Disclaimer: I don't own the Fantastic Four—Marvel Comics, Stan Lee, 20th Century Fox, and probably a bunch of other people do. However, if the aforementioned parties feel like loaning out the guys, put me at the top of the borrower's list. Also, I'm not making a penny off of this. I am banned from reading other F4 fan fictions until this is finished, so any similarities to other stories are entirely coincidental. Typos are mine. If you haven't done so, you really need to read 'Oxygen' before this story. Also, if you came straight here and skipped chapter one because it was previously posted as the 'prologue', you may want to go back and re-read chapter one. There have probably been a few minor alterations (nothing too noticeable).
2
Five Days Later…
Latveria was two very different countries within one border.
The face it showed to the world was the portrait of a Third World country bringing itself into the twenty-first century in baby steps. A country once at the mercy of warring factions of drug dealers, black marketers, and would-be dictators with their followers, had brought together and elected government and military that had spent fifteen years slowly ferreting out those who terrorized the citizens with their violent ways. Coastal cities had constructed an impressive network of ports that opened Latveria to trade with larger, richer nations around the world. A few cities in the more scenic provinces had even established themselves as premiere vacation destinations for wealthy tourists. The problems of hunger, of vile living conditions due to lack of running water and electricity, were all but a memory in these larger cities thanks to these thriving industries. This was the Latveria seen in news reports and boasted about by its government and Ambassadors. For two-thirds of the population, it was the 'real' Latveria.
Life was very different in the 'other' Latveria.
Rafi had never seen a ship. He'd seen boats, yes, the small hand-built crafts that people from his village used on the lake when they fished during the spring and summer, but not the large vessels that filled the coastal ports. For that matter, he had never seen the coast, the ocean, and could never have dreamed of the sort of vast cities, with skyscrapers and the luxuries of running water and electricity, that had grown in those lands.
His life, deep in the mountainous regions of the province of Chendryn, was as his ancestors' had lived: Up before the dawn to draw water from the wells and care for the livestock so vital to the survival of the farming community. When it was winter, like it was now, the wells sometimes froze and water had to be retrieved by drilling holes in the frozen lake instead. Breakfast consisted of just enough food to sustain his family.
Summer days were spent in the fields, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the melody of the wind whistling through the trees, the sounds of the river rushing down to the lake, children laughing at play or chattering as they helped adults with the chores, and the sounds of the various animals and livestock of the land. He would head home at sunset to his family for another meal of 'just enough' to live on, prayer, and then music on the harmonica his father had somehow procured long ago and passed down to Rafi.
When the crops were harvested and food stored for the harsh winters, when the pigs had been slaughtered and the meat dried for freezing in the frigid winter air, most of his cold winter days would be happily spent indoors in the warmth of home and family. Survival was lean at times, but survive they did. Survive most of the families of the village did.
There was nothing lacking or wanting in Rafi's mind.
No, there was nothing the unheard of metropolises could offer that Rafi needed or wanted…save one thing: Mornings when Rafi didn't awaken to the screams of his friends, the roar of jeep engines, and the crack of gunfire. Mornings, such as this one, where these terrible sounds reached him in the forest, where he was cutting wood (the sky was showing signs of a blizzard coming in). Rafi glanced back towards the village, nestled among towering trees, to see wisps of smoke---too much to be the usual cooking fires. The noises of gunfire, engines, and cries of the people echoed off the surroundings hills. He knew who had come.
General Kubeka's guerrillas. Kubeka's jackals. Dogs. Murderers.
Rafi's wife and children were there, in the crosshairs of those hated guns, and so---cutting scythe still clutched in his hand---he ran towards the sounds of carnage with no fear for himself. He saw no traces of his own family, but his elderly neighbor, Gustaev, and his two grandchildren, had been netted by the imposing figures in the brown paramilitary fatigues. Automatic weapons were aimed at the heads of the eight-year-old boy and the five-year-old girl. Fighting for their own survival, feeling and hiding, no one among the villagers could lift a finger in defense of the youths.
Only Rafi, thus far, had escaped the soldiers' attention by hiding behind trees and woodpiles. Advanced in years and infirmed by joint pain, Gustaev had little chance of securing his grandchildren's release except by appealing to the non-existent mercy of their captors. "We've done nothing to you," Gustaev pleaded.
As Rafi crept towards the group, he recognized one of the men who tormented the old villager as Captain Mufale, the swine who now occupied the void created by the sudden, mysterious death of General Kubeka. Kubeka's death had earned no grief from any man, woman, or child in the province. For three decades, the man had been part of a group of drug dealers, thieves, corrupt soldiers who served no government, and corrupt officials of the former dictatorship that had controlled Latveria. This alliance had terrorized and murdered the citizens across the country during their violent domination of Latveria.
The merciless Kubeka eventually became the quarry of Latveria's new government, and he and his followers were driven into hiding in the mountain provinces like Chendryn, where they had subsisted by theft and intimidation among the farming villages until Kubeka's death. Since their leaders death, the villages were constantly besieged by the assaults of Mufale and his men. Not even the deepening snow kept them away as they searched for one thing…
"We want to one who killed General Kubeka!" Mufale warned Gustaev. The captain raised his fist and, in response, his soldiers pressed the muzzles of their rifles to the children's temples. "Your village will be rewarded with the my protection if you hand over the murderer."
Gustaev's desperation—and indecision—was in his eyes. Rafi saw it and his heart went out to the man. The old man would yield, Rafi knew. He would yield the information and then watch as his grandchildren were slaughtered anyway. Then he would grieve only for the length of the seconds that elapsed before Mufale's men turned their weapons against him. Every villager in the province knew the name of the man Mufale sought. It was a testament to how much the general had been despised that so many people suffered to keep that secret. Plus, there were undeniable rewards for their help in keeping this man's whereabouts a secret…
Rafi intervened, knowing he was doing little more than buying a minute more of life for Gustaev and his family. Rafi wondered fleetingly if his own family had escaped these vultures and chose to believe that they had only to bring peace to his heart in his own last moments of life. Raising the useless ax, Rafi stepped into the open and shouted to Mufale: "You and Kubeka are the murderers! We do not require your protection!"
The captain was amused. "I can see that---clearly we're no match for a man so well armed. You must be the protector of these people. Shepard of the flock, yes? Tell me, can you protect this child---" He put a dirty, callused hand on the granddaughter's shoulder. The girl bit her lip, defiant, not making so much as a whimper. "---from a bullet with that little farm tool, Shepard?"
Rafi would not back down. "If I were you, sir, I would leave here and be very glad you did not find what you were looking for," he suggested.
As if the angels were backing Rafi's warning, Captain Mufale's fortune changed quite literally in a flash. Rafi heard a whistling noise and felt heat like the sun as a flash of light streaked past his face…a flash of fire. The ball of fire came from above, shot down over Rafi's shoulder and exploded precisely at Mufale's feet, setting the man's pant legs, just above where the snow came up to his ankles, on fire while neatly leaving the little girl unharmed. Mufale's shrieks now pierced the morning air, above the din of the chaos around him, as he frantically batted at the flames. His men forgot their captives for an instant, transfixed and perplexed by the turn of events, until an even stranger sight drew the eyes of one of the soldiers.
What the man saw was impossible: It was a streak of fire like a meteor. It flew across the sky, skirting over the treetops, over the fields of decimated crops, startling the already agitated livestock and melting the snow as it sailed on course directly for the screeching Mufale and his guerrillas. The fireball, as it flew closer, became noticeably human-shaped.
From the corner of his eye, Rafi also caught of glimpse of the trail of fire in the sky. He smiled as, one-by-one, the guerrillas saw what was coming and the color drained from the faces of the pig assailants. Rafi knew who had arrived. "As I said, our village does not require your protection---only your departure."
The attackers turned their weapons away from the children, who dashed to the safety of their grandfather's arms, and aimed the guns shakily at the on-coming human fireball. In their disbelief, surprise, and fright, the guerrillas never got off a shot. Mufale, who was rolling in the snow to extinguish his burning pant legs, had not taken notice of the new danger. It was the noise, like the roar of a raging forest fire, which alerted the captain. He finally looked up in time to see two flesh-and-blood arms reach out of the flames and pick him up by his collar. As his man shrank away in terror, Mufale was hoisted into the air by the human-shaped flame and pitched into a large bank of fresh snow.
The fireball circled around and returned to Mufale. It landed not far from the soldier and the flames abruptly flickered out, leaving only the very human man that wielded the fire.
Life among Mufale's army had been considerably less sheltered and rustic that the lives of the villagers they bedeviled. They had television and radio programs beamed in via satellite to the mansions that served as their lairs and hideaways. They even had Internet. Luxuries like these—new to even Latveria's richest cities and undreamed of in places like this mountain village---were the perks of loyalty to Mufale and Kubeka before him. So, the guerrillas had seen news footage of an American "superhero" (as the Westerners phrased it) who could turn his body into fire and even fly. But, not once in their wildest imaginings had any of these men expected to meet one of the American "Fantastic Four".
The man's blue uniform was different. There was a 'V' insignia where a '4' should have been, but Mufale still knew him: Johnny Storm, the 'Human Torch'.
The American grinned at the cowering captain. "You should be glad this isn't a movie, pal. If it was, the would have been a giant pile of manure instead of snow."
While his men stood, dumbfounded, Mufale drew a pistol holstered on his belt and hurriedly squeezed off a shot. Instantly, the Torch's body turned back to flames through which the bullet passed harmlessly.
Johnny shook his head, "Some people have no gratitude." With one hand, he pitched a fireball at the thug and, predictably, Mufale made a spectacle of himself in his haste to be free of the snow and flee from this unanticipated threat. The captain ran deeper into the forest. It would have been pitifully easy for Johnny to catch the guy, and easier still to make a barbeque out of him, except that wasn't Johnny's style, but he let the creep run. The joker wasn't going to get far anyway.
Gunfire cracked and more bullets passed through Johnny's flames. He turned toward the source of the shots and found the other guerrillas, the ones who had threatened the kids, advancing on him. Johnny's arrival had turned the tide of the battle: Villagers, who already knew about the presence of the Human Torch in their province and that he was no danger to them, used the diversion Johnny had created to pick up farm implements, sticks, and rocks to counterattack the soldiers. The two who were pointing guns at Johnny were the only ones left, and the way their hands were shaking, they'd be lucky not to shoot themselves in their own feet much less hit Johnny.
"You guys are killing me, I feel like I'm in an 'A-Team' rerun. At least try to make this interesting," Johnny asked.
They responded by squeezing off shots that, as predicted, came nowhere near hitting the Human Torch. He shook his head, "Guess I'll have to make my own fun, then." Johnny formed a perfect sphere of fire with one hand. "You guys do much bowling out here? No? It's not usually my game, but let me show you how to pick up a seven-ten split…"
With perfect form, Johnny pitched the ball of fire at the two advancing soldiers. They tripped over themselves and each other in their haste to dodge the flame, toppling like pins. In the process, they both landed on their backsides in the mud Johnny had made when his flames melted the snow. The Human Torch focused a wave of heat on that mud, rapid-drying it until the earth hardened around the two guerrillas and trapped them with only their heads, hands, and lower legs exposed. The angry Gustaev grandchildren repaid their tormentors by pitching pig slop at the trapped duo.
Captain Mufale headed deeper into the forest, unashamedly leaving his men to face the American fireball on their own. Men were replaceable---after all, this province alone was full of men desperate for the sort of luxuries and better lives that Mufale could provide. After he replenished his forces, he would find the one who had killed General Kubeka, for that crime could not go unanswered.
Mufale had heard rumors of a faceless man with a body of indestructible metal. The rumors were that this inhuman monstrosity had torn a hole right in the center of Kubeka's chest and settled into one of the many mansions that the general had called home. The captain had given no credit to the ramblings and ghost stories of superstitious, easily cowed peasants…not until this moment. Other villages searched by the guerrillas had yielded warnings that Kubeka's mysterious killer was not the protector of this province and its population. Duval had paid no heed to those admonitions either…until this moment. His conversion from 'skeptic' to 'believer' came only when, in his flight from the Human Torch, he encountered this living, breathing 'protector'.
The figure was every bit as blood chilling as the stories of the villagers had described him. Simply being in the presence of the man made of living metal caused every hair on Mufale's body to stand on end…owing to fear and to the electricity that crackled in the air. The electricity emanated from the man's metal fingers, which stretched from beneath the sleeves of the black coat that covered most of his metal body. The only thing human about him was the shape of his body and the two keenly intelligent eyes that stared at Mufale from beneath a metal Latverian-style mask. The gaze of those eyes was cold as the steel that had replaced the man's skin. The protector called himself 'Doom' or 'Doctor Doom' according to the villagers' stories. Mufale took one glance and knew the moniker befit the man.
A soft voice hissed from behind the mask: "Looking for me, Mufale? I've been looking for you---and General Kubeka and your friends---for three decades."
"If I were you, sir, I would leave here and be very glad you did not find what you were looking for," the villager had said. Mufale knew that he had found the one responsible for Kubeka's death. The villager was right: Mufale was very sorry to have finally succeeded in his quest for the killer.
Doom stepped closer, electricity snapping in bolts from his hands. "Of course, you wouldn't remember me. I was only a boy when you and Kubeka murdered my father," he purred, "and you can see, I've gone through some changes since that day."
Mufale raised his pistol, already knowing the guns would be as ineffective against Doom as they had been against the boy made of fire. "Tell me the name of the politician who protected you and your happy little crew, and you might survive the day," Doom offered.
Out of any other options, Mufale again tried to flee.
"Giving up so easily?" Doom's footsteps followed the guerrilla. "At least have the backbone to go down fighting like Kubeka did."
Mufale could not outrun the man. The captain decided he had no other recourse, and without thinking, he raised his weapon again and his finger squeezed its trigger. The bullet pinged off Doom's torso, harmless as a gnat. Amusement danced in the metal man's eyes. "That's the spirit! Now, it's my turn." A tremendous bolt of energy ripped from Doom's left hand, sailed past Mufale, and splintered the large trunk of a towering tree.
Johnny Storm arrived on the scene just in time to witness the heavy tree falling onto the fleeing Mufale, squashing him like an insect under a boot. Johnny flinched at the gruesome sight, but didn't feel the pity he somehow thought he should, not after seeing what this jerk had done to the Latverians.
"You want to know why I saved a bad man like that robber?"
"No—I know. That oath and stuff."
"'And stuff'. Meaning you don't agree?"
"No, sir."
Johnny couldn't see his employer's face, but he could tell that Victor Von Doom was gloating underneath his mask. Shaking his head, he hiked up the dirt path to join Doom, commenting, "Job pay: Excellent. Job Location: Bitchin', no question. Employer…" He gestured to the unfortunate fellow that the employer in question had just pancaked beneath a tree. "…eww, has issues. Overall job satisfaction: Four out of five stars. You don't get the fifth star until you find me more interesting bad guys to trash, boss, 'cause those goombahs---" The image of the guerillas getting their butts kicked by the Gustaev children sprang into Johnny's mind. "---give me a break. You didn't ask me to come to Latveria just to play campus cop to the local schoolyard bullies, did you?"
Von Doom regarded the man's remains with contempt. This man served Kubeka when the general had ordered the death of Victor's father. He felt no pity or remorse. Doom reveled in avenging his family on another of the renegades.
Doom eventually turned away from what was left of his victim to acknowledge his new 'employee'. "You were holding back again, Johnny. You could have taken out Mufale with that fireball and instead you gave him a hotfoot. I've told you, don't ever spare the life of anyone who has the power to destroy you. Destroy them first."
It sounded familiar, though Johnny couldn't immediately recall the occasion when Doom had given him that advice. He rubbed his eyes. The boss was in a lecturing mood again. Doom sure did enjoy the sound of his own ranting sometimes. "These guys are hired goons. After seeing them in action, I'm surprised they can dress themselves, much less figure out which way to point their guns---"
Doom's displeasure was obvious even without seeing his face. He advanced on the younger man, reprimanding him: "These men are murderers, drug dealers, thugs, and renegades. Men with power and their own vision for this country. Kubeka and his soldiers have friends in very high places in the Latverian government who go to a lot of trouble to see that these guerrillas are never brought to justice. They've kept this province cut off from the progress made by the rest of Latveria, kept these people in the Middle Ages while the rest of the world moves forward. And they're responsible for the murder of thousands of people like those villagers…including my father. By no stretch of the imagination, not for one minute, should you ever believe they are 'harmless'. I've also told you not to underestimate any enemy…or is that how Reed Richards and Ben Grimm taught you to fight? By reining back your true power? By weakness and foolish miscalculation?"
Johnny did not back down. The younger man's eyes narrowed and his hands clenched and unclenched, bursting into flames that betrayed simmering anger elicited by the mention of 'Mr. Fantastic'. Victor was right about one thing: Reed Richards was the kind of leader who held back, afraid to let his team cut loose and test the limits of their powers (unless it was in a nice, antiseptic, 'safe' and boring laboratory setting), and who hesitated when he should have acted. That was one reason Johnny had ditched the Fantastic Four to come back to work for Von Doom.
A piece of advice Von Doom had given Johnny came to mind: "You need to put the past behind you, if you'll pardon the cliché. Otherwise, the past is an Achilles Heel that your enemies can use against you."
He'd had it up to his ears with Reed and Ben and Sue being on his ass constantly about 'behaving responsibly' and making him hold back when he wanted to push the limits of his powers because of their own Nervous Nellie attitudes. Hell, they were probably even jealous of Johnny's popularity outpacing theirs. Maybe Sue could deal with Mr. Wishy-Washy and Ben the Grouch, but Johnny had awakened one night unable to stand that freak show for one more minute. He'd gotten the hell out of there…and he sure didn't want anyone reminding him of what an idiot he'd been not jettisoning that dead-end crew sooner. Victor might be Johnny's boss now, but no one was going to tell him how to fight or how to use his powers anymore. He was going to grab his opportunities, no more holding back.
"Others falter and hesitate. You and I had the wisdom to see the potential of what we might become and…to take what we wanted. When I say that I see myself in you, Johnny, it's because you---like me---are a man who embraces his destiny. I knew it the day I hired you, and I know it still. That's why I picked you for this, Johnny."
Johnny frowned. When had Doom said all that? He knew the words had come from Victor, but for the life of him, Johnny couldn't recall when they'd had that particular conversation.
He doused his flames, but met Doom's disapproving glare. "I'm sorry about your old man, but get one thing straight: I could give a flying fig about what Reed Richards or Ben Grimm think or whether they approve of how I do things. Let's compare, shall we? Victor Von Doom School of Fighting gives us a flattened, very dead, and otherwise useless bad guy. Johnny Storm School of Fighting gives us live prisoners like the wonder twins back there playing in the mud right now. Live prisoners are much more chatty than dead opponents. You know, in case you want to talk to them about things like who their 'friends in high places' are and where they can be found." Johnny gave his employer a rather self-satisfied grin.
As far as Johnny remembered, leaving the Fantastic Four and seeking out Victor Von Doom for employment was his own idea and the memory of his imprisonment and mental programming had been supplanted by the memory of spending a quiet, dull four days waiting at Von Doom's facilities in Chendryn for the next fight. In actuality, Dr. Sater had spent the past four days refining what she called her 'mental reconditioning' on the former superhero, making sure his newly programmed attitudes and loyalties were flawlessly adopted by the boy, before Victor had dispatched Johnny to handle the assault on this small village for a test run.
Victor's mouth twisted into a smile that was hidden from the younger man by the mask. It was just the reaction Doom had hoped for from the boy---the perfectly programmed response Doom had wanted to hear.
Doom might have been frowning or smiling beneath his mask or just mulling over what Johnny had said. The younger man couldn't tell until Victor nodded, almost imperceptibly. "You're right, of course."
He headed back towards the village, gesturing for Johnny to follow. "Men who grasp the importance of power and don't shy away from the opportunities to use it for the greater good are never understood or appreciated by weaker minded fools like the Troublesome Trio---or our friends down there."
Von Doom glanced at the guerrillas, who were now overpowered by the peasant farmers. "My father spent his entire life caring for the people of this province. He gave his life for them. I've felt obliged to carry on helping them in his name. I'm sure you understand. You're father was a doctor, wasn't he?"
Yeah, Johnny could relate, but Sue was the one who carried on in Dad's name by studying medicine. She loved sitting at his desk with him, reading through medical books and journals that were way too advanced for almost any other teenager except Susie. Johnny inherited their father's affection for very fine cars and motorcycles, and could repair an engine as well as their surgeon dad could heal the human body. He supposed his obsession with them could be considered carrying on their Sunday afternoon ritual of locking themselves in the garage with whatever vehicle needed rebuilding. He just hadn't thought of it that way until now.
Von Doom was still talking: "Ridding this province of the last remnants of Kubeka's tyranny is just the beginning of what I have planned. How serious are you about wanting to help these people?"
"Serious as Pebbles when someone snags his last snickerdoodle."
"Good. I can promise, you're going to use your powers to do more for Latveria than chasing out the 'schoolyard bullies', Johnny…and you've given me a very good idea indeed. Round up what's left of Mufale's scum and take them back to Dr. Sater's laboratory. After you've finished with that, I'll speak to you at the power plant---I may have a 'more interesting' task for you…if you don't have qualms about reclaiming some property of mine?"
Again, Johnny's response was what Doom hoped to hear: "That's why you pay me the big bucks, right?" he answered.
With the threat from Mufale past, the villagers' attention had shifted to their unlikely saviors. As Johnny headed over to round up the duo he'd encased in mud (who were discouraged from trying to wriggle free of their confinement by the farmer with the scythe), a crowd swarmed around both him and Von Doom. The Human Torch quickly gained a group of children and younger women. The children clamored to see another ball of flame. The ladies, Johnny noticed, were staring at him with particular admiration. Some things never changed no matter what country he was in…thank God.
The men were giving respectful nods to Dr. Doom. Rafi was the only one who dared offer a handshake to the imposing guardian of the province. It was a bit of an adjustment on Johnny's part to know that he was now in a country where Victor Von Doom, despite his recent changes to the imposing figure he was now, was a revered humanitarian. But, that was why Johnny had chosen to join Von Doom---the chance to use his power to do great things…starting with helping these poor folks. No one should have to live with this kind of poverty and fear.
However, Johnny was more interested in the pretty girls who were watching him than in philosophical ponderings. "Hello, ladies. Know any swimming holes around here where a superhero can clean up? Maybe that lake I saw? I know it's frozen over, but I can make my own hot springs pretty fast…"
A few of the bolder girls returned his suggestive grin despite the warning glares from what had to be fathers, brothers, and maybe boyfriends. "Can you still, how you say, 'flame on' if you are wet?" a voluptuous raven-haired girl asked.
"How badly do you want to know?" Johnny countered.
Doom's voice interjected, "Johnny---"
The Human Torch made a face. Duty calls. The girls stared apprehensively at the cloak-shrouded figure until Johnny reassured them, "What…him? Don't get antsy. The boss is just a little scary-ass looking, but underneath that hard metal exterior is a big ball of titanium and steel. Rain check on the lake, okay ladies?"
A brunette furrowed her brow in confusion. "What does this mean, 'rain check'?"
He winked at her, "It means I'm definitely coming back for that swim. But, for now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some refuse to collect." Regretfully, Johnny left the lovely women and strode back to the subdued thugs.
The guerrillas, trapped in the soil and pelted with garbage by the children, forgot the indignity of their plight when they saw the Human Torch approaching them again, a wicked gleam in his eye and he pulled off his gloves. When Johnny reached down and caught both of the soldiers by their unburied necks, the guerrillas closed their eyes and said swift prayers, waiting for the searing heat and fire that would end their lives.
So it was a surprise, as unpleasant as the flames would have been, when the contact with the human fireball's hands turned their skin and blood not to fire but into ice…