8 in the morning. 

* * *

And the moment I got out of the stand, I saw the Prosecution and the Judge give each other a really !@#$ing interesting look. I didn't make much of it at the time because I was so angry I was shaking, but I just knew something was up.

Winifred wouldn't look at me. And Mr. USA comes over, puts a hand on my shoulder, and says "I've got your back."

Fat lot of !@#$ing good that's been so far, let me tell you...

...

Ah well. Here's to the sweet !@#$ing mystery of life and war. 

Down the hatch.

(SPYGOD is listening to Agape (Dead Can Dance) and having more !@#$ing Brenne)