Meanwhile… Somewhere in a simulation on the Federation's digirealm on the pan cosmic omninet, the uploaded consciousness of older Himbo was standing on a beach. It was heavily overcast. Across the water appeared an island covered in brightly lit computer towers. Straight Outta Compton by N.W.A., seemed to play from out of the thin and crisp air. Himbo walked down to the shoreline. He sighed and looked out across the water.
An elderly gentleman approached Himbo from behind and stood by his side, "Number 12 was not a good way to go, Agent Himbo."
Himbo looked down at his outfit, "I see my field agent jump suit has reconfigured to the bland, white grey and black default mode. A shame really, I was digging the cosplay Phantom mod. Oh, and by the way, who or what are supposed to be?"
"I am an anthropogenic bot," replied the elderly gentleman, "a NPC if you will, spawned to be both comforting and informative for you, during your stay in this simulation."
"You look like that old bearded dude from those dinosaur films," remarked Himbo, "and what the flying fudge is this simulation for anyway?"
"A waiting room of sorts. You see there was a … er, ah minor kerfuffle at the Primordial Earth Protectorate's headquarters beneath Antarctica."
"How minor?"
"The base was attacked by combined Minger/Daemon-Shihtz kill squads."
Himbo turned his head slightly and looked at the old man, "Those fudge nuts are working together?"
"It appears so," replied the elderly gentleman, lowering his head in subtle sadness, "it could have been worse, much worse. Fortunately, they were intercepted as they entered your star system by a lone Federation skiff pilot. The flotilla was intercepted just before it reached Jupiter and was within firing range of a crucial target on Earth."
Himbo pondered for a moment. What target in the timeline on Primordial Earth, would be so vital that not only would the Mingers and Daemon-Shihtz tolerate an alliance between their inherently hostile species, but also worth the risk of suffering overwhelming retaliation from the Federation? It was then that it dawned upon him.
"The launch."
"Correct," said the gentleman, "we surmise the skiff was destroyed as it is no longer transmitting diagnostics through the appropriate chains of quantum entanglement. However, from what we can determine, the Federation pilot managed to destroy most of the flotilla. A corvette exploded between Saturn and Jupiter and the Minger frigate crashed into the moon Callisto, before it could fire a tungsten rod from its relativistic rail gun.
"A single escape pod jettisoned prior to the crash. It appears to have escaped into a temporal wormhole. The data feed from the skiff, suggests the temporal wormhole was highly unstable. If the Minger pod survived, it was probably thrown well off course in time and space," the elderly gentleman pondered on that for a second, "I mean, it could have ended up anywhere and any-when … the Andromeda galaxy a billion years ago for all we know."
"Fudging Hades," remarked Himbo in disbelief.
"The pod is not considered to be a threat," continued the gentleman, "oh, and another Daemon-Shihtz corvette, slammed into the moon Demos, before it crashed on Mars. However," the gentleman sighed, "the last two corvettes, made it all the way to Earth, I am afraid."
"Interesting…"
"What is interesting, Retired-Agent Himbo?"
Himbo grimaced at the words 'Retired-Agent', "That in the sheer vastness of just interplanetary space," he picked up a large and thin piece of drift wood from the pebbles, resting his right hand on it like a walking stick, "that a flotilla of diabolical butt-foreheads, managed to bump into several major celestial objects in our solar system. Why not simply make a run for it, straight to Earth?"
"Well, I guess the Mingers would," agreed the elderly gentleman, "but you know the Daemon-Shihtz, they love to put on a show. DAEMON-SHITZ RULE!" he roared, while making a fist pumping gesture with his left arm, "and all of that narcissistic nonsense."
"So, not one but two, Daemon-Shihtz warships reached Earth? But what about Earth's orbital sentry system?"
The elderly gentleman sighed, "For some reason, for which we still cannot determine, both the Sol and the Primordial Earth sentry systems went offline. This occurred just moments before the Minger Frigate and the Daemon-Shihtz corvettes made their approach from the outer reaches of the star system. Fortunately, due to the final heroic actions of the pilot of the Federation skiff, one of the two remaining corvettes was critically damaged and burned up over Antarctica.
"However," he continued, "it did manage to teleport several kill squads of Mingers and Daemon-Shihtz to beneath the surface and into the Protectorate's headquarters. As for the last surviving corvette, we detected a temporal disturbance above the Australian continent. We've contacted the Protectorate existing pre-catastrophe, to alert them that a Daemon-Shihtz warship fled through the time-line.
"However, it was severely damaged and it is unlikely it survived. It shouldn't take long for the Primordial Earth Protectorate surviving pre-catastrophe, to track down the wreckage and eliminate any survivors."
"It only takes just one set of the 12 Arm Lines of Daemon-Shihtz to infest a planet," remarked Himbo gravely.
"Yes," solemnly agreed the elderly gentleman, "they are worse than the New South Wales State of Origin rugby team's ability to put up a decent fight against the awesome might of your typical Queensland team."
"Interesting analogy," Himbo remarked, "your accurate, spot-on knowledge of my cultural background and colloquialisms is quite thorough. Although, my state of origin is actually Victoria, and not Queensland. I thought Daemon-Shihtz lacked the ability to time travel?"
"From data transmitted by the Federation skiff during the interplanetary dogfight, it appears the corvettes were upgraded with Minger time cubes."
"Dodgy bastardos," remarked Himbo, "how many Mingers and Daemon-Shihtz infiltrated the Protectorate's headquarters?"
"Enough," said the gentleman, "Commandant Scarecrow was forced to initiate self-destruct protocols. No survivors I am afraid. All that is left of the Primordial Earth Protectorate headquarters is a large hole in the South Pole. I am sure the Hollow Earthers will get a kick out of the subsequent photographs or video footage," the elderly gentleman chuckled, "it'll be a golden age for conspiracy documentaries on the streaming services."
With a heavy heart, sinking like a shot put in his chest, Himbo asked, "No survivors? Not even … the Fiction Men?"
"Yes," sighed the gentleman with a grave and solemn tone, "I am sorry, truly sorry, but all five members of the Fiction Men perished beneath the ice sheets of Antarctica."
"So," staggered Himbo, "so, what you're telling me, is that my stepmother and my uncles … are all dead?"
"Yes."
Himbo took a heavy sigh and two steps into the water. He stood and stared, motionless. His posture dived, his shoulders sunk, his sense of hope drowned.
"I am sorry Retired-Agent Himbo and for what my coding in this simulation is worth, I am indeed so sincerely sorry."
"You know that last mission. I actually met four of them, soon after their inception, their nanotechnological metamorphoses. If I lived a little longer. If whatever nanotech-wraith hadn't killed and eaten me, I could have lived long enough, to have met them all."
Himbo pondered for a second before an expression of alarm engulfed him, "And what about Big Ham?" he blurted, turning rapidly to face the gentleman, "please don't tell me 'The Ham' bought the big one as well?"
"Your brother … of sorts, is fine and well," said the elderly gentleman, "he's still living out the last few decades of his life, back in the late Cretaceous. Although the Primordial Earth Protectorate SI beamed in all available agents, both current and retired, Retired-Agent Big Ham was ignored, on account of his dishonourable discharge."
"Dishonourable discharge?" Himbo scuffed, "it was just a flaming Christmas party! So what if he got so drunk that he mistook one of the Protectorate SI's processing rooms as a dunny and let one rip all over a quantum processing block?"
"Those quantum processing blocks are worth a trillion each, Retired-Agent Himbo."
"Pffft," scoffed Himbo, "well then, let someone like the Pentagon, charge a few extra billion dollars for a toilet seat then. The Protectorate runs on scams anyway, scamming tax dollars, using Black Mantas to run illegal narcotics. Bugger them, bugger them all."
"It was all for the greater goodness, Retired-Agent Big Ham."
"For the greater goodness, my Casper bleached butt cheeks."
"Well, perhaps," stalled the elderly gentleman, "perhaps we shouldn't speak ill of the dead?"
Himbo turned and looked back out across the waters towards the simulated city towers on the horizon, "So, this is why I'm here," he realised, "the data stream of my mortal remains and consciousness was unable to beam back to headquarters?"
"Precisely."
"Look on the bright side Himbo," cheered the elderly gentleman, "over 11,242 personnel perished in the explosion. The kill squads destroyed the teleportation facilities prior to detonation. No one beamed out, no data … you know, that means they're all dead, as in really dead," the gentleman wadded into the water. He placed a hand on Himbo's shoulder, "not to worry though. What I can tell you is that your future self will not be beamed to the headquarters as well."
"Why?" Himbo let out a sad chuckle, "am I dishonourably discharged as well?"
"No," replied the gentleman, "but you were involved in quite a few missions with Retired-Agent Big Ham, and together, the two of you caused enough collateral damage to sink your world's economy several thousand times. Not to mention," he added, "the most unfortunate and untimely death of Saint Tacocat."
"Stuff that puss, he had it coming."
"I am afraid, the Felines of Fondue would not see it that way."
"Well fudge them as well."
"Indeed."
"By all and any means necessary," defended Himbo, thumping the heartache from his chest with his right gloved fist, "that, was our motto."
"Indeed," grunted the elderly gentleman, "Now old chap," he tapped Himbo one the shoulder, "We'll simply transmit you to a Protectorate safe house from what's left of global assets, which isn't much I'm afraid.
"Pretty much everyone and everything was teleported into headquarters to fight the incursion. It truly was a bloodbath. Anyway, we'll reconstitute your mortal remains, resurrect you and give you a new identity. How does starting retirement in your mid 30's sound?"
"Will I get hair?" asked Himbo.
"Of course," smiled the gentleman. "The litmus test for any sufficiently advanced civilisation is their ability to cure male pattern baldness. Even baldness that is a side effect of having a symbiote, such as yourself."
"Then I want a big blonde mane," smiled Himbo, "something prominent, something spectacular … something that would strike envy into the hearts of He-Man or even that hunky model Fabio Lanzoni, no," realised Himbo, "I want a hardcore mullet, a full head of gloriously golden gorgeousness, just like Warwick Capper had when he played for the Sydney Swans."
The elderly gentleman clapped his hands in agreement, "Then it shall be done!"