HYDRA Headquarters
The Alps- 1942
Wagner played softly in the background, the exuberant melody of The Ride of the Valkyries. A fitting choice of music, he supposed.
Doctor Zola loomed near the door, a folio of design blueprints resting under his arm. Herr Schmidt would acknowledge his presence when he pleased. He'd seen too many underlings' lives ended simply because they'd barged in rather than awaiting their higher authority's approval.
"Is there something in particular, you need?" his voice was low and grating, the words spoken so suddenly Zola nearly leapt out of his skin. As was his nervous habit, he absently straightened his bowtie and readjusted his specs. He marched toward the broad metal desk stiffly, his breaths fluttering and rapid like a butterfly's beating wings.
"I have the finished blueprints you requested, Mein Herr." He said quietly, quickly averting his gaze as the gnarled crimson face of his superior turned from the window to inspect the materials. His eyes darted about like that of the March Hare, teetering on his heels nervously. Silently, he took note of the sparse number of personal items that lay on the desk. A few granite bookends sculpted to look like griffons, several maps, a few weather-beaten encyclopedias of myth and four cigarette cartons, three of them empty.
But there were a few other items, turned away so as not to be easily viewed by onlookers. But, out of the corner of his eye, he could just catch a glimpse. Two framed, colorized photographs stood close together, both containing the same ironically happy face. A rather gaunt and bony young girl shone from the first one, her eyes a dull grey, like dark linens losing their color from repeated washing. And yet, she had a bright, big smile on her face, full of young teeth. The second showed an older version of the girl, with a plumper, smoother face and full red lips. Satiny brown curls draped elegantly against her shoulders and porcelain-white teeth just peaked out from a demure almost amused smile. But there was something about this older version, something almost ethereal.
Her face was more delicate than that of a china doll's, and yet, there was a certain element of ferociousness and spunk in those washed-out eyes. Something dark and mysterious, something that caused one to question her obvious fragility.
But there was another photograph, also colorized, but not framed. It appeared to have been tossed aide on the desk, as if some piece of trash meant to be discarded but its owner had forgotten to dispose of it. A faded picture, charred in some places of a beautiful young woman, almost extraordinarily different from the one in the other photograph. Her skin was whiter than freshly fallen snow, and hair the color of flames pooled around the nape of her neck, the rest of it pulled into a loose chignon. Eyes so vibrant and full of life, like lush spring meadows, reminiscent of sunshine. Her chin and cheekbones were sharply chiseled, unlike the other girl's softer edges, and it was obvious she was older.
In the picture, she was laughing, her eyes creased at the corners, her hand up by her mouth, as if stifling her mirth, and failing. A silver chain hung around her swan-like neck, a beautiful pendant of rubies and diamonds. But it was so ironic it sent chills down his spine. As he looked closer, he saw that the pendant itself was not merely a random symbol. It was an octopus, the diamond-encrusted legs swirling mystically. Rubies glinted off the Skull face.
"Doctor Zola," jarred from his daze, Zola jerked up, his eyes wide.
"Were you dreaming, Arnim?"
"N – Nein, I – I was merely contemplating." He shifted from foot to foot uncertainly.
"Contemplating what?"
The eerily dark, concentrated blue color of his eyes drilled into Zola like individual screwdrivers being driven into his brain. The man had such an uncanny knack of reading expressions and even slight movements – Zola was almost afraid to think at all before the man, much less make eye contact with him. He had a difficult enough time focusing on the synthetic mask, but his true appearance – the image unsettled him to the point of many a sleepless night, the face staring him down eternally, for it was as if it was imprinted onto the undersides of his eyelids.
"Our – our progress, Mein Herr." He stammered. "To think of how your brilliant mind will benefit our government; why, on the wings of your sheer ingenuity will our empire soar."
The slightest hint of a smirk graced The Red Skull's lips.
"You are too modest, Zola. Surely you've taken upon yourself, some credit."
"This entire organization is your brainchild, Herr Schmidt, born from your creativity, your long hours of planning, your laboring and precision. The Fuhrer does not pay you enough of the credit."
Again, a slight twitch of the lips.
"The Fuhrer does not pay me any credit, Dr. Zola." He answered softly, almost humorously. He strode past the small weapons designer, toward one of the various worktables in the office, littered with unfinished drafts. "Though, the vision is nice enough."
He turned to glance back at him. "We depart for Tønsberg at exactly 0500 hours. I suggest you prepare whatever necessities you plan to bring."
Zola nodded slightly and left, knowing it better than to continue the conversation. Something was troubling Schmidt. The man portrayed himself as modest and unworthy of the credit he deserved. But Zola knew this to be a foil. Johann Schmidt did not simply adore being 'thrown a bone'. No, he didn't care for anyone else's admiration or recognition. He didn't simply want people to tell him he was brilliant; he wanted people to think it and know it and live it. He wanted the Third Reich to put him up on a pedestal, to worship him like a God.
Only, Zola didn't know that it wasn't the Third Reich that concerned Johann Schmidt. The only thing that concerned Johann Schmidt, was the world.
XXX
Berlin, Germany- 1936
Johann watched her thrash about wildly, a sheen of sweat glistening off her skin, her nightgown drenched with perspiration. Her skin was hot with fever and yet she shivered violently. Tears streamed down her ashen cheeks, her eyes shut tightly, her ragged cries mournful and heart-wrenching. It tore him apart, watching her suffer. Almost the way he had. His fingers curled around the familiar touch of the glass syringe, but he no longer held it with that stiff confidence, that reassuring arrogance. Now, his fingers trembled, his heart pounded within his chest and all of that haughty cockishness had disappeared.
He gazed at the slight droplet of blue liquid that clung to the glass. He'd only just managed to get his hands on the last flask of Erskine's formula, before he left the country. Now, it no longer held its deep intrigue, its lust-inducing hypnotism. No, now all it was capable of inducing was fear. The slightest glance at it sent shivers through his spine and unwanted flashbacks of bright glowing flames.
He didn't want to do it. What if it turned out for her the way it had for him? He shuddered at the thought of her beautiful face being destroyed and being replaced by…
He dared not think about it. It was either this, or death. He knew it in his heart. No medicine could spare this child, no amount of drugs or cough syrups could give her life. If she was lucky, she'd overcome this illness, but only to be plagued by another. She had been born so early, it was a miracle she'd lived at all. And now, her immune system was too weak to defend her.
The serum. It could give her life, could give her the strength to live and do and be anything she wanted, anything she'd ever dreamt of. And when the world was his, she'd be his princess, the crown jewel of his empire. A Goddess.
The image was so beautiful, so surreal and yet so tangible he could almost reach out and touch it. And with that single vision, he closed his eyes and took her frail, hot arm into his hand, stroking it gently with all the affection and softness he could conjure. He looked at her once last time, and down at the small, almost meaningless droplet that bubbled and fizzed within the syringe. So small an amount, and yet it could change everything about a soul.
"Wilhelmina, meine juwel, I do this for you, and no one else."
And he plunged the needle deep into her flesh.
XXX
Tønsberg, Norway- 1942
Excavating the Ancient Burial Vaults
The crumbling stone walls of the catacombs brought up plumes of thick, dead dust and the stench of long-decayed bodies with each explosion. Zola stood wringing his hands, a handkerchief pressed to his nose, the lenses of his specs caked with dust. His small, rather plump body convulsed with a loud sneeze. More than a thousand years' worth of dirt and grime clearly was wreaking havoc upon his allergies. Beside him, Schmidt towered over the little weapons designer, a large map cradled delicately in his gloved hands. He cast a cursory glance down at his assistant, who rubbed furiously at his eyes, attempting and failing to rid them of dirt.
"You do not prefer archaeology, Dr. Zola?"
"I do not prefer dust." The man sneezed again. "Herr Schmidt, we've been searching for hours. Surely it cannot be here."
"Don't be cynical, Arnim. You will never know whether something is truly there or not unless you thoroughly investigate the premises."
"And?" he inquired irritably. Schmidt smirked slightly.
"And, that is what we are doing, doctor."
Zola scowled but kept quiet.
A leather-clad HYDRA soldier marched up to them, the glossy black material of his uniform covered in a thin film of dust.
"We have searched every inch of this place, Herr Schmidt. There is no trace of the tesseract. Merely crumbling burial offerings." He held up a shard of pottery. "I doubt those will be of any use to you, sir."
"Do not be so sure." Schmidt folded up the map and tucked it into the pocket of his long, leather trench-coat. Delicately he retrieved the shard. "These are not merely burial offerings; they are artifacts. If they are of no use in our search for the tesseract, they will be excellent additions for my collection. See to it that you collect several specimens."
The soldier bowed his head. "Jawohl, mein Herr."
Zola glanced up at his superior, taking note of the fierce glow in his eyes. It wasn't a look of insanity, no. Schmidt was odd in that way.
He was so much more than met the eye; he was an enigma, a well-structured wall built up around him. People saw of him only what he wished for them to see, and nothing more. He wondered if the man had anything of a personal life. Vaguely, he recollected the picture of the young girl. Did she have any significance, or was she merely a distant relative? And what of the redheaded woman? Surely her exquisite beauty wasn't being wasted in a photograph.
"Dr. Zola!"
His head jerked up. "Wa – yes sir?"
Schmidt rolled his eyes with some irritation. "Please, Arnim, focus."
Zola rubbed his eyes as if awaking from a dream. "My apologies sir. I was merely – "
"Contemplating, yes I am aware." He cracked his jaw and probed at the edges of his mask, pushing them back into place. "You do seem to have a habit of doing so."
XXX
One by one, the soldiers began to clear out, the convoy of trucks revving up as the sun began to rise and the chill Scandinavian air bristled in the wind. Schmidt lounged patiently in his car, half-heartedly examining the expensive leather-upholstering for any discrepancies, as was habit for him. He had managed to keep the vehicle in pristine condition ever since it had been custom designed for him.
But that was back in the old days, when he had been one of Hitler's closest confidants. The Fuhrer had showered him with rewards for his laboring- a top-notch research facility, fully equipped with weaponry, armed vehicles, and a small army of well-trained scientists and combatants.
Until, of course, he'd been replaced. He scowled bitterly. The Fuhrer was a damn fool to believe that allowing Schmidt to keep his gifts was enough to make up for the humiliation and defilement he would suffer because of it.
He turned the car to neutral, watching the soldiers load the last of the stolen artifacts into the trucks. He lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Though he'd lost much in these last years, he didn't deny that he allowed himself… small indulgences. Expensive cigarettes, a collection of the finest available liquors, coffee imported from Columbia, ornate furnishing and paintings shipped from Paris, several vases from Japan and Thailand. He glanced down at the small, ivory-colored box in the passenger's seat.
A ruby and diamond choker for Wilhelmina. Perhaps a bit too lavish for a sixteen-year-old, but it would certainly look exquisite against her ivory throat at the Valkyrie Ball. Not that he had any interest in going to a Nazi sponsored event, but he was obligated, for the Fuhrer still believed him to be a staunch supporter of his cause. And he was also somewhat obligated to bring a date.
He sighed inwardly. Naturally if he so much as mentioned the prospect of a party, his niece would be at his heels begging for him to let her come with him. Apparently she valued any chance to 'improve her lackluster social life', and a party for the Fuhrer was the perfect opportunity.
A soldier crossed toward the car, saluting stiffly as he came before his superior.
"We are ready to depart, Herr Schmidt."
The car engine roared to life. "Not quite, Corporal."
"Pardon, sir?"
"The artifacts and myself will depart. The weaponry division is to remain for perhaps a few moments longer."
The officer wore a look of confusion, but soon realized what his superior meant, and allowed his lips to twitch slightly upward.
"Shall I give the order to open fire, Mein Herr?"
Schmidt wore a somewhat devious half-smile. "I suppose it is a weakness of mine," he confessed, "my obvious flare for dramatics. But, alas, I will ensure that the Norwegians are more than aware of my presence."
The soldier bowed his head, but a smirk graced his lips. He brought both of his arms up toward the sky stiffly, barking, "Hail Hydra!" and scurried off to attend to his order.
Schmidt waited; within moments of the order being given, explosions could be heard in the distance, the helpless cries of villagers. He cracked his jaw and probed at the seams of his mask, rather nonchalantly.
He took one last look at the village, smiling slightly. "A pity that Tønsberg was of no assistance to my quest." He glanced back at Dr. Zola, who sat quietly in the back with his head down and his hat purposefully pulled down over his ears, as if to avoid the noise of the destruction. "But never mind that. Soon, the world will know of my name, not just a miniscule village. The destruction here will only serve as a prophecy of what is to come in the near future."
