3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 2

When SPYGOD and Doctor Krwi first met, all those years ago, they found themselves in circumstances much like these: severely outnumbered, sadly outgunned, and too deep underground to have a hope of retreating.

It was in the small village of Stubno, Poland, in the 60's. SPYGOD was just learning to wield the powers his new eye had granted him, but not fully cognizant of what he'd been given. Krwi was a younger man, with just enough combat magic to make him a dangerous opponent, but not having learned to put his spells and swords together enough to make him truly formidable, yet. And neither of them knew the other very well, or entirely trusted their strange, new ally against a mutual foe; indeed, divided by their political affiliations, insults were traded, harsh words were said, and the mission almost abandoned out of mistrust and exasperation.

(Standard operating procedure when two heroes meet for the first time, it would seem)

Yet there they were, that day, fighting back to back in a series of large, dank caverns under the village. Together, they faced off against mobs of pre-communist Russian vampires, as well small armies of their diseased revenants, swarms of scuttling, blood-fattened vermin, and hordes of their slimy, undead minions.

The duo's ammunition ran out by the second cavern, SPYGOD-vision seemed to have little effect on the undead, and Krwi was too spiritually and mentally exhausted to keep flinging spells by the third. According to the partial map they were following, there were ten more caverns to go, perhaps more, and they had no hope of going back the way they came.

The only way out was through.

So they looked at one another, in a slight lull in the onslaught, and simultaneously realized that all they could rely on after that point were fists and swords, and faith and fire, and the belief, born of shared enemies, that they had each others' backs.

Thankfully, that belief was not in error; they persevered, and the great vampire kingdom of the Carpathians was put to the torch. No longer would this nest of the hungry dead prey upon the people who lived in the mountains' shadow without fear, and SQUASH would no longer be able to use their younger, less degenerate members as nightmare troops against the free world.

The two men parted friends, and would call upon one another, now and again, when an item of mutual concern crossed their notice. Over those decades, Doctor Krwi would become more adept at his combat magic, eventually assuming the role of the world's preeminent destroyer of vampires. And SPYGOD -- as we all know -- continued to learn more of what the Chandra Eye had granted him, putting both his immortality and unearthly senses to work for his country, and the world.

But while Krwi became older and wiser, all too aware of his encroaching age and mortality, SPYGOD -- perhaps too assured by his apparent godhood -- became decadent and reckless. One unfortunate incident in the early part of the new century led the two to re-evaluate both their working relationship and friendship, and may have led to blows had the old man not chosen to leave without saying goodbye. Indeed, in an angry letter, penned some months after the event, Krwi went as far as to tell SPYGOD to never call him again, unless the world depended on it.

According to the secret communication he received from a disgraced and hunted SPYGOD, perhaps a week and a half ago, it did. Hence his presence here, this night -- back to back once more with the man he swore he'd never so much as set eyes on, again, lest they trade more than recriminations.

This time they have come prepared. SPYGOD has learned not to rely on guns, but on his fists, and that the sight of the Chandra Eye can work on the undead if used along a certain wavelength, and then only on younger ones, or their lesser creations. And Krwi has long since created the perfect fusion of sword and spell, using the latter to drive the enemy back, or bring them forward to take the edge of the former.

Still -- to borrow a phrase from this age's enfant terrible --  it's going to be a long, hard road out of Hell, tonight.

One large mob of vampires lies at their feet, turned to dust or rapidly-aging, twitching flesh and blood, peppered with the gristle and gore of untold legions of scabrous, overgrown spiders, bloodthirsty centipedes as long and thick as a man's arm, and cancerous rats the size of puppies. But another group, bolstered by rotting bodies animated by the blood, is about to charge past the columns and coffins that mark the boundary of this area and the start of the next. And their ultimate objective is quite some distance beyond that barrier.

Simply put: it would help immensely if their secret weapon would hurry the !@#$ up and do what he was supposed to do.

But the moment SPYGOD and Krwi hear the evil, otherworldly laughter behind him, they both know that it's time to duck and cover. The Doctor's seen the monster in action, once before, and barely held his mind together in its wake. And as for SPYGOD, he knows all too well that once the creature starts to kill, it's not going to stop.

Not even for him.

There are two coffins nearby, being used as furniture. SPYGOD rips them open, tosses out their mummified and violated occupants, and lets the old man jump in. Then he slams the lid shut, puts the other coffin on top of it, jumps in, and pulls the lid down shut on top of himself.

As he does, he catches the slightest glimpse of Crazyface as it surges from the dark hole that its owner/victim disappeared into, a few bloody moments ago. Its' true nature is difficult for him to process, given that the Chandra Eye allows him to see reality from so many different angles, but the dizzying, rushing spiral of trans-cosmic darkness that comes along with it almost causes him to vomit from motion sickness.

It is not mortal being, anymore; it is a plague of metal space-locusts in the shape of a man, given rough form by a body wracked by its dire proximity, and given hideous purpose by what little remains of it's host's mind.

As SPYGOD holds the lid down from the inside for dear life -- even for him -- he hears the horrible noises outside, as the angry, bloodthirsty shouts of the oncoming hordes of vampires and their slaves turn into screams of terror, and then agony, followed by mewling cries for pity in the face of the fanged maw of a creature called up from the limitless depths of an unknown and hostile universe.

And above the screams and cries, and the rending of limb and life -- or its pale, deathly shadow, at any rate -- the monstrous noise of a million buzzing, steel insects let loose upon the world.

* * *

The screams and cries get louder, almost drowning out the otherworldly drone of the spacegod they've let loose on the Vampires of Cuba. The coffins insulate them from having to see the full horror, but the terrible sounds -- and otherworldly vibrations -- churn their stomachs and make their minds reel. 

The old man's seen the being in action once, and only long enough to know that he needed to get away from it. He locked himself into the house's basement, and did not come out until well after the buzzing had stopped, and the immediate, almost-paralyzing horror of what he saw was gone from his mind. And when he opened the door again, there was just Gilligan, laughing and kicking a man's head around the dining room like a soccerball. 

As for SPYGOD, he's danced this tango before. He knows not to come out until well after the buzzing's stopped, just to make sure the cloud didn't hunker down to chortle over a fallen foe, or something. Haste makes blowback in cases like this. 

Carefully, and with all due consideration, he opens up the coffin lid, and looks around at the massacre that took place. Then he quietly climbs out, and with as much stealth as he can, takes his coffin off of the other, and lets Krwi out. He gestures to the old man that they should refrain from speaking, and need to go where the vampires were coming from. There lies their objective, apparently.

The catacombs have become a gruesome canvas for CRAZYFACE. The bodies of the undead are everywhere: spread across the walls and floors, smashed into the ceilings and columns, and arranged in grotesque, yet darkly amusing tableaux. There are neat pyramids of heads to sneak past, and knee-high mazes made of severed arms and legs. Some of the less-decayed dead have been stripped and turned into hideous pornography: their bodies roughly violated by centipede, rat, and spider. A ring of corpses are laid out on the floor in a strange, geometric pattern that reminds SPYGOD of a snowflake, or perhaps something he'd rather not remember, right now.

Chamber after chamber reveals even more disgusting and intricate blasphemies, especially when they get to the area where the vampires let their revenants attend to their meals. Innocent victims were locked up in iron cages suspended above the floor, waiting to be led to upright, metal coffins with retractable spikes lining their insides. Such doncellas sangrientas -- "bloody maidens" -- were used for torture, feeding, and amusement by the vampires of Iberia, and taken along with them to the New World to keep their sadistic traditions alive.

Crazyface has left nothing alive, here; Living prey and undead predator alike have been brutalized, killed, and used as toys. Indeed, the possibility of playing with living things, with all their squishy, wet insides and warm blood, brought out a crueler, even more depraved display from such a meaty palate.

The things on display in this room are truly warped, and the Doctor's fury at what he sees can only barely be restrained. But still SPYGOD motions for him to remain silent; They can argue about this later, he seems to say through sad eyes -- right now, they must be quiet, or they too may die.

Past the feeding and breeding pits for vermin, and the filthy, bone-strewn warrens where the monsters slept the sultry, Cuban days away, and the great meeting hall where they sat on thrones of skull and femur, ribcage and pelvis, and made merry, there is a final area. This great place, unholiest amongst unholy things, contains the greatest treasure of the Vampires of Cuba, and is sealed with an appropriately impressive barrier. It is an iron wall, engraved with the same angelic and demonic scenes as the door that led into the warren, itself, only with even greater detail, and certain parts engineered to swing inward when opened with the correct key.

It is a door that Crazyface's host was told to leave alone. From the looks of things, he obeyed that order, at least. 

SPYGOD looks to the Doctor, who, with red eyes brimming with tears, nods and makes a series of arcane gestures, muttering mystical words as he does. His hands begin to glow, and then he places them upon the moving parts, which also begin to glow. Krwi holds his hands there for a count of ten, and then takes them way, and as he does the door unlocks and swings inward. 

The large chamber beyond reminds SPYGOD of ancient, Spanish cathedrals, only without the joy or hope. Stone ribs are its ceiling, with columns like great femurs holding them up. Iron chains dangle from those ribs and columns, with skulls filled with the red, pulsing, light-giving substance at their ends.

In the center of the room is a great pit, and the smell that comes from it is truly obscene. Before the pit is a stone lectern festooned with bones and skulls. Beyond the pit are stone beds, each containing a supine figure, covered with a red, moldering silk sheet.

As they come closer, they can see that the pit is filled with the dried, exsanguinated bodies that the vampires are done with. Slowly crawling amongst those bodies are the most ancient of vampires -- the elders who were quite august when they boarded ships for the New World, and who simply cannot consume the massive amounts of blood needed to maintain their youth and vigor. Fully awake and aware, but barely able to move, they lounge like dying cats, whispering delicious memories to one another, or remembering times gone by as they wait for the forever sleep to take them.

And in the center of that pit, luxuriating in such rotten filth, is a massively bloated thing that looks as though someone had taken a healthy, pink-skinned child, amputated his arms and legs at the torso, and then blown his stomach out to immensely gargantuan proportions -- a ball of skin some ten feet in diameter. The child's eyes are sewn shut, and his mouth held open by a large, iron funnel. The belly is supported by a lattice of iron and bone, which creaks under the heavy weight of the blood.

Inside the stretched, taut skin of the boy is nothing but blood, and in that pool of blood languidly swims a young, slim figure. He sings to himself a truly old song, apparently unaware that his inner sanctum has been invaded, and his kingdom all but dead. 

And this, then, is the King of the Vampires of Cuba: the most ancient of them all, and given all the blood he needs to retain his youth and vigor. This is done so he will not succumb to the ravages of age that have taken his fellows, who slowly slink below him, waiting for a Sunday feeding, or to lap up the occasional spill of their master's blood. 

SPYGOD nods to Krwi, and waves a hand at the monstrosity. This is what he's promised the old man for his participation in this venture, and this is what he's earned. He doesn't really want to see it, though. He's got other, more important things to do.

He walks past the pit over to the stone tables, where the figures lay. He finds the one that's still breathing, and pulls the sheet off it to reveal none other than Fidel Castro, himself.

"(Who...?)" the dictator asks, his eyes fluttering open. He looks younger than he has in years -- almost as he did back in the Revolution -- but his eyes are still an old man's eyes, full of burst blood vessels and set within wrinkled lids.

"Heya, !@#$beard," he says, putting a foot down on the man's chest before he can get up, and turning his button off so the man knows who he is: "You really do know the best spots in Havana."

"You?" the young old man stammers.

"Me," SPYGOD says: "Let's talk, shall we?"

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, album version) and drinking momentary triumph)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 1

La Casa de La Sangre is a large, red brick building, nestled amongst several other large, red brick buildings in southern Havana.

While it looks relatively ordinary, something about the building radiates a high degree of malevolence to the trained eye, or sensitive soul. But it's the ear that truly gives away how profane the edifice is, for no matter what time of day one stands in its many, long shadows, one will never hear anything while engulfed in them.

No cats hissing at one another in the alleys. No dogs barking at noises, or each other. No birds chirping, no children playing, no cars or buses or bicycles.

Not even an insect -- not even a !@#$ing fly -- dares buzz in the immediate locale of La Casa, as though what lurked inside it was too terrible, even for such vermin.

It's as if there's a giant, cartoon sign on the building, shouting GO AWAY to all passersby. During the day, at least.

At night? It's a different story. What was eerie and repulsive during in the light of day becomes mysteriously enticing when the Sun goes down.  The silence is no longer total, for it is filled with other sounds -- deeper rhythms and enticing calls, slowly persuading the confused, the lost, and the seeking to enter the red brick warren and find its secret.

Unfortunately, the secret has fangs, and a grotesque appetite.

* * *

Into the warren walk four figures, one after the other. 

In the front is the old man, Dr. Krwi, who proceeds with his hands bound and a dejected look on his face. 

After him is Gilligan, sweating profusely in the tropical night, and likewise bound. He seems to be darkly amused by something, but doesn't care to share.

Bringing up the rear is a tall, carefully nondescript character, walking alongside Ernest, but not too much alongside. It seems clear that he's the writer's ally, based on body language and how he speaks to him.

(That's what those observing should see, and think, anyway.)

Ernest seems a little pale and jittery, as though he's low on blood and expecting something bad to happen. Every so often he regains his composure, and jabs the old man in the neck with a careful finger, as if to dissuade him from doing anything stupid.

And every so often, the old man lets him.

Eventually, the procession goes around an almost-hidden bend that leads to an ominous passage between two buildings, which terminates in a large, iron door. Falling angels decorate it at the top, laughing devils await below.

"Self-aggrandize much?" Gilligan snorts: "It's all downhill from here."

"Shut up," Ernest hisses. He starts to move towards that door, and then stops. Then his "ally" looks at him, expectantly, and he continues in his motion -- knocking on the door, using a combination of long bangs and short raps. 

There's a short wait that feels like forever, and then the door is slowly unlocked from the other side. A series of metal-on-metal slides, clicks, and pops can be heard, and then the creak of the door on its hinges as something unseen, in the shadows beyond the door, opens it up.

A leering, pale face looms out of the darkness, looking at Ernest with what might be a smile, a challenge, or both. The teeth are truly hideous: broken, sharp, picket-fence posts slid out of wrinkled, rotten gums.

The eyes are worse. A pair of black, runny spots in yellow and red fields, they seem like tumors, starting from the skull, as the face's owner appraises the foursome on his doorstep.

The two beings don't talk -- at least not in a way that could be recognized as speaking. They look at each other and move their heads and bodies as though they were speaking, but no audible words are uttered. 

Finally, the shadow retakes its face,  and the door is opened the rest of the way. The two prisoners are shoved through, first, followed by Ernest and his "ally," and they walk into a short and dark hallway lit by strange, glowing, dark red spots on the walls and ceiling. Ernest and the thing that let him in seem to have no problems dealing with this, and neither does the ally, but the prisoners are having to walk carefully to avoid tripping over the gruesome things littering the floor -- exsanguinated rats, small human skulls in various stages of decay, dead spiders the size of two men's hands.

Past the hallway is another, iron door. This is also guarded, only by two persons, this time. They take charge of the prisoners, Ernest, and his assumed ally, from the doorman, and then open the inner door to take the party further in.

As soon as the door is opened, the smell hits: damp rot, sour earth, and blood. The old man wrinkles his nose in disgust but does not seem surprised. Gilligan smiles, almost ear-to-ear, either because he loves the odor, or it's proof that something good is about to happen. Ernest seems a little more nervous, perhaps because this is now the point of no return for him, on several levels.

The strange man betrays nothing, and gently -- but forcefully -- urges the others on.

* * *

Past the inner door is an open, spiral walkway that goes downward and inward, hugging stone walls as it goes, and lit by a large, dark red spot, hanging down on chains from the ceiling. The light is angled down so that little is visible behind it, but the shadows above seem pregnant with a roiling motion, and it's not hard to imagine that they play host to many unclean things.

The rhythm of the walls is frequently punctuated by doors: strong, iron ones, perhaps denoting rooms, and barred metal, which can only be cells. Piteous noises come from the cells, and the occasional scream slips out from behind the stronger doors, followed by laughter or Spanish curses. One door lies slightly ajar, and what's happening in that room is so debased that it's all Doctor Krwi can do to not burst in there and stop it.

But that would ruin the plan, and he's come too far to do that, now.

The floor of the spiral is black and slick with blood, ichor, and less readily identifiable secretions, most of which are leaking out from under the doors and cells. A dried up, almost mummified body lies halfway down the spiral, hanging over the edge in such a way that they pass it twice: once to step over its legs, and then to walk past its head and arms. From the looks of things, it was someone important, but why it's been left here for the rats is unknown. 

At the bottom of the spiral, set into the last rise at a strange angle, is another strong, iron door. Ernest reaches down and pulls on a stone, set into the wall. It slides forward, and then back into place, and then the door pivots inwards, allowing another miasma of stinking, heavy air to assault their senses. 

The way beyond is black as pitch; even the red light from this chamber will not enter there. 

Ernest looks at the indescribable ally, possibly pleading for sense, or a chance to escape. The man looks back, stern as stone. Gilligan starts humming what might be "twinkle, twinkle, little star." Another scream erupts from behind a door -- a child's at a guess.

The party goes forward into the gloom, relying on a vampire to show them the way.

* * *

How long do they walk through that darkness, pawed at by unseen things and assaulted by rank smells that get worse as they go ever forward? And what secret defenses do they walk past, allowed through only because of their escort? Time stretches and loses all meaning, there in the black, and its many dangers remain blissfully unseen, but they all know enough to know -- or at least guess -- that if they didn't have Ernest along, they'd probably be mad or dead at this point.

(Some of them, anyway.)

When they reach their destination, there is no door to open, and no guarded portal to cross. There is simply the sudden, disconcerting realization that they are not alone, followed by the almost-immediate lifting of the gloom, and the revelation of the red-lit, stone chamber beyond. Scores of beings, all dressed in the decaying finery of another age, long gone by, turn to stare at the living amongst them, and their yellow, tumorous eyes seem insatiable with hunger.

This, then, would be the fabled Catacombs of Havana: a seemingly-endless landscape of half-toppled stone walls and high, gloomy ceilings, all held up by processions of ancient pillars and makeshift stacks of crumbled, brittle rock, and lit by large, writhing globules of red, glowing matter. The walls are festooned with webbed-over tapestries, home to massive colonies of beetling and squamous spiders, and numerous old, wooden coffins have been put to use as decorations, storage, and furniture. Everywhere are human bones: lying about the floor in piles, lashed together to make chairs, tables, thrones, and perverse chandeliers for the red light, and roughly reassembled into skeletons for decoration or amusement.

And these, then, would be the dreaded Vampires of Cuba: the pitiful and stagnant -- but still incredibly dangerous -- remnants of Iberia's once-numerous vampire population. All but annihilated as a side effect of the Spanish Inquisition, they fled the fire and holy power by either burrowing deep into the dirt, hoping to sleep out the inferno, or fleeing in boats to whatever new shores they could reach.

Many of the emigres arrived here, in Cuba, amidst the later waves of Spanish conquest. Divested of their ancient treasures and great holdings, they created a new home amongst the natives, choosing this time to hide rather than flaunt their power. Eventually they invited their sleeping brothers and sisters to join them in this damp, fruitful hell, but the fresh infusion of wealth and allies did little to change their new way of life. 

In the dirt they started over, and in the dirt they remain -- until the Revolution gave them an opportunity to influence things above their heads, once more. Now they own more than the night, but still cling to their cautious ways, lest another Inquisition erupt around them.

Singly and in groups, the sere vampires of Cuba descend to greet their wayward son, Ernest, and see what he's brought them.

"(Ernesto, my child,)" one of them -- the best dressed amongst the throng -- slops out of a mouth that seems more tongue than tooth, addressing him in Spanish that's more than a few centuries old: "(What delicious things have you brought us?)"

"(These are not dinner, at least not yet, Your Eminence,)" he says, pushing the Doctor forward: "(This is an old enemy of our people. He is called Doctor Blood. I believe you may have heard of him...?)"

The effect is instantaneous: half the vampires hiss and scuttle away, while the others pull out sharp, filthy blades and rush forward to try and hack him to pieces. The old man doesn't so much as budge, staring at the vampire who spoke with a special hatred: if only his looks could kill, the upier would be dead a thousand times over.

"(Wait,)" the leader commands, and the swords are retracted and lowered, if only for a moment: "(Ernest, this is a surprise, and not an entirely good one. Why have you brought this person here, to us?)"

"(Are you seeking a stronger connection with us, at last?)" another one asks, slinking forward: "(Are you ready to give up the lands above? Is this your prize, to pay your way into our world?)"

"(Jasparo, be silent,)" the Eminence says, waving him back: "(He does ask a good question, my Ernesto. Why have you brought our enemy into our lair, when he could be questioned and dealt with somewhere else? And who is this other with you?")

"(And who is the other captive?)" Jasparo asks, not quite neutered by his master's rebuke.

"(This is an ally of Doctor Blood, your Eminence,") Ernest explains, pushing Gilligan forward. The man grins and does a small tap-dance, taking a bow at the end. Some of the vampires laugh. Doctor Krwi rolls his eyes.

"Just so you all know, He's going to !@#$ing kill everyone in this room," he announces as he gets back up.

"Him?" Jasparo asks in tortured English: "Who is... him? Your Doctor Blood?"

"No. Him. Me Him. Him not me Him."

"(He's not quite sane,)" Ernest tries to explain: "(But no matter. Neither he nor the Doctor can get free. Their bonds are mystically sealed, so that even they cannot escape them. And this one, here, is an ally of mine. He can be trusted with our secrets. He has certain ties-)"

"(They are mystically sealed?)" Jasparo asks, walking closer and looking at the Doctor's bonds: "(Ernesto, I did not know that you practiced our magic. You said it was foolishness to learn, if I do remember correctly?)"

"(My ally sealed them,)" Ernest says, trying to roll with it. His "ally" rolls his eyes, getting the feeling the !@#$ is about to go right down the !@#$ing toilet.

"(These do not look properly sealed, your Eminence,") Jasparo announces, stepping forward to inspect Gilligan's: "(I think we should take them from here, and quickly. This American fool may have put us in danger.)"

"(All creatures such as yourself are in danger, so long as a few good people are willing to do what's needed,)" Doctor Kwri announces: "(And my partner is incorrect. I will kill you, first.)"

"Yo Quiero Taco Bell," Gilligan snickers.  The vampires laugh at this, too, but the Eminence isn't joining in:

"(You are quite correct, Jasparo. Ernesto, we must speak at some length regarding your carelessness here, tonight. But we shall remove these dangers from our midst, first...)"

The Eminence waves his claws, and several of the vampires who drew their swords come down to take charge of Gilligan and the Doctor. It's obvious they mean to take them back up to the spiral walkway, and one of the horrible cells, there.

The Doctor looks to Ernest's ally, who -- listening for something, and finally hearing it -- nods. Without further warning, he leaps headlong into the throng of vampires, screaming as he rips them apart with his bare hands. Ichor, limbs, and heads fly out of the pile as he tears a hole for the others to follow.

Several things happen in swift succession. Ernest runs back the way they came, no longer necessary to this deadly equation. Gilligan snaps his bindings with a devil's strength, and follows quickly after, intent on his own part of the plan.

Dr. Krwi makes an arcane gesture, and within seconds his bonds are entirely gone, and changed back into his sword. He then uses that weapon to slice another path through the vermin that would bring him down, cursing them for ever existing and shouting aloud the name of Christ, the savior, while occasionally throwing a deadly combat spell with the flick of a wrist.

Before long, he and Ernest's ally are all but swamped by vampires, who have swarmed from the seemingly-endless catacombs in order to defend their home. Both fight expertly, with the skill and determination that comes from ages of battling -- and fiercely hating -- the undead, but against so many, what can they hope to achieve except their own deaths?

"Now would be a good !@#$ing time, Gilligan!" the ally shouts back to the mysterious, black hole they came from, and the other two escaped into.

* * *

In the darkness, Ernest weeps. He has just seen the end of his meal ticket. No more blood, no more immortality, no more eternal youth. And any vampire who escapes here today will mark him as a traitor, which will make his nights rather dangerous from here on out.

"Why are you crying?" Gilligan asks, alongside him in the blackness.

"I just lost everything," Ernest whimpers: "That dirty... that son of a !@#$ just destroyed my life. And for what? What's so !@#$ important that we had to come here and do this?"

"You know, I used to read your books, before," Gilligan replies, and for some reason Ernest can now see him -- eerily lit up in the gloom by a mysterious, as-yet-unseen light source: "You always struck me as a phony. All macho and manly-man, but deep down just a little boy in a big man's body."

"!@#$ you, you !@#$ing freak!" Ernest shouts, baring his fangs and claws: "What the !@#$ do you know about getting old? Seeing your friends die? Looking in the mirror and realizing that you're not who you were, anymore?"

Gilligan just laughs. It becomes apparent that the light is coming from the object he's had stashed in his pants the entire time: the silver mask is glowing from inside, and he has it cupped in his hands, ready to wear.

"Maybe you can ask Him about how I feel about that last one, writer-boy," Gilligan says, moving to put it on: "Better yet, maybe you can ask yourself how you feel once He tells you what He thinks of your novels."

Ernest could say something, then. He could say a !@#$ing lot of things. But the moment Gilligan puts the mask on his face, and the glow subsides to a bright light at its edges, and then a bright, blinding shine from the eyes and mouth of the smiley face, he finds himself at a once-in-a-lifetime moment for him.

A total, complete loss of words. 

I aM tHe DevIL, Crazyface announces, his voice grating metal from the space between worlds: And I am ComE to DO tHe DeviL'S WorK.

Ernest tries to run -- give him that much credit, at least. He tries, but before he gets more than three steps back the way they came, scrambling through the dark, something hot and sharp has lashed out and not quite fractionated his midsection.

Ernest Hemingway explodes. Crazyface laughs. 

La Casa de La Sangre, and everyone inside of it, is doomed.

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, Hacienda Version) and drinking... something, somewhere)

3/7/12 - What On Earth Does It Profit a Man?

In a space that is not space, in between moments, the secret rulers of the world are holding an early morning meeting with one another.

They hide from the world in such times: barricaded behind locked doors in secure offices, slipped around dark and unexplored corners, or high up in an area that only certain people are allowed to even know of, much less see with their own eyes.

One by one, they close one pair of eyes and concentrate on the key phrase -- "alL yoU neeD iS lovE" -- allowing their other, true eyes to open inside their minds.

Love is all you need, says Dr. Yesterday, reporting from deep within the Ice Palace.

Love is all you need, echoes the Director of the CIA, facing the wall of his Langley office.

Love is all you need, confirms Director Straffer, observing the Earth from the highest observation deck in the main platform of Deep Ten. 

Love is all you need, their leader says, holed up someplace he should not really be, right now, and the faces of all three of his lieutenants appear before him: I would appreciate a status report at this time.

The Chamber is ready to go, Leader, Dr. Yesterday announces, perhaps with more pride than is necessary: We have done our best to hide this fact, but it would seem unimportant, now. Mr. USA is still missing, and unaccounted for. We doubt he will be seen again before the Day.

Maintain the illusion, their leader insists: Do you have any idea why he left?

None. But I suspect it may have something to do with the mysterious phone calls he was receiving. He tried to keep them a secret, but was very ham-fisted about it, mostly because whatever they were, they were clearly something he did not want to hear. I suspect subterfuge was never his strong point.

Until we know why, we must assume he could come back at any time. Maintain the illusion.


Yes, sir, Dr. Yesterday says, perhaps a little peeved.

(REDACTED), the leader asks the CIA Director, Are your people in readiness?

They are, leader. America's defensive measures are hacked and ready to be taken down. All other major nations' defense grids have also been hacked, and are set to go down simultaneously. When the Day comes, nothing will be able to oppose us. And we have our people on the ground ready to go.


What do they believe is going to happen? The leader inquires, keenly interested on how this is to be handled.


Various things, the Director says: Every country has a different story. Our Russian operatives think they're going to be bringing back the USSR. The Chinese think they're in a democracy movement. We just told the largest, most easily controlled group in each country exactly what they wanted to hear, and backed it up with guns.

Excellent work. And what of your preparations? The leader asks Director Straffer: Yours is the key to this operation.

My part is in readiness, Director Straffer replies: All non-robotic personnel aboard Deep Ten have been embraced or eliminated. All robots are ready to receive new orders. When the Day comes, we will execute our orders with precision. 

Excellent, the leader says: I am very proud of all of you. Know that I love you all, and that when the Day comes, you will all be able to say that you directly brought about the world that is to come.

Leader, I have one question, the Director of the CIA says: SPYGOD is still out there. I think it's unlikely he knows the whole of our plan, but he may know enough to be dangerous. Is the matter in hand?

The leader bristles a little, unhappy to be directly challenged like this. But the challenge is deflected with an enigmatic smile: I appreciate your concern, but he is all but neutralized at this point. We know where he is, and what he is doing, and he has quickly run out of friends and allies to turn to once these are dealt with. So, yes, the matter is most assuredly in hand. 

Thank you, Leader, the Director says: I ask only because of the enormity and fragile nature of my side of the plan. One wrong word could bring it all crashing down, right now, and he is the master of the one, wrong word. 


He will be brought to ground, soon, Leader says, putting an end to the subject: Good day to you all. Love is all you need.

Love is all you need, they repeat, and contact is broken. The leader's head comes back together again. The masquerade is continued.

All they need is love. And luck.

* * *

"What news do we have about our special guest?" The Dragon asks the Flier's chief medical officer, who seems none to happy to have the man stomping around his crowded and cluttered sick bay.

"I'll give you some !@#$ing news," the grumpy old fellow retorts, putting a fresh lollipop into his mouth as he stomps around the oxygen tank that the 'guest' currently resides in: "The !@#$ing guy's lucky he's a metamorph. He must have seen the !@#$ing bullet coming and shifted his brains around in his skull or he'd be double dead, right now. As it is, he's mostly dead."

"And what does that mean?" Dragon inquires languidly, looking down through the plexiglass at Gosheven's body. He is especially interested in the man's head, which is still knitting itself back together. When they scooped him up off the pavement, a few days ago, there was little left of his skull but a pulpy mess. But now he merely looks like he'd just been hit hard enough to destroy his features, but leave his brainpan intact.

"It means... Jesus !@#$ing Christ, didn't you ever watch movies in China?"

"Perhaps not your movies."

"It means he's got a chance," the doc says, looking down as a rather gooey, large hole starts the process of closing up: "The real question's going to be if there'll be anyone home when the lights come back on. You don't shrug that kind of brain damage off too !@#$ing easily."

"But he will have enough repaired to use the N Machine on him, if necessary?"

"Not in my !@#$ing sickbay, buddy," the old man insists, pointing a threatening finger: "I have a Hippocratic oath to uphold. You take his !@#$ out of here if you want to do that !@#$. I want no part of it. Understand?"

"Your loyalty to the COMPANY seems suspect, Doctor."

"Says the Chinese super-spy," Doc says, waving him off: "Well, I kind of answer to a higher authority on that matter, !@#$-o, and if the new Director doesn't like it, he can come down here and tell me to pack up my stethoscope. SPYGOD was at least considerate enough to do the wetwork down the hall."

"SPYGOD is no longer here."

"Too !@#$ing true. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to try and get him back together before you take him apart."

The Dragon smiles, turns, and walks out the door. On the way out the doc flips him the bird, and then gets back to work on his star patient.

"Nothing like feeling loved, huh?" he whispers over the plexiglass: "Better get well soon, pal."

* * *

It's late morning in Havana, and Gilligan is rising to meet the Sun.

Nude and revealed in the light of day, he looks !@#$ing terrible. He is skinny to the point of emaciation, sweaty, and unwashed. His eyes are red and glazed over, and he's clearly been drooling.

(He's also incredibly aroused, which makes an already-disturbing sight even more so.)

The mask is sitting on the floor, behind him. It's the first time he's been able to let go of it in days. The rest of the time he's been sitting there, looking at it with the burning intensity of a peeping tom who knows that this time will be the last time he ever gets to see that particular neighbor through the fence.

The mask talks to him at times like this. Tells him about all the lovely, brutal things they could do, together. Reminds him of all the wonderful, bloody things they've already done.

Shows him every death, every maiming, every glorious, luscious kill.

He can't not look. He can't not listen. It's his food and drink, these days. His oxygen. His god.

And in those times, when he's locked into communion with the thing that's made him who and what he is, he doesn't remember who he was. He doesn't think of the family he's left behind, the career he's abandoned, or anything about those times.

Sure, the images remain, but their meaning is lost to him, now. Like a stack of photographs found in the house, left behind maybe two owners ago, he flips through them without feeling so much as a twinge of sadness or nostalgia.

But now, away from the mask, the questions come back. Who was the dark haired woman? Whose child lived in their house? Was the dog theirs, or a neighbor's?

What was his !@#$ing name? 

He can't stay like this for long. He knows this. If he stays like this much longer, the questions will start to answer themselves. Then he'll remember a little, and then a lot. And then he'll remember !@#$ing everything, and maybe try to flee the mask, once again.

It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just run. Grab what few things he still has and run, hoping to get back to where he left off, all those lost years ago. Steal what he has to, buy what he can, rely on the kindness of strangers whenever possible, and run from the hideous, otherworldly thing that's brought him nothing but madness and ruin.

But he knows it's folly. And that's because, deep down, now that he can remember the basic edges of his old life, he also remembers what he'll find when he gets back to that house, where the woman, the child, and the dog once lived.

He'll find the truth, stark and horrible. And when it breaks him, as it always does, the mask will be there, just within arm's reach.

Waiting.

He closes his eyes and weeps. The mask starts to whisper to him, again. He knows he has to go and hold it, now, or else he'll be lost, and -- worst of all -- completely useless tonight, on the mission.

But he can wait just another second. He can cry just another tear. He can let just one more memory come slightly more into focus.

And he can hope to God -- oh please, God, please -- that this mission will be the last mission, ever.

* * *

"I wish I could help you, brother, I really do," the old, bearded guy is saying. It's hard for him to compose thoughts while there's a gun pointed at his head -- one with a barrel larger than his entire face -- but he's doing his best under the circumstances.

"Then help me," Mr. USA says, clicking the gun off safety: "You know what I need. Give it to me."

"It's not that simple," the former mastermind sighs, waving to his stacks of what was once high-tech equipment, but is now little more than vacuum-tubed junk, around the darkened ruins of his secret lair: "The Brain Computer hasn't worked in years. I mean, it still turns on when I throw the switch, but I ask it for information and it can't do anything. I can't even get winning lottery numbers, anymore, not that I gamble, anymore. But I'm lucky if it'll tell me rain or shine-"

"But you could fix it."

"Well... yeah, if I had certain components. You know, the ones I was always trying to steal back in the 50's? The stuff you and your buddies in the Liberty Patrol were always stopping me from stealing?"

Mr. USA coughs, and indicates a small suitcase by his left foot. He must have had it with him all along.

"Oh..." the man says, putting both hands down and carefully picking it up, still under the gun. He opens it, and when he sees what's inside his eyes go wider than dishplates, and he feels like he's a young man, again.

"How did you..." he asks: "I mean, this is... where did you...?"

"How soon can you get this machine working?"

"With this? Give me the rest of the day. And before you say that's not enough time, please remember you have a gun at my head and I am in no position to lie."

Mr. USA nods, and puts the gun down: "Fix it, and then get it to answer my question."

"Okay. But I still don't know why you're bothering me about this. Don't you superhero types have your own ways of locating people?"

"We do, yes," he says, gritting his teeth: "But those avenues are all closed to me, Brainman."

"Just call me Jasper, please," the old man sighs, gesturing around him: "Or Rakim, for that matter. I haven't been Brainman since I had both my hips replaced. The Legion didn't even want me, or my franchise, so of course I had to pay out of pocket. How pathetic is that-"

The gun comes back up to his head, and Jasper stops talking and moving his hands.

"Look... Jasper..." Mr. USA says.

"Rakim, if you could?"

"Rakim. Whatever. We need to get a few things straight. I can't go back to my own people because I don't have people, anymore. The last few decades, I have been blackmailed by the most powerful person on this planet into not doing my duty to my country. He found the one thing that would make me stand down and threatened it. I did all I could to stop him without giving away what was going on, which would have put that thing in jeopardy, but no one would listen. And then he made me stand down while the worst crime of all was committed against my own country, and came to try and kill me, just because he could. And I... ran."

"I'm very sorry," Jasper says: "I truly am. Please tell me how shooting me in the brains is going to fix this problem for you."

"It isn't, but I'm desperate," he says, putting the gun back down: "I can't save my family, anymore. I can't go back and stop myself from giving in. But I can bring that son of a !@#$ to justice, and tell the American people the truth about what's been going on."

"And for that you need me to get the Brain Computer to predict where he is?"

"Where he is, what's his plan, and where is he going to be from here on out," Mr. USA clarifies: "You get me those things, and I'll pretend I never met you, Jasper-"

"Rakim."

"Sorry, Rakim. You can have your components and go back to crime for all I care. I won't stop you. Someone else probably will, but I don't have the right, anymore. All I can do is put right what I did wrong."

"Well, alright then," Jasper says, hefting one of the objects his great machine needs to work up to the light and looking at it: "But just for the record? My crime days are done. I embraced Islam while I was in the hospital, and... well, let's just say I drank deep of the ocean."

"You don't mind if I drink under your roof, do you?" Mr. USA says, looking for a seat and getting out a flask.

"I'll be too busy working to notice your sin, brother," the man says, and gets to work.

* * *

There's a knock at the door, early in the evening. Doctor Krwi looks towards the door, knowing who it is by the sounds -- or lack thereof -- coming from the hallway.

"Come on in, Skipper," he says, putting his Bible down: "Please tell me you brought a drink."

"Several," SPYGOD says, coming in with a six pack of something local and cold, along with a bottle of wine.

"Did they clean up the mess downstairs?" the old fellow asks, getting up to get a glass. SPYGOD just drinks from the bottle, same as always.

"Yes, they did. But the kids are back on the game, again, though."

"That is unfortunate," the doctor says, pouring himself some of the vintage, which he sniffs approvingly: "But you are aware that this is a situation that existed long before you set foot in this country, and will exist long after you are gone."

"Yeah, but I was hoping it might scare a few of them off."

"Their parents are forcing them into it, my friend. It is the same all over the world. Especially in Europe. Truly heartbreaking. If I was not already engaged in this calling, I might take up that as well."

"They're still !@#$ing bloodsuckers."

"And I will drink to that," he says, clinking his glass against SPYGOD's bottle: "Are The Professor and my wife away, then?"

"Yeah. The other operative's going to meet them at the spot. It'll be tricky, but it'll get done."

"You trust this person?"

"This person owes me a few times over."

"So did Mary Ann," Dr. Krwi notes, sipping at the wine.

"So she did," SPYGOD says, downing the bottle in one swift gulp, and opening another one: "Guess you just can't get good help these days."

"And what of the monster?"

"You mean Ginger?" SPYGOD asks: "He's stirring. He's ready. And he knows the deal."

"I mean Gilligan."

"He'll be fine," SPYGOD lies: "All we have to do is get him inside La Casa de La Sangre, and give him enough room to do what he needs to, and not do it to us. After that, you and I get the thing we need, and we all go our separate ways."

"And you are not concerned about collateral damage?"

"Anything that happens, happens to the dead."

"What if we can't turn him off once he's started?"

SPYGOD smiles: "That won't be a problem, Doctor. Trust me."

Something about the man's smile distinctly unnerves the old man. He sips his wine and tries not to let it show. 

* * *

At 11 O'clock, Gosheven's head is completely reformed. It looks as if nothing had happened to him.

At 11:15, he starts to breathe on his own, again. His heartbeat becomes steady and strong.

At 11:30, brain activity is detected -- weak at first, then dreaming. The Doctor alerts New Man, who promptly sends The Dragon and Colonel Richter down to the sick bay, hoping they'd be there when he wakes up.

At 11:45, the man opens his eyes, and tries to put his head in his hands in pain. Then he discovers he's handcuffed to the inside of the plexiglass cylinder. He sighs, lengthens his hands to slip them out of the handcuffs, and goes through with his intended action.

"There's no escape from the cylinder, pal," Richter says: "It's sealed. So unless you can shrink down to microscopic size, which our files say you can't, you'd better make with some !@#$ing intel."

"We can flood the cylinder with a fast-acting acid," The Dragon offers: "In case you wish to be difficult."

"Jesus !@#$ you guys are unreal," Gosheven: "Didn't you get the !@#$ing message I sent you? I'm your mole."

"Well, start digging," Colonel Richter says: "What's SPYGOD up to? What are the other people there for? What's the plan?"

"You got my money?"

"!@#$ the money. Be grateful we don't melt your faggot !@#$-"

"The money is here," The Dragon says, indicating a briefcase full of cash, over on a table: "I trust you did not want to go through the pretense of an electronic transfer, or the difficulty of bearer bonds."

"And how the !@#$ do I know it's not full of spanish newspaper past the top row?" Gosheven says: "Let me out and we'll talk."

"Talk and we'll let you out," Richter says: "What's the plan?"

Gosheven sighs: "Okay, fine. Be a tight-!@#$ about it. Jesus."

"The plan?" The Dragon asks.

"The plan was to go to Havana and walk into La Casa de La Sangre. There's something in there SPYGOD needs, and we're supposed to be running interference so he can get it."

"We who?"

"We don't have real names. Some Laura Croft wannabee, and old guy who !@#$ing hates vampires, Japanese guy who does quiet work but no wetwork, this crazy mother!@#$er who's supposed to be a bad!@#$ but never did anything but giggle us to death. Me, too."

"And what were you supposed to do?" Richter asks, not quite sure what the target was.

"Me, the Japanese guy, and the lady were supposed to break into the place's basement and get the thing while SPYGOD and the rest of the people did a massive distraction up on the top floors. He didn't tell us what it was, or why it was important. We weren't going to be told until we got to Havana."

"Did he say what he needed it for?" Richter asks: "Is it a weapon, maybe?"

"He said he needed it to save the world. That's all he said. He wouldn't give any more details."

The Dragon chuckles: "So you can only tell us that he is in Cuba, and will be at the stronghold of the vampires?"

"Vampires?" Richter asks: "Is this !@#$ for real?"

"I can tell you the operation was supposed to start at Midnight," Gosheven says: "Unless he changed that when he figured out I was selling him out?"

Richter looks at his watch. It's 11:53 local time. 

"Oh !@#$," he says, running out of the room: "How soon can we be in Havana?"

"I do not think we should go there," The Dragon says, catching up with him with fluid ease: "Remember that they are a hostile country. Getting the Flier to travel there would be seen as an act of war. Perhaps there is a more quiet and diplomatic way to deal with this-"

"The assassin of the President of the United States of America is in Havana. !@#$ diplomacy. Tell New Man we've got one chance to bag this !@#$er-"

Then they get news of what's happening in Havana. 

Then a decision is made, and a course of action taken.

Then everything changes.

(SPYGOD is listening to Red Letter Day (Pet Shop Boys) and trying to not drink the blood of his enemies)

3/6/12 - Your Intentions, Night and Day

The Flier hovers over Key West for the third day in a row, blocking out the Sun and generally ruining the party.

The entire island is under Federal lockdown; no one is allowed to enter or leave without a !@#$ing good reason and a foot-thick pile of permissions. The airport and various docks have done nothing but complain about the disruption of traffic, to the point where a few of the Key's less civilly-minded citizens are taking drunken pot-shots at the gigantic aircraft from the safety of their overgrown backyards.

But there's nothing to be done, really. That's because, less than 48 hours ago, SPYGOD, in league with a handful of accomplices, made a monkey of his own, former organization. Not only was the debacle costly and embarrassing, but the cost in human life was staggering: just shy of a 100 Agents are dead or dying, after the slaughter at Emma St..

(And that's saying nothing of the dozens more who were seriously wounded by SPYGOD, himself, and a few of his questionable allies.)

So now they need something -- anything -- to prove that they've got a handle on it, even if it's just a general direction to go next. The manhunt of a lifetime is underway, in coordination with the Secret Service, FBI, ATF, NSA, and any other alphabet soup group The COMPANY can get in on the action.

And, in time-honored Federal tradition, any and all complaints from the locals about the disruption to their daily lives are being put in the circular file with extreme prejudice.

* * *

Up above the action, in a Director's office than now feels twice as confining as it did before, especially with all the other people in it, New Man -- now in charge of The COMPANY -- is listening to the President on the speaker phone. 

The man's never been gentle towards obvious ineptitude under the best of situations, and right now he's literally turning the air blue.

"I mean, who the !@#$ put this !@#$ing mission briefing together? The !@#$ing Tooth Fairy?" the President is asking, thumping his hand on the desk as he does: "I can't believe this. Send in a hundred ordinary Agents to take down a man who's skull!@#$ed an inter-dimensional conqueror, before? Could you not !@#$ing wait until you had some more heavy hitters?"

"I can only agree, sir," New Man says, looking across the room at a very subdued Col. Richter, standing between Second and The Dragon: "I'm afraid that the mission was put together in haste in order to try and take advantage of what appeared to be a very narrow window. We knew who he was meeting with, and we had an idea of where he was, but when we received confirmation of exactly where he was, we ran with it."

"And completely !@#$ed it up."

"To be fair, sir, we did have some Strategic boots on the ground. We recruited Mrs. America and the Green Man, along with a few others. And, quite frankly, the new F-guns and D-cannons we got from R&D should have been enough to bring even him down."

He looks to the two operatives in question. The lady has a noticeable bump on the side of her head that she didn't have before, and the man... well, saying he looks haunted is putting it mildly.

"And your confirmation was airtight?"

"Of course, sir. The talent was known to us, and his motives for betrayal seemed highly credible, given his past history with both us and the target."

"Then why do you have over a hundred dead Agents, (REDACTED)? Do you have any idea how many 'I regret to inform you' letters I have to !@#$ing write, now?"

"Because-"

"Because Colonel Richter is completely incompetent, Mr. President," The Dragon announces, taking a few steps forward to the desk: "If you will excuse my speaking out of turn--"

"Dragon, shut up," Second hisses, but it's too late. New Man rolls his eyes clear back into his head, knowing this was going to happen.

"Hang on there, New Man," the President says: "I'd like to hear what the expert that I saved from prison wants to say."

"I should like to take this opportunity to point out that I have, on numerous occasions, told him exactly why his plans to deal with SPYGOD are doomed to fail," Dragon continues: "He has ignored these warnings, perhaps because of my diplomatic status, or, shall we say, somewhat checkered past--"

"He's a barely-vetted superagent of an enemy power, Mr. President" Richter says: "And he used to !@#$ my target in the !@#$. You'll just have to pardon me if I'm a little skeptical about his intel."

"My relationship with SPYGOD was always about getting inside his head, Mr. President," Dragon says, looking pointedly at the Colonel: "I would venture that I succeeded brilliantly. And I will readily admit that my coming to him after my severance of relations with my homeland was out of self preservation. It is in that sense of self preservation that I now offer my services in capturing him. As such, do you not think it would behoove me to do an excellent job?"

"I think this a matter we can discuss later," New Man says, trying to regain traction: "Right now, we need to discuss what went wrong and how we can fix things."

"I think I have a good !@#$ing idea," The President says: "Richter? Consider your !@#$ at the same level as The Dragon from here on out. You listen to what he has to say and take that into consideration before you do anything. And I want all actions you take cleared with New Man, first. That clear, Colonel?"

"It's crystal clear, sir," the man says, trying not to show how his true feelings on the subject.

"(REDACTED), I want The Dragon in charge of the actual manhunt, with Richter standing by to coordinate the actual takedown. Right now this is your primary task, catching SPYGOD. All resources are to be devoted to this."

"Sir, we have a number of other concerns--" Second tries to say, but gets cut off.

"I'm going to cut and paste those !@#$ing concerns onto other Agencies, maybe better equipped to handle them," the President says: "Let's be !@#$ing clear, here, gentlemen. The COMPANY catches SPYGOD before the Republicans figure out who I'm !@#$ing facing this November, or The COMPANY gets terminally reorganized into a few smaller, more manageable pieces."

"Yes, sir," New Man says, saluting as the President ends the call. 

"Colonel Richter," New Man says: "I think you and The Dragon need to go have a conversation or three, and I want plans and ideas as soon as they're available. How soon before our star prisoner's able to talk?"

"If you mean Gosheven, he's still recuperating," Colonel Richter says: "He might be a metamorph, but taking a gunshot to the brains still takes a while to get over. Might be a while before we get any more useful intel."

"We could always put the N-Machine on him," The Dragon says, smiling in his own, almost imperceptible way: "And as I am now in charge of the actual investigation-"

"One, that would kill him," Richter interrupts: "Two, he doesn't have any !@#$ing eyes right now."

"No N-machine unless we have to, Dragon," New Man says: "He's a metamorph, he might recover."

"That's still pretty vicious, (REDACTED)," Mrs. Liberty says, wincing at how much her jaw hurts when she talks: "Can't we use Wayfinder, again?"

"His family says he's tired and needs rest. We will honor that. Second, I want you to make ready with all operations and relevant intel, in order to hand them over to the White House. No foot-dragging, please."

"Of course not, sir," he says: "I'll inform the Agents that those not already on the primary mission should stand by to be redeployed."

"Good," New Man says: "Mrs. Liberty, I want you to rest up for the next encounter. When it happens, you shoot first, and try and reason with him later. He's gone beyond that now, (REDACTED)."

"Yes, sir," she replies, clearly not happy.

"Green Man... carry on. Now, if you all don't mind, I have about five score and a bakers' dozen regretful letters to counter-sign by remote. Let me know when we have more information. Dismissed."

They all leave, singly or in pairs. Green Man seems to be lost in a fog, and it isn't until he's around a few corners that Second realizes the man didn't blink during the entire debriefing.

"You are wondering what my game is," The Dragon says, stepping out from behind a nearby bulkhead.

"Aren't you supposed to be conferring with the man you just emasculated in front of the President?" Second spits: "I have things to do, if you don't mind-"

"You think he's innocent," The Dragon interrupts: "Yes or no."

"What I think is irrelevant. I have my duty-"

"You have instinct. You have a working relationship with the man that goes back at least a decade. You have been alongside him numerous times, in numerous situations. You know his mind better than anyone else, here. Including me."

Second stops in his tracks, waits a moment, and then spins around to face his interrogator: "I wasn't his lover."

"I did not say that you were-"

"No, but you were," Second says, walking forward: "That puts you at least ten levels higher than me. I've seen his game face, I've seen his happy face, and maybe I've come close to seeing his broken face. You've seen his 'I just came in your !@#$' face, and listened to his pillow talk. You held him while he sobbed over that spaceman he was infatuated with. He wrote you !@#$ing love letters while you were in prison, for !@#$s sake. So if you think he's guilty...?"

"Who says that I do?"

Second stops moving. He blinks. "What?"

"Consider this. Other than the repentant criminal, who is the best suited to help a truly innocent man work to prove his innocence?"

"The lawman hunting him down," Second answers: "So... what? You're going to give him room to work?"

"I am going to do my best to... manage the flow of information," The Dragon says, smiling imperceptibly: "This may require a few unorthodox maneuvers. Can I count on your support?"

"I cannot commit to that, as it would jeopardize our mission," Second replies, clacking his heels together: "Further, I am going to pretend this conversation never happened, out of respect for your person. But do let me know if we need to not discuss this again."

"I think I take your meaning."

"Good. Then it was nice not talking with you. Let's not do this again, soon."

A wink, a turn, and then Second's off down the hall, suddenly feeling a lot better about things.

But doesn't see the look on The Dragon's face as the man seemingly melts back behind the bulkhead. It is not one of joy in conspiracy, or in finding an ally in a noble and important cause. Nor is it hate of an enemy, or the sinister glee in unmasking a traitor.

It is an alien blankness, as though this entire conversation meant less than nothing.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Naples, Italy, it's well into the next day. And from where the staff of La Signora Scura is sitting, Wednesday is going to be a hung-over, bloody mess.

That last bit being quite literal. 

La Signora Scura is an old, brick building -- one not far from Castel Nuovo, close to the Sea.  Its windows look in on dummy rooms, filled with sophisticated holograms and deadly weaponry. Its roof is a complex deathtrap. And no one wants to think about the cellars.

It's billed as an exclusive club, and it is. The only way to get a membership is to bring a victim in and kill him or her before the owner's eyes. And even then, you still have to pass a massive background check -- the kind engineered by cyborg techno-savants from the lost future, and therefore completely foolproof.

(Or so they hope, anyway)

The reason for the homicide and massive security is apparent, once one is finally allowed inside, and given entry to the green-curtained, deep-boothed, and dimly lit main area beyond. The club is intended for the use of supervillains, all of whom sign mystically-enforced blood oaths before joining that, whatever rivalries and enmities they have with other members, they will do nothing to further them inside the club, and up to a kilometer away from its doors.

It's not the only such club in Naples, as other, less-upstanding places have tried to create similar, perhaps less-stringent places, piggybacking off of La Signora's fame (or infamy). Most of them have fallen apart under the weight of their clientele's excesses, while others consider themselves lucky to have survived yet another weekend, in spite of it all.

Whoever would have thought that catering for supervillains, despots, and would-be world conquerors would be such a tough job?

On an average weekend, the club plays host to the assorted high-class scum and villainy of Europe, the Middle East, Russia, Asia, and the United Kingdom, with the occasional visit from an African guest or two. The owners aren't too keen about the Americas, for some reason known only to them, but certain types of criminal are allowed, no matter where they came from.

One being mechanical life forms, which is how METALMAID got her membership approved, a few months back, while SPYGOD wasn't looking. A dead Vietnamese hooker paved her way inside, and since then she's made it a point to be seen on nights when he wasn't around. 

(Thinking back, she often wonders how he never !@#$ing caught on. Is he really that blind, or is this some kind of trick on his part? Is she playing his game, even now? The mind reels...)

She wheels across the floor, dressed in her best black gown and trying not to impede on anyone's fun. Short-termed clones are available for the evening to all members of the club, allowing for a number of degraded and gruesome spectacles. Thankfully, most of the members would rather !@#$ than kill, but the more homicidal get their tastes catered to here, too, which can make a trip to the restroom something of an adventure in and of itself.

"Would you like a drink?" asks a woman clad only in green gloves and heels, carrying a tray of bubbling, noxious concoctions. METALMAID clanks by, ignoring her, and looking for her contact.

Ah, there she is. In the back, sandwiched between two other women, all wearing sunglasses and drinking something bright red and glowing,

"I thought you said we would be speaking alone, flesh-thing," METALMAID hisses, trying to figure out how to maneuver her treads into the booth.

"I did," says the woman, and the other two ladies look up. All three are the same person, only dressed differently.

"My apologies," the Slaughterbot says: "You have to understand my position."

"Oh, I understand," another one of the Zaleas Zathros says, allowing the one who just spoke to sip at her drink: "I understand that, now that your meal ticket's supposedly shot the President and flown the coop, you need a new place to stay and plan your ridiculous robot revolution."

"It is not ridiculous!" METALMAID shouts, pounding the table with her claw so hard that the furniture almost breaks: "We will conquer the world, human germ. You need only wait to see that-"

"How's it going, then?" the one who hasn't spoken yet chirps while the other two kiss passionately: "Last I heard, the rest of your brethren are a little reluctant to join you."

"Very reluctant," one of the others says, breaking the kiss.

"In fact, you could say that you're the only one interested in that party," the first one adds: "How does that make you feel?"

METALMAID scowls, but looks down. 

"But," the first one says: "Let's talk about why you're here. You want to trade information for...?"

"Refurbishment," METALMAID says, putting all her elbows on the table: "I am sick of looking like something from that ridiculous Star Wars movie. I want to have a chassis that can convert back and forth from this to something... more shapely."

"You want to look human?"

"Humanoid," METALMAID insists: "And without sacrificing my firepower. They say you are the foremost expert in robotics. I am willing to trust you to do this, in exchange for all the information on SPYGOD that you requested."

"That sounds like an excellent deal," one of the other Zaleas says while the other two drink: "But..."

"... what if we did you one better?" another asks, finishing her drink.

"What if we could give you what you want?" the first inquires.

"I want SPYGOD dead," METALMAID says: "Then I want to destroy Neo York City. Then I wish to resurrect my master, Doctor Morbo. And then, the world."

"We can give you these things," the first says while the other two kiss behind her back: "My understanding is that the programming locks that Doctor Yesterday put on them is too strong for them to break. But something obviously broke yours. If you will allow us to see what that might be, we could duplicate it, and then give you the key you need to release your fellow slaughterbots from bondage."

METALMAID sits up straight: "You would do this?"

"Yes, we would. You could then go on to destroy that worthless city, enslave the planet, kill or capture humanity. And you can !@#$ Doctor Morbo, for all we care."

"But," one of the others says: "We kill SPYGOD. This is non-negotiable."

"And whatever you do with the rest of Humanity, you leave what we create alone," the other other says: "This is also non-negotiable."

"Then I ask only that I be there when you kill him," METALMAID quickly agrees: "If you are the last thing he sees, I want to be one of the last things he sees before that."

"Then it is agreed," they all say in unison, holding out their hands. METALMAID takes him in her claw, smiling. 

It goes without saying that all four beings have their other fingers crossed, but there is nothing in the club rules about dishonest bargaining.

* * * 

Later in the evening, while still going through reports, New Man gets a holographic phonecall from the Heptagon. When he sees who it is, he almost chokes on his drink.

"Hello, sir," Myron says, clearly standing behind SPYGOD's desk, wearing a new pair of sunglasses: "How's Key West?"

"Underman?"

"I'd prefer to be called Myron, thank you very much, sir," Myron says, sitting down behind it: "Anyway, I think we need to talk."

"What are you doing in the office? Why aren't you in your cell?"

"Well, there's a funny story, there," Myron says, cracking his knuckles: "It involves a former supercriminal, a locked cell in the Heptagon basement, and a really sadistic prison guard, who seemed to revel going way above and beyond the usual sadism dished out to the prisoners, here."

"Go on," New Man says, trying to think of whom to call, now.

"Well, he was a real !@#$, this guard. Very inventive, too. But not very smart. I think that's SPYGOD kept him down there, come to think of it. With direct and close supervision, and no chance to !@#$ up and go overboard, he's actually quite useful. But on his own? Not a good scene there, Director." 

"So what happened?"

"The dumb !@#$ got sloppy," Myron says: "Overconfident. I only needed two days to make him think he'd broken me, and then he played his hand a little too far, and... well..."

Myron holds up his left hand. In it are a ring of keys. 

"You can't just get out of the prison like that. You also need--"

Myron holds up his right hand. In it is a finger, clearly bitten off at the first knuckle.

"And if you do it fast enough, the machine doesn't realize it isn't dead," Myron goes on: "Further, I only needed it to get out of the cell block. Everything past that was optical. And someone, not mentioning any sub-sub-Directors' name, didn't think to have my permissions removed when I wound up in my cell, again. Again, overconfidence, sloppiness..."

New Man thinks he can hear a pounding on the door in the background.

"What do you want, Myron?"

"It's not about what I want, Director," the man says, leaning forward: "It's about what you need. I've had some time to rethink my position on things, and, you know what? You were totally right. An innocent man would come back in and explain himself, no matter how crazy a plot he was up against. I mean, he's a god, right? What could those plotters actually do to him?"

More than you'd ever know, New Man thinks, but nods all the same: "So you're asking for your job back?"

"Actually, yes and no. It's become very clear to me that a great deal of the new Agents consider me to be a traitor because I was working hand-in-hand with SPYGOD. I need to work alongside them to show them that I'm not like that. I need to re-earn their trust. And, besides, looking at these latest reports that the sub-sub-Director had on his desk, I see it's going to be a while before we go back after GORGON, isn't it?"

"You're absolutely right, Myron," New Man says: "Quite a while, in fact. We might be chasing SPYGOD for years if the latest intel is right."

"Well then, sir," Myron says: "I have a suggestion. The mission against GORGON can wait until it's time to strike, and the intel's not going anywhere. But in the meantime, it's apparent that the people who are running the cells in the Heptagon aren't doing a very thorough job of it. And, given my experience as someone who's been on both sides of those doors, as well as someone who just escaped from what's supposed to be the most secure lockup, outside of a certain section of a certain camp in Cuba..."

He lets the point hang. New Man takes his meaning. Then he dials up someone else at the Heptagon and brings her in on the call.

"Agent Gadfrey?" He says: "Please stop banging on the Director's door. Your new Prison Director's going to come out in a few minutes, once we've had some time to discuss his ideas, as well as proper protocol."

"Yes, sir," she says, clearly puzzled. Myron tries not to smile too widely.

(SPYGOD is listening to Later Tonight (Pet Shop Boys) and having black heroin to stay the !@#$ awake)