1/19/13 - Nataraja, Mother!@#$er - pt.2

"Three Can Keep A Secret, If Two of Them Are Dead"
Col. Richter, Ben Franklin, Josie

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

The TU transports, already halfway across the Atlantic.

Elite kill squads, one carrying the special package. 

"Now," SPYGOD says, taking off the metal helmet.

"Let's !@#$ing talk about sukas, you sorry pedo !@#$."

A hidden driveway, behind the White House.

The Bugatti flies out, Ben Franklin laughing at the wheel.

The villains in their lair, making last minute preparations.

The Pusher nods to his men. "Get the 'porter in motion."

* * *

 Their orders are simple and unalterable.

Turn on the machine. Kill the city. Get SPYGOD away for trial. 

A massive, wide sword sprouts from his hand.

Shines in time with his heartbeat. Old friend, come back to play.

They lay rubber all over the roads, narrowly avoiding crashes. 

Heading for the Heptagon, ignoring the sirens. 

The Angle nods, grinning as he calls the idiot up. 

(He doesn't know what he's been asked to do. Not really.)

* * *

In the Third Base, an orderly kind of chaos.

Teams are divided. Final orders given. Guns handed 'round. 

Josie walks out of the Heptagon's front doors. 

A small, white box in her hands. Complicated lock. 

The brown dog smiles at the TU guards he's knocked out.

Kicks one to be sure. Enjoys the groan. 

Tempete Bleu sitting on his throne, over it all.

Watching the TU transports head for America. Contemplating. 

* * *

Yanabah and Red Wrecker have joined the others.

No worse the wear for "sleeping" so long, in their tanks. 

She looks at her watch, hearing the car before she sees it.

Chuckles, admiring the old man's sheer ballsiness.

Gold Standard comes flying over, her armor shiny and new.

"Any word from our friend, yet?" she asks.

Once SPYGOD's trial is done, he will break the world.

This is his black promise. His masters seem pleased.

* * *

A few of the main team wonder why Foudre Blanc isn't here.

Shouldn't this op be his show, really?

Bely Rytsar whimpers, under his useless armor.

Barely feels SPYGOD's blade as it cleaves him in two.

Up the main driveway to the seven-sided building. 

Ben slows down just long enough for Josie to leap in.

Remote cameras show their teleporter appear. 

A large metal box, marked опасность But he can't read it. 

* * *

Ah well, more glory for them. And he kind of creeps them out...

Ah! Neo York City's coming into view. 

Half of him goes one way, half goes the other. 

SPYGOD's sword cleans his blood off itself, misting it away. 

"Your box," Josie says, nodding to Mr. USA and Gosheven. 

Franklin takes it and grins, patting her thigh.

The villains laugh as he complains of feeling hot and stifled. 

"Tell him to take an aspirin," the Pusher snorts.

* * *

“Alright, folks, this is it,” Straffer says, eyes like stone.

“Today we save the world, whether it wants it or not."

As they race from the Heptagon, Ben puts on a white button.

For a moment, Josie forgets who he is.

The dog’s about to say something, but there’s a crash.

The two halves of Bely Rytsar sail out a high window.

But then, Tempete Bleu senses something else down there.

Something has just shifted in the world. 

* * *

“Some will take the conspiracy out. Some will reclaim our nation"

“And some of you will do what you do best."

He taps the button three times, and the world changes.

Becomes ghostly and white, with glowing visual echoes.

They fall down pathetically, guts like streamers.

Smash on the ground goes a Russian super-molester.

Something he’d been mildly aware of. Something truly old. Sleeping.

It’s awake, now. Alive and moving.

* * *

 "You’ve got teams and objectives. Use them. Do them.”

“No hesitation, no fatalities, no mistakes."

All in the car remember, they’ve done this before.

(Back when this whole con job was hatched, months ago)

SPYGOD leans out the shattered window, waves to Antonia.

“What !@#$ing kept you?” he jokes, smiling.   

“What is that?” the Antichrist asks, looking at the golden sphere.

His masters chatter like night insects. Useless. 

* * *

Suddenly, they realize something’s heading out to meet them.

Something blue, man-shaped, and glowing…

… appearing next to SPYGOD, and Antonia.

“I presume this means we’re doing it?” Nthernaut asks.

The world falls away, something large comes into sight.

A naval destroyer. Cannon Class. USS Eldridge.

“Please move the package into position,” The Angle commands.

“You have your coordinates. You are go.”

* * *

The transports bank and scatter, trying to evade.

They don’t have much luck, though. He's too fast.

“We are, yes,” SPYGOD confirms.

“Get them out of this city. All of them. We fight back from here.”

Ben drives the Bugatti right up alongside the ship.

At which point his passengers remember, and jump.

The teleporter complains, but the villains just laugh.

But then things flicker, just a little. Power failure.

* * *  

They land right into the makeshift dock, strapped to the ship.

A Josie and a Richter, standing guard, let them in…

… and Josie leads Mr. USA and Gosheven into the main room.

“About !@#$ time,” Straffer says, clearly annoyed

“It’s being done as we speak,” Antonia says.

Holograms surround her, showing progress across country.

He hears a name: “Sudarshana Chakra.”

It’s moving from Asia across the Pacific, almost too fast to see. 

* * *

“See you later,” Yanabah grins at Gosheven.

Her and Team Alpha join hands with Night Phantom. Disappear…

… leaving Josie to join Straffer, watching the progress.

On every screen, the exact same story unfolds…

… in every major city in America, the TU is being routed.

Toons in white power armor overwhelm and capture.

His masters hiss and chitter in fear, but he refuses to be cowed.

This has to be SPYGOD’s doing. It’s too coincidental.  

* * * 

Their transports are taken over, one by one.

Their controls are useless. They’re rerouted to New Jersey.

“Gold star, Gold Standard,” SPYGOD chuckles, looking west.

“Now, if you’ll !@#$ing excuse me? Here's my ride.”

Cargo dropped off, Ben kicks up the Music (Sharp Dressed Man)

Sets his time controls back to four days ago, in India.

“Oh for !@#$s sake,” the Pusher sighs: “Who forgot to pay the bill?”

“Me,” the Sound says, vibrating into the wall. 

* * *

“We no longer recognize your authority” the Nthernaut tells them.

“Cooperate, and you’ll be returned to France.”

With that, he steps out the window, and jumps up, spiderlike, to the roof.

He gives a thumbs up, as if hitchhiking.

There, on the windswept plain before a familiar cairn, someone has appeared.

Suit smeared with blood, ready for his payload.

A long flicker. Night Phantom appears, with heroes.

Then it goes dark. Punching and cracking follow.  

* * * 

The Pusher tries to take control. Gets broken by invisible fists.

He can tell the others aren’t doing well, either.

On the screens, the revolution. Heroes and Toons unite to win.

Mr. Chaos turns TU guards to butter outside his Ashram…   

… as Green Fury cleans up in Los Angeles...

... and the Owl and Talon take down the Chicago TU office.

"This is unacceptable," Tempete Bleu hisses.

He leaps from his throne, heading for the ball that hurts him so. 

* * *

“No, really, don’t get up,” New Man tells Pusher, as the lights come on.

“You’re surrounded, son. This is over.”

Within minutes, it’s almost all said and done.

TU offices go offline, and the guards are laying down their arms.

The phones from France ring and ring.

Someone thinks they should find the President. No response.  

Just as well, Tempete Bleu thinks. If he can’t try SPYGOD? He’ll break him.

And after him, the world. 

* * *

When they get to Jersey they see what he meant.  

The TU flags at the port are all down. Old glory sails, once more.

“And I don’t have a thing to wear,” SPYGOD chuckles.

The golden sphere slows down, just so he can jump on.

“Here you go, Colonel!” Ben shouts as he tosses him the box.

“Thank you, good sir!” the man says, disappearing into the cairn.

But the Pusher starts laughing, teeth falling from his mouth.

“Over?” he mutters: “Oh you dumb !@#$ idiots. You’re too late.”

* * *

But one of them keeps their head enough to remember -- the package.

He holds it over his head. Turns it on...

The sphere lets SPYGOD in. He floats to its center.

There awaits a man he hasn’t seen since Apollo 16.

Then Ben reverses, heading for the present.

It isn’t until he’s halfway there that he sees the silver hitchhiker...

“We already sent the nuke off,” the Pusher laughs, pointing to the screen.

“Kiss Barcelona goodbye!” 

* * *

Almost there. Almost. 

Nemesis -- formerly known as Ciel Rouge -- is taxing the powers this new body has to their limit, trying to get back to the Earth in time.

She should be able to make the journey from Venus' orbit to Paris in one, instantaneous teleport. Instead, she's having to make several, smaller jumps.

And each one is taxing her even more.

She should be stronger. She knows this. She should be able to do all that, and more.

But that's how this works, apparently. This body is still struggling with its old rules. Its old limitations.

And the fact that something as powerful as she is has taken up residence within it? Well, that doesn't help. If anything, it's just making it more confusing.

That's not the only thing that's confusing her, now.

Did she really just take over this dying body, like a hand slipping into a glove, or was she always there, somehow, waiting for a chance to wake up? Is she really Nemesis, or some blend of her and Ciel Rouge?

Or was Ciel Rouge Nemesis all along, waiting for this to happen...?

She isn't sure. Being a God does not come with an instruction manual. She was who she was, and now she is who she is, and after so long of being half-asleep -- hobbled by the weight of the Backers -- she knows only that she is free.

That and she's not the only one.

She can hear the others calling to her. Hoosk, from which all things spring. Kanaan, spinning the destinies of man and God. Satanoth, his presence awakening the restless dead.

And Shift -- also reborn in new flesh, she thinks -- who is telling her she really needs to get back to Earth. Now. 

"This would be faster if you'd just come and get me," she grumbles. But she knows he won't. 'The journey is the destination,' he'd say, or some such circular nonsense disguised as wisdom.

Nemesis doesn't have time for that. There is justice. There is vengeance. She is their instrument.

And in her case, the journey ends in both.

She grits her teeth and jumps again. Almost there.

Almost... 

(SPYGOD is listening to Tin There (Underworld, Wipeout Remix) and having a Barcelona) 

1/18/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 7.0

"This is What You Were Waiting For..."
Henri, Josie
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

There's the Story of a Man Who Loved Too Much

He Ended Up Inside a Prison Cell

You've Got To Want To Give To Get It

Or You Could Land Up In the Same Suspicious Hell

* * *

 "... news coming in from the city of Korhogo, in the Cote d'Ivoire. Residents are saying that, since last night, their town has been invaded by what appears to be the spirits of the dead. 

"They're described as human-looking, for the most part, glowing and translucent, and looking like they did when they were dead. Many of them are of local people, but a number are of strange individuals, many of whom appear to be wearing prison uniforms.

"No one's been hurt by these phantoms, so far, but more than a few people have suffered heart attacks and shock upon seeing them. 

"The Terre Unifee says that they are aware of the situation, and are sending Le Compagnie to deal with the situation..."

* * *

"Are you hearing this, then?" the white-armored Russian hero snorts, waving his hand at the television he brought into SPYGOD's front room, just to have something to watch, other than his apparently-broken prisoner: "I should be there, with my comrades. Instead I am here, with you."

SPYGOD doesn't even answer that. He's curled up on the couch, across from Bely Rytsar, listening to the same song over and over and over again on his headphones and crying. It's just loud enough that his jailer -- able to stay up and alert for weeks at a time, thanks to his armor -- can make out the tune, but not enough to hear the lyrics. 

But it's gotten very !@#$ing annoying. 

Sadly, Bely's not allowed to touch the prisoner. He isn't even supposed to yell at him, under the circumstances. Everything must be done above board. 

So if this pidaras wants to sit there, listen to that song, drink American beer, and cry? He gets to do exactly that. 

Still.

"You truly are a suka," the man mutters, disgusted: "I expected much better from you. You, the man who saved this world, and then betrayed it. One betrayal and you are done?"

His prisoner whimpers something. 

"What was that, little man? I did not hear you."

"I !@#$ing loved him,"  SPYGOD whispers, his voice like crushed glass: "I was going to !@#$ing marry him. I told him all that. And he just sold me out for a better job."

"Bah," the Russian says, waving it off: "This is what we are calling Monday morning in Moscow. Everyone sells one another out. No love is true. You called yourself the god of spies? Surely you must have known this?"

SPYGOD says something, but it trails off into incoherency. But the Russian doesn't care to have him repeat it, because he doesn't really want to hear it. He instead goes back to watching ghosts stumble around an African town -- maybe just a little less dazed and confused than his prisoner. 

He really wishes he could just hit him. That would make all this go a lot better. So maybe when he's done, and they come to put him on trial, he'll see if he can get in one good, solid punch to the promezhnost when the cameras aren't on. 

You can get away with murder when no one's watching. In Moscow, they call that "Tuesday."

* * *

Mark Clutch can't stop screaming. It's not for him. It's for her.

When he was young, and liked to make model kits, his father gave him an ingenious, little plastic contraption. It laid flat on a table, and had little grooves and slots that one could put alligator clips into. The idea was that you used it to hold a model kit's pieces in place while the glue was drying, so you didn't have to sit still for minutes -- or even hours -- to keep the parts from setting the wrong way.

He can't help but think of it, now that he's watching El Inquisidor Escarlata use a similar device to hold Martha's right hand down as he takes it apart.

There's almost nothing left of it. He's separated flesh from muscle, veins from arteries. All that's there are gnarled nerves and raw, wet bones, held together with plastic clips. 

(No blood no blood how can there be no blood?)

She stopped screaming a long time ago, maybe around the time he completely peeled her thumb. Now she just moans, as if she's coming out of a fever, and then slides mercifully under again. 

But Mark can still scream, and he does. Thinking of all the times he saw that hand in action. The way he held it when they talked. The way he kissed it, that one time, when they almost might have done more than just be coy.

Strings of meaty muscle, splayed out on wires. A deflated balloon of flesh about the wrist. Delicate webs of blood vessels, twisted and still. 

And bones, which the scarlet-clad interrogator uses an extremely-sharp knife to prize away from the tendons, one millimeter at a time.

"You know something, Mr. Clutch," the man says as he further disassembles Martha: "You do not know what it is, but you do know it."

"I don't! I don't!" the man screams, his mind a broken thing: "If I did I'd tell you! I swear! I don't know!"

"Then you must tell me more. Tell me everything."

"Please, Jesus! I swear I don't know any more than I've already told you!"

"Then I fear we'll be moving along, up the arm," El Inquisidor Escarlata sighs, tapping the wrist with a free finger: "Radius from ulna, stripped and clean. Then her humerus. Then her clavicle. And if I have to go that far, well..."

He taps the front of her chest: "I can take her organs out, one by one, and keep them connected. I can keep her alive indefinitely, though she is just pieces on a bed. And she will feel everything, Mr. Clutch. 

"And she will know your silence is what caused her that pain."

Mark just screams and babbles out everything he can think of, large or small. None of it is worth a !@#$, he knows. None of it will save the woman he loves. 

But it's all he can do, especially when their interrogator begins to unwind Martha even further...

* * *

"All of that for love?" Director Brilliand asks, seemingly astounded by what he's hearing.

Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir nods at the hologram in the corner of his office, sipping his tea from a plastic ball as he looks down into it: "I know, Director. It seems an insane thing. But you will admit that love has driven many a person to insane actions."

"I don't understand," the wasp-faced director says, shaking his head: "He did know that the damage to this robot-"

"Android, sir," the warrior gently corrects his superior, smiling a little: "But yes, he did know the damage was extensive. He did know it might be a long time before she was close to being herself, again. He even knew that she might never be what and who she once was, and that he'd just have to understand that.

"But tell me truly, Director. When it comes to affairs of the heart, are any of us willing to hear the word 'no,' or 'wait'?"

The Director considers this, and then nods: "Still, the carnage is extensive. So many of our orbital defenders dead or broken. So much damage done."

"Yes," Faraj says, nodding: "A sad thing. It's fortunate we moved it further away from its previous position, or else we wouldn't have had much warning, and no time to prepare."

"A good bit of foresight on your part, Faraj, yes."

"Simple precaution, Director. We have discovered so much more than we'd anticipated, but that also opens up many more dangers. I don't want a weapons test to atomize a continent."

"Have you had any luck with them?"

"Not as yet. If we had, we'd have used them yesterday, surely?"

"Ah, yes," the Director says: "Well, it's a good thing you have Hanami, then? I must say you are in very good hands with her aboard."

"Oh, very good indeed," the man says, smiling oddly at that. 

"And the launch date?"

"Soon, I should think," Faraj says, looking askance: "We've made incredible progress the last week or so."

"It must be soon, Faraj," the Director says, leaning in closer to the camera on his end: "I'm having a hard time justifying any delays at this point."

"Director, just less than two weeks ago we had a machine but no idea how it worked. Now we know that not only can we use it as propulsion and shielding, it can also become a weapon. But if we are to take it into battle, we must understand it completely, and well, or else it will be our undoing. Surely you understand this?"

"I do, yes, but-"

"Then you'll just have to tell the people you're dealing with that we only get one shot at this, so it must be done right. It's not enough to simply launch it and pray."

"Isn't that what we were going to do before?"

"Perhaps," Faraj smiles: "But things have changed. Now we have a real opportunity to meet the enemy with a real weapon. We would be fools to ignore it simply to blast off as soon as possible."

"There are those who think experiments can wait until Mars."

"I would rather not experiment over their heads, Director," Faraj says, showing some steel in his eyes: "They are being most gracious in allowing us to make our stand, there, and to allow the Venusians to join us. This is a delicate matter, one that your time dealing with franc-pinching bureaucrats and the European press hasn't quite prepared you for. If you don't mind my being frank?"

"I don't," the Director says, clearing minding: "But I worry if so much power at your fingers hasn't made you forget who's in charge?"

"Have no fear, Director," Faraj says, nodding: "This ship is yours, as is the mission and the glory. But I will do whatever I have to do in order to bring the best fighting force to bear. And that means being a warrior, a leader, a scientist, and a diplomat.

"And if you'll excuse me? I do have some science to perform."

"Very well," the Director says: "But soon, Faraj. Soon."

The moment he turns off the hologram from his end, Faraj stretches out and leans back, the better to watch Hanami going down on him. 

"Are you in good hands, Faraj?" she asks, smiling up at him.

"Oh, I think I am," the man smiles, reaching down to take her hair in his hand: "I'm sorry if I seemed less responsive. It's not every day I have to speak civilly with a man who'd planned to kill me."

"Not that he wasn't going to !@#$in' kill all of us," Dr. Fuller grouses from the window, where he and Brightstarsurfergirl are wrapped around one another, floating in post-coupling passion: "Good thing those kids found out what was !@#$in' going on, ey?"

"Yes," Faraj says, sadly, thinking of the cost: "But the truth costs us, habibi. It is never a gentle thing. And when it wants to be spoken, there will be no taking it back."

At which point he allows himself to do what he's been aching to do since that !@#$-smear of a coward called in the middle of their "executive meeting," much to Hanami's delight. 

* * *

"Oh my," Henri says, leaning back on the extremely-messy bed and staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide and unfocussed. 

"Oh my?" Josie says, lifting her very large self up and towering over him.

"Oh my..." the wormy little man repeats, seemingly lost in space without his glasses. 

"... God?"

"I do not believe in God," he states simply: "But I will pray to you all night if that's what comes of confession."

Josie giggles and smacks his chest, which makes him wince a little. But he's too tired -- too enraptured -- to feel any pain. 

He knew this was probably going to happen. He's known it since they started their trans-Atlantic collaborations. He'd been assured of it since he'd made plans to come here. And after yesterday, it seemed as sure as the Sun rising. 

But still, the moment it all came true? Magical -- pure and simple magic. 

On the screen, some British actor is running down a beach, trying to get away from a weaponized weather balloon. They've been watching that entire series all night long, episode after episode. To be frank, he hated it from the start, but it made her relaxed. More open to possibilities. 

More eager to see all the interesting things he'd brought with him from France...

Hours later, he was broken, exhausted, and happier than he'd ever been in his life. And to think, this was but the first night of so many!

"I'm going to get you some water," Josie says: "I don't want you getting dehydrated."

"Of course," he breathes, still lost to things. But no so lost that he can't enjoy looking at her big, muscular !@#$ -- upside down, no less - as she leaves the bedroom for its adjoining bathroom. 

As she does, he notices something he didn't see before as they were ripping each other's clothes off. A small, round mark, just above the crease of her buttocks. Something of a third dimple, sitting there. Almost like an "outie" navel, somehow. 

And as he looks at it, he wonders where he's seen something like that before...

The british actor says something that seems important. He doesn't notice it for the chilly feeling he's getting.

* * *

The man shakes off the cold and enters the Spanish post office, taking one last, careful look in the window in the front door to make sure he wasn't being followed.

Satisfied, he crosses the nearly-deserted floor -- almost closing time on a Friday -- and, as he's done a half a dozen times, goes to his post box and opens it up.

This time there's actually something in it.

He hitches a breath, and then exhales slowly. He looks at the small, plain envelope -- festooned with stamps and stickers indicating it should get here as fast as inhumanly possible.  And as soon as he's sure it's not a threat he takes it, slips it into his coat pocket, and goes back out into the cool air of Irun.

It rattles and thumps, whatever it is. He's sure it's not a bomb. It could be a tracker, though. If so he should wander a bit before opening it, just to be able to give anyone the slip.

At some point, he decides he's gone far enough. He stops by a park overlooking the Rio Bidasoa and, sitting on a bench, opens it up.

Inside is a note, wrapped around a something wrapped in bubble wrap. He doesn't have to look at it too hard to realize it's a fairly sophisticated CPU -- the kind that would have been used as the memory and mind of a certain kind of robot.

The kind he's been intimately familiar with for some time, now.

The note's a simple scrawl: This is her. They have her head. They think the CPU is in it. 

I was ordered to destroy it, but !@#$ that !@#$, man. I know how you feel. 

So you look after her, and stay low 'til we're in the clear. 

And if you do put her back together? Leave me the !@#$ out of it if it goes bad. 

The Violet Demon smirks and nods: "Thanks, man."

And then he balls up the paper and tosses it into the river, walking away with METALMAID in his pocket, wondering how he does feel about the psychotic Slaughterbot his life has revolved around for far too long, now.

Maybe he loves her. Maybe he's using her. Maybe he's somewhere between the two.

But he knows he better figure it out, and quick. Time is not on his side, now.

And if he screws this up, well, the consequences could be really !@#$ messy.

* * *

Martha Samuels can't stop screaming. It's not for her. It's for Mark.

When she was young -- still just the Talon to her father's Owl -- they ran into a dangerous sex offender. He called himself The Glove Man, which showed a real lack of creativity on his part. But what he lacked in that regard, he made up for in the imaginative ways he used his razor-sharp namesake on young men in the Chicago suburbs.

One time, they'd just missed him. He'd been there not more than ten minutes before they'd arrived, and before he'd gone he'd mutilated no less than four young men -- all of them flayed and vivisected, each one just a little different from the others.

As she stood there, trying not to cry as the four wounded boys gasped in pain, she couldn't help but think that what their tormentor had left behind looked like prehistoric ferns in a movie, all twitching and curling in the ancient wind. 

And as hard as she tries, she can't help but think of those bloody flesh-ferns as the scarlet-robed interrogator uses that knife-glove thing to dig deep into Mark's groin.

"You know something, Ms. Samuels," the man says as he slides his pinky-knife into Mark's perineum, angling up to miss the bone: "You do not know what it is, but you do know it."

"I don't!" she yells as Mark screams anew, finding some new reservoir of air at this latest degradation: "I can't tell you what I don't know! How can I tell you what I don't know?!?!"

"Then you must tell me more. Tell me everything."

"I've already told you everything! I don't know any more! I swear to God, please, just leave him alone!"

"Then I fear we'll be doing permanent damage, here," El Inquisador Escarlata says, pulling the knife in and out: "Maybe I'll leave him with no bowels. Would you love him if he had to defecate into a bag, Ms. Samuels? They smell. They burst. And they look quite unsightly."

"Please, leave him alone," she begs: "Work on me, okay? You do it to me. You leave him alone!"

"Oh no," the man says, smiling and regarding her: "There is no place for that, here. You cannot ask me to give his pain to you, any more than he can take yours when your time comes. All you can do is watch him be taken apart, slice by slice, inch by painful inch. 

"And he will know your silence is what caused him that pain."

Martha screams, again. She prays to God to get them out of here. To make this stop she'll do anything. Anything. 

But if God is listening, he doesn't make a sound.

* * *

"So, here's the thing," the badly-mustached man explains to the Emperor of Pain, gesturing wildly as he talks a mile a minute in the otherwise-deserted dining area: "This guy, he's got every !@#$ reason to hate this person, right? He !@#$ing killed his girlfriend, burned half his face, and has been causing this huge rain of !@#$ all over town, right?"

"Right," the older man sighs, wondering where The Sound is going with this.

"But then, after he gives him this total bull!@#$ line about how he doesn't ever plan anything out-"

"Why is it bull!@#$?"

"Are you kidding me, old man?" The Sound laughs: "Half the movie is this guy's plans unfolding. He's got one plan nestled inside another, like those... um... what the !@#$ are those dolls where there's the one inside the other?"

"Matryoshka?" the Emperor says, his annoyance becoming palpable.

"Yeah! Those things. So it's all one big !@#$ing plan. And then he explains that he did this to upset the system that this man was a part of, just to show him how !@#$ wrong he was. He's completely !@#$ing invalidated his whole !@#$ life in less than a day, right?

"And then, get this, he !@#$ing gives this man a gun, knowing he'll give him a 50/50 chance of survival, and gambles it all on the guy going his way. He got this man to go over to his side of things, even though he did all that crazy bad !@#$ to him."

"And that's why you love that movie?"

"Yes! Because the Joker totally turned Two-Face, and he spent the whole !@#$ing movie setting it up! Brilliant!"

"So you say," the old supervillain says, narrowing his eyes: "A curious turn of phrase, Sound."

"Oh?" the man says, brushing his 'stache with a finger: "What do you mean?"

"Well... I've always considered henchmen to be disposable," the man says, leaning into the table: "And as for alliances with others? Well, they're never to be entered into lightly, but then never to be depended upon, either. I'm sure you've noticed that our fraternity is quite a mess?"

"Well, yeah," The Sound says, not sure where this is going.

"So I've learned to trust my instincts, over the years. If someone doesn't sound right, I get rid of them. If something doesn't feel right? I leave. No apologies, no regrets. I either kill or climb into my car, sometimes both.

"And if I'm wrong? Well, it's not like I'm going too lose any sleep over it, am I?"

"No, I guess not," the younger villain says, grinning: "Reminds me of this !@#$er I knew-"

"Tell me, Sound. You've heard the story about the infamous meeting at Doctor Morbo's castle, yes?" the Emperor of Pain says, leaning back a bit and twiddling his fingers: "The one where all us big time villains came together to try and work out a mutual arrangement. A team-up, if you will?"

"I heard it went right down the !@#$ing toilet."

"Yes, it did. And the reason why isn't something we like to talk about. But... would you like to know what happened? Who really threw the first punch?"

"Uh, !@#$ yeah," the Sound says, scooting his chair into the table: "Lay it on me, old man."

"Well, it was the funniest thing," the Emperor says, ignoring the younger villain's attempt at flippancy: "There I was, in this room. And I was there with Doctor Morbo, our host, and the Lord of Spiders, whom you know. Duke Bloodmoon had come down from his rival castle, Steel Corsair from his zeppelin. The Steamqueen, herself, was there, which was no little thing. And The Human Scream and Mister Foulness, neither of whom was ever pleasant company. And all our chief henchmen and seconds in command. Everyone, really.

"And then someone, I won't say who, said the most curious thing. It was a phrase. A throwaway line, really. 

"But something about how that person said it? The way it left their lips? It made me think that this person was hiding something. 

"And maybe it was nothing, just some little thing. Maybe wanting to get the others to do in their old rival once the plan really got off the ground. Like I said, you know how we all are.

"But as the conversation went on, and we began to hammer out what hoped to achieve, and desired to do, the more I listened to what this person had to say, and couldn't help but think that everything they said was wrapped around whatever they were hiding. That they were steering the conversation this way, or that, in accordance with that secret.

"And do you know, Sound? I got the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this person wasn't here to do our kind of work. Maybe this person was here to do someone else's work."

"You mean a plant?" the Sound says, aghast.

"Yes, Sound," the Emperor says: "A plant."

"Holy !@#$."

"Indeed," the old man says, nodding: "Now, I had no proof. Mindreading was never my forte, you understand. But I did understand that the longer we sat there, with this possible traitor in out midst, the greater the chance someone might smash into our room. I'm sure I need not elaborate."

"Well, no. So what did you do?"

"Oh, I hurt the Human Scream," the Emperor of Pain smiles: "Just a short, sharp twinge in the solar plexus. But angled in such a way that he thought the person I suspected had done one of their trademark tricks. 

"And once he got up to remonstrate with that person? Well..." the Emperor waves a hand: "Things were said, fists were thrown, henchmen and seconds sacrificed. A villain or two destroyed, or maimed. And I alone escaped unscathed to tell the tale... well, I and Morbo, the Lord of Spiders, and Steamqueen, at any rate."

"Wow," the Sound says, nodding: "So what brought that up?"

"You did," the Emperor says, pointing a finger at the man's head, which instantly feels as though he's had the mother of all brain freezes: "'Turned,' you said? Do you know who uses that kind of terminology, Sound? Someone who's been turned, or else spends too much time doing the biding of someone who turns others.

"Like SPYGOD, for example."

"Agh, no!" the Sound tries to say, holding his hands to his temples to keep his brains from exploding: "I swear, no-"

"Swear all you like, little man," the old fellow says, standing up and increasing the pain levels: "I don't like you. The Pusher doesn't care about you. No one will mourn or miss you, except maybe the Angle. And he's not here, is he?"

The Sound grits his teeth, and then, suddenly, stops being in pain. 

The old man looks surprised, and then realizes he can't hurt a man if he's not solid. 

But before he can cry out or do anything, the Sound puts his intangible fist through the Emperor's chest, and then goes whole and full once more. 

The sound is disgusting -- especially when the Emperor coughs up blood -- but he dies before he can visit any more pain on his assassin. 

The Sound turns semi-solid, and lets the old man drop to the floor. Then he sighs, long and deep, and takes out a small communicator from just inside the neck of his costume. 

"Fury one, calling in," he mutters: "Fury one, calling Shadow Cabinet. Big !@#$ emergency. Over."

"This is Shadow Cabinet," a scrambled voice answers: "Receiving. Over."

"I just had to !@#$ing kill the Emperor of Pain," the Sound says: "He was onto me. No one saw. Please advise. Over."

There's just hissing for a moment, and the villain can imagine the man on the other end sighing, smacking himself in the head, and cursing his luck. 

"Can you hide the body? Over."

"I can, sure. Over."

"Then do so, and lay low. Operation Game Changer is on schedule. Repeat, Game Changer is on schedule."

"Copy that," the Sound says, and, quick as he can, bundles up the old man's lifeless body and sinks into the floor, planning to dump the Emperor somewhere in the ground, and then go back up to clean up the mess. 

And pray he can hold it together long enough for the !@#$ do go down. 

* * *

There's a spot in Neo York City very few people know about -- a completely-sealed room with no doors or windows, where only those who know of it can go.

It's a drop spot -- and occasional meeting place -- for those lucky few who can teleport, and only those who are known to SPYGOD are allowed to enter at all.

As such, it's not used a lot. It's kept meticulously clean, but no one is sure by whom.

And to speak of it to others is to be excluded from the fraternity, and perhaps a few other things as well.

Today, there have been two entrances, and two exits.

The first was this morning. A well-dressed, African man was teleported in by an African woman in jeans and a t-shirt (Kurt Lives, with a blue, demonic face below the lettering). They left a small, white box with a complicated lock on a table, and then left as quickly as they'd come.

The second was this afternoon. A woman in red leather, her features masked by a skull-bandana and a pair of large sunglasses, was teleported in by a man in a blue suit. He released her so she could take the box, and lit up a nasty, French cigarette as she examined it.

Then she walked back into his arms, and they vanished.

And the second they were gone, the room shimmered just a little, as someone odd stepped into it.

A middle-aged woman dressed like a 60's hippie stood there, looking around as she absentmindedly crocheted what might have been a very long hat. She looked over her granny glasses and took in the room, with gold in silver eyes. 

And then, after she saw everything that had happened, and would ever happen in this room, she looked up, as if she could see someone, and said one word: "Interesting!"

With that, she walked back into the wall, as if she was never ever there.

(SPYGOD is listening to Before (Pet Shop Boys) and having an Ananke)

1/11/13 - Les Hommes de Pourpres - (Les Trois Grands) - pt 2

"MMM," the older man says, taking a happy bite of the weird, oreo-filled concoction in front of him: "Now this is what I call a pie."

"I'd sure hope so," his younger dining companion says, not looking very enthusiastic about his own: "If you thought it was a shoe I'd be worried."

"No, it's just that I got really sick of those pies they have at McDonalds, these days."

"Oh, those pieces of !@#$," the young man agrees, noticing that the Burger King's dining room is just a little less occupied than it was before: "You remember when they used to fry them?"

"I do I ever. Those were so good."

"Hot apple pies, cherry pies. Every so often they'd have something else instead of the cherry."

"Do you remember what the others were?" the older man asks, taking a last, loving bite of his dessert: "I mean, now they've got pumpkin and whatever, but I don't pay attention, really."

"Me neither. But I remember I used to get a couple hot apple pies to go, take them home, nuke 'em in the microwave for a couple seconds, and then put them on a big bowl of vanilla ice cream and call that dessert."

"Oh, that sounds really good, son. When did you do that?"

"When I was a kid," he tells the older man, not without a little bite.

"Right," the older man says, trying not to sigh: "When did they stop frying them?"

"Sometime in the 90's. All that health-conscious bull!@#$. They stopped using beef tallow for the fries and stopped frying their pies."

"That's right. The fries haven't been nearly as good since."

"No, they haven't," the younger man says, and hopes they can just be silent for a while.

* * *

"What do you mean by 'be quiet?'" Abdullah Ismail asks, looking at the very thick, ultra-official stack of documents he's been asked to sign.

"Just that, really," the well-dressed prison official says, putting his hands on either side of the sheaf and scooting them towards Abdullah, just a little bit more: "You keep your mouth shut about what's happened, and you go free, and stay free. So long as you don't do anything else, of course."

"Or talk about it."

"Well, naturally," the man says, waving a hand over the stack of paper: "You can be quiet, can't you?"

Abdullah raises an eyebrow, and then winces, rubbing his sore head with the less-painful side of a broken hand. Apparently he all but smashed them both against a wall at some point during his soon-to-be-brief captivity, here in the dungeons of the Police Nationale. But he can't remember a thing about it. 

He remembers being in his friend's darkened apartment. He remembers the horrible things he discovered there. And he remembers one of Les Trois Grands beating him unconscious.

But past that? It's all bits and pieces. A dream of a snake-faced woman who meant him harm, a lady in red who was concerned for his dreams, and a nurse who poorly tended his wounds while whispering poison into his ears. Then it's just hate -- waves of blinding, utter hate he hasn't experienced since he encountered a childhood friend who'd gone jihadi on him after graduation.

And now, this morning, he wakes up in pain and confusion, and barely has a chance to come to grips with any of it before guards come in, wash him and dress him, and gently but firmly bring him into this stark, small room (barely enough space for the desk and the chairs they're all using) and ask him to fill out... this. 

"'I was a victim of mistaken identity,'" Abdullah quotes, looking halfway down the top sheet: "'This was due to my being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I acknowledge my error, and absolve the Terre Unifee, and its agents, of all culpability in the matter.'"

"Yes," the official says: "And it goes on and on like that for several more pages, before the really dense legal things come up. But in a nutshell? We are sorry we mistook you for a terrorist. There were extenuating circumstances and we didn't have a lot of time to deal with them-"

"Obviously," Abdullah snorts: "Punch first, ask questions later."

"It happens."

"Yes, and mostly to Beurs."

"We acknowledge your pain and suffering," the official goes on, clearly not wanting to discuss that side of the issue at length: "And we are willing to recompense you for them at a fair amount. But if you discuss our ongoing security efforts, you may jeopardize a number of other operations currently in play against the real terrorists, and that would create problems."

"So I sign this merde, walk out of here... well, limp out of here, and don't tell anyone why I have a broken leg, cracked ribs, and a face that looks like a punching bag, and that's that?"

"Or you stay here, locked down, until our current security crisis is over."

"Which will be never."

"Well, I refuse to be so pessimistic," the official says, dying for a cigarette: "I fully believe that, one day, you all will realize how good you have it here, in France. I also believe that you'll come to understand that the best way to integrate is to accept the discomfort of those you're integrating into, and work harder to prove yourselves to them."

"So we can't have equality and freedom until you see us as brothers, is that it?"

"Well, look, you can't just expect everyone to get along from the start. There's always going to be this sort of thing, in any society. And protesting and being angry when we make mistakes? Well... that doesn't help."

Abdullah Ismail just looks at the man. He thinks of his friends, beaten and fingered by lazy, racist cops. He thinks of the constant racist taunts and suspicious looks from the people on the streets. He thinks of how his more pious friends can't wear hijab or prayer beads to work, and how their children can't wear them to school. 

And he thinks of the awful smile on the man in white armor as he called him a negro and beat him like a dog. 

Somehow, Abdullah gets the strength to stand up, tip the table over, and send the sheaf of papers every which way. He also maintains the strength to scream, and fight with the first two guards that come rushing into the room. And he doesn't stop struggling until someone succeeds in putting him in a choke hold -- knocking him out and down.

Down into the darkness of his broken, half-memories, in which some things are finally beginning to make sense.

* * *

"I guess we're all let down by our childhoods, eventually," the older man says: "I can remember when you could have a quarter last all day. It'd get you a movie, a couple candy bars, and bus fare. Now, they won't even get you a half an hour on a parking meter."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You go most places, you're lucky to get ten minutes."

"I thought you didn't have to worry about things like that, anymore."

"Why?"

"Well, being an official hero and all? I figured you could just park wherever, and put a little sign on the dashboard saying 'on business,' or something."

"If only," the older man says: "And you should know. Didn't you read that phone book the TU sent when it absorbed us all?"

"No. I think it's still sitting on my coffee table. My real coffee table, that is. Not the one I'm using now."

The older man nods: "How long do you think you can retain your cover with the Scarlet Factotum?"

"With the crazy red robot? Indefinitely."

"Really?"

"Sadly, yes. She's angry as !@#$, naive as !@#$, and so fixated on her big plan to conquer the world that she's !@#$ing missing the forest for the trees, not to mention half the continent."

"What about her allies?"

"Those morons? Well, one of them's just there for a paycheck. As soon as the !@#$ hits the fan, he's gone. The others are a leader who's better as a follower and a useful idiot who can't even die correctly. So long as they think I'm down with the program they won't stick their noses in too deeply." 

"Do you think you can rein her in a little? Keep this from getting as bloody as it could be?"

The young man looks at his father, and then slowly shakes his head: "I hate to quote movies, dad, but I'm afraid there will be blood. The good news is that, if our latest intel is correct, a lot of it's going to be supervillains killing supervillains. But no one's walking out of this with clean hands. You knew that, right?"

"I know, yeah." the older man sighs, having a sip of the coffee he got with the pie: "I just keep hoping for a miracle, you know?"

* * *

"!@#$ing stupid meatbags!" METALMAID screeches, pounding her fist into a nearby wall. It breaks around it like it was made of glass, and she just stands there, amazed at her own strength.

"Well, look, I know it looks bad," the Sound says, waving a pad up as he follows after her: "And no, I'm not happy we lost three operatives in one go. Especially not Nefartiti. She was !@#$ fine-"

The Pusher coughs into his fist, and the Sound grits his teeth and gets back on subject: "But the mission was accomplished. They uploaded the information we needed. We now know a lot more than then we did before about how their super structure works."

"Super structure," the Pusher nods: "I like that. Very catchy."

"I could care less about {quote}buzzwords{endquote} right now," METALMAID hisses: "What I care about is the fact that they probably know what we were looking for."

"Well, we can't be sure of that," the Sound says: "I mean, she was supposed to tell her meat puppet to trash the computer he was working on so no one could tell what files he accessed."

"But do we know if he did that?"

"Well, no."

"And why do we not know?" METALMAID growls, looming over the Sound as if she was about to bite his head off at the neck: "Because they had to kill that {quote}meat puppet{endquote} prematurely. We don't know what he did or didn't do. And that means that our operatives could be walking into a trap!"

"Well, yes," the Sound says, and then wisely turns himself into noise as she tries to rip him apart.

"Oh for God's sake," the Emperor of Pain sighs, coming onto the sorry scene: "Can't you not try and kill your subordinates for bringing you bad news? It's bad for morale. Even I can tell you that."

"It's okay!" the sound says, his voice strange and echoing as he loops around his homicidal boss: "I've got this..."

"Best to let her let off some steam," the Pusher says, very quickly putting an arm around the older villain and leading him out of the room before she tries to kill them, too: "That and I think it's time we talked about what we'd been talking about earlier."

"Right," the old man nods: "Especially now that her boyfriend isn't around to crawl up her nose."

"Indeed," the well-dressed man whispers, imagining a much larger dollar sign as he gets ready to make a much better deal. 

* * *

 "So, we're all good?" the younger man says as he and his dining guest leave the fast food restaurant, heading for the parking lot.

"Yes," his father says, not quite sure when to break off and head for his own vehicle: "You tell us what's going on, and I'll make sure you skate away from it all when it's over."

"All of it," the young man insists: "Because when they make their move, the TU's going to come down on them like a pile of bricks, and I don't need them messing with me, either."

"Aren't you going to come back to us, son?" the old man says, a little confused: "After all we've done with the new group. All we worked for?"

"Eventually," he replies: "But not until we're free again, dad. I can't work for the TU. Not really."

The old man sighs, and then nods: "I'll... do what I can. I just... I miss you, son."

"I know," the Violet Demon says, giving New Man an unexpected, big hug: "Just don't think badly of me. Whatever happens. Please just remember I did what I had to, okay?"

"Okay," the old man says, overwhelmed by this sudden gesture from his long-estranged son. And for a time, they just stand there, holding one another. 

And then it's over, and the young man is heading off to his car, getting in it, and driving away without looking back. 

"Did you get all that?" the old man says, looking to the empty space to his left as he heads back to his own vehicle.

"I did, yeah," a disembodied voice says, keeping in time with the older man: "Sounds like he's got it well in !@#$ing hand, if you ask me."

"I don't like this, (REDACTED). I don't like my son being in that nest of vipers."

"I do," the voice says, and New Man can almost imagine him lighting up a phantom cigarette to accompany it: "He's well !@#$ing suited for this kind of work. He's got the right !@#$ attitude for it, and if anyone tries to !@#$ with him, well, I'm more worried about them."

"But can we keep him safe?" the hero asks as he puts a hand on his car door, as if steadying himself: "Can we save him from prosecution if it all comes out? All those things he told me..."

"I heard him," the voice says: "I heard every one. And you of all people ought to know that we can !@#$ing get him out of it. Even if we have to pull a vanishing act, he'll be in the clear."

"You promise me that, SPYGOD," the old man hisses: "You make a god!@#$ promise to me right now that he walks free and clear after all this, or else..."

"I promise, (REDACTED)," the voice says, and New Man can almost imagine him putting a hand on his shoulder: "Free and clear, one way or another."

That seems to reassure the old man, and with that he nods, gets into his car, and drives away as well.

"Of course, that all depends on whether you and I can get away free and clear after all this is over," another disembodied voice adds.

"Jesus !@#$, hon," SPYGOD snorts: "You think I don't have a plan for that?"

"I know you do, lover," Straffer says: "I know you got fifty of those things. I helped you pin them up on the fridge, remember?"

"I do, yes. That was a !@#$ interesting evening."

"I'm surprised we didn't break the refrigerator."

"We did."

"We did?"

"Yes. They !@#$ing fixed it the next morning while you were still zonked out. And they just put all the magnets and sticky notes on the new one, just like they'd found them."

"All well and good. But we've got to get at least one of those plans to work."

"That's why I've got fifty, this time."

The one voice laughs: "You're horrible." 

"I am, yes. !@#$ing horrible." 

"And the repairmen didn't notice a thing, huh?"

"Nope," SPYGOD chuckles, kissing his ghostly lover in the middle of the Burger King parking lot: "How very !@#$ing French of them..."

* * *

The day recedes into night, night slowly gives way into day, and then it's another early morning in France. And in a brightly-lit city that refuses to sleep, certain inhabitants move about -- watching as important events take place.

Abdullah Ismail staggers back home to his apartment, a brutalized but free being. Apparently nothing he could do could convince them to keep him in prison longer than necessary. They didn't even try to hold him to that merde agreement they initially asked him to abide by.

Zaid and Samir were not so lucky, but something was clearly wrong with them. They spoke like monsters when Abdullah tried to reach out to them on his way out, raging in unreasoning hate and anger rather than fear or friendship. 

(Apparently, whatever had been done to him was not as powerful as what was done to them.)

But as he walks up the cracked, burned steps to his building, fumbling for the keys with a broken hand, he wonders how many eyes are watching him, right now. How many police wanting to bust him for breaking wind, much less "stirring up trouble."

Oh, they've got trouble now. All the trouble in the world, if he's got something to say about it.

And, Inshallah, that trouble will finally bring about something good. 

As he goes back into what remains of his life, he is, indeed, watched. A white knight stands on a building, nearby, looking down at him in anger. Wondering why they let him go, and told him to back off. 

Foudre Blanc is wondering a lot of things, actually.  

But one thing he doesn't have to wonder about is the most important things of all. The secret is safe. No one knows anything about what he's done, or how, or why. And in a week, once The Maker has made what they will need, and all eyes are fixed on the trial of SPYGOD, all the recent excitement will be overlooked. 

All he has to do is wait, and be calm and careful. Things he should be able to do.

And yet, he keeps going back to that horrible night, on that horrible day. The day his face was destroyed. The day he learned how little wealth and power actually meant. 

The day his lover was destroyed by human monsters, and all he could do was crawl towards her, a wreck of a man, and comfort her in her last moments on this world. 

"Destroy them," she whispered weakly as he held her: "Destroy them all."

And so he would, one way or another. He swore it then. He upholds that promise now. 

Forever and ever until the last breath leaves him, he will destroy them all. 

As he swears eternal vengeance, yet again, he is himself watched. Ciel Rouge lurks nearby, wondering if the man she arranged to have freed will give her fallen comrade a chance to hang himself before her, or else make him more reckless in his movements -- more scared. 

She knows the truth about him, now. But to gain the trust of others, she must have proof. Hopefully this man will help provide her with proof, but not even her Others can say for certain. 

All she knows is that she must act, and soon.

Meanwhile, far above the three of them, Tempete Bleu is once again up above it all. He sits upon his throne of spacejunk, overlooking the world, watching the sun rise over the Earth.

Or so he says.

He doesn't watch the sunrise while he's up here, floating above the world. He doesn't watch the stars, or the Moon, or the sled, or any comets or meteors that might be rushing on by.

He doesn't look at anything at all.

He just sits there and imagines the world as he would make it -- especially now that he knows who and what he is. The sweeping changes, the small alterations, the inevitable breaking of people, places, and things.

The bloody, blackened ruins he'll leave in his wake. 

He thinks through each and every thing from start to finish, large to small. Then he goes through them again, over and over until a crimson blueprint lies before the eye of his mind

And he smiles to think of what we would think of that world, if he gave us leave to speak our minds.

Or planned to let us live in it at all...

(SPYGOD is listening to Love in C Minor (Cerrone) and having a Melange a Trois)