Vengeance is Mastermind Chapter 1
By Cadet Deming
I don't own the rights to X-Men or the Wolverine Origins Movies, Marvel and Fox Studios do, so please don't sue. I work in litigation so you wouldn't want to anyhow. This takes place between the Wolverine Origins Movie and the X-Men Trilogy in the mid 1980's. Rated T for adult language and situations. My usual mixture of dark humor/action/suspense. Victor Creed/Wade Wilson/Emma Frost/Jason Stryker/Colonel Stryker. This is the third in a trilogy to my stories "Prey Drive" and "Silverfox Lining", but it should be able to stand on its own.
Author's notes: Victor Creed's characterization is based on the Wolverine Origins Movie, Wade Wilson/Deadpool will occasionally break the fourth wall, and Emma Frost will be loosely based on the comics, but considering that she's a "Canon Sue" to begin with and her back story felt like a Sweet Valley High/Soap Opera with telepathy added, I'll try to reign those aspects in. I'm going with the assumption that Jason Stryker in the movie-verse is based on Jason Wyngarde/Mastermind in the comics.
Central Park, New York City, the Mid 1980's
Victor Creed hated New York. He hated cities in general. They had nothing going for them other than being a "target rich environment". New York was the worst of the worst. The people were rude, the stink of pollution was awful, and it seems like every other superhero and mutant decided to live here. Couldn't do-gooders in spandex pick St. Louis to put down roots for a change?
He was on his way to meet a new employer. He used to be a member of a secret U.S. military special ops group called "Team X" in the 1970's, but its leader Colonel Stryker turned out to be a backstabbing son of a bitch who tried to have him killed. Since then Creed had mostly done freelance mercenary and assassination work.
He walked to an agreed-upon park bench. The pigeons scattered in his wake. They were smarter than their species' reputation.
Creed was supposed to meet a new benefactor who called himself "Mastermind." The code names kept getting more and more pretentious. Still, he had been promised $25,000 up front. He said he'd be identifiable by a red scarf on his arm.
A kid approached him. He couldn't have been more than 19 or 20. He was wearing a Lacoste shirt and his left arm was covered with a row of Swatch watches. His right arm had the aforementioned red scarf attached.
"Mr. Creed? I'm Mastermind. It's nice to finally meet you," he said, sticking his hand out.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me. You're just a kid," Creed sneered.
"You mean I don't look like Arnold Schwarzenegger to you? Hmm, interesting. How about now?" the runt replied, putting his fingers to his forehead and squinting.
"No, you look like an appetizer," Victor said.
He smelled him. He had the scent of another mutant. Creed took him for one of those telepathic types. If ferals like him were the class jocks of the mutant world, telepaths were the nerdy chess club types. If he wasn't a paying client, he probably would have ripped his head off with one of his preternaturally oversize claws.
"Your resume said you were resistant to chemical substances and diseases, I suppose you may be resistant to my mind control abilities as well. Do you have any idea who I am?" Mastermind asked.
He didn't smell familiar. The only thing unique about him was his odd-colored eyes. One was a vivid blue, the other an emerald green, like a Turkish Angora cat. The only person Victor had ever seen like that was his old boss Colonel Stryker's son, and he had been cryogenically frozen in a fish tank the last time he saw him. It couldn't be, could it?
"Jason Stryker?" Creed asked, frowning.
"In the flesh. You and I have something in common. We both want my dad dead. Unless you have a problem with patricide. That means killing a father," Jason replied.
Ironically, the condescending little prick sounded just like his dad.
"I know what it means. My brother killed our dad in front of us when I was 14. It was the best thing he ever did. Where's my down payment?" Victor growled.
Jason passed him a briefcase. Victor opened it. It was filled with stacks of money.
"If you and I are going to work together, you could show me a bit more respect. It's not like there aren't plenty of mutants my father didn't torture and imprison over the years that are itching to get revenge, and for a lower price than you," Jason said arrogantly.
Creed considered for a moment taking the down payment and killing Stryker's snotty little hell spawn then and there, but held himself back.
"Respect isn't given. It's earned. I'm a soldier. I respect brawn over egg headed little parlor trick mind games."
Jason smiled smugly. It wasn't a pleasant look at all. He turned his head and scanned the crowd.
"You think I'm not dangerous because my power is mental? I'll tell you what. Pick anyone in sight. I guarantee they'll be dead within the next 5 minutes," Jason said.
Creed looked around. He picked a 6'4" man that looked like a bouncer who was walking east.
"The one in the plaid shirt," Creed said with intentional skepticism.
Jason smiled even deeper. He stared at the man in question and raised his fingertips to his forehead again. He squinted.
The bouncer got a horrified expression on his face. He started screaming.
"No! No! Get it away from me! Doesn't anyone see it! Help! Help!" the man yelled, backing up onto the street in fear of something invisible.
A horn blew loudly and there was a sound of a car stopping short on pavement. A loud crash echoed in the canyons of nearby skyscrapers. People started screaming as the man was hit by a taxi cab. He was thrown into the windshield, cracking the glass into a hundred pieces.
Jason grinned triumphantly from ear to ear at Victor. Creed raised his eyebrow at him in response.
"Wow. You really have no respect for human life. I'm impressed," Victor said dryly.
"Thanks. I could do that all day. Do you want to pick another one, go eenie, meenie, miney, moe?" Jason asked.
"Maybe later. I'm getting hungry. You'll have to tell me how you plan to get to your dear old dad," Creed said.
Upper East Side, New York City
Wade Wilson loved New York. It was truly the city that never slept. As a hyperactive, motor-mouthed, Attention Deficit Disorder laden mercenary with artificially enhanced reflexes and resistance, it was the only city in America that didn't bore him. Most importantly New York had the most people, which for Wade meant an unending stream of new faces to be his audience, or his latest mark if the price was right.
He walked through the door of an imposing-looking brownstone. A guy who looked like a butler on steroids greeted him. He gave Wade a disdainful look.
"The Hellfire Club is member's only…sir," the man said.
"I'm here as a guest of Wilson Fisk," Wade responded.
"What is the password," the man asked.
"Brimstone," Wade said.
"I'll buzz someone to escort you in," the man said.
"Thanks. I've wanted to see the inside of this place for so long. I heard it's like Studio 54, but with guys who have access to nuclear codes. I've always wondered about the name, though. I mean, don't strip clubs have to have 'Gold' or 'Silver' or 'Platinum' or 'Brass Ass' in their names?" Wade asked.
"We're not a strip club. We're a gentleman's club for the world's elite," the host said witheringly.
"Tomato, tomatoe. If this fanfic is the third in a trilogy, it had better not suck like X-Men 3 did."
"Excuse me?" the host asked.
"Never mind me, I was just talking to the fourth wall," Wade said.
Thankfully, the inner door buzzed and a guard arrived to lead Wade in. The inside was decorated in dark oaks and fluorescent club lights. Madonna's "Like a Virgin" played from the thumping speakers. Women in lingerie and high heels commingled with some of the world's most powerful businessmen and politicians. Strippers gyrated on the stages. The place was an A.D.D. heaven.
Wade went to meet his contact at a table. It wasn't Wilson Fisk himself. He was too much of a kingpin to meet with him directly.
"Mr. Jones thanks for meeting with me here. Is Jones even your real name or is it an alias like Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown? Of course if it was an alias, you probably wouldn't tell me anyhow. Forget I asked," Wade said.
"Are you ever at a loss for words, Mr. Collins?" Jones asked.
"Only when I'm sleeping. Or eating. Or giving head," he replied.
Wade's eyes drifted to the exotic dancers onstage. There was a row of girls in white satin. One blonde particularly caught his eye. She looked familiar, but he couldn't place from where.
"I trust you've brought proof your assignment was completed?" Jones asked.
"Are you gonna grade me on it? Because I need to keep my 4.0 or I lose my Dean's List status of rankings on world's greatest assassins," Wade said, sliding a small box to the man.
The box contained a fingertip from his latest kill. Jones brought out a small scanning device. He applied it to the dismembered finger, no doubt checking to see if the fingerprint was a match. Ah, the miracles of modern technology.
Wade looked at the blonde again, trying to figure out how he knew her. She was wearing a white corset top, a thong, and sky high boots stuffed with more money than most women make in a week. Her body was a cross between a model with legs that go on for miles and an aerobics instructor.
Her face was just as easy on the eyes. It was an intriguing mixture of aristocratic mixed with slutty. She looked a lot like the coke whore played by Michelle Pfeiffer from that Al Pacino Scarface movie. He would like for her to say hello to his "little friend." Well, 6 and a half inch friend. He measured once.
As he thought that, she looked directly at him, making a face. She couldn't have heard him, could she? Her expression changed to one of recognition. Finally it hit him where he knew her from.
"Skinny little Nancy Callahan. She grew up. She filled out," Wade muttered out loud.
"Excuse me?" Jones asked, as he slid a briefcase full of money under the table to Wade.
"It's a Frank Miller "Sin City" reference. Oh wait, I'm a Marvel character. I'm not supposed to mention DC comics," Wade said.
"Our transaction is complete. Mr. Fisk will have me contact you with your next assignment," Jones said.
"Thanks. We'll do lunch. Break a leg. Don't get arrested," Wade replied as he took the briefcase and headed to the stage.
He walked to the blonde, who was staring at him and smiling.
"Emma Frost? Is it really you?" he said to her.
To Be Continued