Issue 12
Red Alert
The funeral for Jules had been a quick and quiet affair, with an empty casket lowered into the dirt on a bright and cheery day.
It had felt wrong. But life wasn't like the movies, where all the funerals were scheduled to occur during periods of rain. There wasn't a hush, and the director of SHIELD wasn't present. SHIELD agents died all the time and Fury had bigger things to worry about than attending each and every last funeral.
Everyone understood. The man was busy averting Armageddon. He allowed himself barely a moment of grief for losing someone under his command before forging on ahead to avoid losing more from yet another imminent catastrophe.
Such was real life.
Patrick shifted slightly in the ill-fitting black suit he had rented for the occasion, feeling a trickle of sweat works its way down his back. Next to him, Gabriel and Abraham stood stoically as if carved from stone, easily ignoring the discomfort of the midday sun thanks to far too much experience for either man to ever feel thankful for.
Natsumii had given the eulogy. Her face was an expressionless mask.
The service took maybe an hour from start to finish, and then they were off.
Back to work.
Back to saving the world.
"This morning, the Ambassador in Birnin Zana handed the Wakandan Government a final Note stating that, lest we hear by 11 o'clock that they were prepared to cooperate in the extradition and just trial of Ororo Iqadi T'Challa, a state of war would exist between us.
I tell you now, that no such note has been received. As a result, we are now at war with Wakanda."
Agent 7 tapped her pen on the notepad resting on her desk. Each tap corresponded to the ticking of the ancient clock on her wall. A veritable antique, and the one item that differentiated her office from every other in the Triskellion.
Sometimes, her job was inane. This was one of those time.
Following the Innsmouth Incident, which had shaken everyone, Fury had assigned her a new task. The Corpseman issue had been shelved for the time being – Natsumii and her team would continue pursuing the man and any leads related to him, and would hardly need her oversight for the moment. Instead, Fury had her working on something new.
A new division, to be exact. And it was proving a nightmare.
7 wished she could consult with Cassandra Webb, as the woman had some experience of the stress and problems associated with the formation of SHIELD branches (she was currently engaged in the SABRE project after all). But the telepath had relocated to Europe for the foreseeable future, overseeing the construction of a brand new SHIELD facility in Switzerland.
Tap. Tap.
She had obtained permission from the Director to contact Doctor Strange, and had been about to send several requests for the man's assistance before he seemingly pre-empted her, and a thick beige envelope had dropped onto her desk from a small golden portal that had formed in the ceiling. 7 had not yelped in surprise when that had happened, neither had she put three bullets into the ceiling and then had to spend the rest of her day balancing on her office chair and digging them out with the knife she kept strapped to her thigh at all times.
The letter itself had been an invitation to tea, down in Greenwich Village at her earliest convenience. She had gone immediately of course, and the good Doctor had been only to happy to receive her and answer her questions. An hour or so later, she had departed, armed with a lot more surety of what her next steps should be.
Tap. Tap.
First, a swift TO&E of her available assets, to establish the fundamental structure. Then the appointment of an esteemed Agent to the position of director, and a blanket search for volunteers for an extended leave to Kamar-Taj. Doctor Strange had been more than happy at the thought of having magical backup during future crises, or even of having SHIELD handle more "mundane" magical problems, allowing him to focus on the big, end-of-world stuff. Of course, members of SHIELD sent off for mystic training weren't guaranteed to be successful, but it was a step in the right direction. Agent 7 had even floated the idea of including some level of magical training in the regular SHIELD curriculum, having a magician come in as an instructor and run courses, like they did for a variety of martial arts, before Strange had shot that particular idea down.
SHIELD was too easy to infiltrate, he had stated. She hadn't had a good counter argument.
So she would draft a list of suitable volunteers, get it approved by Fury and the new director, then send it off to Strange for his approval, and only then would her currently assigned project start to move.
"You cannot imagine what a bitter blow it is to us, to the world, that our long struggle to win a peaceful and fair resolution has failed. I cannot bring myself to believe that there was anything more, or anything different, that we could have done that would have been more successful.
Upto the last, we could have had a peaceful and honourable settlement between us. But King T'Challa would not have it. Though a good man, he is but young, and has judged us before we ever approached him. He claims that reasonable proposals were put forward that we rejected out of hand, and that is a Lie."
The 'target of the week' this week was the mad venture capitalist, Norman Osborn. Agent Roberts managed to sink a dart right in between the man's eyeteeth. With a sigh he spun in his chair back to the veritable mountain of paperwork arrayed on his desk. He plucked out a sheaf of pages entirely a random and got back to work.
There hadn't even been time after the funeral to go home and change out of the suit.
Still, all told, this was infinitely preferable to getting caught up in car chases and gunfights. And as long as he had paperwork on his desk, the little task force Agent Natsumii had wasn't going anywhere.
Let's see…ah yes, the nice and simple report to be sent to the armoury. A full list of expenses incurred during the operation. One SUV, several dozen rounds of ammunition, one life insurance pay-out, three visits to the infirmary and associated medicinal costs, and several speeding fines sent to the Triskellion curtesy of the Massachusetts Department of Motor Vehicles.
THIS was the true life of a SHIELD agent.
"His actions are proof that there cannot be a peaceful resolution between us. And if justice cannot be done through Peace, it shall be done so through War. Today, in fulfilment of our obligations, we head to War until the criminal known as Storm is brought before us and made to answer for her actions.
Our conscience, our purpose, is clear."
There was a knock before the door was opened and Maria Hill strode in. "Director Fury."
"Yes, Hill?" the superspy replied, his one good eye looking away from his computer.
"We've just received these," his lieutenant stated, passing him a folder with a set of photographs. Fury's eyebrow rose. Hill had delivered these personally, not trusting them to be placed on the SHIELD network. He felt his pulse quicken as he flipped the folder open and studied the contents.
A moment passed.
"Where?"
"Kenya sir. Approximately two hours ago," she answered dutifully.
"Invasion?"
"Negative. The locals report that they passed straight over and moved on over Lake Victoria."
Fury dropped the folder and its photographs onto his desk.
"Current location?"
"We are unable to track them, but the local governments have eyes on them. Last we heard, still over Lake Victoria."
"Any word from the UN or the World Security Council?"
"No sir."
"The situation the world has found itself in has become intolerable. Steps were taken to address the issue. But the Sokovia Accords are not enough. We shall have to be the ones to take the necessary next step. The Empowered cannot operate along national lines. Their mandate is greater than that.
They have a duty to all mankind, not just to those they deem their subjects, or their countrymen. They are not superior, and must be held as accountable as you or I. We made all diplomatic efforts we could, to verify the reports sent to us.
Any innocent would gladly have cooperated with our investigations. It is only the guilty who have anything to fear.
And the Wakandans? They. Are. Afraid."
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"
Deep beneath the earth, buried beneath one of the grand old capitals of the world, a department was in an uproar. Months of political manoeuvring, or diplomatic niceties, ruined. Agents carefully moved into position were now finding themselves trapped in the closing noose of an unthinkable invasion.
Wakanda would not be conquered.
"What the HELL is Irusk DOING?!"
Reports were thrown about alongside figures, as analysts desperately back tracked the fleet's movements. It wouldn't take long now before-
A phone began to ring.
All the voices died as everyone turned to stare.
A small, old thing. A rotary phone that had never rung before.
A trembling hand reached out and picked up the receiver. A tongue nervously darted out to whet suddenly dry lips.
"Mr President, " said Vasily Karpov.
"We have made plans to continue our operations during the days of stress and strain ahead. We shall continue onwards, as we ever have, to battle the evil things of the World – injustice, brute force, and hypocrisy. Against them, I am certain that we shall prevail.
To your stations."
Sitting in a small canteen without his coat and webbing and made him feel…bare. Exposed. Vulnerable.
He did not like it.
But it was the only way to pass undetected in the city. The Punisher and his heretek had impressed that much upon him. People were hardly in a state of constant war on this planet – at least on this continent- and as such did not react well to being confronted by someone as obviously armed as himself.
Wilhelm had therefore yielded to their advice and begun to travel without his face. It was…how did the heretek Microchip put it…ah yes, a secret identity of sorts. As Wilhelm, he could go and do things he could not as a member of the Korps. It was…something akin to the downtime other regiments would indulge in on lengthy deployments on civilised worlds.
The Emperor…was asking much. And a Kriegsman would always deliver. There was no failure, only death.
But he had been far too reliant on the Emperor and his guidance as of late, trusting his fate to the Master of Mankind. What if he was…distracting? Doubts had plagued the soldier's mind, and he had taken to travelling the city without the comfort of his face, his identity. He was just another human soul when he emerged from the shadows, bereft of the regalia of Krieg.
The Punisher had mentioned how "diners" and "drinking dens" were good sources of information, and Microchip (using their mask names was apparently very important, the same way they referred to him chiefly as Korpsman whenever he wore the uniform of the Korps) had helpfully provided one he could spend time in that the Punisher was barred from.
Some hole in the wall, as the heretek had put it, called Saint Mary's.
Whilst unfamiliar with name, the fact that the locals recognised saints of some description put the Korpsman at ease. Even if the crowd there seemed more like an underhive gang than he liked, peace was kept by some sort of unspoken code. It was also mostly deserted during the day, which was his preferred time to visit.
The few patrons would always shoot him suspicious glances, but he would just order himself a drink with some salvaged coinage and sit in a corner, staring ahead as he tried to figure out what to do.
And then, as if the Emperor had taken pity upon him, the call came.
It was shaping up to be a day like any other – routine – until a man entered the canteen. He was dressed in something Wilhelm was fairly sure counted as formal wear on this planet, with a small case clasped in his left hand. He seemed to survey the establishment before heading over to the counter to talk with the labourer there. Wilhelm watched the exchange for a moment before returning to simply staring straight ahead as he worked through his thoughts, raising the glass in his hand to his lips to sip at the beverage he had ordered infrequently.
He was no preacher, nor adept. He couldn't bring the Emperor's Light through his words. But…he could do so through deeds. Yet his deeds so far had been minor actions that have been kept out of the eyes of the general populace. The heretek, Lieberman, had set about building some kind of reputation in the local news networks for him, branching off all the information there was about the Punisher. Wilhelm did'nt truly understand what he had meant, but had let the man go ahead and do as he wished.
If it generated notice then that was good wasn't it? He had to be seen, had to inspire. It was like…like the parades the Korps took part in. It wasn't their specialty – they were never inspiring figures like the Mordians or the Preatorians were. Or even the Vostroyans. But…but Wilhelm would adapt as best he could. For the Emperor.
Footsteps approached.
Wilhelm looked up as the suited figure approached, a polite smile on their face. His expression remained neutral as they stopped by his table before addressing him. "Excuse me, but may I have a moment of your time?" they asked. Wilhelm tilted his head slightly. Rare for someone to approach him, especially here. Pretty much everyone kept to themselves or their cliques.
The stranger's smile became a touch more genuine as they pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Wilhelm, placing the case on the ground by their side. Wilhelm took the time to inspect them. Male, short, neat and clean suit. Dark hair streaked with grey. Similar stance to the SHIELD agents he had encountered so far. Actually…
"SHIELD?" he ventured, looking over the man's clothing for any kind of identification. Nothing. Not even a weapon. Foolish.
The suited man laughed at that and shook his head. "Ah no, not at all mister…Wilhelm was it?"
The Korpsman nodded.
"I represent Liefield Field Logistics, a security firm specialising in well, logistics. Ah, and you may call me Mister Johnson," the suit explained, resting his hands on the table. A clear display of peace, keeping his hands in sight at all times. He was also leaning back in his chair, giving Wilhelm his own space. The Krieger did not respond, and so the man resumed speaking. "Let me ask you, mister Wilhelm – do you miss it?"
"What?" An odd question.
"Do you miss it? That sense of purpose, of unity. Knowing you are part of something greater? I have seen many in your position, mister Wilhelm, and despite their experiences, there was always something they missed from their service."
Purpose? He…did miss his previous purpose. It was clear. It was direct. This new purpose that had befallen him was…unwelcome. Slowly, he nodded.
"LFL is always after people like you – people with certain skills and experience, wanting to return to the more…simple life. A life of order amidst the chaos of the world."
An interesting speech, much like how some Commissars tried when they were looking to be inspiring, having swiftly realized that being dreaded by the Death Korps was impossible.
"I can tell, you know. You are a warrior, mister Wilhelm. You belong with warriors. You belong with LFL."
Hmm. Interesting. An offer of employment?
"I will not betray my oaths," he stated to fill the silence, eyes boring into those of Johnson.
The suited man nodded with a laugh. "Oh we wouldn't dream of making you break your oaths. We are all men and women of action and purpose," Johnson replied, reaching into his breast pocket and fishing out a business card that he placed on the table, sliding it over to Wilhelm.
It was a simple design, green bars separated from a black stripe by red bands, with a stylised LFL printed on the black in gold. Wilhelm picked up the card and flipped it over, eyeing the frequency printed on the back. He studied the card for another moment before pocketing it.
"Why me?" the Krieger asked.
"Because you have the look of a man who has seen much in his time. I won't ask where – it wouldn't be my place – but we know our own, mister Wilhelm. And trust me when I say, LFL can help."
"…I shall consider your offer."
"That is all I ask, mister Wilhelm. Thank you for your time." And just like that, the suit stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and left.
Wilhelm sat in his chair for a few minutes more, sipping his drink until he was done. Only then did he stand up and leave as well, pulling out the small personal vox Frank Castle had gotten him for communication purposes. He typed in the frequency for the closest thing he had to an ally so far, and waited for it to connect.
He would need someone else's opinion on all this. But signing up with a mercenary outfit sounded like a good way to head abroad for a while. After the incident in Innsmouth, Lieberman had mentioned it would be good for all of them to keep their heads down until the whole thing blew over. Besides, as the emissary of the Imperium of Man, it would be remiss for him not to travel the planet and spread the example of His Glory and Sacrifice.
He was no preacher, but he would inspire.
"This is Grolar 1. The Panther has entered the net."
"This is Grolar 5. Roger. Let's begin."
STORM CLOUDS OVER AFRICA!
In a shocking turn of events the Russian organisation known as СКАЛA has declared war upon Wakanda.
The leader of СКАЛA announced today in a message broadcast to the entire world, that as of 11 o'clock in the morning, his organisation was at war with Wakanda.
Russia denounced the declaration within an hour, claiming that СКАЛA had overreached their mandate. Whilst there has been rising tension between the Federation and the Kingdom of Wakanda over the superhero incident that occurred in Krasnodar earlier this year, neither side seemed willing to escalate.
The UN has therefore labelled the war declaration invalid, and has classified the actions the СКАЛA as nothing less than terrorism.
Numerous nations have called for Russia to deploy its own forces to reign in this sudden rogue element, but the Federation is limited in its actions. So far, the Russian President has offered to share their intel on СКАЛA with the Wakandans. He has also refused to answer questions regarding the organisation from other UN states.
The political situation has been further muddled by the surprise declaration of support for Wakanda by Latveria and the Republic of Vorozheika. President-for-life von Doom of Latveria has decried the incident as "a transparent Russian ploy to depose the rightful rulers of a proud nation, based upon discriminatory judgement founded in the rising fear of superheroes."
Precious little is known about СКАЛA, and no security agency has stepped forward with answers. But numerous experts have quickly moved to label the organisation as some sort of rival to SHIELD, citing the reticence of the Russian Federation to have SHIELD agents operating within their territories. If this were to be proven true, it would greatly upset the security of the Federation's position in the United Nations.
Whilst no official sources have stepped forward with further information, our own contacts with the global press have unveiled a number of alarming facts. Firstly, that СКАЛA appears to be in the possession of technology and resources that could very well rival SHIELD. Secondly, СКАЛA are mustering their forces above Lake Victoria. Thirdly, that СКАЛA believe that the Queen of Wakanda, Ororo Iqadi T'Challa, is the one responsible for the incident in Krasnodar, and they will not stop persecuting their war until she is brought to trial.
Public opinion is heavily in favour of supporting Wakanda against this unprovoked aggression, according to the latest surveys.
The Wakandan embassy has declined to comment on the situation at this time.
-Front page article of The Daily Bugle
"Bandits on radar – it's the Wakandan Air Guard!"
"Launch 09!"
"Launch confirmed. Countdown 300 seconds."
"That is troubling news indeed, Sorcerer Supreme," Wong stated, his face as still as a mountain.
Honestly. What was it going to take to break that façade?
"Yes, well I would believe that is quite evident. We will have some visitors from SHIELD soon, trainees. I'll see what I can find out from them when the time comes," Doctor Strange replied, not looking up from the book he was reading. Kierrok was gone, and he had made sure to write down what he had learned about the entity. He had Wong working on a reference document and a database of all the known mystical threats to Earth.
There was too much they didn't know, or too much they had forgotten.
And most problematic of all was that Corpseman fellow. His Pattern was all wrong. Even Kierrok, born of Earth, had had a somewhat terrestrial soul, despite his prolonged exposure to the outer dimensions. But that seemingly regular human had something that was wholly alien to the Sorcerer Supreme's senses.
He had only uncovered that lovely little detail during one of his regular trips into Frank Castle's dreamscapes. For the first time he had ever been there, it had been chilly. As if winter was rolling in. Such a sudden shift warranted further investigation, even as Strange worked on curbing the nightmares their excursion into Innsmouth would have birthed.
And all he had discovered was the frozen soul of the Corpseman.
At least, he thought it was a soul.
He needed to know more.
"All units begin the operation. Let the victor be justice. "
O'er azure skies
And emerald plains
Where freedom and justice prevail
With courage and strength
We'll fight to the end
For liberty in our land.
-Graffitti Wall in Birnin S'Yan