*APOLOGIES: for the super, super, super long time it took to update. I'm sorry guys – balancing two AP classes has done nothing to enrich my fanfiction life… or work ethics… * Ladies and Gents, I give you Chapter Sixteen of Athena.

As always, I give my sincerest thanks to my lovely readers/reviewers, Blackbird71, Zabusasgirl, MusicWolf7, to name a few!:) Nothing makes me happier after a tiring, LONG chapter (although, weirdly enough, last chapter wasn't too long) than to see lovely, gorgeous reviews! I adore all of you and I love to hear your feedback! And in turn, you have allowed me numerous idea-vent sessions during PM conversations – AMAZINGNESS! That is what all of you are, truly – AMAZINGNESS!

So… here we go. Let's get PUMPED. Yeah… already broke out my warm-up gear…. (see, as I write these little blurbs, I haven't even begun writing the actual chapter… so yeah… me in my 80's jazzercise warm-up gear, guys… yeah… BE PUMPED.)

Alrighty. Enough chit-chat, yes? Right. Let's get down to business. Short, sweet, and to the murderous point… just as the Red Skull prefers *winks*.

Don't pay attention to me, please. I'm a strange child.

*AHEM*

Humble Regards,

Jasper Quentin Blood MD, PHD (Not that credentials have anything to do with it of course… and no, I'm not really a doctor. I just role-play my own characters. Don't stare at me.)

Ok… let's try that again…

Humble Regards,

J.B.

*Brownie-Points for those who can name the music and composer in the beginning!

XXX

HYDRA Base

The Alps – 1942

Lacrimosa dies Ila.

Qua resurget ex favilla.

Judicandus homo reus.

Huic ergo parce, Deus.

Pie Jesu Domine.

Dona eis Requiem. Amen.

Long scarlet fingers peeled back pieces of latex, raking across the exposed flesh. Rubber gave away to blood-red skin; synthetic and fake revealed what was raw and real and tangible. What was indifferent and emotionless fell away, exposing the long hidden remnants of what he once was, and what he was now.

"Full of tears shall be that day." His voice was a whispered hush, barely audible over the Requiem's mournful chords. "On which from ashes shall arise. The guilty man to be judged; therefore, O God, have mercy on him. Gentle Lord Jesus, grant them eternal rest."

He held the last face-piece in his hand, unable to avert his gaze from it, unable to look into the mirror before him, unable to face himself – or – that which he was now. That creature that loomed in the mirror – that was the only truth he knew now. Everything else was a perfectly fabricated deception – mangled and contorted beyond recognition with each year added to his existence.

He struggled to murmur the last word of the Lacrimosa; it burned like ash on his tongue. It had been so long since he had worshipped a God other than himself, for there were no others worthier than he. Perhaps he had been seized by the passion of the music – or the deep sense of failure, of fear or sadness or something he simply could not identify.

"Amen," he managed to mumble, head bowed, before finally raising it to gaze into the reflective glass before him, a wicked grin mangling his already hideous features. He gave a harsh, rasp of a chuckle, white teeth gleaming like fangs. Here he was, a deity of immeasurable genius, uttering the prayer written by a man much like himself. Although fortunately, he had the good mind not to squander his funds like the composer before him. Being buried in a pauper's grave was out of the question entirely.

As the lilting movement of the funeral mass came to a close, he set the final piece of his elaborate mask onto its mannequin, carefully hiding it away in its box.

It had been some days since he had been able to remove his synthetic disguise in relative comfort, without the ever-present fear that his niece would discover him.

He often chastised himself – he had no reason to be afraid, nor hesitant to reveal himself to his niece. After all, it was only appropriate that she be made aware of his true identity. It was becoming a nuisance to dance around the subject of his "master's" peculiar absence, although at times, it proved also to be a very plentiful source of amusement to him. The sensation that coursed through his veins, watching her squirm in his grip like a worm beneath a microscope – it was delicious. It was what she deserved after all – poking and prodding into business that could hardly be called her own.

He felt guilt, though – he was too cruel to her, too manipulative. She deserved the truth; he simply could not bring himself to reveal it.

Painful as it was to admit it, he was afraid – deathly afraid that everything he had worked for, the tireless efforts he had made to create a goddess out of a sickly snip of a child, would crumble before his eyes.

What if she feared him? What if she rejected him? The contempt she held for his alter-ego was clearly evident – the hate that glowed in her eyes and thickly layered her voice – it made his skin crawl with a mixture of fury and – fear. A fear that had worked its way deep into his core. It was as if his conscience was at war with his desires.

He lusted for power and strength and was willing to do anything to get it. He would wring that rebellious girl's emotions until she was drier than an Egyptian desert; he would snap her prying fingers, he would set ablaze her haughty smirk, he would gauge out her hollow, tear-filled eyes that looked at him with the most profound sadness. He would mutilate her every feature until she was an indistinguishable blot in the shadows of his vaguest memories – like every other soul that had ever rejected his vision, his genius.

But he could never hurt her – he had been entrusted with the task of caring for that sickly little girl when her mother had died. She was the only thing in the world that he had left, the only thing attaching him to this crumbling shell of a planet, overridden with filthy, greedy imbeciles.

He simply cared for her too much. Or did he not care for her enough?

He was being a coward. He gratefully hid behind the guise of his mysterious alter-ego – content to let her wonder, to let her pry, to let her conjecture and rationalize and conjecture and then rationalize again how his "master" had come to be who he was and what he was.

But he knew, sooner rather than later, his niece's imminent curiosity would prevail.

And that quite possibly would ruin everything.

She loathed and feared the "Red Skull". The killing, the destruction, the manipulation, the pain, the hardship, the lies. That was all the "Red Skull's" doing.

Even though it was not, and he knew it. He had simply been content to allow himself to think that her hatred was being focused on to the "Red Skull" and not himself.

But it was. And what made it so difficult to bear was the simple fact that he and he alone knew that he was the Red Skull. He was the monster she feared. He was the heartless killer she so fervently despised.

He was everything. He was nothing. He was her Uncle, her guardian, her guide. She held great esteem and affection – or at least, he hoped she did – for him. When she was distraught, she came to him for guidance. When she sought comfort and a warm embrace, she welcomed his arms wrapping around her. When she was angry or irritated by him, she could be the devil incarnate – but he always managed to stay one step ahead of her.

When she wept, he held her. When she laughed, he did too, usually at her clumsiness. When she was ill, he worried over her tirelessly. When she was healthy, he still worried over her tirelessly.

She had been the source of joy in his life after Angelica died. The source of simplicity and blissful routine. She was his anchor as much as he was hers.

Life without her – the new world without her – there would be no reason to live, to continue breathing in a place where she was not.

But.

There was always the "but", the catch, the consequence, the downside.

He was the source of her hatred. Her loathing. Her desperation. Her curiosity.

He was the monster that killed, that tortured, that held no regard for anyone or anything but himself. He was the coward that wouldn't show himself. He was the menace that seemingly didn't exist.

How could she love him then, if she knew who he was, what he was? How could she love him then, if her pre-conceived fear and loathing and disgust overpowered the dwindling affection in her heart?

He would be a fool to think that he could have both. Gods be damned, how could he continue to be so selfish?

He was a living lie, breathing life into the web he spun for her, the guise he cowered behind like a weak wretch.

For so long, he had convinced himself that he had been working towards an ideal universe for her. It was so much easier to overlook his own selfish, greedy desires if he inserted the perfect model of morality and ignorance in his own tarnished place.

She needed to see – to see who he was. She deserved that much.

But she didn't need to know.

A ghost of a smile hovered over his features.

If she knew who he was, she would reject him or worse – she would beg him to change, to overlook his goals, to be damnably content with the hell that God had blessed him with for a life.

But, if she saw who he was, but did not know that it was him – her uncle, her guide, and of course all of that other plucky, petty rubbish he portrayed himself to be – she would never leave his side.

It was so simple – to give her someone to hate and to focus her hatred on – but her loyalty was to him and would remain so, no matter how painful it was for her.

But over time, he could convince her, coerce her – that his alter-ego was not so evil, so cold, so terrible.

Over the course of time, she would warm to him, and then – then she could know.

But she first needed to see.

XXX

The chill tunneling in from the open maw of the airfield prickled against her skin and tickled across her lips. Flurries of snow rode into the air on the wind, dancing and scampering about merrily.

A ghost of smile flickered across her face. Like the Nutcrackerthe Waltz of the Snowflakes. When she had been barely eleven years old, Johann had taken her to see the ballet as a Christmas gift. Of course, she'd barely had the patience to sit still during the performance, but despite her occasional bouts of boredom, she'd been thoroughly dazzled by Tchaikovsky's masterpiece.

Of course, that was now over six years earlier – a lifetime, practically.

But, the tattered memories that frequented her psyche seemed to be the only things worth holding onto now, from her "old" life.

That life that only a mere month ago was the only one she knew, one of blissful ignorance and petty worries and far-fetched dreams.

This new one was a glistening shell of chrome – empty and emotionless and transient.

Temporary, until the new world was created.

Temporary, until the old one was destroyed.

Temporary, like life itself, to be sharply extinguished by death.

She rubbed her arms, clad in leather, warding off the bitter Alpine cold. He had told her so many lies for so many years – or rather, he'd told her so little that she had been forced to fabricate her own lies to make up for the gaping holes in her reality. He promised her a utopia of sweet perfection. He delivered bloody destruction and selfish proclamations of control. But was it even really his fault? Johann was being brainwashed by a hideously deformed madman, to the point that he would gladly march into a gas-chamber and suffocate if he even once defied his wishes.

But why? What made this "Red Skull" so damned special, for the love of it all? What had he done that was so awe-inspiring, so monumentally fantastic? Had he gallantly doused himself in a radioactive material and walked out looking like something out of Nosferatu? It was almost laughable.

She scowled, her face twisting with disgust. She was so sick of it all – the lies, the dramatic façade, the fuss and feathers. Not a word that escaped Johann's mouth was the solid truth – it was all sugar and honey, sweet and innocent with a touch of fanatical idealism.

"Just as bad as the Nazis." She grumbled.

"My dear, how could you say such a terrible thing?" The voice behind her sounded nearly identical to Johann's, the catty smirk on his face evident in his tone, arrogant and sarcastic.

She whirled about to face him, a haughty comment poised on her tongue –

Until her blood froze in her veins, a thick and heavy sludge, cripplingly painful.

Before her, was not her uncle.

A wicked skull face, angular planes sharp as knives, an almost lipless mouth full of pearlescent teeth, tiny and razor-like, grating together in the most hideous grin. Flesh red as blood, smooth and matte, pulled taut like a sheen of thin rubber. A nose that seemed to have stopped growing, merely a triangular alcove balanced upon huge, solid cheekbones. Eyes hooded like a cobra's, casting deep shadows over the frosted azure irises, coated with a silvery layer of ice. Ears like knotholes, brow bones arched together in the most unforgiving glare.

She barely managed to swallow her scream, her throat seized up as if a noose had been drawn tight around it.

Again, he offered a chilling grin, and he lifted a slender crimson hand to her face, ghosting across her cheek, barely grazing the skin. She pulled back immediately, a shudder violently tearing its way down her spine. She wanted to scream at him – to warn him to never touch her ever – but her throat was like sandpaper.

He chuckled – a deep, raspy noise – and with a graceful flourish, he lifted his hand from her face, long, wiry fingers trailing across her curls before falling back to his side.

So long and narrow – a pianist's hands, made to deftly skim across ebony and ivory keys.

"Who – who are you?" her voice was a mere squeak - she knew the answer to her question, it was obvious who he was… but to see him face to face… to comprehend the sensory explosion that every feature ignited…

Another chuckle, sadistic and cruel yet smooth and sophisticated.

"According to my underlings, I am the source of your imminent hatred, my dear Fraulein." He smiled. "Such a pity – I had so anticipated meeting the charming intellect that Johann described when he told me of you. I am certain you can imagine my extreme disappointment when I was notified of your bitter attitude, especially when directed towards the goals of my organization."

He smiled, feigning a pouting expression like that of a small child – ridiculous on someone else, but terrifying against the backdrop of his features.

He patted her cheek lightly, his skin unnaturally smooth against her own.

"But that is no matter, at least not now. You and I are here now, and free to speak at leisure. I am very interested in your abilities."

She cleared her throat, barely able to swallow. "You are the Red Skull." She managed to murmur. Her tongue was thick, her brain dumbfounded, unable to formulate a sentence more intelligent than that of a five-year-old's. She wanted to slap herself – face to face with a monster she hated more than anything she had seen or heard of within HYDRA – and her slow mouth seemed intent on humiliating her.

She expected him to respond with a haughty retort, but he merely smiled, flat mouth peeling back like plastic. A raspy chuckle echoed on the wind.

"Am I?" he asked with a singsong delight. "Forgive me – I had not realized."

She frowned angrily, regaining her voice. "A blessing you didn't." she snapped. "Terribly dull name, don't you think? Lacks a bit of originality. I would have expected something more creative from someone as ingenious as you."

Her breath caught as a savage fury flashed across his bright irises, snuffed out as quickly as it appeared.

He smiled, but the action was forced, his skin jerkily molding into the expression. "Sadly, I did not select the moniker myself. You will have to raise that issue with the Gestapo. Unfortunately, the name has stuck with me – it has been some years since I was known by any other title." He shrugged, perhaps in an effort to be casual, but his broad, thickly muscled shoulders rolled awkwardly in the black and crimson coat.

She narrowed her eyes at him – terrified, but at the same time, achingly curious. He had for so long been an enigma, much easier to stew about indirectly rather than be poised face-to-face with him, her tongue powerless, her anger and hatred dulled to a quiet roar, too fearful to speak.

"Where is my uncle?"

He smiled sweetly, although the gesture was hardly comforting. "Quite safe, I assure you. Attending to the final reviews of our new fighter aircrafts in the southern wing, an activity that will require several hours of his devoted concentration. We have plenty of time to discuss – I am sure you have quite a few questions for me, yes?"

She nodded slightly. With a graceful bow, he gestured towards the interior of the base. "Come. As night draws near, the temperatures will drop rapidly. Let us talk in some place more comfortable, hmm?"

XXX

Johann Schmidt/ The Red Skull's Private Library

HYDRA Base – The Alps

1700 Hours

It was room like no other she had ever seen before – mystical, enchanting – cold, modern chrome mixing with old-world leather and antiquities. It was a circular room – like she had imagined all private libraries to be, complete with an alluring secret passage-way. Perhaps it could have been comical, but it was utterly sophisticated here, considering its owner. Books lined the towering walls all the way to the ceiling, three flights of spiral stairs leading from balcony to balcony. Floor to ceiling windows consumed the far wall of the room, opening up into the vast maw of the Alps, swirling white snowflakes swallowing up the view. Paintings of mythical beings were hung at random, along with silken tapestries from China and Japan; Mayan and Incan masks covered in tiny, turquoise squares. Swords of all lengths with straight blades and curved blades hung in glass cases, handles encrusted with rubies and emeralds.

But the books – the book were what intrigued her most.

Thousands of them, meticulously alphabetized in what appeared to be a host of specific genres. Norse, Greek, Egyptian, Roman, Indian, and Japanese mythology – whole encyclopedias of vast and endless knowledge. Engineering manuals, books on physics, astrophysics, chemistry, organic chemistry, algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus – Aristotle, Socrates, Plato. Greek tragedies, Goethe's Faust, Shakespeare's Tempest and A Midsummer Night's Dream. And perhaps what peaked her curiosity the most – out of the thousands of books that were systematically packed into every crevice of the room – Leo Tolstoy, Sigmund Freud, Ernest Hemmingway, H.G. Wells, Ernst Toller, Otto Dix, Klaus Mann…

They dominated a whole section of the huge room.

She traced a fingertip along the spine of one gingerly. She turned to look at the creature before her – an almost indifferent smirk gracing his crimson features.

"These books – these were all burned by the Nazis."

His smile broadened. "You are very observant."

"My Uncle brought home nearly every one of these authors for me to read. Despite the fact that we were outlawed."

"I am quite aware, my dear. After all, they were borrowed from my collection."

She looked around, eyes wide with awe. "My Uncle would envy you madly for a library like this. Everything he could ever possibly desire to lay his eyes on is in this room."

He chuckled, though she noticed that this time, no cruelty laced the action. "And do you, my dear, find anything here that… excites your literary fancy?"

She looked around briefly, examining the titles. "Would you be offended if I told you that my tastes were only… slightly appealed to…?"

He smiled. "We are all entitled to our own personal preferences, my dear. Although, for someone of your age, and to possess such great intellect as you do, I would be quite surprised if you were not well-read in these titles."

"I have read quite a few of them, although some of them I do not recollect fondly. I fear that you will be displeased with my preferences. I am not as mathematically – or scientifically – inclined as my uncle. I prefer history and works of fictional literature to trigonometry or Euclid's theorems."

"And you do not prefer mythology. A pity – I would have enjoyed discussing such works with you."

Her eyes darted upwards.

"Johann has told me quite a bit about you, my dear. After all, I intend for you to be a pivotal asset to this organization. I understand your disappointment at my decision to not appear during the earlier development of your abilities. For that, I apologize. However, I had my reasons. As you have noticed – my appearance can be quite… unsettling to those who are not prepared for it. Therefore, I wanted to ensure that your activities here had advanced and that you had been given adequate time to be… briefed regarding my physical features. You understand, yes?"

She nodded slowly. Unthinkingly, she blurted out "How did you become like that?"

Immediately, she regretted it as his azure orbs iced over with an irritated glare. It lasted only moments, before he quickly diverted his gaze away from her. He strode towards the windows, slender, crimson fingers reaching into a pocket, retrieving a cigarette and a long holder.

She blinked slowly, taking in his features – the holder, so like her uncle's. It was queer…

"I am sorry." She recovered, her voice faint. "How rude of me. I – I did not mean to pry."

He chuckled, the sound a harsh rasp. "There is no need to apologize, my dear. I had expected that you would ask – in fact, I had hoped that you would. You see my dear; you and I are very much alike."

"How so?" Her lips moved slowly, mechanically, forcing the words out, not wanting to know.

He faced the window, his broad shoulders stiff in the black uniform, head held erect in an almost arrogant manner.

"You were once a very sickly child, yes? And when you were so weak that death was on the threshold, when no doctor could cure your ailments, one miraculous solution revealed itself?"

"My Uncle gave me a special medicine – some prototype one of his colleagues had been working on…"

"Yes, a prototype. Although, it had steadily been developed – still not the perfected final chemical composition, but close. You see my dear, the "prototype" you were given is known as the Super Solider Serum, a highly advanced steroid created by a brilliant biochemist, Dr. Abraham Erskine. The serum's properties allow for it to penetrate the human muscular system; it creates a stronger, faster, more agile human-being out of something flawed, weak, or simply mundane."

He turned to look at her, his eyes an icy shade of blue. "That was the "prototype" you were given, my dear. That is why you recovered so quickly from your illnesses, why you grew stronger with every day, why you are of the superior strength that you are now." He turned back to the window.

"I too was injected with the serum, although, it was undeveloped and untested, in the stages of its earliest infancy."

He paused to bring the cigarette holder to his lips, smoke curling up from his lips and beyond his head towards the ceiling. He sighed, as in an almost scolding manner.

"My behavior back then – for it was many years ago – was disappointingly impatient and childish. I simply could not wait for Erskine to refine his formula. And for that lack of patience, I paid the price."

He turned to face her, his features wickedly twisted, darkened by the grayish sunset of the Alps.

"And that is how I have come to be that which I am now."

He stood still, shoulders relaxed, his posture almost casual, as if measuring her silence. She stared at him, and he back at her, his eyes unwavering, hers glassy and thoughtless. He glanced down at the desk before him, papers littering its surface.

"When you were but eleven years old, Johann came to me, requesting my advice. You were on to cusp of death – and he had been a loyal follower of HYDRA, advancing rapidly in the ranks. I felt it my duty to oblige him, to offer a suggestion – I procured the newest vial of Erskine's serum, still unpatented and unofficial, but the closest to form to perfection. It saved your life, and created the young woman you are now. With your previously weakened state, you would have died without its aid."

She continued to stare at him levelly, her vision slowly draining of color. She blinked rapidly, clearing her sight. "Why did you choose to save me? What good am I to you? I was a little ignorant child, an orphan shafted off to a simple scientist. I was of no use to you – you had no personal connection to me. You didn't know me. Surely you weren't just doing it as a random act of kindness."

He chuckled dryly. "Perhaps not. I have never had a particular fondness for children. However, I have known for quite some time about your superior intellect, my dear. Having no heirs of my own, it was pivotal that I find someone suitable to take my place. Although I strive for perfection, I fear that the key to eternal life may forever evade my grasp."

He lifted his cigarette holder to his lips. "Johann has been my finest and most dedicated scientist since the birth of HYDRA. I saw it only fitting to bestow upon him leadership after my death, and after his, yours. Naturally, he accepted. It will be a great honor for him, to see his niece become a celebrated revolutionary and queen."

"Queen," she answered bitterly.

He smiled, teeth white against his gnarled red skin. "Of course. I would not have you addressed as anything less."

"And what makes you think that I want to be queen?"

"I have no inclination to believe that you do. Yet."

"I will not, ever." She snapped.

He smiled at her, the expression absolutely horrible. "But you will, my dear. Johann has explained to you in the utmost detail the true nature of our plans. You are the jewel of Odin, child; you alone possess the power to create a world of peace and bliss. You alone can stop the wars that tear this world apart."

He crossed the library to stand toe to toe with her, his neck craned to meet her eyes. He was so close to her, her back pressed against the book-lined wall – she wanted to scream.

Again, he lifted a slender hand to her cheek – she expected him to grab her, as her uncle would in a fit of rage but – his touch was gentle, as if to comfort. It made her sick.

"You may think that I am a madman, my dear. You may think that I represent all sorts of cruelty and evil. You may think whatever you want of me, but you must first see all truths."

She glared at his hand, still poised against her cheek. He held it up, as if in minor defeat, and let it fall to his side.

"What truths do you speak of?" she said defiantly.

He nodded in affirmation. "Why do you think your Uncle insisted that you be well-read in these titles?" He traced a wiry finger across the spines of the condemned books. "Why do you think he exposed you to the massacring of thousands of Jews at every minute of every day? Why do you think he had you wear our insignia instead of a Swastika band around your arm?"

He inhaled sharply. "To educate you – to show you how horrifically this world is damaged by war and greed and evil. Real evil. You think that because we have weapons that we are bloodthirsty power-mongers. We do not believe in needless killing, my dear. We advocate the end of war, the end of greedy, delusional men."

He grabbed her cheek, his long fingers grazing her temple. "And whether you choose to accept it or not, you, dear girl, are the most powerful being on this earth. You were given your abilities for a reason – the gods of Asgard do not simply hand off their gifts to simple mundanes – no. You were chosen. You are destined to save this world – or destroy it. And in the end, even I am forced to acknowledge that you are either with us or against us."

She looked up at him, her eyes flickering from the top of his crimson hand to his glowing azure orbs. "You – you are giving me a choice in this?" her voice was meek – barely a whisper. "But – your officer said – I would be imprisoned if I refused and harbored as a power-source."

He stared back at her, eyes grim and cold. "The gods have bestowed upon you a power like no other, my dear. Not even my weapons, powered by the tesseract's energies, can stop the carnage you could manifest. I am not so foolish to think that either myself or my men could ever forcibly decide anything for you. Although we are equals in strength, you are the only individual in the entire world to possess the power to save or destroy."

He offered an empty smile. "Rather lonely, isn't it? To be the only one of one's kind, to have no allies, no friends. You have been given a destiny by the gods of Asgard. You may admit it aloud, you may not – but the gods have spoken to you, they have bestowed their gifts upon you for a reason. And you must honor that reason, whatever it is. The gods do not advocate those of weak faith and endurance. They chose you, specifically, for some reason."

"And you are going to have me tell you that reason?"

"I am not." He traced a finger along the contours of her jaw. "But I ask that you remember at least one thing, my dear, when the time comes for you to choose whose side you are really loyal to – when you have fully mastered your abilities."

His hand slid across her skin, long fingers hooking her chin and lifting her face to look into his hooded eyes. "You are indebted to me. Perhaps a superficial thing for me to mention, but I dare not let you forget. Had I not suggested that you be injected with the serum, you would not be where you stand now. You would be dead. And you and I and Johann know that to be true. So I ask you: will you choose to be loyal to those who have been looking after your best interests ever since you became an orphan? Or will you choose to be loyal to the potential hundreds of thousands of souls who will mindlessly claim to be your friends, your allies, people you don't even know?"

He smiled again, his teeth a pearlescent white, razor-sharp. "Regardless of who you choose to side with in the end, Wilhelmina, I want you to know. I will not stop carrying out my mission. I will take on this ravaged world and put an end to our never-ending grief and greed and destruction – or myself and my successors will die trying. However powerful you are, I still have a weapon only slightly outdone by your own abilities. And when you have fought your battle, cemented your allegiances, lived your life – when you think that all of your worries, all of your foes, have disappeared – HYDRA will still be here. For we are the only adversary worthy and able of fighting you. And we will fight you, if you choose to be on the opposing side. And we will show you no mercy. And you will be fighting the very individuals who cared for you, who taught you, who raised you. Will it be so easy then, to call us names, to call us evil, to direct all of your hatred at us?"

He removed his hand. "Remember that."

Her cheek burned, as if a layer of ice had frozen over the skin where his hand had been.

He rasped an order at one of the guards, patiently standing at the doorway – something about a projector. He turned back to her and smiled, this one utterly wicked – no semblance of any gentility or sophistication. Simply feral cruelty.

"And now my dear, I would like to give you a brief glimpse of the matters I was attending to during my absence these past weeks. I would like to introduce you to our most illustrious enemy."

He waved his arm with a flourish, gesturing towards the chaise-lounge at the far end of the room.

"Please sit, my dear. Make yourself comfortable – I promise it will be a most entertaining event for you."

He nodded at the guards who were attending to a projector screen.

The screen lit up the room in a wash of black and white light, a blur of images dancing before her.

A young, strapping man – bedecked in an utterly comical looking uniform. The American flag, covering his body, a large, circular shield covered in stars and stripes. He beamed, gallantly punching out ridiculous looking little men, dressed up to look like Hitler – he even had that horrible little mustache.

"The Americans?" she inquired, her tone half-heartedly questioning – of course, the answer was obvious.

The Red Skull offered her a slight smile, although his eyes gleamed with a barely contained rage. He was obviously disgusted by the showing – it was an unprofessional mockery, a horrible play at propaganda.

"That, my dear, is the Americans' savior – their beloved "Star-Spangled Man". More formally known as Captain Steven Rogers – Captain America. He is there hero – he is what supplies them with a seemingly endless source of false hope."

The reel ended – flashing briefly before transitioning into the next set of film. Next – industrial factories – the skull-faced octopus bedecking every patrolman and scientist – the buildings burning to the ground. Throngs of American soldiers stormed the structures – led by a tall, muscular man in a brown military uniform, a circular blue and white shield at his side….

Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.

A tall, muscular man – a circular blue and white shield – beckoning her to come with him, to safety – away from all of the madness and bloodshed. The man who had foolishly tried to save her from a fate she had sealed.

"Is something wrong, my dear?

A shudder coursed violently down her spine – her lips parted as if to speak, moving, but only silence leaked from the void.

She turned to look at him – his brilliant irises gazing into her own, intent on drilling holes into them.

"That – that man – " she whispered, her voice rising with a frantic urgency. "I – I saw him. He – he spoke to me – he saw me destroy the enemy troops – he saw me – use the tesseract's essence."

She waited for him to respond, but he simply stared at her, lips pursed, hooded eyes dark and indifferent. When he finally spoke, his words were like ice.

"He – " he dragged out the word, the syllable lingering on his tongue, his tone quiet and measured, " – what?"

"He spoke to me." She whispered. "He saw me use the tesseract – he – he must know that I have its power."

She opened her mouth to explain herself, but he had already stormed towards to the entrance, his eyes blazing like blue fire. He barked at the guards, his voice a rattling hiss.

"Remove her to her quarters immediately."

"Have I done something wrong?" her voice was a frightened squeak – a shudder violently coursed down her spine. "What could I have done? I didn't mean to – "

"It was not your fault, Fraulein. Please, relax. I must simply take care of some safety precautions – all for you well-being, I assure you." He had resumed his sophisticated composure, his voice flat and monotone, although his eyes seemed to glow. He glanced at one of the soldiers. "Escort Fraulein Hofstadter to her quarters. Now."

The soldier offered a curt nod before roughly grabbing her arm, pushing her towards the exit.

"Where is my uncle?" She practically gasped the words.

He cast her a side-long glance, his eyes flashing vivid blue with rage. "He's busy." He snapped and stormed out of the room, leaving her to be dragged hap-hazardly out of the library.

XXX

Raged blurred his vision, set his veins alight with fire, set every muscle tensing, seized up, coiled and desperate to spring.

"Herr Schmidt, we've intercepted an American radio message," a young corporal was shakily recounting beside him, his immature voice a deafening screech in his ear-drums. His fists clenched in fury as he whirled on the soldier.

"What makes you think I give a damn, boy?" he growled, his voice harsh and grating, like a feral lion's roar. "We intercept over hundreds of American radio transmissions every single day, you idiot. What makes this one so goddamned special?"

The corporal was shivering violently, his Adams apple bobbing as he gulped. "The American main-base is transmitting a message to all of her sister-bases within a three hundred kilometer radius – that HYDRA has kidnapped a young female – holding her as a hostage. They plan on launching a mass invasion to free her."

His teeth grated together, his lower lip protruding outwards with his animus under bite. "Relay the message." He barked. The corporal nodded and scurried down their narrow corridor, a secret passage into the mainframe radio hub, deep within the cavernous belly of the HYDRA base.

His strides lengthened as his pulse quickened and the heat of anger flushed through his skin. Zola appeared at his side within moments, jogging to keep with his pace.

"What now?" he snapped irritably. "What intelligent observations have you for me now, Zola?"

"You should have expected this!" the little scientist snapped, his face pulled into a taut frown, somewhat reminiscent of an angry little pug. "You were the one who wanted her to throw herself out in front of the Americans! You were the one that wanted her to show the world what she was!"

"Do you not think that I anticipated an American retaliation, Zola? Do you really consider me to be so tactless?"

"Then if you had anticipated it, why are you suddenly so terribly enraged, so fury-stricken because that imbecile Rogers saw her? Of course he saw her! That's what you wanted this whole time! What on earth is the problem now?"

"He spoke to her." He growled.

Zola gaped like a dead fish. "So what?" He cried out. "Whatever is the matter with that?"

"They think that we are holding her as a hostage – they probably think we captured her to entertain ourselves rather than use her for her power. And as a result of that, they now plan to invade every single factory and plant we've built to find her. They're going to "save her" all because that simpleton with a shield thinks that she is in danger, all because his flimsy heart cannot comprehend the realities of war. Do you have any idea how tiresome that will be to simply stave them off? They think they're committing an act of valor rather than a waste of time. And if they do somehow succeed to "free her", they will have the source of power that I have slaved to procure."

"Didn't those consequences occur to you before-hand?" Zola countered.

Johann's eyes glittered with a savage rage. "Do not think me a fool, Zola. The tesseract responded to our charade and that is all that matters. We simply have to isolate her now – keep things quiet, non-descript. The attack on the factory was days ago – they most likely caught wind of our mobility yesterday. I will have her sent back to Berlin for a month or so – it will be enough to shut down their suspicions."

"Sir,"

He glanced up at the young soldier – they had entered the radio hub, a vast network of sprawling cables and intricate machines, hundreds of soldiers bent over them, listening intently.

"Amplify it, Corporal." he barked.

The soldier nodded curtly – a shock of loud static echoed through the concealed room before waves of sound progressed through the speakers.

Attack on HYDRA factory – young female, German ethnicity, Caucasian – held hostage by Red Skull – alert all bases immediately – may have connection to HYDRA power source – vaporized over three hundred men, HYDRA and Allied – invasion on HYDRA factories within three hundred kilometers – twenty-four hours from 0200 – may be employing minors as experimental subjects – further investigation immediately – over and out.

And there was silence – listless and heavy on the air.

Zola glanced up at him in question. "So – is that all? Is that all they're going to do? We've tackled their invasions before – they've only been successful in causing bothersome havoc."

"That is not my main concern Zola." He glanced at the corporal. "Is that all?"

"Yes, mein Herr. How shall we proceed?"

"Not now." He rubbed his temples vigorously. "Allow me the time to consider our next course of action."

He glanced at Zola. "Walk with me now."

Zola sighed and followed his superior out into the corridor. "So what exactly is your main concern?"

"He spoke to her." He repeated, his voice a low growl.

"And I shall repeat my previous inquiry – so what? Why should we care?"

Johann whirled on the little scientist – so close to him that the little man was nearly pinned to the wall. "Rogers is a childish imbecile with fleeting passions, Zola. My niece is an equally childish adolescent – also with fleeting passions. My main concern is that that simpleton tried to connect with her – he would not have started such a fuss had he not cared about her. But that is simply it – he is physically incapable of removing his emotions from the most emotionless activity man has ever invented – war. Rogers thinks that it his duty to save every idiotic wretch from danger – he believes that we have kidnapped her and that she is some helpless damsel in distress. My main concern is that he will run after her – or something even worse. That she will attempt to run after him. She associates HYDRA and the "Red Skull","

He offered a mock gesture towards himself, a flourish of the hand. "With death and destruction and thus focuses her hatred onto us. Rogers is a glorified actor – he is an emotionally-motivated child with an overly-zealous desire to spare every innocent from violence. She obviously associates him with good. I cannot allow for him to contact my niece in anyway, or she to come in contact with him. Thus, I will send her to Berlin for a month or so – an adequate amount of time to shut down any American investigation."

Zola nodded slowly. "I suppose I understand your train of thought." He mumbled. "However I do feel it necessary to point out – was the act of luring the Americans into the factory really worth the consequences it has now brought us? Do you really think that it spurred the tesseract's sudden agreement?"

Johann stared at him levelly. "Yes, I do. If it hadn't, she would not have been able to do what she had done that night."

Zola was silent.

"If you think that I believe my decision was in vain, I do not."

Zola cleared his throat. "I understand that – but I simply cannot wrap my head around why this American activity is affecting you so strongly. I cannot agree more that Rogers' judgment is clearly clouded by his affections for the human race – I can understand that it would be completely feasible for him to have an unrelenting desire to investigate just why exactly we have a young girl in our company – I have no doubt it looks odd. But at the same time – the Americans have investigated and invaded and done everything in their power to meddle with our goals – they are a constant bother, but I imagine we are as such to them. They are unrelenting; neither are we. But what makes you so certain that your niece will be inclined to somehow connect with the Americans?"

"Because I cannot convince her to see that we are the benefactors in this world – that we are the superior force, the saviors of mankind." He snapped. "She has diluted herself – she believes that we are naught but Nazis, thoughtless destroyers, brainwashed into purifying our race. She sees bloodshed and death and thinks that it is all we stand for – that we only hunger for power and control. She does not see us for what we really are – she sees us for the twisted image her mind has created. She cannot comprehend what we desire – she refuses to comprehend it. I had hoped that she would finally see sense when the tesseract's powers were fully imbued into her body – when she destroyed that village. She has wielded her power – she must know that she is invincible – she can demand of the world whatever she wishes. But she refuses to learn and utilize her abilities for what they were destined to be used for. She wishes to hide behind the shadows of Captain America and Hitler and anyone else that is powerless."

He paced through the corridor. "I wanted to demonstrate her abilities to the Americans – to show them that their cause is hopeless – not even their beloved star-spangled man can save them from the devastation we will cause. But as usual, Rogers is a blind sap, hell-bent on sparing the innocent and ignorant. He feels it his civic duty to hunt down this "mysterious girl" and save her – he thinks that we are her captors; perhaps he has decided that we are harvesting children from some grossly exaggerated theory. He will continue to be a proverbial thorn in my side until he meets his death in battle field – and if he does not, I shall take great pleasure in killing him myself."

He glared at Zola with a savage wickedness that made the little scientist cringe. "Until then, I am forced once again to defer to our American adversaries and send my most pivotal weapon away – in our most trying time, when she could finally be useful. But – until I can prove otherwise, I am convinced that our charade at the factory was necessary, if not vital, to our cause. A month or so of minor inactivity is a small price to pay for the power we have collected. Besides, we have no choice but to continue on with our cause using what weapons we have already perfected." He smiled. "The Americans would not know what to do with themselves if we were to stop our campaigning altogether."

He turned on his heel, briskly striding towards the library. "Any more questions, Zola?" he called over his shoulder.

The little scientist sighed, deflated. "I suppose not. You seem to have everything down to a science."

He watched as his superior grew smaller and smaller in the distance. "I hope."

XXX

Johann Schmidt's Private Quarters

Mina lay sprawled across the leather chaise-lounge, her eyes and temples throbbing as she stared at the portrait of HYDRA's leader before her. The waning half-light of the sunset – or what was left of it, given that the sky had been swallowed up by black clouds – cast a dim shadow across the room.

She perked up slightly as a click sounded, and the main entrance slid away from the wall, a lanky silhouette striding into the room. She leapt from her seat, running to Johann, throwing her arms about him. She buried her head in his chest, nearly sobbing as she felt his strong arms catch her.

"What is it, my dear?" His tone was gentle, concerned – a stark contrast from the fake gentility of the Red Skull. "What is the matter?"

"I spoke to him." She mumbled into his chest. "Uncle, I did something to make him upset – I don't know what. Something about some American soldier – some Captain America or something."

She tried to say more but he shushed her coaxingly, stroking her curls. "Hush darling, I know everything that has happened. You have done nothing wrong – there is no need for you to be so concerned."

She sniffed; her eyes watery as she looked up at him. "What happened? Was he angry?"

"Of course not, my dear – not at you. This all has simply come at a rather inopportune time for our – incentives. However the issue will be dealt with – you will simply be returning to Berlin for a little while, to rest and recuperate and so that HYDRA may keep you out of harm's way."

Her eyes narrowed, inquisitive. "What do you mean, 'out of harm's way'?"

Johann sighed and released her from his grasp. "It is nothing, Mina. It is simply a matter of security. You see, at the factory that night – when you collected the tesseract's energies – when the Americans attacked, your abilities were exposed. Now, with great power comes the great intrigue of other enemy forces – forces that would have every desire to use your abilities for their own means. That is why we are going to send you away for a little while – a month or so. You will be going home – does that not make you happy? That is what you wanted, after all. Do not look so forlorn now."

She looked at him, feeling as if her heart had jumped into her throat. "Home? … Away from here?"

"Well, the last time I recalled, we lived in Berlin."

"But I will be coming back here?"

"Within a month's time. Give or take a few weeks, perhaps."

Her tongue seemed to catch in her mouth. "Back here – to the Red Skull? To be… used… for other activities?"

Johann eyed her grimly. "Of course. We simply need to shut down any American suspicions. That is all. To keep you safe, of course."

He turned to pour himself a glass of Schnapps. "Now, I will not be accompanying you to Berlin. I will make sure that you get home safely, but I will be leaving immediately after – we have important business to take care of, business that can be taken care of with our current weapons. I trust that you will be responsible and not delve into any foolishness, Wilhelmina. I am trusting your judgment. You will not leave the house without a security detail – a detail of twenty men have been dispatched to guard the house, and guard you. They will be watching you at all times. Both to ensure your safety," he offered her an almost chiding expression, "and to ensure that you do not do anything irresponsible."

He walked over to her, patting her cheek lightly. "I also trust that you will behave yourself, and keep up with your studies, of course. I expect marked improvements in your Latin and that Liszt solo we had been working on." He bent down to kiss her head, smiling slightly. "My good girl – I will miss you until your return."

He then strode out of the room, into his laboratory – leaving her alone, and somewhat confused.

But her flurry of questions did not matter to her as much as one thing did.

She was getting out – away from HYDRA. She was going home. She was escaping.

She licked her lips, suddenly dry, her throat choked.

She could finally leave this hellish place – that hellish man, the Red Skull.

But his words echoed in her mind – "HYDRA will still be there."

It would always be there – haunting her, forcing her, manipulating her.

A constant in a world ravaged by greed and war.

But it was greed and war itself.

And she had a destiny.

One that not even the Red Skull knew about.