10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 9

If asked, Kinnokagi Hanami will tell you she was born in the Spring, and what's why she was named after the cherry blossoms that bloom at that time of year.

She will say that, when she smiled, her mother was reminded of the fragrant, pink-and-white explosions of beauty that hung from the black trees. She will also say that her mother always called her "her little cherry blossom," even when she was fully-grown. And she will admit that she now feels ashamed for having been so embarrassed by this, and wishes she could have one more day with her mother, just to tell her how much she loved her, and how much she misses her.

She would tell you these things, but these things are not true. They are falsehoods she has adopted, both as part of her disguise, and part of her mental therapy. She tells herself these lies, and many more, each night before bed, in the hopes that one day they will no longer feel like lies.

She hopes, as her guardian once did, that she will come to believe she is human.

The truth is that Hanami was not born in the Spring -- that is simply when she was discovered. The police found her stumbling outside of Kyoto, dazed and confused. She was incapable of speech, wearing strange clothing, and bearing nothing that could tie her to this country, other than her appearance.

And when an overzealous policewoman tried to wrestle her to the ground, thinking she was some drunk college student, Hanami accidentally knocked her head into low earth orbit.

The best that her handler in the Organization -- the stately Doctor Kinnokagi -- could get from her was that she had come from the future. Why, how, and from when were questions no one could get from her, given how badly her mind had been damaged by the journey. It was enough to know that she was here, she was very powerful, and that while she could not tell them any concrete facts, her personality was that of a well-mannered and well-meaning child just starting on the road to maturity.

Left to her own devices, anything could happen. So Doctor Kinnokagi took her in, and treated her as he would his own daughter. He taught her to be a good and dutiful young lady, and to be cautious of her own strength, but to do anything she could to help others in their time of need.

And when she was needed by the Organization, Hanami would do such amazing things...

Even now, as she runs down a long, white and silver corridor, heading for an exit that she knows The Dignitary will make for her, she feels no fear, and no worries. She knows what is about to happen, and knows what she can and must do, and that is all that concerns her.

Indeed, while she can register the emotion behind Mister Ten's cries for her to stop, and come back to him, she cannot share his concern for her safety, or the true reasons behind it. She knows that he loves her, but she cannot truly love him back, though she tries. Even a full year after she has added "I love Ju San" to her nightly list of affirmations, she feels nothing towards him at all.

It is simply not something she is programmed for.

The door to the outside opens. Her muted business suit becomes garish, brightly-colored plastic-weave. Supple, lovely flesh becomes hard, angular plastic. Flowing black hair becomes a dark, cubist swoosh of motion.

And she flies out the back of the massive, white robot's head, ready to protect the country that has adopted her, by protecting the machine that will save them from doom.

* * *

The Earth is truly a beautiful thing, when you see it from the right height.

From space, it seems to be a shining green and blue treasure, stark and bright against the endless, star-spotted darkness that surrounds it. The further one goes from it, the more precious it becomes -- acting as an anchor in the eternal void. And it remains so, up until the point when one is so far away from it that it's colors and contours are lost, and it becomes just another dot of light amongst so many.

The first time Director Straffer saw it from high up, he was going to Icarus Station for the first time. When the G-forces that had smooshed him back into his seat finally let up, and he could at last look out the nearest window at the world they'd just departed, his heart leaped out of his chest. He had to sit there, a hand on the window, tears floating from his eyes as he saw how truly beautiful it was.

From then on, no matter where his career took him, he always started and ended his day with a hand on a window, looking down at the world. He stopped crying about it a long time ago, but he still got a wistful smile, thinking of it.

He can't cry now, even if he wanted to.

His body has proofed itself against the void, which means that his skin has completely sealed itself up. What few biological components he still has are being kept from dehydrating, expanding in vacuum, and boiling out into the incredible cold. He can only see the world, now -- not even feel it -- and then only through a hazy, filmy lens over his eyes.

And he is incredibly grateful for that, right now.

He can barely see as the Imago in charge of his weapons platform fire volley after volley at the planet that used to make him weep. He cannot see the atmosphere pucker and part as the particle cannon beams enter it. He cannot see the land burn and the oceans boil. He cannot see the cities fall and the people die.

He cannot fully see the consequences of his failure, and for that he is thankful. Full sight would lead to full knowledge, and that might drive him to his knees, screaming and insane. 

Instead, he puts one stumbling, stick-like, metal leg in front of the other, over and over, heading for the still-superheated ruins of Alpha Base Seven. He wills himself to do this, in spite of the pain and the anger and the horror. If anything, they are fueling his motion, right now.

Especially the anger.

There's something he needs in the wreckage. Hopefully it is still there. Hopefully it will still work.

And it he can get it up and working, he will repay the Imago for what they are doing to the wonderful, beautiful world he has dedicated himself to keeping safe -- day after day, year after year.

Not on my watch, he thinks with each step: Not on my watch. Not today. Not ever. 

Never.

It's a long way to where he needs to go. The anger keeps him moving. He'll cry later, hopefully with someone he loves to hold him and listen. But right now he doesn't have time to be anything but angry.

Angry and resourceful, at that.

* * *

"So, Myron, they say you're a genius," Mr. USA says, handing Myron a weird, small, bronze cube that's lit up from within: "How about you show me what you can do with this?

"Is that it?"  Myron asks, looking at the little thing: "That's what Moloch was using to transmit his signal?"

"Near as I can tell, son," the ancient man says, sitting down on a nearby chair as soon as he's handed it over: "It's got a transdimensional energy signature on it, anyway."

"How do you... oh, nevermind," Myron says, remembering who he's dealing with. He grabs some tools and gets to work, trying to see if he can reverse-engineer the thing.

"I just followed the rattling pieces upstairs," the man says, gesturing back the way he came: "There was another body up there. I think he was putting it together, using old pieces and new ones. I melted it down pretty good, so I think we're safe for now."

"Persistent guy," Mark Clutch comments as some SPYGOD SCOUTS see to his many wounds: "So if the machine's gone on their side of things, what will happen if we get this going again?" 

"We'll just have to aim it somewhere," Winifred answers, getting another box of tools and heading up to assist Myron, who's very grateful for the help: "We can cannibalize the parts from the machine and do it. Pretty !@#$ simple, I think."

"I agree," Myron says, smiling at her. When she smiles back it makes him feel ten times lighter.

"How's Thomas doing?" Mr. USA asks Mark, who looks over at the barely-breathing lump of burned flesh under the blankets, being attended by a half-dozen other Scouts.

"He's touch and go," Mark says, trying to keep his voice down: "I think he'll pull through, but we need to get him back and get him into some real care. It's a miracle he's lasted this long."

"How about I try and aim us at a good hospital?" Myron asks: "I think we could all use some patching up at this point."

Mr. USA's about to agree, but then there's a very familiar -- however strange -- noise, and Skyspear has appeared amongst them, again. Her eyes are red and wet, and she kneels down on the ground, clearly tired from her journey.

"Did you find him...?" Mark asks, reaching out to take hold of her shoulder. He thinks, a second later, that maybe that was too forward, but she doesn't seem to mind it. 

"I did, yes," she says, nodding, her eyes screwed shut: "At the base of the tree, there is wreckage. The brass creature is there, in pieces. And the Lion... he is..."

Her mouth screws up and she begins to weep, and ultimately leans over onto Mark, who comforts her as best as he can.

"He should be buried," she says: "But there is nothing left. His bones... the dust on my hands, it's all that is left when I picked him up. He fell apart between my fingers, like sand..."

"I think God will understand if he doesn't get a proper burial," Mr. USA says, trying to get up and go to her, but failing to do so. Mark notices this and is concerned, but doesn't say anything just then.

"Has anyone seen the !@#$hole?" Myron asks, trying to change the subject.

"Who?" Mark asks.

"The Green Man. Anyone seen him?"

"No, come to think of it," Mr. USA says: "Where was he last?"

"In the infirmary, fighting to save his son," Skyspear says, wiping her eyes: "I do not know what has happened to him."

"Someone might want to go and look," Mark says: "I don't think I like the idea of him wandering around with nothing good to do."

"You know, his son is right over there," Winifred points out in a harsh whisper: "He could just hear you."

"You're right," Mr. USA says, looking at the boy: "We probably shouldn't disparage his father. The man did risk his life to save the boy."

Mark nods, but doesn't really feel it: "I'll go look," he says, giving Skyspear another, re-assuring squeeze and then getting to his feet.

"I'll come with you," Mr. USA says, getting up and walking along with him, limping as he goes: "I figure we have a few other things to talk about."

"Agreed," Mark says, taking the old man's arm in his, and wondering why he's so !@#$ frail, all of a sudden.

Wondering about a lot of other things, too, come to think of it. But those sorts of things aren't for everyone's ears. They are, instead, the sorts of things that should be shared between soldiers in private -- somewhere far from the prying and the curious. 

Somewhere that veteran heroes and their admirers can talk in confidence, away from the crowd.

 * * *

Tokyo is the largest and densest megalopolis on Earth. A little over 13 million people are pushed against and stacked upon one another in an area of only 845 square miles. Its glittering towers reach for the sky, its suburbs sprawl as far as the eyes can see, and the thrum and hum of its industry never ever sleeps.

Much like the country it is emblematic of, the city has endured much over the last century. It seems that, no sooner is it just a little larger than the time before, than something else comes to try and knock it down. Atomic war gave way to atomic beasts. Foes from the future and dangerous types from the present. Alien invasions and strange occurrences. 

Tokyo has been shaken apart, burned to the ground, swamped by tidal waves, and eaten by monsters. But somehow, Tokyo always survives. Tokyo always rebuilds. And whatever hazards and threats the next day may bring, Tokyo's people know that it will endure. Anything could happen, here, but nothing could ever destroy it.

Tokyo is eternal. 

Maybe that's why, when the people of the city see the Heaven House Tokyo building turn into a massive, white robot, and stride through the city streets towards the Pacific, they take its picture instead of screaming and running. They somehow know that this is not something to be feared, but to be remembered, just like all the other strange and mighty things that have walked through, around, or over the city in the last century.

And maybe that's why, when they see a great, white flash in the sky, and hear the heavens splitting open overhead, just like they did seven short months ago, its people treat it as a hazard to be avoided, rather than the end of their world. 

They are just now coming to the conclusion that the Imago have been lying to them. They know that a mighty force of heroes and armies is fighting them. And they know, having suffered such would-be conquerors in the past, that departing deposed rulers tend to punish their almost-subjects on their way back to whatever realm they came from. 

So the citizens scurry underground and into their basements, barricading themselves behind heavy walls and closed curtains. They pray and they cry, and hope that whatever saviors are active this day, they hear their calls for aid. And soon.

They do not have long to wait.

Witnesses will later say that they saw a young woman, flying. She had long, black hair and wore strange, brightly-colored clothes, and those who were close enough thought there was something strange about her face, and her skin.

They will say that she flew right up to where the bright light was coming from, and then hovered there for a moment, her arms stretched out longer than should be possible.

And then, when the bright, white column of fire came down from space -- threatening to atomize the robot, and take a good amount of the city with it -- she did... something.

What was it? No one on the ground can say, mostly because they could not actually watch what took place without going blind.


But facts are facts. The particle cannon's beam had the power to destroy anything that stood in its path, leaving nothing but a smoking crater in its path. And yet it touched nothing in that city.

In fact, it went right back where it came from. 

And when it was done and gone, and the people could see again, the flying girl was still up there, keeping time with the massive, white robot she'd flown out of. It was as if she was guarding it from attack, along with the city it was striding away from.

Was it a miracle? Or was it just crazy science, come to the rescue yet again? No one could say. But once again, the people cheered and thanked their Gods, ever so grateful to be saved by whatever guardian spirits were looking out for them, that day.

And hoping -- for the first time since they'd come out of their confusion -- that this war might be won.

* * *

"Yes!" SPYGOD shouts, dancing in Lady Gilda to a song only he can hear: "That's where that android had been hiding. Mister Ten, you sneaky !@#$-"

"She should not be out there!" Mister Ten shouts over the viewscreen, not caring that he's speaking in English without Hanami there to translate: "She could be destroyed!"

"We could all be !@#$ing destroyed, Ju San," he says, pointing a finger at his screen, and then at the others: "And that's the !@#$ing point I've been trying to !@#$ing get through all your !@#$ing heads, today! Are you going to let your armies by shown up by a !@#$ robot with amnesia in an orange, plastic skirt? Or are you going to take some !@#$ing chances?"

The leaders of the various strange armies of the world look at him, and then at each other. One by one, they nod, sighing. And then they sign off to give their orders.

"Don't worry, Ju San," SPYGOD says, still boogieing: "That !@#$ kid can take a !@#$load of punishment. I've !@#$ing seen her in action-"

"I am very well aware of what she can do," the man says, seething: "But no one can keep deflecting that kind of energy for that long."

"Well, hopefully she won't !@#$ing have to," he says, wondering if that's true or not.

"Do you have a plan to take out those cannons, yet?"

SPYGOD looks at him and smiles: "Ju San, when have you known me to never have a !@#$ plan?"

* * *

My love? the leader asks, sensing concern from The Fist: What has happened, my love? Are you alright?

"No," the ersatz Director Straffer says, holding his hands over his ears to protect them from the numerous alarms going off: "I don't know how this happened, but somehow the beam we aimed at Tokyo was deflected right back at us."

Was the robot too tough to destroy? The Dragon asks, perhaps just a little mirth in his voice.

"No, but something got in our way. It deflected the beam-"

I've got it on my view, The Motion says: We've got some spies in Tokyo... okay, oh.

What is it? The leader asks, not liking the sound of his voice.

So that's where that girl's been hiding all these years, the Motion says

Is it the android? The Dragon asks.

It is, and this is bad news, The Motion says: She's immensely powerful. You could fire every particle cannon you have at her, and she'd still be able to deflect them all. 

She is but one person, though, The Dragon points out: If you continue to target the city, and target the robot at the same time, she must make a choice. I do not think she will make that choice easily.

"Well, that's a nasty idea," the Fist says, smiling: "I like it. As soon as I deal with the fact that there's a big !@#$ing hole in my station, right where that cannon used to be, I'll start making her make the tough choice."

Speaking of tough choices, The Motion says: I've had an idea about how to bring this whole rebellion to a close without losing more of the population.

What would accomplish such a thing? The Leader asks, sounding hopeful.

And The Motion tells them, and there is agreement, and then laughter -- all of it dark. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to Behind the Wheel (Depeche Mode) and drinking a couple old cans of Astro Beer)

10/15/12 - The Reclamation War - Pt. 8

A half-century ago, when things were a lot crazier than they are now, Japan had the honor of hosting a trio of ambassadors from another plane of existence.

They first arrived in the 1960s, when the island nation was under extra-planar attack, yet again -- some strange hybrid jelly-monster from a dying, nightmare dimension, come to breed. When the best and brightest of Japan's Self Defense Force was destroyed or too damaged to fight on, hope arrived in the form of a massive, shape-shifting machine of unquestionable power. It utterly annihilated the otherworldly threat, and sent what remained of its slimy carcass back into the hole between worlds from whence it came.

When the battle was done, and there was nothing left to do but tend to the wounded and tally the dead, the immense thing underwent an amazing transformation. It shrunk down to human size, and split into three distinct persons: a man, a woman, and a child.

Their language skills were halting, but their intentions were clear. They called themselves The Dignitary, and sought to create and maintain diplomatic relations with Japan. They claimed to want nothing more than friendship, and could offer little more than that. But after seeing firsthand what it meant to have such a friend, the Japanese Government was very pleased to open relations with the odd trio.

For the next couple decades, the trio joined with the many extranormal and hyper-developed guardians of Japan in its defense. They came to learn much of their new world, and fit in quite well with the spirit and people of their adopted nation. They didn't enter hostilities all that often, given their colossal levels of power -- and diplomatic ties -- but when they did, the outcome of the fight was never in question.

All was well, and would have remained so, except for what happened in America in 1980.

For some strange reason, as soon as the contract with the Backers was signed by the White House, The Dignitary found it impossible to live as three distinct beings. They had to permanently form into the larger, gestalt creature to survive, necessitating their move from the cities out into the Ocean. And, after a short time, their hosts discovered that the massive thing The Dignitary became could only remain active for so long before running out of power, and having to shut down for long periods of time to recharge.

Worse, when the creature did rouse from slumber to help defend Japan, it seemed different in temperament. Before, the being shared the kindness, intelligence, and humanitarian credo of the three beings that comprised it, but now, it acted like an uncaring thug -- smashing through buildings full of people to charge at otherworldly invaders, and using its mighty weapons without any care as to the civilian or collateral damage.

After one repelled invasion led to the death of hundreds of innocents, a team of powerful beings confronted The Dignitary in their underwater shrine, and tried to shame it into answering what had happened. The answer was terrible: when the shift happened, back in 1980, The Dignitary had been cut off from their own dimension. Without that link, they were not only deprived of their primary source of power, but also of the true mental impulses that had been controlling their actions, all along.

The real trio that made up The Dignitary were back in their home dimension, cut off from the machine they'd been operating. And while their mental imprints remained within the group mind of the machine, they had degraded over time, leaving only a single, stunted mind, with only the most basic of its many, complex impulses intact -- to defend its host, no matter the cost.

It was hypothesized that, without aid, The Dignitary would eventually be nothing more than a mindless, uncaring machine, and might one day destroy Japan while trying to save it. Faced with that nightmare scenario, a number of extranormal talents came together to come up with a solution to the problem, along with a few other concerns that had come about since America had begun being cagey with its strategic talents.

From that crucible of crisis came a body that would safeguard Japan's many strange and unusual hyperpowered people and items: The Organization. And one of the first things they did was to convince The Dignitary that it would be better off if it went to sleep until the group could find a way to either re-open the portal to its home dimension, or send it back there.

Thankfully. The Dignitary agreed. And one night, when no one saw, it walked ashore, settled down onto a large, vacant lot in Tokyo, and changed its shape one last time.

Since then, a massive glass and steel building with white exteriors has been the headquarters of The Organization. None have dared attack "Heaven House Tokyo" for fear of what it might do, or what horrors they might unleash if they damage it too much. Even the Imago have given it a wide berth, perhaps hoping that the group that meets there is smart enough to stay within, and not attack them.

And they did, for a time.

But today, that understanding is dust.

The people of Tokyo look out their windows, and up into the heights of their massive cityscape, as a strange sound that has not been heard in decades roars between the buildings. The ground shakes, and the towers vibrate, and the power flickers on and off, as though something were playing havoc with the power grid.

Those closest to the epicenter of the event see something they will never forget. The great, white building they had come to associate with that part of the city shudders, vibrates, and then begins to shift its geometry like a child's toy robot. It forms massive arms and powerful shoulders from its highest floors, its first levels split apart to become huge legs, and as they lengthen its entrance climbs to its chest.

Glass and steel are absorbed back into the building, leaving only a white and silver creature some 100 stories tall. It arches its back as it forms large, silver plates over its body -- like armor covering the important, major muscles and numerous weak spots.

And then, at last, a cyclopean head appears above a thick neck: a noble, white face with glowing, yellow eyes and a massive, flowing mane of silver hair.

As its eyes burn, so do the areas between its armor patches. Weird lights play in the air before it, like free-floating holographic read-outs and controls. It leans forward, holding up its hands for silent inspection, and watching as energy crackles between its fingers.

Inside its chest, in what used to be his office, Mister Ten sits in his chair and watches. It's all he can do. He's not in control of this, by any stretch of the imagination -- all he can do is ask the Dignitary to do what's needed, and hope the immense machine complies.

Hanami stands by his side as he talks to the robot, her gentle hand placed upon his shoulder. He tries not to show how much he needs to have it there, but it's obvious to anyone that without it he would be terrified.

Query: the machine asks, the massive voice -- a sound Mister Ten has never actually heard, before -- booming from the head, itself: Is host country in danger?

"It is, yes," Mister Ten says, awed by the sound: "It is in terrible danger. And so is the entire world. We must destroy the Imago. We must help our allies."

There's nothing, for a moment. And then, ever so carefully, the Dignitary strides towards the Pacific -- awake after these many years, and prepared to do its part in this war.

"I feel like a child, again," Mister Ten says, leaning back in the chair and putting his hand atop Hanami's.

"So do I," she says, but not quite for the same reason. 

* * *

When Moloch was young, and still learning of the ways of the meat that it had to call its family, it learned of American superheroes, and was not impressed. 

Moloch learned of the group of beings known as the Liberty Patrol, and how they had once sought to impress their will on the planet, after the Second World War. Moloch learned how they made terrible mistakes, in that next war, and how those errors led to America changing how it handled its superheroes. Moloch learned of the Freedom Force, and Strategic Talents, and the COMPANY that oversaw them all.

(And, of course, Moloch learned of SPYGOD, whom it vowed to one day destroy for his blasphemy.)

While learning of these things, Moloch learned of a man called Mr. USA: a powerful brute wrapped in an American flag, whose actions seemed to be hand-in-hand with the will and ideals of whomever was in charge of his country at any given time. He was a soldier in times of war, an idealist in times of peace, and, in the times of the Cold War, a walking deterrent whose very presence could stop the two major powers from rattling their swords so loudly.

The meat world got older, but he never seemed to. He remained an eternal reminder of a better, simpler time, when there was good and evil in the world, and America was on the good side. He smiled and the world smiled with him. And when he frowned, they got out of his way.

Moloch does not know who this ancient-seeming man in front of it is. He is wearing the costume that Mr. USA once wore, even though it doesn't fit him as well as it should. His hair is white and falling out. His eyes are rheumy and his teeth are missing. 

But the look in those eyes is unmistakable -- the same look that Moloch saw many times, as the meat news told stories of how the Israeli-loving Americans had employed their signature superhero to some battleground, somewhere, to fight crime or evil or terrorism, or whatever his Jewish masters were saying this week. 

Moloch saw that look in the man's eyes, back then, and recognized it as steel. 

And now that steel was coming for Moloch -- fists raised and crackling, mouth open in a battle roar, and eyes ready for the fight to come. 

The brass beast raises its sword-arms and attempts to block what's coming, but it is too late to do anything but shout. And, in the space of the next three seconds -- as its body is punched, kicked, crushed, electrocuted, shattered, and melted -- Moloch begins to understand a great many things. 

Too late, of course. 

After that rush of explosive force and pain, as the pieces of its body fall to the cracked, wooden floor of the great hall, Moloch does its best to regain its composure. But no sooner can it try and reassemble the twitching, brass flinders of its body than the old man is melting them into slag.

"Trying to find more metal?" Mr. USA says, following the pieces as they rattle back down the hall, scurrying away like cockroaches: "Or do you have another body, hiding somewhere?" 

"... destroy you..." Moloch hisses through a temporary mouth, seconds before the old man stamps it flat.

"Good luck with that," he says, standing still and watching the parts clatter away: "I'm going to give you some time to remake yourself, and then I'm coming after you. And you'd better be ready."

With that, the old man turns around and floats back towards the room, keeping an ear out for any loud, metallic bangs or scrapes.

"It's good to see you, sir," Mark Clutch says, extending a weak hand. Mr. USA grabs it with one hand and claps him on the shoulder with the other, and then gives him a gentle but powerful hug.

"It's good to be seen, Mark," he says: "It's so good to be here, again."

"What happened to you?" Myron asks, stepping closer: "I mean, I'm sorry to be blunt, but the last time I saw you, you were... well, you weren't..."

"This old?" Mr. USA replies, smiling, as he disengages from the hug and walks over to Myron: "Let's just say I've had a long time to plan my next moves, Myron. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of time, now."

"What is happening over there?" Skyspear asks, too weak to get up off the floor.

"When I came here, they had just destroyed all the satellites we sent up," the old man says, looking at her with sadness: "They were also about to train their particle cannons on the Toon colony, which means anything that wasn't turned into a cartoon was also destroyed."

"Which means we're stuck here," Winifred sighs, plopping down and letting her empty gun clatter to the floor: "Great. !@#$ing great."

"No need for that kind of talk, young lady," Mr. USA says, extending a hand out to her: "I think we can get home from here. But we're going to have to act fast."

"What do we need to do?" Mark asks.

"Well, a little-known fact about Moloch is that he's a human being," the old man replies, lifting Winifred off the floor without any effort at all: "He's capable of putting his mind into metal and controlling it like a second body. But he needs to be inside that metal in order to control it, and he also needs a clear connection back to his body in case things go wrong."

"Then how is he controlling that body?" Myron asks: "Does he have his real body here, somewhere?"

"He must have an amplifier of some kind," Winifred conjectures: "Maybe one powerful enough to punch through the dimensional barrier?"

"You got it!" Mr. USA says, giving her two-thumbs up: "Now, that lets him go from there to here. Do you think you might be able to use it to get us back?"

"I could..." Mark says, looking at the machine: "It might take some doing, but-"

"I'm on it," Myron says, going to get tools.

"Where would he have it, though?" Winifred asks: "I mean, it'd probably be pretty !@... er, pretty darn big."

"When we packed up to come here, he did have a large case with him," Skyspear offers: "It was large and square. He said it was spare parts, and I did not wish to pray any further than that."

"Probably full of brass, as well as the device," Mr. USA says: "So, you all keep Thomas alive and get that machine ready to be jury-rigged, and I'll go find where that monster hid itself, and bring it down here."

"That sounds like the best plan I've heard all day," Mark says, nodding and clapping the old man on the back. Something about how he almost steps forward unnerves Mark, but he doesn't say anything about it.

He has a hard time believing he just knocked America's most powerful superhero off-balance, even for a split-second. The implications of that are too scary to consider -- especially if he's all they've got to rely on to get them back to where they need to be, right now.

And God only knows what's happening there. 

* * *

 "Are we... are we dead?" the Talon asks the Owl, as they stand in a bright, blinding sea of white energy and are not harmed (nor blinded, for that matter).

"I don't know, honey," Martha replies, walking over to her niece and putting her hands on her shoulders: "One second we were fighting and then.... this. I don't know what's going on."

"It's like that time in LA, only we're inside it..."

Martha shudders, remembering that fiasco all too well: "We can't be alive and inside that beam, Kaitlyn. There's got to be another explanation-"

"Energy dispersal packs," the new New Man says, walking up behind them: "Those boxes I gave you before we started punching Specials, the last cube? They're keeping us from being incinerated by a particle beam."

"What, these little things?" the Talon says, suddenly afraid to touch the white thing clipped to her belt.

"Yes, those little things," he says, smiling and adjusting his sunglasses: "They're gaining their energy from the beam, itself."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it's a nice system, once you've got it going. But I'm not sure if they'll last through a second blast."

"Did you know they'd do this?" the Owl asks.

"Given what they've done before, and what happened to you, I figured it was a sensible precaution."

"You really know how to impress people, don't you?" Martha says, laughing.

"I try," New Man says, sadly. Not for them, but for all the others who may not be as lucky, right now.

He can only hope their sacrifices are not in vain.

* * *

"You have to be joking, my friend," Mikhail says, resting his weary head in his hands: "I could not order these soldiers into a bakery for fresh bread, right now. Not while death is raining down from the skies-"

"We need those !@#$ing cubes !@#$ing taken out!" SPYGOD shouts at him, along with all the other foreign contacts and commanders he's been berating for the last few minutes: "If they don't !@#$ing have them, they don't have any !@#$ing power. They will !@#$ing starve to death and drop like !@#$ing flies when they don't get enough !@#$. We just need-"

"I will not order my soldiers into a suicide run," the head of the Pakistani Army in exile announces: "It is that simple. You must change the game board, SPYGOD. You must knock out those cannons."

"We don't have anything !@#$ing ready for that."

"Then I'm sorry, but it is just not on-"

"You !@#$ing coward!" SPYGOD shouts, pointing his finger at the screen: "We're out here risking our !@#$ lives, right now. My allies are !@#$ing dying. My friends are dying. And you're wanting to hide until you're assured of victory?"

There's silence in reply -- sharp and stone-like. 

"You said you wanted an equal piece of things," he says: "Well, this is how you !@#$ing get it. You go out and you fight for it. And maybe you die. And maybe you lose. But if you sit back and do nothing, today of all days, because you're !@#$ing terrified of dying, then you will spend the rest of your days regretting it-"

"You dare to threaten us?" a cybernetic Samurai chastises him: "You spoke to us of leadership! Where is your leadership, now?"

"You're !@#$ing looking at it," SPYGOD hisses: "And I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you. Because what do you think the Imago are going to do when they !@#$ing win this battle? Say 'O people of the Earth, we love you, we forgive you, all is good?' Oh !@#$ no. They're going to !@#$ing burn us out like rats and leave us baking in the Sun for that !@#$ing thing that's on its way to find. 

"It's now or never, ladies and gentlemen. Get out there and hit those !@#$ cubes. Because if you don't, there is nothing else left."

The screens turn off, one by one. SPYGOD glowers, and then sighs.

"I think we !@#$ed up, Bee-Bee," he says to his cat. He's not quite sure what the fuzzball says in return, though, as he can hear something else happening, up above them.

"Oh !@#$," he says, looking behind at the towering, white robot that's following them into the Ocean. And he knows what's about to happen.

And that there's nothing he can do to stop it, or warn them.

* * *

"Well, there's something you don't see every day," the ersatz Director Straffer -- now calling himself The Fist -- says as he sips his martini and looks down at Tokyo.

How dangerous a development is this? Their leader asks, sounding very concerned.

Very dangerous, the Dragon says: That robot's defensive and offensive capabilities are legendary. It can throw islands into space and smash cities flat with a wave of its arms. 

"Not good,"  The Fist says: "If it gets to the city..."

Well, what are we going to do about it? The Motion asks: I'm stretched too thin with teleporting our Specials out of your field of fire to attack it directly-

"Relax," The Fist says, gesturing to one of his servitor robots: "I've got it covered. I'm adjusting the firing program now."

You're not going to destroy Tokyo just to get to it, are you? 

"No," The Fist says: "I'm going to destroy Tokyo because I want to destroy Tokyo. The fact that it's going to annihilate that robot before it gets to our leader is just the icing on the cake."

You can't be serious- the Motion says.

Do it, the leader commands: They will suffer the consequences for becoming involved. This will further break the morale of the armies that are massed against us. With one city's death, our plan will live. 

"Amen to that," The Fist says, and gives the signal to fire.

(SPYGOD is listening to Never Let Me Down Again (Depeche Mode) and having a really nasty feeling)

10/12/12 - A Death for No Reason

"So," the President says, putting his chopsticks down and having a long-overdue sip of his beer: "You still haven't told me how you got out of that situation in Yekaterinburg."

"No, I haven't," I answer, putting my big-!@#$ bottle down and looking him in the eyes: "I was waiting for you to tell me why you didn't shoot your target."

"How did you know...?" the President starts to ask me. Then I smile, and he remembers who he's !@#$ing talking to.

And then he just shrugs, sighs, and shuts the !@#$ up, which is how I like my Presidents. 

* * *

We're finishing up our lunch at the ridiculous, underground steak restaurant that I'm always threatening to take people out to, when I'm in Tokyo. You've heard of live sushi, son? Well, this is that, only on a larger, more intimate scale.

You not only get to see your food die, but you get to !@#$ing kill it.

That's right, son -- you pay a lot of !@#$ing money to have the help bring you a whole !@#$ cow, still alive, and leave all the tools and equipment necessary to kill, slaughter, prepare, and cook the !@#$ing thing. For a extra fee they'll do it for you, but it runs against the whole ethos of the establishment.
It's really meant for a full day's excursion for large groups of rich, somewhat cracked people. Me? I do it for a casual lunch.

And I just love !@#$ing taking new people here.

The President had no idea what the !@#$ was going on, today. We !@#$ing drank ourselves in and out of !@#$ing oblivion, after our deal, yesterday, and I didn't give him the time to sober the !@#$ up before taking him out. In fact, the security for this place is so !@#$ tight he thought we were going to yet another secret meeting, and got all !@#$ angry with me, because I didn't tell him what was up.

(You go to a !@#$ing imposing office in a large building in Marunouchi, sit in a waiting room, show off enough ID to sink a !@#$ boat, and swear you're not from the !@#$ health department. And then they put you in !@#$ car with blacked-out windows, and drive you around Tokyo for what feels like a !@#$ing hour. And if you ask too many questions on the way, they just ride around in circles for another hour, toss your !@#$ out by the docks, stamp on your !@#$ hands, and leave you to crawl the !@#$ home.)


So you can imagine his !@#$ surprise when finally arrive, he walks into the place (all decorated in cow hides, and staffed by large, Japanese women in cowboy hats and daisy dukes) and gets the first whiff of blood and !@#$.

Being polite, he just thinks we're at some strangely-placed steak restaurant, and that someone !@#$ing farted their guts out in the bathroom. It isn't until we walk by an open dining room, and he sees a group of sarariiman standing around a frightened heifer, waiting for the one with the bolt pistol to stop !@#$ing crying and kill the thing, that he knows what's up.

They're all wrapped up in clear, plastic raincoats, like they're in that one movie where Batman !@#$ing loses his !@#$,  and brandishing knives, and they're all staring silently at the crying guy. He must have drawn the short straw because no one wants to step in and help him, but no one's calling him a !@#$ing coward in that delightful, growly way the Japanese have of insulting each other, either.

(You don't have to pay the 60000 Yen per group until the !@#$ cow is dead, so you've got time to back the !@#$ out if you can't !@#$ing handle it.) 

We get to our dining room, I order the whole !@#$ing thing before the President can say a !@#$ thing, and then I make him a deal: I'll cut if he pulls the trigger, and then we can both cook our own meat. It took him a long !@#$ while to stop looking the !@#$ thing in the eye, put the pistol up to its !@#$ noggin, and put it out of its misery, but he did.

And then I let him sit down and have a !@#$ smoke and a beer at the table while I butchered the !@#$ing thing. And I'll tell you, son, you have no idea just how much work slaughtering a !@#$ cow is until you're up to your ankles in blood and steaming guts, with the smells of iron and !@#$ stinking up your nose.

(Learned it from villagers in north Vietnam, in case you were !@#$ing wondering. Good people. Great cows.)

An hour later, I've got the cuts washed and laid out on the chilled, clean surface they provide for you, and the President's got the grill going. Fifteen minutes later we're cooking and eating and drinking !@#$ good beer. And then he's !@#$ing full but I'm still working on the thing until it's skin, bones, and the guts I don't really !@#$ing care for.

(You have to eat the !@#$ing liver, son. If you think you !@#$ing hate liver, you haven't ripped it out of a still-steaming belly of a cow, sliced it thin, and tossed it onto the !@#$ing grill. No onions or mustard needed, here!)

After that, it's all over but the chopsticks, the sauce, and what's either exhausted satisfaction or true horror -- maybe both. They have blood-flavored ice cream for dessert, if you're still feeling !@#$ing adventurous, but you're probably better just getting the !@#$ check and going back to Marunouchi.

I've been going to this place since it opened, back in the 80's. I find it's perfect to put certain things into !@#$ing perspective. Capitalism. Consumerism. Carnivores-prey relationships. Our weird disconnection from the food we eat.

And, ultimately, war.

* * *

"So, did you feel sorry for Wen, or did you just lose your nerve?" I ask the President.

"A little of both, I think," he says, not quite wanting to look me in the eye: "I thought there was some way we could fix this, just for a second-"

"And then it was too late."

"Yeah."

"Imago?"

"Four of them. They appeared out of nowhere and he... I don't know, it looked like he was breaking down. I guess working with us was screwing him up."

"Oh, you could say that," I tell him, cutting off some more of that delicious liver I just cooked: "And I know better than to ask if you !@#$ing remember how to handle it when that happens."

"'Better !@#$ing rotting than !@#$ing talking,'" he quotes me, verbatim.

"!@#$ straight. And then you felt sorry for the fat !@#$."

"Yes."

"Well, next time? Don't. And I'll tell you why. You want to know what those Harolds are to us, Mr. President?"

"What?"

"You're !@#$ing eating it," I say, pointing my chopsticks over at the stinking pile of bones and offal that used to be a cow, over in the corner.

He looks at the cow, looks back at me, and nods: "Point taken."

"Good."

"So, my question. Was there any truth to anything I told him?"

"Like what?" I ask, chowing down on some more liver. The soy sauce here is !@#$ing exquisite.

"Like that box, for example. You had me give it to him so he could call me for help, in case things got hairy."

"Yes."

"Did it have a dual function, or was it always just a !@#$ing bomb?"

I smile a little, imagining the scene. There's Wen Boxiong, surrounded by floating Imago, crying his eyes out because he's !@#$ing convinced they know what he's been up to with us. And then he's slowly realizing that they didn't know, and he just confessed, Tell-Tale Heart style. So he pulls out the call box I had the President give him, hoping that somehow I'd come flying the !@#$ out of nowhere to save his fat !@#$ from the brutal brain-sucking they were about to give him.

But instead of calling me, it explodes, creating a fire hotter than white phosphorous, designed to completely incinerate everything within a radius of ten feet, and light paper on fire up to fifty feet away. It turns him into stray, singed, and traitorous molecules in a split second, thus ensuring that no one is going to stick their metal-plated thumbs into his eye sockets and read his !@#$ mind the hard way.

(Effective !@#$ing things, those blastboxes.)

Of course, it probably didn't so much as inconvenience those !@#$ing Imago, but they were so !@#$ surprised by the thing that it gave the President more than enough time to pick his !@#$ jaw up off the floor, pack up his !@#$, and run like !@#$ to Shanghai. Which is why he was able to grab his waiting disguise from the Ju Kikan's dropoff, prove a bunch of idiot birthers right by way of a phony passport and a highly-exotic disguise system, and get his !@#$ to Japan. 

As opposed to getting caught assassinating a foreign head of state, followed by what would have been one terrible !@#$ of an interrogation, and maybe a trip back to where those !@#$ing sick alien metal-wrapped body-jacking bastards left him, the last time they got their hands on him.

Of course, I'm so !@#$ing wrapped up in imagining all that that I forget there's a question I need to answer. So I smile at the President, have another delicious bite of cow's liver, and tell him the !@#$ truth.

"It was dual use. I had it switched over to call us, up until the point that I realized that keeping him alive was more dangerous than useful. And then I switched it to explode if he did."

"And when did you decide he wasn't worth it, anymore?"

"When I thought he might have squealed on us, after what happened at the train station."

"I think he did," the President admits.

"Well, I know he didn't," I say: "It was that Russian !@#$weasel. Try to keep up-"

"Not to the Imago," the President says: "I made a few inquiries, while I was waiting for you to rendezvous with me, here. That day I lost track of him? He went to the Botanical Gardens. He met someone there."

"Who?"

"I don't know. She was contacted as a beautiful older woman in a white coat. They were seen talking, then they went away. And when they were seen, later, she left alone in a huff, and he stumbled out of there like he'd been dumped with a vengeance."

"'Beautiful older woman?'" I ask.

"Caucasian. Dark hair. Long white hat. Smoked cigarettes with a black holder. Acted angry with him, then cozy. They looked like they might be going off into the trails to fool around...."

He goes on for a bit, there, but I'm not really listening. Because I know of exactly one !@#$ person who dresses like that and smokes like that, and I haven't seen here since all this !@#$ trouble started. 

Geri !@#$ing Yesterday -- wife of Dr. Yesterday, who I know has been replaced by the Imago, and had a big !@#$ hand in what happened on 3/15. 

She hasn't been seen since then, and I always assumed he's just !@#$ing killed her as part of his part in the plan. But then, she was always a !@#$ of a lot smarter than him, now wasn't she? 

And there is no !@#$ way that someone that smart gets !@#$ing killed by some stupid alien !@#$ who's replaced her beard. 

At some point in the President's over-exerting attempt to sound like a competent intelligence professional, instead of someone who !@#$ed up his first real job, I hold up a finger and look at him. Thankfully, he falls silent, so I don't have to punch him so I can hear myself think.

"Part of the reason I used Wen was because he was on my triple-red list," I say: "He was mentally weak, morally questionable, and in a position where those two traits would make him really easily talked into doing whatever the !@#$ we wanted."

"I think I remember you saying this, before."

"Well, we're not the only country with a triple-red list," I go on: "And I always figured it was only a matter of time before someone got to him."

"Alright, so are you saying someone else got to him after we did?"

"No. I'm starting to think someone !@#$ing got to him before we did," forgetting about my !@#$ing liver and going for the beer: "How does a shuddering, friendless loser like him get put in charge of those kinds of secrets, anyway?"

"Someone put him there," the President says: "Someone wanted him in charge of those files. So they could control the files through him."

"Only we come along and talk him into being a triple agent," I say: "So maybe this other person got him a long time ago, and he's had time to think it over and thinks we might be able to get him a better deal?"

"Or maybe something changed," the President suggests, taking a bite from my liver, since I'm not !@#$ing eating it: "My contact said it looked like they were two people who hadn't seen each other in a while. He was nervous as !@#$, and she was angry, then cozy."

"Like two old lovers, meeting again," I muse: "Must have been one !@#$ of a makeup !@#$, back in the bushes."

"So say he talks to her, and say he tells her everything. But the Imago tell you it's the President of Russia who gave you away. No talk about her at all."

"So who is she, and what kind of game is she running?" I ask, not yet wanting to disclose that I'm pretty !@#$ sure I know who she is, just yet. 

"My guy wasn't able to get a decent photo" the President sighs, handing me a piece of paper. I take it and open it, and see a decent copy of a decent security camera photo from the Botanical Gardens. Unfortunately, the area of interest looks like a computer !@#$ing threw up all over it.

"Electromagnetic shielding," I say: "Really sophisticated stuff, but not the best available. The really good !@#$ works so well there isn't even an effect. You don't even show up on the camera."

"Vampire coats," the President says, having some more of my liver: "I remember you talking about those, too."

"Alright then," I say, grabbing his beer and knocking it back, which makes him stop eating my !@#$ food: "We got ourselves a !@#$ing mystery to solve, here, Scooby Doo. But the problem is that we don't !@#$ing have time. The Imago are going to finish mopping up our little distraction in the next 48 hours, and that means we have a war of our own to start."

"We can farm this out," the President suggests: "We have enough people with their hands in their pants, don't we? We can have one of them look into it."

"Good idea," I say: "But before we start talking about bringing someone else into it? I just want to be clear on one !@#$ thing. The next time I tell you to kill someone? Just !@#$ing do it."

He looks at me, and nods: "I will."

"Because the next time this happens, I will just !@#$ing cut you loose and leave you on the sidelines," I tell him: "I don't care if that means it takes me twice as long to do what needs to be done. If I can't rely on you in the field, I can't have you out there. And I can just have you locked up in a !@#$ing hotel room in Tijuana until it's time for your close-up.

"You got that?"

He looks at me again, and nods: "I got it."

"Good," I say, knocking back the rest of his beer, and then regarding the dead cow in the corner.

"You got your speech, ready?" I ask after a while in silence. 

"Best I've written," he says, patting his shirt pocket: "You got the rest ready?"

"Pretty much," I lie: "Just a little more finagling, and we got ourselves a revolution."

He smiles, and leans back. I know he knows I'm not being entirely truthful. And I know that he knows that I know.

And maybe that's the real lesson of this crazy !@#$ meal, after all. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to Meat is Murder (The Smiths) and having some Asahi)

10/11/12 - Iron Demons, Metal Angels - pt 2

There are a little over a million and a half people living on Sardinia, and 6000 of them make the small island of San Pietro their home. 

They've fared fairly well, in this "Age of Imago." Their economy stabilized not long after 3/15, and even improved, somewhat. No one made any strange or unreasonable demands of them. They've kept their children by their sides, did not have a large white box installed by their main city, and the only times the Imago have showed up is to bring good news.

By and large, things are great.

Of course, there's still issues: the fishing's been a little weird, and the internet seems slower than it should be, at times. There's also the strangeness involved in visiting North Africa, and how, as soon as they remember the strangeness, they immediately do their best to think about something else.

(And then there's that disturbing old man in the high castle, up on the northwest promontory. But the less said about that strange and cruel fellow the better. They say he's a super-criminal, after all, and who wants to get mixed up with that?)

But those things are small issues; tiny fish in the big sea of life. The people of San Pietro work hard, and live well, and no one has any real problems to speak of.

Even today, with Rome set ablaze, and the skies of the world burning and bleeding, no one's seen any sign of the supposedly-worldwide fighting anywhere near the island. Perhaps they're just not important enough to bother with? And if so, why worry? Things should straighten themselves out well before they reach their shores.

They always do.

And that's why it's something of a shock when the sky becomes rather bright, all of a sudden.

The people's first thought is that a terribly powerful explosive has gone off, somewhere. The masses come out to see, shielding their eyes as best they can and wondering what's going on. But as soon as they realize that the brightness is directly overhead, it's too late to do anything about it.

The blast lasts for ten, long seconds. It goes from the north end of the island to the south. When it's over, there's nothing left of San Pietro but a smoking and molten hole in the sea bed, spawning a wave that swamps the shores of nearby Sardinian seaports.

Fortunately, most of the citizens of those towns and cities are indoors at the time: bolted down in their cellars and ground floors, hoping that the horrible, screaming, metal storms that are destroying the major cities of Europe do not come their way, too.

And so San Pietro dies unseen and alone -- a minor casualty of a larger war. Even now, newly-dead, they might not make the connection between the castle of the creepy old man and their sad fate. It's people never saw it coming, and had no idea that they would have been a target.

They never even had time to cry for help.

* * *

"Alright then," SPYGOD says, knocking back the sake that his dangerous host was kind enough to provide his guests: "You've heard my plan. You've heard what I need. I am here to ask what you can give me to help with this plan."

Mister 10 puffs on his cigarette, exhales towards the ceiling, and speaks. His assistant, Hanami, translates a few seconds later: "What sort of help?"

"To be !@#$ing honest? I'll take anything you can give me, as long as it's !@#$ big, !@#$ powerful, and likely to win the battle in the first few !@#$ing seconds."

The man looks at SPYGOD for a few seconds, and then laughs. It is not a kind-sounding thing.

"Is something wrong?" the President asks, before SPYGOD can remind him that he shouldn't be talking.

The man speaks, and Hanami translates: "Do you think this is a pink box? Do you think you can just borrow the things I safeguard as though they were there for your pleasure? We look after these things because they are dangerous, and must be studied and watched. We do not loan them out to failed warriors who need to win wars."

"Look, Mister 10, I mean no disrespect-" SPYGOD starts to say, but goes silent as a finger is put onto his lips.

"If you wished to show me respect, you would speak my language, and call me by my rightful name," Mister 10 says: "I did not mind giving you some aid, before. I do not mind giving you some aid, now, or in the future. But you may not ask this of me. And you know why-"

"How would you like total military autonomy in return?" the President asks.

SPYGOD looks at the President: "Shut your !@#$ mouth-"

"Please, continue," Mister 10 says, squeezing SPYGOD's lips together with his forefinger and thumb.

"When we are back on our feet, as a nation, and a world," the President says, sitting up straight and looking the man in the eyes: "I can pledge to you that America will no longer insist that Japan cannot have a fully-functioning, standing military. We will agree to a scheduled, gradual withdrawal of our forces, so as to allow you to build up your forces to full strength. And when you are, we will leave and not return, unless you ask for our aid. No more military bases, no more fleet movements. You will be free to pursue your defense as you see fit."

"The refusal to put forward an offense-capable military is enshrined in our Constitution, Mr. President. It has been a part of our national culture since the Occupation. Between our Self-Defense Force and the things my group looks after, we have beaten back everything that has ever threatened Japan. Why do you think we would even want this?"

"Because I think being invaded by the Imago is going to rankle your nation quite severely, when all is said and done," the President explains, wondering how long he can talk before SPYGOD punches him in the face: "I think you are a proud people, and for good reason. And once certain facts are brought to light, after we've liberated the Earth, I think your people will be ready to talk about having a real military, once again."

Mister 10 considers that for a moment, and then continues: "I thought you had to put such things before your Congress, Mr. President?"

"I do, yes. But I also think that, once certain other facts are brought to light, the Congress will be very happy to approve of my plan," the President says: "And if not, I'll write as many !@#$ executive orders as I have to."

The man looks at the President, and then at SPYGOD. Then he smiles, takes his hand away from SPYGOD's face, and leans back in his chair.

"Very well," he says: "On behalf of what it left of the Japanese government, I accept your gracious offer. And I will be happy to provide the temporary use of one of our more powerful properties. However, you must name the one you want, as I am not going to provide you with a shopping list.

"And I should warn you that our collection is not what it was..."

"What do you mean-" the President asks, but he's quickly silenced by Mister 10 shouting for more sake, and maybe some snacks.

He looks at SPYGOD. SPYGOD does not look at him. He gets the idea they may have just been conned.

And he sighs, realizing that maybe he really should have just kept his big mouth shut.

* * *

In Doctor Kyklops' large and impressive sea saucer, the mood has gone from elation to grim reality.

The holographic battle globe in the main chamber says it all: maniple after maniple of Slaughterbots are being targeted from on high, and utterly destroyed. The Imago are luring them into firing position, and then teleporting away a half-second before the particle beams come down.

From her vantage point, surrounded by smaller holographic screens, METALMAID seethes and fumes. It was all going so well! How could she have miscalculated this badly?

(Meanwhile, the destruction of his seaside castle has turned her "client" into a sad wreck, sitting in a chair far from the globe. But he wasn't offering anything in the way of a sensible battle plan, anyway, so that's of no concern to her.)

"Do not bunch up," METALMAID is ordering the groups of Slaughterbots: "If you are too close together, they will fire upon you. Reduce ranks to ten and scatter!"

"This Unit must point out that if they do not attack in a large group, they will lose their tactical advantage," V-16 wisely counsels.

"I know that!" METALMAID shouts: "But it's all we can do. We have no way of knocking out Deep Ten. The !@#$ tin machines are untouchable."

"Then this Unit suggests that we have only one recourse left," V-16 says: "The final move."

"They are still too strong, and we are losing."

"They will not fire their cannon at their own city," V-16 says, putting a hand on her shoulder: "They can risk the boxes. They cannot risk that."

"So if they scatter, and regroup there..." METALMAID says, nodding.

"This Unit still believes victory is possible, if they pursue that strategy."

"Alright," METALMAID addresses her troops: "New plan. All mobile units, all recycle units, find the nearest major body of water and dive into it. Maintain unit strength of no more than ten, and distance yourself at least ten miles from each other. Converge on the city, stay mobile, and wait for my signal.

"All Box units, stay at your tasks. Those things must be destroyed at all costs."

The many maniples register their acknowledgement, and comply. She watches as more beams come down from the heavens and destroy fleeing groups, doing the arithmetic in her head.

This was never a certain thing to begin with, but now it's going to be really !@#$ing close.

* * *

"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD says: "Your top exo-cyberneticist died of cancer?"

"It was very sudden," Mister 10 says, though Hanami: "One day he was fine, the next he was not himself, and then he was mistaking fermented soybean paste for his hat. A week later, he was dead."

"That's !@#$ convenient-"

"Not for us," the man interrupts: "And you, of everyone, should know the hazards of working with exotic materials. We lost dozens of men merely exploring the ship, before he came to the project. The fact that he was able to make the Fire Flier work was nothing short of a miracle, and the fact that he did not die sooner from some strange thing no one can predict was only luck. And luck eventually runs out.

"And no one else knows how the Fire Flier works?" SPYGOD sighs, his hopes getting shorter along with his list.

"Unfortunately, no. He was a very secretive individual. He was all too aware that, the more people knew, the less necessary he was."

"So I bet you're going to tell me he never !@#$ing trained those Flying Young Science Commandos how to fix the !@#$ thing, either?"

"That is correct," Mister 10 knocks back some sake.

"What shape is it in?" the President asks: "We have some people who could possibly figure it out-"

"Even if we would trust you to look it over, and we do not," Mister 10 interrupts: "It is in several pieces, at this moment. The last time we faced attack from Hell Island, the team took it into battle. It did not fare well."

SPYGOD sighs, and crosses yet another entry off his list. There aren't many entries left.

"The Giant Archer?"

"Intact, but indisposed," the man says, smiling slightly.

"What the !@#$ does that mean?"

"Something has to guard the entrance to Hell Island, now."

Another line is crossed off: "The Lizard King?"

"We do not control him. He comes and goes as he will, sometimes as a friend, and sometimes not."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Before 3/15. But sometimes he vanishes for years. I think we could grow old and die in captivity waiting for him to return."

"And we don't even have that long," the President says, shaking his head: "Too bad. We could have used him."

Another line is marked off: "The Revolutionary Men?"

"Missing in action, sadly."

"How the !@#$ does an entire group of hundred foot tall metal men go missing in action?"

"Your government exiled them."

"We did what?" the President asks, but SPYGOD holds up a hand.

"You mean they were... like ours?"

"They were. And when your Government entered into that deal, in the 1980's, we lost them. In fact, that is part of the reason why the Organization exists in the first place, to make certain such things do not happen again."

A deep sigh, and yet another line is marked off: "The cute, can-do android from the future with a punch that could take out a battleship?"

"Also indisposed."

"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me."

"I assure you, we are not," Mister 10 replies. Hanami smiles, this time.

* * *

The plan is put into action. The Slaughterbots spread themselves out as much as they can, without losing unit cohesion, and dive into the nearest large body of water. This saves them, without a doubt.

However, those units that are engaged in sabotaging the large, white boxes are not as fortunate. Each one, in turn, is fired upon by the same particle beams that were surgically taking out their airborne comrades. Europe, North America, Asia, and Africa -- they are picked off, one by one.

And the white boxes are not so much as scorched by the beams that engulf them.

As the Slaughterbots lose their numbers and cohesion, their enemy redoubles. Phalanxes of Specials are teleported ahead of them, firing terrible and heavy weapons at them as they retreat.

The Imago also follow them under the waves, using surprise and increased numbers to rend them apart. The seas boil with hidden conflicts, and the oceans run black and red with oil and blood.

And from her headquarters, deep beneath the waves, METALMAID watches her forces' numbers dwindle dramatically, and begins to think of an exit strategy.

This war may be lost.

* * *

"Well rat!@#$," SPYGOD says, crumbling up his piece of paper: "Not a single giant !@#$ing robot, no !@#$ wondervehicles, no giant monsters on a leash. You probably don't even have that metal gimp on the superbike, anymore, do you?"

"He is available," Mister 10 says: "But, to be honest, I do not think he would fare so well against your chosen target."

"We may just come to that," SPYGOD sighs: "And you really aren't going to just !@#$ing offer me something you do have? Really?"

"We made an agreement, did we not?" Mister 10 says, banging his hands on the table and clearly becoming angry: "You knew the rules when we began. You also know what my organization does, and why-"

"And I know that if the Imago don't !@#$ing kill us, whatever's coming at us from outer !@#$ing space will-"

"Perhaps I should kill you and save them the bother-"

"This building," the President says: "We'll take it."

Mister 10 opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. Hanami looks at him, and then the President. SPYGOD raises his eyebrows, and then leans back and smiles.

"You do not know what you are asking," Mister 10 finally says.

"It's powerful enough to destroy Tokyo if you mess with it," the President says: "So I suspect if you use it as intended, it must be exactly what we need."


Mister 10 looks at Hanami, and then back at the President. He nods, stands up, bows, and leaves the room.


"Did we..." the President asks, looking at Hanami and then SPYGOD: "I'm not sure what just happened, here?"


"We will be in touch, soon, regarding a way to contact us," the woman says, getting up and bowing respectfully: "You may stay in this room, or enjoy the bar, outside. But I should warn you that the people out there are dangerous criminals, and may recognize you."


With that, she's gone, leaving the President and SPYGOD to themselves.


"I think you just saved the !@#$ing planet, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, pouring the two of them some more of the fine sake their host left for them: "Care for a drink?"


"I think I'm going to need a whole !@#$ raft of them," the President says, gulping his down.


"I hear that," SPYGOD says, handing him the other cup and pulling right from the bottle.

"I wonder how the war's going?"

"If I've got my timing right?" SPYGOD looks at his watch: "Just about over, except for the screaming..."

* * *

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, there is a strange and massive city, recently risen from the seabed. Its fabled contours -- reminiscent of every lost civilization of the Earth -- glows red in the evening Sun. Strange lights play inside its massive hollows and cyclopean doors, and weird, crackling balls of light float in and out of its many windows, as if watching for intrusions.

Above it all, hovering motionless, is a giant metal dragonfly. As night approaches, it glows a dull purple, beating in time with a hideous heartbeat. It seems to be breathing, this silver leviathan, but that may just be a trick of the light. 

At the horizon, there is a stirring beneath the waves -- swift and terrible, hungry for battle.

The last few maniples of the Slaughterbot army are converging on their target. They are fewer, now, but strong and certain. They know they can do this, if only because they have been ordered to.

But in that ordering comes certainty: they have a task to complete, and they must not stop until they have done so.

As one, they rise from the waves. As one, they fire their weapons at the city and the immense, steel insect that sits above it. As one, they scream their battlecry, falling forward into death and history. 

A blinding light, a raging fire, and then there is nothing but ashes and smoke.

(SPYGOD is listening to W.Y.H.I.W.Y.G. (Front 242) and having more of that fine Mukune Sake)

10/11/12 - Iron Demons, Metal Angels - pt 1

South Sumatera, perhaps 150 miles Southast of Pontianak. The sun comes up on a smoky and shimmering landscape of shattered glass and burning trees.

The remnants of the Space Elevator cover a wide, westward swath from ground zero. Its gargantuan base is still on fire. Every so often, it sends up a curling tendril of what little remains of itself, trying to commit to self-repair. Those delicate fronds of matter quickly blacken and burn, but there will be many more where they came from.

The glass is actually transparent metal. It twitches in the morning sun, thinking it should be larger, more complete. But like someone caught in a bad dream they can't escape, it can only lie there, waiting for the signal to awaken.

It may be waiting a long time.

The battleground is eerily absent of corpses. The victors have recovered their dead, and harvested all but the most badly-damaged of their foes for study or cannibalization. Only trace elements remain: here a gaudy green metal hand, there a sheared-off slice of gold shoulder or azure leg.

No flags have been raised, here, and no garrisons left. This was not a battle to take ground, but to deny the enemy its clearest signs of superiority and dominion.

And if the terrorist attack of last September showed that the Imago could be hurt, then today's battle shows they can be beaten -- and badly.

But for how long?

* * *

"So what should we expect from this meeting?" the President whispers to SPYGOD as they walk into the Heaven House Tokyo, following the young lady who greeted him at the ferry the other day.

"Let's just say you should leave the talking to me," SPYGOD whispers back, adjusting his hologlasses and hoping the disguise holds. 

"Because that worked so well the other day," the President sighs, reflexively adjusting his own. He doesn't like the fact that his hologlasses can see through the disguises generated by others. It means anyone else that's wearing a pair now knows a dead President is walking though Tokyo. 

(Not that there were a lot of people out on the streets. The city was uncharacteristically deserted, today. People were staying indoors out of fear of what was happening around the world.)

"Hey now, you don't know those !@#$ing people," SPYGOD says, raising a ringer as they enter a dark, long foyer just large enough for them to walk through side by side: "If we didn't do good cop, bad cop, nothing would have !@#$ing gotten done."

"Did anything get done? As far as I could tell we got a non-committal commitment to have them get in touch with what's left of their governments, and then you made them all !@#$ in their pants by telling them about the FDOS."

"But we got them !@#$ing scared," SPYGOD says as they come to an inner door, guarded by two large, burly men in white suits, also wearing hologlasses: "And with them? That's all they need to get their !@#$es in motion."

The young lady shows one of the men something from her purse. He looks at it, looks at her two companions, and grunt-nods. He pulls out a phone and calls someone, and then, nodding at whatever he hears, puts the phone away and opens up the doors. Behind it is a blindingly-bright room, through which only the subtlest shapes can be discerned.

"Shi Heya," he announces. 

"Room four," Hanami translates, indicating that they should follow her into the light beyond the darkness.

* * *

All around the world, white hot battles are being fought for its future -- skies burning as angry, grey iron demons rage tooth and claw against brilliant metal angels.

London and Seattle lose their tallest buildings as combatants whirl and twirl around themselves like warring flocks of birds. Moscow and Sao Paolo lose entire neighborhoods as the war in heaven touches the ground. New Delhi catches fire as smoldering pieces of the wounded fall to the ground, stately Rome has already been abandoned and left to blaze.

And Paris watches in horror as the Eiffel Tower falls down -- shattered like a child's toy by the ferocity of what's happening around it.

Both sides would seem to be evenly matched: the Slaughterbots' lasers and railguns merely bounce off the Imago's shields, and the Imago's death-stare is good only against those with eyes, and a brain. As such, hand-to-hand combat is the only recourse, and all parties are strong and savage fighters in that regard.

But the Slaughterbots were ready for this battle, having trained and prepared for this war for some time. The Imago apparently had no idea it was coming -- no conception that anyone might dare to challenge them in these numbers, and with this ferocity. And while they can teleport away from a losing battle, their foes seem able to track their movements through space, and reposition their forces accordingly.

So are their losses staggering. And everywhere, in the cities and fields, as the broken pieces of the Imago fall to the ground, they are quickly snatched up to build yet more Slaughterbots for the fight.

The afterlife may have a revolving door, in this war, but so far it only seems to be working for one side.

* * *

Heaven is a large, white room with bright lights, crystal fixtures, and shiny metal furnishings. A central bar serves only clear or white drinks, all poured from silver bottles with no markings. Loud, clanging techno beats echo around its walls, but there's no room to dance.

Everyone in the bar, itself, is wearing the brightest white they can, complemented by brightly-polished silver and clear glass. Most of them also wear white masks: skull masks, blank masks, dominoes, and the like. Those who are not are wearing hologlasses, and those all appear to be employees.

No one notices SPYGOD and the President coming in. They are all watching video screens, listening to the sober delivery of a topless, female newscaster as she talks of horrible fighting in China, Korea, and Taiwan. As the due follow their guide, the screens go over to an amateur's footage of what looks like a block of flaming, metal birds tearing itself to pieces over what is clearly Hong Kong. 

"That's that, then," SPYGOD says, gesturing: "It's gonna get !@#$ing messy."

"How are they seeing any of this?" the President asks: "I'd have thought the Imago would be keeping this off the internet."

"They are, I bet. But that's not the internet."

"Oh?" the President asks as Hanami gets them to a door, over by the left wall. There are a number of doors, all with numbers. Between three and five is a door with no number. 

"Room four," their guide says, opening it up and gesturing that they should go inside: "Please be seated. I will get Ju San."

"Thanks, hon," SPYGOD says, poking his head in, and only then allowing the President to follow him on in to the small room. There's a round, white table, silvery metal chairs, and a light fixture, and that's it.

"So if that's not the internet-" the President starts to say, but SPYGOD holds up a finger, and quickly looks all around the room. Then he puts the black cube he used at the bar last night on the table, and turns it on. 

"Okay, really !@#$ing quick," SPYGOD says, watching the door: "This man we're about to meet is one of the most !@#$ing dangerous people you are ever going to work with in your life. If we thinks we're not on the level, we're !@#$ing dead."

"You're kidding me," the President says.

"No. I am not," SPYGOD replies, gesturing for him to sit down: "The Japanese government's had a !@#$ weird relationship with organized crime since the 80's, and the Organization is one of the fruits of that. The sort of things Mister 10 looks after is the sort of things that no government should really be allowed to have, so he keeps them safe."

"What sort of things?"

"The sorts of things that could have stood toe to !@#$ing toe with the sort of people it took the Backers and Rappin Ronnie to get rid of in America."

"And safe from what?"

"The Japanese government, primary. But also us."

"Us?"

"Yes, Mr. President. Us. We don't !@#$ing allow them to have a !@#$ing military worth a !@#$, so any crazy and powerful !@#$ they come up with's likely to fall into our hands. And given how we were playing with our toys, back in the 80's, that could have been !@#$ bad."

"And that's why they formed the Organization?"

"Yes. And this is one !@#$ing scary organization that has led to the creation of one !@#$ing scary man. Mister 10 has killed government officials with his bare !@#$ hands to keep their secrets. He's strangled diplomats and even shot a foreign dignitary or two.

"And forget about !@#$ing convincing him you're not out to steal his !@#$. Oh no. As far as he's !@#$ing concerned, he doesn't have the time to be sure or make sure before he acts.

"He is unreachable, untouchable, and only accountable to one person in this whole !@#$ world. And the Imago mashed his head into a !@#$ wall when he told them to go eat fish, a few months back."

"So what happens if we don't measure up?" the President asks.

"If we're lucky? Two to the head with a gun that shouldn't even exist in this timeline."

"And not?"

"He'll just !@#$ our brains through our eyesockets," SPYGOD says, sitting down: "And that, Mr. President, is why I'm doing the talking today."

"By all means..." the President says, sitting up and trying to not look scared out of his !@#$ mind. 

* * *

The battle continues on, but now the Slaughterbots are causing real damage. 

By the major cities of Europe and North America, there are large, white boxes -- each as large as a sports stadium. They are supposedly there to help regulate the flow of energy and supplies to the people of those regions, but an exact accounting of their purpose and functioning remains elusive. And anyone who gets too close is usually met by an Imago, who is happy to either gently turn the interloper away, or roughly remove him from the human race. 

The Slaughterbots, however, are not so easily moved.

It takes some doing, for the boxes are well-shielded, and quite impervious to the sort of firepower that even the heaviest of war robots might carry. But with long bursts of concentrated fire, followed up by caustic explosives and other, exotic weaponry, the walls eventually give way just wide enough to allow something small and explosive to be tossed in.

And those small explosives pack a very large blast, as several cities in Mexico, Canada, and Russia soon find out. 

The boxes are being taken down in a pattern: one after the other, city after city, all leading to the interior of their continents. The fighting in the skies subsides as the Imago rally around those boxes, ready to give their lives rather than allow them to be destroyed. 

But as they battle, they become aware that many of their new foes are wearing old friends: Slaughterbots created from the remnants of fallen Imago are taking the battle to them, and when they fall they are simply snatched up, taken behind the lines, and put back together again.

Box after box falls. City after city goes dark and silent. A wave of blackness threatens the Age of Imago. 

Something will have to be done. 

* * *

The door takes a long time to open up again. The President knows the man is out there, but he's stopped right at the door and hasn't come in yet. It's like he's waiting for something.

The President wants to stand up, somehow. He wants to go and open the door. But the second he so much as twitches, SPYGOD shoots him a look and points his finger at him, and then down.

He doesn't so much as twitch after that. And a full sixty seconds later, Mister 10 is in the room.

(The President swears he didn't even see the door open and shut.)

He's a big, beefy man with a short, salt-and-pepper haircut, and very heavy-lidded eyes. He wears an off-white shirt with a floral paisley pattern, white leather pants, and heavy boots. When he walks over to the table, he does it without directly looking at them, and when he puts his hands on the chair he intends to sit in, the President notices he's missing a few finger joints.

He's sat in enough meetings with the FBI to know what that means -- Yakuza. 

The man notices the President noticing, and half-nods to him. Then he looks at SPYGOD, and half nods as well. Only then does he sit down, full and thunderous, and put his hands on the table.

When he sees the black box he snorts, and points at it. SPYGOD nods, turns it off, and puts it away.

The girl, Hanami, comes in and sits down next to him. She smiles and puts her hands down on the table, mirroring the man's stance.

"Ju San understands English, but does not care to speak it," she says: "He says that it is distasteful language, easily perverted by foreign words that have no business within it. As such, I will translate his half of the meeting for you. Speak as fast or as slow as you like."

"That's funny," SPYGOD says, leaning forward in his chair: "The sign on the door says 'Heaven House Tokyo,' in English. Is that for the visitors, then?"

When Ju San speaks it is soft-spoken but firm. A few seconds after he begins speaking, Hanami translates.

"Your impudence is noted, but you have a good point. I am not permitted to change the outside of the building. It has been like that since the time of the original Organization. To effect such a change now would be to alter the building, itself. And that would be a bad thing."

"How bad?"

"I do not think it would be a good thing for Tokyo to be blasted off the island," Ju San replies, though Hanami, and not without a smile: "Especially since we have spent so many years keeping it safe."

"You mean this building is one of the things you've been protecting?"

"It is. But you do not need to know what it is. Not if you wish to leave this room alive."

The President gulps. SPYGOD rolls his eyes. Ju San smiles.

"May I offer you a drink?" the man says, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes: "I find negotiations of this sort go much better with alcohol. It takes a bit of the edge off the blade, so to speak."

"Sounds like a !@#$ fine idea to me," SPYGOD says, offering him a light: "I don't like signing any bargain clean and sober. Do you?"

"Not at all," Ju San replies, graciously accepting the flame: "If we can save this world, that is worthy of celebration. And not every celebration should wait until victory is achieved.

"After all," he continues, leaning back and exhaling smoke at the ceiling: "What happens if it never comes?"

* * *

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, above the risen city, the faces of the powers that run the Imago are in deep consultation with one another.    

What is happening in North America? the hidden leader demands, her voice hollow and wet: How can we have lost so many links in our power chain this quickly?

The deployment is clearly not working, leader: the former head of the CIA -- now The Sight -- says, chiming in from his cocoon of stolen brains and internet connections: We have clearly been outmaneuvered.

We have not been outmaneuvered! Doctor Yesterday -- now The Motion -- angrily responds from the Antarctic redoubt: We have merely been taken by surprise. And if you'd been doing your !@#$ job we wouldn't be having this problem, now!

Don't you dare put this on me-

Please be calm, my children, The leader says: Do not let the heat of the moment overwhelm your judgments. Remember that if they continue to attack us in this fashion, we will be crippled. Worse still, we will lose time in our effort to leave this planet. We need sound decisions, now. We can worry about what has gone wrong later.

The problem is that we do not know our enemy's plan, the writhing, cyclopean mass of neural circuitry that was once The Dragon says: We do not know this plan because we do not know the enemy. Once we know the enemy, we will know the plan.

Um, we know who the enemy is, Dragon, The ersatz Director Straffer -- now The Fist -- says as he gazes down from Deep Ten: It's that Dr. Kyklops fellow, remember? He took credit for the attack, yesterday.

And I know what robots those are, The Motion says: Those are Slaughterbots. I should know. I've repaired SPYGOD's pet enough times.   

I do not think you understand me, The Dragon says: I meant to say-

Don't you have a fortress to run? The Fist says: I say we don't worry about who or why until we've won. I can pick them off from here, if you'll let me. 

If you do that, then you'll be firing a lot of blasts down on the planet, the Sight says: And while we've been able to blame those on our enemies so far, sooner or later the people will start asking too many questions.

At least they'll be alive to ask the questions, the Fist replies: I'm seeing what those robots are doing to any humans they come across. This doesn't look good-

There is another question, here: The Dragon says, calm and serene:  I find it hard to believe that what happened in Neo York City yesterday has no connection to this. The city throws us out, just as a powerful enemy attacks? I would suspect the origin of our troubles lies within the city.

I say the origin of our troubles lies with Dr. Kyklops, the Motion says: Once we take him out, we've got half the battle won. 

And I am very ready to take him out, The Fist adds.

And I can use this as a means to redouble people's loyalties to us, and this increase production, The Motion says.

These are good things to hear, the leader says: Dragon, I understand your concerns. Please apply your brilliance to finding the true meaning behind this attack. 

I will, The Dragon replies, and falls silent.

The rest of you? The Leader continues: Prepare to counter-attack. This has gone on enough, and harmed our efforts enough. And remember that we do these things for love -- love for one another, our people, and our cause. 

Soon we shall be free. Never lose sight of this. 

And then there is silent assent, and the sound of the world remaking itself in their alien image.

(SPYGOD is listening to Commando (Front 242) and having a Mukune sake)