Ahem, as a bit of a preamble here. Yes, yes, I know, it's been for freaking *ever* since I last updated, and for that I apologize sincerely. I've gotten sidetracked an inexcusable number of times. Forgive me.

XXX

Ladies and Gentlemen, very quietly today, I give you, chapter eleven of Athena.

I really hate the number eleven. It just sounds so weak and uninspiring after… CHAPTER 10…

Chapter 10 just sounds so much more magnificent, more of a fanfiction milestone, if you will.

Well… unless of course you're a much more dedicated writer than me and have made it up to chapter… I don't know… thirty or something…

KUDOS to those of you who do, by the way. Anywho, thank you again to Kukapetal, Musicwolf7, he/she who calls themselves 'Guest', and all of those who continually review this fanfiction and provide me with undying support and the very best inspiration. Without all of you, this fic would have died not long after the prologue.

And so, I give you chapter 11. Since there isn't a whole lot of action, as this is more of a segue-into-bigger-things chapter, I've taken the liberty of adding a scene in which Johann gets to exercise his awesome ruthless villainy. Mwahahahahahahaha!

Regards and as always, Review.

Without your support, I've nowhere to go, so please do tell me if my work lives up to your expectations!

Alas, for now, I bid you Auf Wiedersehen. A certain simpleton with a shield seems to be sabotaging my word documents.

J.B

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the music of either Grieg or Stravinsky, and of course, all Marvel characters belong to, well, Marvel obviously. As of now, only Mina belongs to me.

HYDRA Base – The Alps

Johann Schmidt's Laboratory

"Is she ready, Dr. Zola?" Standing in the archway that separated his private quarters from the laboratory, Johann adjusted the high collar of his custom-designed uniform, running his free hand along the smooth crimson flesh of his skull. The hired artist would be coming by later in the morning; it was imperative that he look absolutely flawless. Scowling, he removed a small pocket watch from his coat. The last portrait was a disaster, the lighting too dark, the scenery too drab. If he timed it just so, he could catch the afternoon sun glinting off of the Alps, outlining his silhouette in the glory of the winter scenery.

Of course, the sun could not shine too brightly. As much as he admired the majestic landscape that loomed just outside his window, he simply could not allow it to overshadow the true majesty of the portrait.

His scowl twisted into a smirk, a chilling expression against the bloodred backdrop of his skin.

It was, after all, himself that would take the breath away of every set of eyes that would look upon this painting.

Normal people of course would look upon such a spectacle with utter horror.

He always found it rather pitiful, how tasteless human beings could be. But of course, their opinions would no longer matter, in just a few short months. Perhaps even sooner.

"Slaves." He whispered under his breath, smiling. "They shall mock me now, but wait until they are forced to bow down before me, worshipping me like a god." A low chuckle resonated at the base of his throat.

Zola glanced up at his superior, his face flushed with a look of bewilderment. It was so very rare that Schmidt was ever in a good mood; of course, it was almost impossible to differentiate between good and bad with the man. Every word he uttered seemed to drip with malice, and yet his voice somehow managed to maintain its eerie, lulling effect, quiet and measured, formal and sophisticated.

Quickly he lowered his eyes back onto the hub of machinery, delicately loosening the restraints on the arms of the straight-backed, metal chair that stood at the center. He did not envy the girl who would soon be its occupant.

"Almost, sir." He murmured quietly. "I believe the technicians are still prepping her."

By now, Johann had crossed to his office area, removing a large, black box from the confines of his desk. With a delicate grip, he gingerly removed what appeared to be a model of a head, the synthetic face pieces that he donned when in the presence of individuals ignorant to his true appearance, molded to its surface.

Carefully peeling off the rubber front piece, he pulled the top delicately over his head, allowing the synthetic 'face' to rest against his own, pressing it in with his fingertips. The material was cool and slightly sticky against his skin; as with every other occasion that he donned the mask, he suffered the nagging urge to tear it off, to itch at his skin, to rid it of the taint of this alien material.

Clenching his fists briefly, he continued on to the back piece, smoothing it against the back of his neck, briefly running his fingers through the fabricated dark hair, ensuring that it covered the seam. One final sweep with his fingers across the rubber surfaces, gently probing the seams to ensure their proper placement, and he replaced the mannequin and box in its large drawer.

Sighing heavily, he glanced down at the little scientist, several steps below him, head bowed over the mass of wires and machinery.

"It has been nearly forty-five minutes now, Dr. Zola."

"Y – Yes sir, I suppose it has."

Clucking his tongue, Johann crossed over to the phonograph that sat just beside his desk. He ran a gloved hand along the array of records thoughtfully, pausing before a weathered copy of Edvard Grieg's Anitra's Dance, of the Peer Gint Suite.

"Too much like Carmen, I suppose," he mused. Frowning, he passed over the record, instead selecting an even more weathered copy of Stravinsky's Firebird.

Wilhelmina's favorite. Ideally, the music would serve as a calming influence for the girl, when in the process of the testing.

Although, with her rebellious streak, his better judgment told him it would be wise to ready the sedatives – just for safety, after all.

"Perhaps Grieg would have been a more suitable choice, after all." He mumbled.

Removing a set of glass vials from an array of chemicals, resting on his worktable, he muttered to himself bitterly.

"Tell me Dr. Zola, why is it that suddenly even my most efficient operatives are beginning to lose the finesse that allowed them to thrive in my organization?"

Glancing up from the table, he looked at the scientist. "I leave them for but a mere few hours and chaos ensues, all because of one idiotic child, worse still, a female."

Zola avoided his superior's icy gaze, nervously fiddling with his specs. So much for the good mood, he thought uneasily.

"W – Well sir… at least the tesseract was not harmed, and of course, the girl will provide us with an excellent weapon against your enemies."

He watched uneasily as one dark, fabricated eyebrow rose upon Schmidt's synthetic face, his ice-blue eyes gleaming intently.

"The girl?" he inquired, although his tone was flat and cold. The mask twisted into a scowl, an expression of pure disgust written upon his features.

Shifting uncomfortably, Zola quickly lowered his gaze. "Fraulein Hofstadter, I mean of course."

Schmidt nodded slightly, as if in acceptance of Zola's blunder. Descending the steps, Zola shrank back into his haven behind the machinery, as his superior passed him, his hands trembling within his lab-coat pockets.

Stopping to inspect several maps laid out upon the tables, Johann clucked his tongue loudly, as if a disappointed parent about to chastise a child.

"You really must think before you allow your tongue to spite you, Dr. Zola. Your choice of wording is all too often poor, and in my business, Dr. Zola, what you say will either be your savior or your untimely death." Lighting up a cigarette, he paused to glance at the scientist. "I encourage you to think about that, from now on, before proceeding to speak, Arnim."

The scientist nodded meekly, meaninglessly rearranging the wiring; anything to divert his nervous gaze from Schmidt's icy one.

Johann glanced up as a hollow clanging echoed across the laboratory as the entry doors slowly opened inward, allowing a volley of masked guards and gray, lab-coat-clad scientists to file in.

Somberly, his niece followed, flanked by several scientists. Dressed in merely a thin white shift, she shivered violently. Dark circles had bloomed beneath her eyes, her hair ragged and tangled.

One by one, the guards arranged themselves along the perimeter of the room, the scientists massing around Dr. Zola, awaiting further instructions.

All but two guards remained, their gloved hands firmly placed upon Wilhelmina's shoulders. Johann straightened, probing at his mask slightly before nodding to the guards to release her. As they filed off to the side, he approached her silently, very lightly placing a gloved hand upon her shoulder, guiding her towards the metal chair.

He could feel the bones of her shoulders beneath the shift. Her skin was almost white, her movements still quite shaky. She was like a china doll, easily shattered.

A slight sensation of guilt began to well in the pit of his stomach, but hastily he pushed all thoughts of abandoning the tests out of his mind. He was so close to his goal – so close he could almost feel the world crumbling between his fingertips, the same fools that had once mocked and humiliated him, on their knees, begging for his forgiveness.

Pulling himself out his thoughts, he realized that his niece was staring up at him expectantly, as were the guards and scientists who stood silently awaiting further orders.

Pausing to shoot them an icy glare, he steered Mina towards the metal chair, gesturing that she sit.

Glancing at the leather restraints, she hesitated.

"Merely safety precautions, Fraulein." Zola added. "In event that the tests are to have… negative effects on you."

"So you mean, if I go mad?" her voice was hoarse, a dry humor in her tone.

The scientist shifted uneasily, as if searching for the correct response.

"Something like that, yes." Johann answered for him, since it was more probable that Mina would appreciate his dry sarcasm over Zola's unadulterated honesty.

Much as he didn't wish to admit it to himself, that was indeed why the restraints had been put in place. If Mina were to be affected by the tesseract's presence the way she had the night before – well, there was no telling what she would do when under the object's influence again, and he'd already lost a good deal too many soldiers in one day than he would ever have liked to.

"How reassuring," she mumbled, although her attempt at sarcasm was weak. Her fear was clearly audible in her tone.

As she sat, Zola quickly set to work on the restraints, strapping her arms and legs to the chair with an uncomfortable snugness.

Johann, meanwhile, had crossed to the other side of the laboratory, gently setting the needle onto the awaiting record. Slipping into the large leather chair behind his desk, he crossed his legs casually, leaning back, as if to better enjoy the show.

Mina eyed him for a moment before settling into her rather uncomfortable captivity, allowing her eyes to glaze over as she half-heartedly examined the machinery around her. She frowned as the gentle, melancholy tones of the Firebird Suite began to play. It was such a blinding mockery of tranquility – the sweet and mournful tones urging a certain optimism and happiness.

And yet, there was absolutely nothing to be happy for.

The very thought jarred her from her daze, her eyes meeting several nervous pairs – that of the busy scientists hastily preparing for the experiment. At once they all seemed to stop, meeting her rapidly blinking eyes with ones of blatant curiosity.

She noticed they were all quite young, save for Zola, and each possessed deep, questioning expressions and hungry eyes.

Absently, she wondered if her uncle had at one time been like that, eager for answers, for discovery, his fear of the aftermath overruled by his curiosity for results.

Perhaps the ice-blue shade of his irises had once been vibrant, and now was hardened by years of experience.

Or failure, perhaps.

"Are you ready, Fraulein?" Zola's eyes were impossibly huge behind his spectacles, his lips pursed, a look of question etched into the lines upon his forehead.

Swallowing, she nodded, and watched as the scientists slowly approached her. Soon their ice-cold fingers were cascading across her bare arms and face and legs, attaching sticky sensors that itched at her skin, and various catheters within her veins, pumping her with God only knew what.

And all the while, Johann sat back in his chair and watched with an expression of utter boredom.

She was decidedly irked by his lack of emotion, but then again, emotion so rarely made its presence known within the man. She kept silent.

"Ready the tesseract." Zola commanded. Obediently, one of the scientists, wearing a pair of heavy protective gloves, firmly twisted the handle of the carrying device, removing the tesseract from its container.

Immediately she was drawn to the light, pulled forward in the chair as if by some invisible force. She felt her fingers involuntarily begin to claw at the arms of the chair, writhing about in the leather restraints, trying and failing to release themselves from their captivity. For a moment, she was unaware of the sudden movement, until the alien touch of Zola's sweaty fingers against her own registered in her brain.

Glancing down at his hand briefly, she gripped her hands against the metal, halting their movement.

Zola nodded, smiling slightly, as if in approval. "Just relax for the time being, Fraulein. I will tell you exactly what to do."

Nodding silently, she lowered her head, breathing heavily. It was as if the tesseract's presence in the room was sapping her of energy, sucking the life from her.

But then, why was she the only one who was affected by its energy, its power? Why was no one else feeling its pull, why was no one else drawn to it?

She glanced up at the scientists before her; their eyes bore into her like screwdrivers.

Quickly looking down, she couldn't help but feel like an ant under a microscope, a freak of nature.

"Now Miss Hofstadter," Zola's voice rang in her ears, "Brace yourself; you must ignore the tesseract's pull or it could consume you. All you must do is draw its force into your body through the fingertips."

"And how exactly am I to do that?" She mumbled, her voice strained.

Zola's jaw dropped slightly, his lips agape like a fish out of water. "Well I – I … I don't…."

Johann's voice echoed across the laboratory, solid and unwavering. "Do not think about it, Wilhelmina. Simply do it." His gaze was directed to the cigarette he was lighting in its holder, but she could feel his words rivet into her. Just do it.

Well, it was worth a try. What harm could it do?

"Aside from driving me insane." She mumbled.

"Pardon, my dear?" She glanced up at Zola, a confused expression etched into his face.

"Nothing," she answered quickly. "I am ready."

Zola nodded firmly. "Good." He donned a pair of dark black specs, shading his eyes from the blinding cobalt light of the tesseract.

In haste, the scientists backed away from the tesseract as the two bearers brought if forward; she could see the reflection of her gaunt and paling face in the slick black of their sunglasses. To say it made her feel rather uneasy was an understatement.

The pull was overpowering now as the soldiers brought it forward; the light was blinding, the tesseract poised mere inches from her face.

Through the light, she could barely make out the pearly white of Zola's tiny teeth as his lips pulled back in an almost feral smile.

"You are doing splendidly, my dear girl." His voice dripped with artificial praise – she knew better than to believe that he was commending her. He was merely egging her on, trying in vain to get her to put on the fantastical show she had performed the night before.

"I am not doing anything." She mumbled, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her lips slack and her head lolling ever so slightly to the side. It felt as if all of her bones had dissolved, leaving her incapable of any movement.

"Yes you are." Zola answered, his tone increasing with excitement. "Look at your hands my dear."

Instinctively, she glanced down. Tiny electrical currents crackled along her fingertips, like miniature lightning bolts.

"Now child, pull the currents into you, draw the tesseract's power into your body." His eyes glowed with anticipation. Even Johann was rigid in his chair, his eyes drilling into her expectantly.

As if summoned by Zola's command, the garbled cacophony of multi-lingual voices sounded in her ears, some whispering, some chanting, some screaming and wailing….

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what, child?"

They couldn't hear the voices. Of course they couldn't. Shutting her eyes tightly, she shook her head, dismissing the question. Her fingers gripped at the edge of the chair, tingling with crackling static.

But there was nothing. The voices somehow sounded fainter, the blissful fire of the power coursing within her, weaker. She flexed her fingertips, trying to draw it in, but nothing happened.

She opened her eyes. The tiny sparks still trembled along her skin, but they came in short bursts now, flickering and dimming.

Squinting, she focused all of her will onto the tesseract, quivering and pulsing in its metal captivity.

She managed a short, concentrated burst of light, but, almost as soon as it appeared, it vanished, winked from existence like an extinguished spark.

Zola's lips, which had been momentarily agape, now pressed themselves into a straight line, his little brows furrowing into a line across his forehead.

Johann had risen from his chair, his gloved hands clenched at his sides.

The entire room was silent, not even the individual breaths of each and every HYDRA personnel audible.

"Again," her uncle's voice rang out clearly and firmly. "Do it again, Wilhelmina."

But, she could just barely hear a faint hint of despair, of urgency. She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes, willing the fire to start again. She could feel it coursing through her veins, ebbing and flowing, growing stronger and stronger.

She felt the brief crackling of static, a burst of light.

Then, nothing.

She didn't dare open her eyes, for fear of the look that would meet her. She could feel his anger in the silence, his dissatisfaction, his loathing and disgust.

Why? It had come so easily the night before, not even of her own accord. It was as if fate had decided it, that the power was meant to be there, within her.

Now, only the faintest hint of flame flickered off her fingertips. She could feel the power concentrating when she willed it to; the voices would grow louder in her head, the tesseract's presence drawing her into its light.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the flames died away instantly, the voices cut off mid-shriek, not even an echo resounding in her head.

"That's enough for today."

Johann's voice was soft and measured, but the dissatisfaction was blatant in his tone. She swallowed hard, her chest heaving with every inhalation. Her limbs trembled, her throat tight, as if she might burst into tears.

She knew she had absolutely no control over the tesseract; rather, it had control over her. But she couldn't help but feel as if she'd done something terribly wrong, that she hadn't tried hard enough, that she had failed him.

She barely registered the restraints being undone and the guards pulling her up from the chair and guiding her to the doors.

As they pulled her along, she could not help but glance back. Very briefly, her eyes met Johann's ice-blue ones, the chilling stare she received causing her to shudder.

For a moment, she resisted her captors, struggling to grasp onto his gaze, searching for some perceivable emotion.

In response to her questioning glance, he simply nodded once, and returned to his chair behind his desk, slipping into his abyss of paperwork and blueprints as if nothing had ever happened.

The guards tugged at her shoulder and reluctantly she allowed them to lead her away, accepting that a nod of either approval or indifference was the only reaction she would receive from him.

A feeling of emptiness seeped into her flesh, coursing through her blood and causing her heart to ache. She had grown used to her uncle's silent praise over the years – he had never been the type to verbally accolade a performance of any sort. It was usually a nod or a pat on the shoulder or a slight twitch of the lips perhaps, but nothing more.

Once, when she was still rather young, in the middle of a rather loud tantrum, she had ridiculed him of hating her, as he never outwardly praised her, never told her she had done well or that he was truly proud of her.

At the time, his response had been maddening to her; he'd simply smiled and kissed her head and quietly replied with, "Patience is a virtue, my sweet little Mina. I will let you know when your performance has impressed me."

Although she now had the wherewithal to realize that she would never be rewarded for anything even a hair less than superior, it stung bitterly to have the heavy weight of expectation forever biting into her skin.

Today, that sting was deep and bracing.

Obviously, no reward would come her way.

XXX

The Laboratory

From Johann's Perspective

His fingers clutched the broad back of the leather swivel chair, the muscles taut beneath his leather gloves. His spine had long since gone numb, despite his tightly clenched fist digging into his flesh. Ah yes, the classic pose. Head held high, chin pointed defiantly; a single arm stretched outward, the other tucked neatly behind the back. Silhouette framed in warm light, the snow swirling majestically in the late afternoon sun behind him. Regal, yet pensive and thoughtful at the same time. A perfect balance.

He sighed heavily. It was such a terrible pity; he had so hoped that his good mood would last the day – the slight hint of a smirk playing at his lips and the cool indifference in his eyes was an expression that paired much better with a portrait than a cold, irritated glare and an angry scowl.

He hadn't planned for his generally congenial outlook to be fouled by dismal failure. He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Perhaps he was being too hasty. The eager nature of the scientist in him was getting the better of his patience.

After all, this had only been the first attempt. Perhaps the girl was simply fatigued and her abilities would be rejuvenated after a day of rest.

Closing his eyes briefly, he listened to the mournful cords of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the artist's measured brush-strokes audible in the quiet atmosphere.

Patience. Yes, patience was what he needed.

He felt his fist clench behind his back, the tips of his gloved fingers digging angrily into his palm. Patience was something he simply no longer had the time for. Patience was a dying commodity in a world of Nazi upstarts who believed that all they had to do was waltz into an enemy country, occupy it, and have done with it. That was all there was to taking over the world.

Fools. His lip tugged upward in a wicked half-smile. The Nazi regime would be the first on his list to destroy.

It was, after all, only he fair that he give them their due suffering, considering they had become the immediate source of his.

The hollow sound of wood hitting the metal floor tiles interrupted his thoughts and his smirk twisted into an irked scowl.

"Something wrong, guter Herr?"

The painter's head bobbed out from behind the canvas, the small, bulbous little eyes peeking up at him with a look of utter fear.

"I – I – I seem to have run out of this particular shade of red, mein Herr."

His eye twitched upward, as if to raise a brow, although whatever ones he'd had had been singed off long ago.

He stepped down from the raised platform upon which his desk stood, and with lengthy, fluid strides, he crossed over to the painter.

The little man ducked away as he took a measured look at the progress of the portrait.

He clucked his tongue. Only halfway finished; the better half of his face still remained untouched.

"You've hardly used the color, my good sir. I find that difficult to believe."

The man shifted nervously. "Your features are very uh… unique, mein Herr. I've never dealt with a client whose coloring is so… well…"

Schmidt shot the man an icy glare, prodding him to finish his reply with haste. "I had to mix two shades together to make a red so dark, sir. I fear I've run out of both."

Johann nodded slightly in mock belief, as he would when Wilhelmina foolishly attempted to hide the truth of her wrongdoings from him. "Ah, I see."

He glanced down at the pallet of paints – all shades seemed to be in ample supply.

"And how exactly would you be able to procure more of this particular shade – or rather, shades, I suppose?"

The artist was staring at his shoes. "I – I – I would have to go back to Berlin, sir. I – I – I could come back at a later date to finish your painting," he answered quickly, stumbling over his words.

"Ah yes, of course you could." His voice was quiet, an almost lilting tone to it. "I trust you are a noble, brave man, sir. Certainly you would not think of cheating me of my money's worth, and abandoning my assignment once you have successfully fled to Berlin?"

At this the man's eyes seemed to pop, whether with fear or surprise, Johann couldn't clearly define. But he was satisfied with the reaction.

" – Certainly not, Mein Herr, I – I – "

"Then rather than allowing you to vacate my humble abode here, and give you the chance to do something utterly stupid – perhaps I have a solution to your dilemma."

He held back a grin as the man's face seemed to fall, his eyes gleaming with clearly defined terror now.

"You – you have a solution?" his words stumbled slowly from his lips, as if he suddenly couldn't speak.

"Certainly, my good man. I am a very resourceful individual." He smiled at the man slyly and crossed to his desk. He pulled open the top drawer, reaching for his revolver.

"If you could please come forward, sir." He said quietly, carefully covering the weapon with a gloved hand.

Uncertainly, the man inched slowly forward. "Sir, I –"

A loud bang resounded off of the metal walls mixing with the agonized shriek of the artist, who crumbled to his knees.

Johann couldn't help but watch with a certain sadistic pleasure as the idiotic man before him clutched at his now bleeding hand, gaping at the jagged tear in his palm where the bullet had shot clean through.

He ran his tongue across his teeth, grinning wickedly as he watched the deep crimson liquid pool onto the floor, glistening in the light of the overhead lamps.

"Fancy that." He said quietly. "It would seem that you now have a surplus of that shade of red, don't you think, my good sir?"

The man stared up at him in horror, his mouth agape. Johann smiled and gestured towards the easel.

"Continue painting, please. I'm on a rather tight schedule."