ACT I

What IF…?

What if Captain America never disappeared?

This story is based on a real What If, but from there it diverges sharply into fan-fic zone.

History:

The Red Skull took Cap's place right after WWII via clever plastic surgery. The real Captain floated in his block of ice, while the world changed around him. As "Captain America", lionized hero of the grateful Allies, the Skull gradually but inexorably turned America and its allies into a fascist regime. After the war, the women working in the factories went back home, and domestic life drifted into a Ward and June Cleaver mode, and then calcified.

Changes that began in the 1950's in the main 616 universe were derailed. Rock and Roll died stillborn when it was harshly suppressed as an obscene art form. The Civil Rights movement abandoned the Dream when the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was found dead, killed by a whore in a sleazy motel. The Skull, now the U.S. president, declined to spend American lives in Korea, and later, in Vietnam. Instead, he appropriated the idea of Shield from Sergeant Fury.

He built a Shield loyal to him, and backed it with the best technology, paid for by the money not wasted in Asian wars, creating a private army that outclassed anything in the world. The peace movement never happened, nor the sexual revolution. Without the help of Roe V. Wade and the Pill, free sex was too risky. Domestic life for women and children never really advanced past the role of legal chattels, and in some cases slipped even further backwards.

When the mutants started appearing, they were treated worse than society was already treating Jews, and people of color. They were considered sub-human, and to be eliminated with prejudice. Xavier gathered his X-men, and Shield surrounded the mansion and burned it to the ground. Only a few survived the carnage and Magneto took them in, for in this world, his wildest paranoia was, if anything, naively optimistic.

Most mutants who were discovered were killed. All that were left alive were sterilized. Some had their services sold as labor by the government. Some of the pretty ones were assigned to the personal harems of the wealthy elite of Shield, which was now the worldwide military government. The unlucky few considered malleable enough to program and dangerous enough to be useful as killers were sent to the Heli-Carrier, where they were trained to be Hounds: hunters of mutants, and political assassins.

Reed Richards and his friends were prevented from attempting their launch and were never exposed to the cosmic rays. With no civilian nuclear programs there were no gamma ray experiments to make a Hulk, and no radioactive spiders. Peter Parker died when a meeting of the underground that was tipped off to the authorities. Tony Stark became a member of Shield's elite as a young man, becoming a protégé of Steve Rodgers, a.k.a. the Skull, who now was President-For-Life. Tony used his influence to force a marriage of convenience with Janet van Dyne, after having her scientist boyfriend, Hank Pym, killed.

Shield laid siege to Greenwich for weeks, and took credit for the death of Doctor Strange. They suppressed rumored sightings of demons causing an implosion of the mansion. Thor battled the demons, and backed to the foot of Bifrost, he turned to shatter the Rainbow Bridge to prevent the invasion of Asgard. The Son of Odin and his foes alike both perished from the tactical Neutron bomb strike at the site of the Battle of Greenwich.

The real Steve Rodgers was eventually found in his icy tomb but he wasn't thawed. He slumbered in a Shield laboratory where the Skull's scientist tried to pry the secrets of the Super Soldier Formula from his very flesh and blood.

From this single change in the world's history, most of the Marvel Heroes died before they made an impact, or never had a chance to become heroic.

And dread Mephisto laughed on his throne at a world turned to hate…

In the dimness of the big tent, the young man's heart raced as he climbed the creaky ladder to the high trapeze. A tingle of excitement always went through him when it was time to face the audience. He loved the skills of the acrobat, and with all due modesty, he knew that he was good at it. Very good.

Good enough that he could work for a much better operation than this one-ring fleabag of a circus, except for one little difficulty. A bigger circus would mean more concentrated attention on him, enough perhaps that some of his awed viewers might notice that his outrageous appearance wasn't all due to his gaudy costume. The agile blue tail that trailed behind him could possibly be a prop, and the blue of his face could be make-up, but he didn't want to get close enough to the rubes form them to see any differently.

Performing in the circus was a dream of his. The whole experience was magic to his teenager's heart. The sights, sounds and smells of it pulsed in his veins and drifted in his dreams. He worked the high wires because he loved it so, and because this was one of the few ways he could help earn money for his gypsy clan, despite the terrible risks.

Jimmy, his blood brother, could get any kind of work at the towns they camped near; he looked as normal as their mother, Jimaine Szardos. Kurt knew he was lucky the gypsies hadn't left him to die. Grandmamma Margali told him many times about how she found him, a little blue babe hidden near the camp. Her daughter Jimaine had given birth only days before, and the foundling's thin wails touched her new mother's heart. She nursed Kurt alongside her green-eyed son, and raised them as brothers.

Hans, the owner of the circus knew the truth about him, and so did Rutger, his son, Kurt's trapeze partner. The new fascists of Shield weren't popular with most people, and especially so with fringe groups like carnies and gypsies. They knew Kurt was a nice, harmless lad despite his odd appearance, and he accepted a lot less money than his skills and draw warranted. Kurt knew he had steady work here, whenever the clan camped close enough to the circus to make the two-way trip under the cover of darkness.

He reached his perch, and smiled widely as the spotlight found him. The crowd roared approval at him and his heart swelled with pride. They'd get a good show with the Nightcrawler as the lead of the Trapeze act. He stood tall on the tiny platform and lifted one gloved hand, the other hand gripping his swing's bar. The music swelled and he pushed off.

The sound of the crowd followed him like a benediction, as he and Rutger performed their flying routine without a net. The spot followed him, dazzling his eyes, and making the floor of the tent an unfathomable darkness below him. The rhythm lulled him; swing, leap, grasp, swing, leap and return.

He was on the far swing now, his partner on the one he'd started on, when the first hint of oddness reached him. The crowd noises were as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, but this wasn't the usual sound of gasping, peasant conversation and barker calls. This sounded like fear, a fear that cut through the endorphin rush that always filled him when he performed.

He signaled to Rutger for a pause, and swung, hanging from his knees. The music continued, but without needing to concentrate on his next move he could hear things better. Mutters came up from the crowd - fearful, angry. Not the sound of a rapt audience, at all. Straining his ears, he heard scuffling boots, harsh low voices, and the unmistakable clacks that signaled the readying of automatic weapons. Was?

"Turn off those lights!" barked a voice. The spots clicked off, and the house lights came on, bring a more general light to the tent. "You up there, the freak! This is Shield, and you're under arrest!"

A stab of panic wracked Kurt, drenching him in nervous sweat. He could see the agents all through the crowd. A twinge of pain crossed his face as he saw the faces of the audience looking at him. Minutes before they were cheering his skills, but now they were pointing at him, frowning and saying ugly things. He flipped effortlessly around, and crouched on the swing, cringing from their hateful words. The pose seemed to be threatening to the watching agents, for they pointed their guns at him.

He had to get away; they were going to kill him. A dull ache blossomed in his head, and a warm rusty flow came from a nostril. His tearing eyes darted around the tent. All the entrances were heavy with Shield agents, and he could see no escape.

"Come down, NOW!" shouted the spokesman. "Or you will be shot."

In his mind's eye, Kurt could see the door to the trailer outside that he changed in, along with Rutger. He wanted to be there. Nein, he needed to be there. Pain stabbed him again, as the image in his head took on a surreal reality he could almost touch. Something… something started to happen to him, then with the slam of a white-hot poker in his brain, that something, whatever it was, failed and his vision turned dark. Then he was losing his grip and falling from the swing to the sawdust an impossible distance below. The uniformed leader cursed, and the audience shouted. It was a blood hungry sound. One that said that the crowd who'd cheered his daring would be just as happy to see him crunch down into the ring… and maybe, they always had.

Falling, he strained upward at the moving swing now hopeless centimeters above him. Reality swam again and his world exploded in fire. Is this hell?

There was no pain in the eldritch flames that surrounded him, only a strange comforting warmth that stole into him. Then it was gone, and he was still falling, but now the swing was beside him. The crowd was eerily silent after the flash and soft noise of a report, almost as if a cannon had been fired a long way away. Stunned he watched the swing's grip pass his head again. His hands reached and missed, his feet were too clumsy in the concealing boots he wore. Not again…

His tail snaked out and wrapped round and round the grip like a lifeline, halting him with a suddenness that made him grunt. Trembling, he hung there for a moment, and then he once more climbed up onto the grip, holding both sides of the swing for balance.

"You got no place to go, mutie, so get down here, now." Kurt's golden eyes picked out the speaker now, an officer holding the ringmaster's gaudy bullhorn, and his service pistol.

Climb down so you can execute me? Why not just shoot me now, and entertain the audience with my fall? His mouth twisted in disillusionment, and he knew he'd never think of the circus in the same naive way again. He looked around again, seeking a way out, any way.

The tent billowed, wind flaps rustling in the breeze. They kept the tent safe from all but the strongest winds, and were larger than they looked. Large enough, perhaps, for a slender form to squeeze through. The fires burst around him again, welcoming, concealing, and this time he was ready. He grabbed the bottom of the flap before he could fall out of reach.

Blessing God for his slight frame, he pulled himself through it and found himself on the top slope of the tent. Gunfire rang out from below him, and he rolled quickly down the tent, hearing bullets tear through the canvas behind him. He paused gingerly on the edge; he was still a long way from the ground. The trailer was there, to the right. Surely he could hide there for a bit, then use his new skill to get away.

He actually needed to see where he was going, it seemed. The time he near fainted he was trying to go to a memory, not something he could see.BAMF! And he was in the shadows of the trailer. Seeing no one around, he stepped to the door and pulled it open. A Shield man stood inside, with a pistol leveled at him. With a cold smile, he fired. Kurt felt stab of pain to his chest, and he died…

The limp form was bundled into a van and the officer stood at the edge of the grounds, while his men evacuated the circus. A dark haired man stood in the shadows, non descript clothes doing nothing to hide the Romany accent in his voice. "He came to the camp a few months ago. He was hungry, and the women folk were too softhearted to turn him away. But me, I got family to worry about, and he would be nothing but trouble for us."

Stefan Szardos ran his hand through his hair, refusing to think about how his sister and her bastard boy would react to the loss of the young mutant she'd raised. "So I sell him to you, and you report that we gypsies are good solid citizens, Ja?

The officer gave him a thick envelope, and smiled thinly. "You did a good job here… Anton, did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." Stefan took the money, and turned away.

Dreams recalled him. Disturbing dreams. Chains, and cages. Mocking laughter and endless droning. Tasteless gruel and bitter water. Rough hands, dragging him along. Gradually he became aware that he wasn't dead. He wanted to touch his chest, but he couldn't move his hand, either of them. He couldn't move at all, except a small length of tail at the very end. He was blindfolded, but he could hear voices.

"You've almost kept the subject drugged too long. He was nearly dehydrated."

"He'll live, right? That's the important thing."

"Now, he will," answered the first voice.

A third voice intruded. "Shit, what am I supposed to do with this one? Tattoo him white? I ain't got 'nough inks." Rough fingers grabbed Kurt's chin, and only the blocks beside his head kept him from turning his face away to avoid them. "What is this fuck? Fur? No tat's gonna show through that. I say leave 'im alone. He don't need a mask to prove he's a mutie."

The second voice answered coolly. "A mutant, yes. But he has nothing to show that he is a Hound. Aren't there other ways to mark the skin?"

"Well, there's branding, but that makes 'em kinda shocky."

"Not a good idea, the first voice said, "He's still pretty weak due to the transport from Europe.

Unreal, Kurt thought, Don't they care I can hear them?

"What else?" said the second voice.

"Scarifyin'. Ya lightly cut the skin in the pattern you want, and maybe rub in an irritant. Fur or no fur, I'll bet it'll heal up in ridges, as clear as any tat.

"Good. Do it."

"Right on! Hey doc, can I borrow a scalpel?"

"Don't touch my instruments, they're sterile." Kurt heard a drawer open. "Here."

"Like's he's gonna be, huh?" Fingers unbound the blindfold, and Kurt blinked at the sudden light. Besides the blurry form before him, all he could see was the ceiling. "Eerie fuck, ain't he?"

"Get on with it, will you? I have a surgical procedure to perform."

The man who'd taken off the blindfold could have worked in the circus. He was burly and bald, with blue green patterns covering his head and part of his face. His short-sleeved shirt showed more tattoos on his neck and all down his arms.

He leaned over Kurt, shiny blade in his hand, and beer on his breath. "Try not to flinch, eh?" he chuckled. "I don't wanna mess up the pattern." A paper rattled next to Kurt's head blocks, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the knife moved close to them.

Pain, and fire moved out and up from his eyebrow. The man was drawing lines of blood on his face with the scalpel, and Kurt trembled, fighting the urge to start screaming. Crimson flowed from the cuts, and the man stopped every now and then to mop it off with a cloth that stung and smelled of rubbing alcohol.

Several lines sliced across his brow, his temples, and his cheeks. A line went down his nose, and more bracketed his mouth. The last cuts were on his chin. Fire traced along every cut, as if he could see them, inverted, from inside his head. Kurt closed his eyes, and he moaned.

There was movement near his head again, and he snapped his eyes opened and saw the tattooed man sprinkle something black on the cuts.

"Might I ask what that is?"

"Stab'lized powered charcoal, Doc. Clean enough, and it'll make the scars keloid up nice. His skin's real dark, so he prob'ly don't need it, niggers usually don't. But… his features look white under the fur, so just in case… Hmmm. Vinegar might help." [*]

"Just so he doesn't get an infection. I don't care to have him in my clinic for an extended stay."

Stinging sour liquid splashed into his wounds, and despite his best efforts, a thin whine escaped from Kurt. "He's all yours, Doc."

The doctor moved into his line of sight. He was utterly unremarkable in appearance, except the small round shield pin on the lapel of his lab coat near to the embroidered Eagle. He briskly looked at the oozing cuts and taped gauze over them. He removed the head blocks, and Kurt wasted no time in checking around the room. It was a clinic. He could see the open door, and his eyes widened as he willed the fire to come. A shock came from a collar around his neck and nausea washed over him.

"No teleporting for you, not until we say so." This came from a man in a Shield officer's uniform, sitting to one side, observing everything.

Kurt's head lolled to the side, and he saw the paper next to his head. It was a sketch of a face, with a starburst pattern inked over it, a pattern that matched the lines of pain on his face. Gott, as if I wasn't enough of a freak, now this…

The tattooed man grinned at Kurt. "Welcome to the Vet's, furry," he said. He pointed down Kurt's body and to an instrument tray nearby.

Kurt was naked, strapped thoroughly to an examination table. His chest, upper and lower arms were strapped tightly down, and his hands were taped into leather bags. His legs were drawn up in stirrups, bound at the thigh, knee, and calves to the metal armature, his feet also in heavy bags.

Past his right hip he could see his tail bound to the table with wide silver tape. He could feel his tail trailed down the side of the table, and from there to the floor, leaving only a few inches at the end able to move. It flopped desperately back and forth like a landed fish.

More embarrassing than being naked was the posture he was forced into. His buttocks were perched on the edge of the table and his genitals hung slightly over the edge, exposed.

The instruments the tat man gestured at was a tray of surgical tools; shiny, clean, and many of them very sharp.

"Was… what are you doing to me?" His voice trembled, and was higher than he wanted it to be.

The first two men didn't answer, but the tat man barked in laughter. "What happens to any stray dog brought to the pound?" He stepped forward and put a foot lightly on the lashing tail end. "The Doc's here's gonna make sure you keep singin' soprano." As he spoke the doctor put a stool between Kurt's suspended feet and cleaned his scrotum thoroughly with a cold alcohol swab.

Kurt's sharp teeth chattered as the whine returned to his throat. He breathing sped up until he was nearly hyperventilating. "Oh, Gott im Himmel. Nein, nein, nein…"

"Calm yourself, please. My… 'colleague' is kidding. You are not going to be castrated, but merely given a vasectomy." He continued prepping his instruments, speaking conversationally to the officer. "You know Major, I had my doubts about the policy to sterilize all mutants. Some subject's gifts would be useful if allowed to reproduce. But then I see someone, well, some-thing like this… The policy is wiser than I realized."

The doctor adjusted a light, and made a quick incision on the tender flesh he'd cleaned.

Kurt screamed. No anesthesia? The pain of the earlier cuts was absolutely nothing compared to this. He couldn't make himself stop moaning.

"If he's as different on the inside as he is on the outside I may have to remove his testicles to ensure his infertility." The doc moved the light closer, and poked a gloved finger experimentally into the incision. The tat man gulped and stepped outside, but the Major was unmoved by the sight. "Well, it looks pretty normal in here. I should be able to finish a standard procedure without difficulty."

Kurt looked down in horror as the doctor pulled a blood-slicked tube from his scrotum.

"There's the first Vas Deferens," he said. Bringing up his scalpel, he severed it neatly, then lifted up a glowing electric wire, and seared the ends shut. "Now for the other," he said, and made the second incision.

The room echoed with Kurt's howls. He couldn't seem to catch his breath, and then the room went mercifully black...

[DISCLAIMER: For the most part, these aren't my characters, they belong to Marvel. Only the dilemmas are mine.]

[A/N: You may notice that I always capitalize Shield, but never write it as an acronym. That's because my version of Shield isn't one. In this world, Captain America (a.k.a. The Red Skull), founded the organization based on Nick Fury's concepts, but he named it directly for the Shield he wore, as a way to symbolize its "protective" function in his twisted society...]

[*A/N: I know nothing about Scarification except what I looked up one night on the web for this story. You wanna know more? Google it.]

[See info on Marvel canon "S.H.I.E.L.D" (and the various things those initials have stood for over the years) at toonpedia dot com, among other places. This story is complete, but last updated in 2005, before the MCU was in existence, so as I go through my new edit I'll add any required references both in A/Ns and in the story. It might help to think of this story's Shield as to be wholly comprised of Hydra, which is really rather apt, considering recent developments in the MCU.]