Translation of Norse Mythology Quote: Where there is no discipline, there is no honor.
Tønsberg, Norway – 1942
"Tell me Doctor Zola, enlighten me. Why is it that children so often find themselves compelled to disobey their elders?"
He probed at his mask with a gloved hand, scowling. Zola straightened his bowtie absently.
"I cannot tell you, sir. I have no children of my own."
"Neither do I."
"You have more experience than I do, sir. I can't imagine what your niece's reasons for – sneaking about like this – were."
Johann sighed, running a long finger across her cheek. "Der det er ingen disiplin er det ingen aere."
He looked out at vast horizon, taking note of the sunrise. "Do you have any elixirs on your person, Doctor Zola?"
"A few perhaps. Why do you ask?"
"Give her something to keep her unconscious. The last thing I need is her waking up before our arrival in Berlin."
Zola nodded and hurried off to find his briefcase. Johann sighed again, deeply and lit a cigarette. He glanced down at Mina's unconscious form.
"It is a pity that I spoil you so." He muttered and hefted her sleeping form into the backseat of his car, removing his coat and laying it over her. "Whatever bruise you suffer from Zola's blunt aim is well-deserved."
XXX
Normally, the views of Denmark would have had him in a pleasingly peaceful and easy mood. The red sun rising up from its alcove in the thick morning clouds, the cool breeze eating up the smoke curling off the tip of his cigarette. Lazily he ran a gloved hand through his fabricated dark hair, the wind whipping through it.
Of course, that probably was due to the fact that he was driving at over 100 miles per hour. But who was going to complain? At this time of the morning, and on a deserted road? Besides, if he so desired he could easily run down any moronic driver who felt compelled to get in his way. But, that would be horribly rude.
He almost chuckled. And yet, despite having ample reason to be in an exuberantly satisfied mood, he couldn't help but notice the annoyance welling in the pit of his stomach.
He cast a glance back at the sleeping body of his niece, still dressed in the heavy uniform, his very first and most favored design for his soldiers.
It irked him so. Every one of his soldiers had been trained to analyze everything, even the smallest, miniscule detail. And yet a girl dressed in men's clothes had seemingly slipped beneath their noses. Every one of his men had been trained to be able to immediately detect even the slightest hint of suspicion, and most certainly to be able to differentiate a young girl's voice from that of a grown man. By all accounts, Wilhelmina should have been caught the second she even stepped out of the house.
Every one of his men had been hand-picked and closely interrogated and investigated by himself. It was not easy to be admitted into HYDRA. Not only did one swear a death-oath of loyalty to him, they quit their jobs, disowned their families, completely lost their identities. In his business, security was crucial. Only the men who were willing to throw away everything from their past lives and devote their energies solely to the task of carrying out detailed and precise terroristic operations were chosen.
And of course, rising up the ranks was perhaps even harder than admission. It was only the ones who shared his deep lust for revenge, his taste for destruction and chaos that truly flourished in the organization.
So far, no one had succeeded in fully gaining his trust, and allowing him to select a confidante. Though the bulk of his time was spent conferring with Zola, the skittish doctor was hardly adequate material.
He had always hoped that once Wilhelmina advanced in maturity and intelligence, she would be able to join him in the running of the organization.
He felt his heart twinge. It was just that… he hadn't expected for her to become involved so terribly soon. She was still quite too young, too naïve and oblivious to things to understand his way of thinking. Simply put, she was still so… so good.
She was pleasant-mannered, sweet and affectionate – she wouldn't dream of hurting a fly.
She had yet to see the world as he did, to see it for all its corruption and filth.
And a part of him never wanted her to see it as he had.
"And she won't have to." He heard himself whisper. And it was true. She wouldn't have to.
With the tesseract in his grasp, she would never have to suffer the grief, the anger, the annoyance, the disturbance – the one-dimensional thinking of this sad shell of a world.
Left on that dismal note, the twinge of annoyance seemed to dissolve, only to be overcome by a sort of somber air of gloom.
Devising a way to divert her attention from the cube was the least of his worries, child's play at best. Simply dismissing the matter as trivial would no doubt arouse some suspicion from her, but if he chose instead to adamantly defend the topic as merely an order from Hitler, her scheming little mind would be all too eager to test out his 'alibi'.
Absently, he probed at his mask, his fingers craving ever so slightly to tear of the precisely sculpted silicon and plastic material.
Another matter to worry about, one that he often contemplated late into the ungodly hours of the night.
It was almost impossible to comprehend, how in such an infinitely short amount of time, his life had been stretched and twisted, torn up and patched back together, morphed into an unreadable web of lies and secrets and too much drama than one could ever stand.
And although he amused himself by pretending he could reveal them all, he knew in his heart he could not.
Wilhelmina – if she ever found out – found anything at all about his past – what would she think?
She had not suffered the cruelty of this world, had not endured the agonizing backlash of imperfection. She hadn't had years of dreaming and fantasizing thrown back in her face, hadn't had her last defense torn apart.
The Third Reich had failed him, had rung out his determination, had scoured him of all belief.
And just when he lay on the brink of defeat, the serum – it had turned his life around, given him that superiority that all his life he had craved.
And yet – the serum itself was an imperfection. It had incinerated his flesh, leaving an ugly, charred shell of his former self.
At the time, it had seemed like such a small price to pay, for that intellectual perfection that he so deeply desired, that brilliance and power that would finally set him apart from the rest of humanity.
It wasn't until the death of his sister that the true complexity of his world sank in, the deep sense of emptiness and unfulfillment.
The horrible losses he'd suffered. First Victoria's betrayal, then Angelika's death – life had seemed useless. But the events only intensified his lust for power and perfection.
A world where higher beings were worshipped like Gods, where the crumbling earth was transformed into a highly advanced nirvana for the superior and the visionaries. Where no one would have to be ravaged by death or greed or cruelty.
Everything about it was so satiable and tangible and so utterly perfect.
Only sadly, few saw his vision that way. Small disagreements had led to the entire Gestapo organization and Hitler himself seeing him as nothing more than a mad lunatic living in a fantasy world – keep him busy with his toys so as not to cause further public disturbances, as Himmler had once suggested to the Führer.
Angelika's voice echoed in his mind softly. Madness is merely one's way of being creative, as she had so often soothed whilst smoothing his hair, his long fingers vigorously massaging his temples. Probably sputtering angrily over one officer's remark, whatever it may have been that week.
He flexed his gloved fingers against the steering wheel, the sun ever brighter now. When he stared into the thin, wisps of clouds, he could almost see her face.
Her red hair hung in unkempt, matted strings now. Such a far cry from its former, glossy beauty. Her rosy cheeks had paled to a pasty chalky color, her sky-blue eyes dulled to a washed-out gray. Her lips were dry, a dark purple color, and her breathing was raggedy and shallow.
She lifted a thin, bony hand to his face, sending a deep cold through the material of his mask.
Her lips parted, and her voice, a meek whisper, seeped out slowly, laboriously.
"Johann,"
"Ja, meine Schwester? I am here."
"Johann," her fingers probed at his skin, "What have you done?"
"What are you talking about, Angelika?"
She swallowed hard, closing her eyes, as if the slightest movement was enough to drain her of energy. "Johann, show me. Show me what you have done."
"Angelika, please, it's the medicine. I have not done anything."
Her eyes widened as she gasped. "Johann, please, do not lie to me. Not now. Just… just show me."
"Angelika please,"
But her fingers were already climbing, feeling gingerly for the seams of his mask. They caught the edge, gently peeling back. But his gloved hand was far faster, clutching at her limp one before she could move further. Gingerly, he placed it down by her side.
She gazed up at him with tear-filled eyes. Her lips barely moved, but a barely audible mumbling leaked out.
He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, grasping at the seam very gently, and peeling it back entirely.
Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating.
Her shivering hands cascaded across his face, feverishly exploring the contours, gazing up in a mixture of horror and awe.
"Johann," she breathed, "Johann… why? Why couldn't you… why… couldn't you… couldn't you recognize…"
"What Angelika?" his own voice was a whisper.
Tears trickled down her ashen cheeks. "You were perfect the way you were."
She breathed in deeply, and her eyes flickered closed. Her hands fell limp across her chest.
His heart contracted in his chest. "Angelika," he tapped her cheek lightly. "Angelika,"
His mouth went dry, his throat closing up. "Angelika wake up! Wake up, Angelika!" his whispers heightened in volume, his breaths more ragged.
But she didn't wake up.
