FINALLLY CAN I GET A HALLELUJAH?! GUYYYYSSSS IT'S BEEN NEARLY A SOLID YEAAAAAARRRRRR (WHAT THE ACTUAL F***) *sobs in a corner, hiding face in shame*
Ladies and Gentlemen, My most Esteemed Readers, I present to you today Chapter 22 (zweiundzwanzig, dvadtsat' dva {First Year Russian Student Swag}, two and twenty… yada yada…).
My people, my peeps, my home-slices (ignore me), this – this – this is where it is about to go DOWN. This is where things get HOT. This is where things get hella dangerous and sexy and beautiful and totally blow-yo-mind ridic.
Or… at least… in my mind, they do. Maybe not in your mind. Probably just in mine. Probably.
I'll stop now.
As always, my sincerest thanks to all who continue to read, review, follow, and favorite! Any and all feedback is always appreciated! *****And, of course, thank you for being incredibly patient with me. I would like to just put it out there and say that college does not encourage a productive writing environment. It just encourages exorbitant amounts of procrastination and anxiety. Thank you. That is all.*******
I'll just back away now so I don't destroy this opening monologue further with my inherent trashiness/geekiness/complete-lack-of-class.
*Ahem*
Regards,
J.B.
This Chapter was inspired by… wait for it…
Master Passion Greed, Poet and the Pendulum, and Scaretale by Nightwish, and The Glory and The Scum by Delain
*Also please note, there is an error in the year in the previous chapter; I began chapter 21 as the year 1942, when in fact it should be 1943; I apologize to one and all.
"Seek her, Seduce her, Tame her. Blame her, Have her, Kill her. Seek her, Seduce her, Tame her. Blame her, Feast on it all." – Master Passion Greed
HYDRA Base
The Alps – 1943
She was lost – lost deep in thought, or memory, she could not tell. Merely swirling colors and melodies, a blur across her vision, a thickening haze that was at once crystal clear and maddeningly obscure. A whirl of faint, fractured images fluttering along a gust of wind like the snowflake and sugarplum fairies that had danced across her mind's eye so many years ago.
Memories of a grand, brick and marble fronted mansion, set back from a quiet, cobblestone lane in Berlin. A tire swing carefully crafted, swaying gently from its sturdy oak branch on a summer's afternoon. Impromptu fencing lessons in the basement, Bizet's Carmen or Grieg's Anitra's Dance taunting her lightly as she sparred with the clumsiness of an eleven year old. Sonatas with their lilting melodies echoing throughout the hallways, Uncle's slender, gloved fingers dancing across the ivory and ebony keys of a grand piano. Rainy evenings spent in the parlor, lost in dusty volumes of poetry and Norse lore, Rimsky-Korsakov or Tchaikovsky or Chopin or Mozartplaying softly in the background. Snowmen dressed in Uncle's stark leather uniform, from his SS days – an obsidian cigarette holder comically stuck in its coal-dotted smile.
And Christmas trees, too – hastily cut on a blustery December afternoon, then brought home to be bedecked in glittering ornaments, last-minute purchases from the Kaufhaus des Westens. Tickets to the Nutcracker Suite, an evening spent building a diminutive dollhouse, Uncle petulantly fretting over the tiny pieces with a screwdriver. Waiting at the window watching the snowflakes whirl about on gusts of wind, waiting for him to return from wherever his latest project was taking place. On Christmas Eve – scampering out the door to greet him in the glimmering twilight, feeling his strong arms lift her up with ease, twirling her about in the snow, peppering her with kisses.
It was almost painful, how deeply she missed those moments. She longed for the innocence of childhood; longed for a time when Johann had represented fatherly love and guidance and warmth and gentleness – not violence and anger and coldblooded cruelty. It sent chills down her spine and made her shudder with disgust, thinking of how he had treated her – grinning at her wickedly as if she were his prized possession, an object, not a person – a tool to be used for his macabre agenda. She remembered the gleam in his ice-blue eyes, how they had glittered with a lusty hunger for power. How he had told her in a singsong voice of HYDRA's grand plans, of his visions for the world, of his master's bloodlust and cunning and taste for destruction. It made her sick – to think of how the man she had admired, the man she had looked to for guidance and protection, had turned into a monster, willing to kill and destroy to please the demands of a creature so horrible – so awful, so –
"Miss Hofstadter? Miss Hofstadter…."
She looked up, dazed. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"
Captain Leigh stood before her, eyeing her warily. "You were mumbling to yourself."
"Was I? Oh I'm sorry… I guess I… I was lost in my thoughts."
"No need to apologize, it's alright. But we're due to get into our positions within the hour – HYDRA's already well into Germany and the last of our men are pushing into Alsace. We need to keep up the façade that all of our men have been sunk into the initiative in France in order to have a chance at convincing HYDRA that we've abandoned the base."
"Do you think HYDRA will believe it?"
"You know them better than I."
Mina sighed. "HYDRA's hubris is their greatest weakness – no doubt they are cackling as we speak over our 'stupidity' at leaving the base completely unguarded for them to waltz through. No, I think they will believe the ruse. For our sake, they had better. I relish the thought of seeing the shock on their faces when they get here, with us waiting to drop on them from the eves." She smiled faintly.
Leigh returned the smile, although his eyes remained cold and serious. "It'll be one hell of a reunion, that's for sure."
Mina felt her heart skip a beat. "Right, yes, I suppose it will be."
"Are you prepared to confront them?"
"Do you mean mentally or physically?"
"Both, I suppose."
"If I were to tell you 'yes', then I would be a liar. But if I were to tell you 'no', then I would also be a liar. I do not want to fight my Uncle, Captain Leigh. I know that you and Colonel Phillips consider him and the 'Red Skull' to be one and the same – and maybe they are, but until I see it with my own eyes, he is still my uncle. He is still the man that took me in when my mother died, he is still the man that nurtured me when I was ill, that educated me and looked after me, and loved me. Am I fool to hope that he is not the monster you say he is? Perhaps. But if it were someone that you loved, Captain, wouldn't you be sorely tempted to believe in a false hope until you absolutely could not any longer?"
She was silent for a moment, waiting for him to speak, but he did not. So, she continued. "I love my uncle, Captain Leigh. I wish that I could save him, that I could convince that what he is doing, that what he believes in, is madness. I wish that I could convince him to stop the destruction and carnage that he is intent on carrying out. I wish that I could stop him. But he has made his choice, and so I must make mine. I am free of HYDRA's grip, physically. But mentally, I fear I am not, not yet. They still haunt my dreams and pester my conscience. They may not have me in bonds, but they still loom in the farthest corners of my mind, taunting me, torturing me. It is my sincerest hope that today, I shall prove to myself and to them that I am no longer their prisoner, in any capacity. If I can successfully stand against them, even if we do not defeat them today, it will have been a victory for me. I am afraid, Captain Leigh. I am nervous. I do not want to fight my uncle, but I know that I must. So I will, no matter the cost, no matter the consequences."
Captain Leigh was silent for a time – an achingly, excruciatingly long time, in her mind – but at last, he nodded.
"Fair enough." He answered quietly, and turned away, leaving her alone in the silent, cold, and cavernous maw of the airfield.
For a time, she stood there, thinking. The cold wind bit at her cheeks and the flurry of snowflakes that from time to time passed through the open expanse showered her in an icy chill.
Victoria Bradleigh had been right. Johann had made up his mind; he knew exactly which side he was on. He was not losing sleep at night, fretting over who to stand with, who to fight for. He stood with HYDRA, an inexplicable constant, an unmovable force. Why then, was she wasting her energy fretting over who to stand with? The choice was obvious: the Allies represented justice and the preservation of human life. HYDRA represented anarchy and the enslavement of the human race. HYDRA represented her captors; the Allies represented her rescuers. She would be a fool to think that HYDRA would welcome her with open arms were she to run back to them, to turn her back on the men who had given their lives to save her, to betray these people – these strangers, really – who had fully invested their trust in her. If strangers were willing to give her food and shelter and warmth and protection – unlike HYDRA, who merely intended to use her as a guinea pig until her strength ran out, and then to toss her aside like a stripped carcass – then she would put her trust in them, as they had her. This was the only way. It was the difficult way, for it forced her to face her deepest fears, but it was the righteous way.
She would stand with these men, until her dying day, just as the Red Skull had prophesied that she would. And if HYDRA was still there, at the end of all of this, a cursed and wretched embodiment of everything she scorned – she would stand and fight until she came face to face with the Red Skull. And she would fight until one or both of them was dead.
It was simple. This was not a game anymore, this was not child's play. This was not a desperate attempt to ingratiate herself into the organization that her Uncle had kept secret for so long. No longer did she desire his praise and confidence. She had witnessed HYDRA's destructive power, she knew now of its true mission. And she had chosen, finally, where to stand.
And, it hurt, truly it did. The warm and comforting memories of her childhood bit into her skin like a thousand knives, as if taking revenge on her for turning against their happy bliss. Was she a fool for desperately wanting to hold onto those memories, despite the pain and anguish they brought her? Perhaps. But she had gotten used to the pain, and she knew that it would probably never go away. But the comfort of those memories, the comfort of that past – it gave her hope. Hope that perhaps, someday, she could save her uncle. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow or even next month – but it gave her an increased sense of purpose.
It gave her a sense of control, taking matters into her own hands as she had never been allowed to before, when under Johann's zealous eye. There was goodness in Johann – that much, she was sure of. A monster was not capable of devoting so much energy to a sickly, yet headstrong little child as she had been. A monster did not willingly waste time building dollhouses and hanging tire swings and reading bedtime stories as Johann had, albeit so long ago. There was humanity in him, despite his vehement protests that humanity was a failing race and that HYDRA was a cult of superior, god-like men with heaven-sent destinies.
There was hope. She would not let it cloud her judgement, for she had seen what Johann was capable of – the cruelty that he could express so thoughtlessly, as if it were second nature, as if it were a second personality. But, it would fuel her desire to fight them – to fight HYDRA, to fight the Red Skull, to fight the man she had loved and admired and looked up to for so long. She would fight and resist their cunning, and she would be successful.
This – this day was only the beginning of what would no doubt become a long, and difficult battle.
She waited for it solemnly, and she would meet its arrival with a coldblooded devotion that would rival Johann's own devotion to HYDRA. She would rise up to meet them, and she would give them a challenge that their arrogant minds would not possibly expect.
She would stand. And she would fight.
XXX
30 Kilometers south of HYDRA's Headquarters
The Alps – 1943
One thing he longed for in particular – the familiar loud thrum of an engine, pulsating beneath his gloved fingertips, the power of a thousand pounds' worth of steel and chrome. Bedecked in black leather from head to toe, the vivid crimson hue of his skin set off by the dark coloring of his uniform, he felt absolutely alive, empowered, exhilarated. He could almost taste the smoke of guns, the tang of blood in the alpine air. Though he longed for a raging battle, this was to be a decidedly short and decisive victory – one that would hardly require a fight. If the Americans had been intelligent enough to leave even a miniscule amount of troops remaining at the base – his base – which, he indeed doubted, this would be but a momentary obstruction, easily dealt with. He ran a gloved hand across the smooth crimson flesh of his scalp, wondering absently if the allies had spared his beloved automobile in the midst of their trampling through his base. He had lamented for some time the fact that he had not been able to rescue the car during his hasty escape from the Alpine headquarters, longing to caress its glistening chrome surfaces, to hear the adoringly loud and raucous acceleration of its engine. He so despised being chauffeured about – sitting now, in the heavily armed, clunky (albeit luxuriously upholstered) staff car that had been selected to escort him to the Alps, he felt so… so removed from control, so distant and detached.
The hulking automobile had been his first and, if he did say so himself, finest invention – every detail having been loving sketched by his hand, with the utmost precision. He had poured over the first blueprints for hours, what had begun as an almost boyish hobby maturing into a full-fledged project that had taken him nearly a year to complete. He had supervised its construction, every steel plate and fixture meticulously placed by the most esteemed craftsmen in Germany. He smiled slightly, fondly recalling his sister scolding him when he had given her a rough estimate of how much the project had set him back, financially. Of course, it had been but a pittance – the world's fineries had been at his fingertips, after all. The lush rewards for faithful service. A devious half-grin twisted his crimson lips as he reminisced over the glory days of his early career – the ever faithful boy-scout, the eternally loyal watchdog. No one had suspected that Hitler's right hand man – because truly, Himmler hardly counted – would be building an empire right beneath his nose.
He inhaled sharply. With his teeth, he tugged the black leather glove from his hand, his slender, crimson fingers trembling with a palpable rage. His vision blurred, slipping in and out of focus, his teeth grating, a shaking hand stroking the smooth flesh of his scalp rhythmically. He had been bested. Tricked, baited – he had come so damnably close to finally obliterating the Americans, only to have victory snatched from his clutches every single time. Oh of course, of course – he had magnificently destroyed that imbecilic 'star-spangled man', crushing him beneath his heel and leaving his devoted followers sobbing like hopeless, aimless wretches. In a stroke of undeniable brilliance, he had sent Steven Rogers careening to his tragic end, trapped in an aircraft with no way to stop it but to destroy it and himself – no doubt believing that he was saving the world from apocalyptic destruction as he did so. There were no bombs on that jet – no vessels of fire and destruction – although, in hindsight, it would have been deliciously ironic – to have the 'star-spangled man' himself unwittingly destroying half of the world while HYDRA's vicious and bloodthirsty leader was already hundreds of miles away, enjoying a glass of fine Alsatian Riesling and chuckling over the theatric young lad's demise.
There were no weapons of mass destruction aboard that aircraft – it was merely a jet on autopilot, wired to self-destruct were anyone other than himself to tamper with the controls. Steven Rogers – idiotic buffoon that he was – needed only to, say, pound his fist upon the control panel in rage to blow the jets to smithereens. Moments – it would have been mere moments before that bastard voluntarily committed suicide in the name of his illustrious nation.
But.
Victory was always short-lived, like a sweet melting on the tongue.
He had finally destroyed the American, yes, but that victory had been bittersweet. How could he celebrate the decimation of the nuisance that had routinely thwarted his plans when his most prized possession – the only human connection he had left in this crumbling shell of a world, and the only one he loved so dearly – was not there by his side to celebrate with him?
That, in itself, had been a blow – one that he still reeled from.
But now. Mina had betrayed him. He had reassembled his equation – he had removed her as a variable from it, and started from scratch. This was the first stage – the new beginning. Take back the Alps; start afresh. But a raw sense of rage, and poignant, tragic devastation fueled that sense of steadfast indifference, that pure determination. The wound was still fresh and raw; it stung him to the core. Failure and betrayal were not foreign to him, not at all. But this – this was something entirely different, something he did not know quite how to react to. It was all well and good to react first with remorse – devastation, the deepest sorrow. And then, in turn, to react with rage as the wound scabbed over, and gradually stitched itself back together again. Rage and bitterness were the simplest emotions with which to fill the gaping void that failure and betrayal had created. But – how could one fill such a void with hatred and rage when the cause of that void was something that one was so inexplicably incapable of hating? A truly redundant question, but one that was causing him the utmost disturbance.
Johann sighed heavily, releasing in a deep exhalation the weighty breath he had been holding, pondering, contemplating. Enough. He had done a great deal of soul searching in these past days, these past hours. His own niece, the orphaned child that he had so graciously taken into his home, taken it upon himself to raise, had betrayed him. Certainly, he had no solid evidence of this; he had not seen it himself, with his own eyes. But in his blackened heart, he felt it – felt sure of it. Even Mina, with her fleeting passions, was not so utterly stupid as to believe that her captors had control over her. She could annihilate them all, and she damn well knew it. She had obliterated an Alpine village and sobbed about it for hours afterwards. He would be a fool to delude himself and pretend that she had been forced, held at gunpoint. She could have destroyed her captors, easily. And yet, she clearly had not.
Had she spent hours questioning her actions, wondering what she had done wrong? Had she tortured herself, torn her heart out with anguish, spent sleepless nights staring at a blank ceiling, wondering why she, out of billions, had been chosen to suffer?
He wanted to see her face, to look into her eyes, to see what lie there. He needed to know where she stood, for his own sanity. Whether she stood with him, by his side, or against him.
For he truly did not know what to think, what to do. He was merely torturing himself attempting to work out variables in an equation that was utterly ludicrous, one that he had no control over. It felt awful, truly. Wrenching at the pit of his stomach, a palpable feeling of pain – yet, there were no visible wounds to tend to. The wounds of the heart and mind were not easily stitched up, the pain not easily placated.
And to see with his own eyes that she did stand against him – what would he do then? How would he react, before her? Would he lose control? Would he strangle her, and in doing so, strangle the mocking voice in the back of his mind, taunting him, calling him weak and cowardly? Would he kill her – could he kill her?
It would be the only way to ensure that the Americans had no chance of rising up against him, again. They would be powerless without her, and he would still possess the winning hand. His weapons were capable of mass destruction, and without the leadership of their 'star-spangled man', and without the otherworldly power that Mina possessed, they would be helpless and hopeless.
But that was ridiculous, and utterly impulsive. Rage and anguish could drive a man to do stupid things; murdering his niece simply because he was angry and embittered would be a pathetic show of spite. And, it would most certainly not benefit him in the long-run. Pity that it was the only surefire way to ensure that the Americans lost the conflict that they were so intent on keeping up.
Pensively, he removed his cigarette holder from his jacket, gingerly placing and lighting an Egyptian cigarette before taking a long and thoughtful drag. No – even an opportunist such as he, would not stoop so low as to kill the little girl – now, a young woman – that he had raised, especially for such a petty reason as revenge.
But it hurt him, truly, to even have reason to entertain the idea that she had betrayed him. He had spent so many years pouring every drop of energy in him into her, that sickly little girl, poor thing that she was. It had given him a sense of fulfillment; it had filled the void where heartbreak and hatred and failure and loss had all made their mark. He had only wanted the best for her, and he had truly believed – and still did – that HYDRA served her best interests. It hurt him to think that she so vehemently disagreed with this; to think that she believed that he was only thinking of himself, of his own 'selfish' desires for a world that was his to control, and thus better. How could she think this? How could she believe this? It wrenched at his heart. Mina had given him a new reason to pursue his goals with renewed vigor; he would not let her lead a life as empty and hollow and horrible as his. He had vowed that she would never experience heartbreak or pain or poverty or loneliness or failure. She would never know the sting of the cold air in winter, with only rags for warmth; she would never know the pang of hunger gnawing in one's stomach; she would never know the humiliation of having everything she had dreamed of taken away from her, simply because she had acted upon her beliefs. And most importantly, she would never know heartbreak – that awful, empty feeling in the pit of one's stomach, having the ones they loved so dearly torn from their arms forever.
She would never know betrayal. She would never know the anguish and devastation he felt now, knowing full well that the single individual in the world that he loved and cherished with all his heart and soul had betrayed him.
He flicked the ashes from his cigarette, running a hand over the smooth flesh of his scalp. He had worked so tirelessly to ensure that Wilhelmina never knew any of these feelings, and yet – and yet, here he was, suffering those very feelings he had vowed never to let her feel, and it was because of her that he felt them now. What a cruelly ironic world this was.
But… but what if she felt those same feelings? What if, for once, he allowed her to feel and suffer as he had, for so many years? What if he allowed her to step into the worn and sodden shoes that a little boy – abused, orphaned, starving, wretched – had worn all those years ago? What if he allowed her to experience heartbreak as he had, that emptiness – horrible and cold? If only she could feel as he felt now – perhaps, perhaps she would understand him?
Perhaps it would finally teach her a lesson – a lesson that he had simply been too spineless and weak to teach her.
It would be a bitter and painful lesson, and one that would, he hoped, have a profound impact on her actions. For him, it would be necessary. A final act that would be purely and sincerely symbolic.
A final farewell to his alter ego, Johann Schmidt. The man that his niece clung to with a foolish and childish devotion. His connection to that man had proved to be very convenient, but its usefulness now had run its course. Now, it would have its last purpose. It would be, quite simply, a declaration. His niece had effectively declared war on everything he stood for the moment she chose to stand with the Americans. Evidence or lack thereof, be positively damned. In his heart, he knew that she had killed his men. There could be no mistaking. She had chosen where she would stand, and he would stay true to his word. He had vowed to her that HYDRA would unleash the full force of its power – merciless and bloodthirsty and every bit as monstrous as she had so emphatically envisioned it – upon her.
Johann Schmidt would die. It would be quite simple, really. In fact, it would be almost amusing – a very cruel and wicked joke, indeed. One of the few benefits of being forced to don a synthetic guise in order to – assimilate, as it were – to normal society: a silicon mask and a little makeup were all that was needed to make another, albeit unfortunate, individual appear exactly as he would when wearing that ghastly costume.
Yes. An individual of his height and stature – there were more than several that he knew of within his ranks – would be sacrificed, preserved, and outfitted in one of his uniforms – perhaps, the black Gestapo version, a most handsome uniform indeed, and one that his niece would know achingly well. His mask – of which he kept several, would be carefully tailored to fit the corpse. With a strong adhesive, an embalming agent, of course, and a delicate hand, the body would, to even the most scrutinizing observer, pass as the corpse of Johann Schmidt. Of this, he could be certain, simply because he himself had been a product of considerable scrutiny. It was no secret among the elites of the Nazi party that the lanky, nearly emaciated, and to all appearances, frail shell that had been his body – Johann Schmidt's body – had undergone a most revolutionary transformation upon the injection of the flawed yet still highly effective 'Super Soldier Serum'. Yet, if asked, most of them would be hard-pressed to give an accurate description of what exactly Johann Schmidt looked like post-injection – for, to the naked eye, the guise he donned for publicity purposes was almost flawlessly identical to his natural features, before they were quite literally incinerated.
He smiled, grimly. The Red Skull – quite an unoriginal moniker, indeed. But, it was exactly what he was, and it had served as the fodder for a most delightful burst of gossip that would circulate throughout the upper reaches of the Gestapo and Hitler's inner circle for months on end. Few had ever actually seen the grotesque physiognomy of this new and improved version of the former head of espionage and sabotage, around whom rumors were circulating like wildfire. Was this new radical visionary a blood-thirsty monster? Did he lust for the flesh of the 'innocent' SS officers who had snubbed him? Was it true that his physical features had been gnarled beyond the point of recognition – did he wear a mask to make him look like some gruesome beast? Was any of it even real? Had his flesh been incinerated by the force of this experimental serum? Did he possess inhuman strength and agility? Surely it must be all a ruse – a ploy for attention or something ridiculous like that. Johann Schmidt is a madman – a fanatical lunatic who believes in magic; surely it must all be rubbish.
Precisely three individuals within the vast expanses of the Nazi party had personally been privy to the new face that Johann Schmidt wore – privately, at the very least. A synthetic mask had been painstakingly created for daily wear, so as not to paralyze his delicate Nazi counterparts in terror. Precisely three individuals, and he remembered their reactions to his transformation in perfect detail.
Adolf Hitler. Ah yes, the Führer. The leader of the Third Reich had looked upon him with what could only be perceived as a mixture of awe, distaste, curiosity, and above all – fear.
Fear that this new, stronger, more powerful version of his now former head of espionage and sabotage posed as a significant threat to his autonomy, to his superiority. This man – no, this monster – could overthrow him. Heinrich Zemo had convinced him of that. And all that this man had required to achieve such inhuman strength was a syringe of some strange experimental liquid. A syringe filled with contents so powerful that they were capable of incinerating a man's flesh and leaving a creature of nightmarish proportions in its wake. That strange experiment had been created by a man – a man that had snubbed the Führer and had refused to comply with his very reasonable requests. And yet – he had enabled his once loyal protégé to transform himself into a creature more than capable of usurping him.
Yes, fear had drained the pigment from Adolf Hitler's face, and would ultimately move him to exile this surely traitorous visionary to his Alpine asylum. And, it would move him to pin a bounty to Abraham Erskine's back, causing the scientist to flee the country, and take with him the precious serum that Johann Schmidt had so desired for his organization's use.
A pity, really.
And then, of course – Heinrich Zemo. A loathsome man, really, and an utterly stupid one as well. In him, there had been only jealousy. A lust for the power that Johann now possessed, and a hungry desire to see him permanently eradicated from the grand history that the Reich was creating. The Führer was paranoid, and in his irrational fear, he was vulnerable. Malleable, and easily persuaded. He was quite willing to accept Zemo's prophecy that Johann Schmidt was building an army, and through it, an empire that would be more than capable of destroying the glorious Reich that he was building.
But what was more irksome was that Zemo did not want this new enemy dead – he wanted him enslaved. He wanted him alive, to see the havoc that would be wreaked upon his career and his reputation – to be publicly humiliated, shamed, and disgraced. He would reduce a creation of glorious power and strength to a weakened shell, branded as a monster and a traitor and a stain upon German society. The image of this monstrous man would be shamed and branded as a cancerous growth that threatened to infect the very core of Aryan perfection.
Johann closed his eyes, hearing his own words echo emptily in his ears. Reward? Call it what it is – exile. I no longer reflect his image of Aryan perfection.
And, lastly, Wolfgang von Strucker – his mentor, his teacher, and perhaps his only true friend.
The Baron's reaction to what his pupil had become was perhaps the most resounding of the three men – and, the most troubling. It was with a peculiar mixture of pride, apprehension, and remorse that Strucker had received him. Pride that his student had succeeded in his lifelong quest for physical and mental superiority, despite the odds having been heavily stacked against him; apprehension that his pupil's newfound strength would only solidify his enemies' vendetta against him; and, disturbingly, a very distinct and puzzling sadness that Johann simply could not fathom.
He had expected that his mentor would be exclusively proud of his achievements, and supportive of his endeavors to create a superior, crushing force out of his fledgling organization. He had not expected the man that he respected so fervently to also view his remarkable accomplishment with an equal degree of skepticism, and so very disconcertingly – regret. Yes, the serum had been flawed – but were the consequences truly so blinding that the sheer genius of its power was overlooked?
"Johann… your face, your flesh, everything – you are no longer human, Johann. You have become something so… so… "
"Superior? Perfect?" He'd chimed in so eagerly; elation and thrill and an almost childlike delight had coursed through his veins as he had, with only the barest sliver of patience, removed his mask and revealed himself at last to his teacher. But the Baron's words would sting him to the core.
"Flawed. Look at what you have done to yourself, boy. Surely you suffered during the transformation."
"Herr Baron, don't be preposterous. Perfection always comes at a price – the temporary pain I experienced was a pittance. Really Wolfgang – strength, intellectual superiority. I feel truly alive – I've never felt so utterly perfect. I can crush all of my enemies, now. No longer am I that weak coward – I no longer have to hide anymore, I no longer have to feel as though I must run from my foes, Wolfgang. The serum – it has given me a new lease on life. I'm stronger than ever, I can destroy a man without ever reaching for my gun – it is truly fantastic, Wolfgang, truly."
The baron had seemed unimpressed.
"That is all well and good, Johann, but have you considered the consequences of your impatience? Have you even bothered addressing it – has it even crossed your mind? The serum was flawed, Johann! It hadn't even passed the first round of testing – it could have killed you! Did you even pause to think of the repercussions? Did you not listen to Dr. Erskine? The man made it quite clear, the serum would not be sufficiently tested for human use for at least another six months."
"Who gives a damn about Erskine, Wolfgang? The idiot would never have given me the serum! He wouldn't give Hitler the serum! I offered the man riches, Wolfgang, riches! A high position in HYDRA – a high position in the Nazi Party, whatever he could possibly want, I would have given him! And yet, nothing – nothing would do for him, he wanted none of it. I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands."
"Did you ask him nicely?"
"Are you joking?"
"No, I am not joking. You are, unfortunately I might add, notoriously undiplomatic, Johann. Did you make an appointment with the man? Or did you barge into his laboratory, slaughter half of his staff, and then – and only then – ask if you might have a private word with the man? Did you negotiate with him at all, or did you simply pull your revolver on him and demand that he hand over the serum on the pretense that if he did not, he would most surely meet his certain death? Is that how it went? You're utterly tactless, Johann. And as your instructor, I'm beyond disappointed – I would think that I had taught you better. And yet you wonder how Hofstadter could have ever possibly replaced you. The man might have been a cocky little bastard but he damn well knew how to talk his way into a deal."
"Oh is that how he died? Talking his way out of a deal, then, as it were?"
"Do you think I'm jesting, Johann?"
"Oh of course not, Wolfgang, I wouldn't dare suggest it. I was simply wondering perhaps, if you had forgotten that age-old adage – what is it? Ah yes: 'actions speak louder than words', as it were. You see, I was merely making note of the difference between my dear brother-in-law and I – he was terribly good at lying and cheating his way up the ranks, and what a lot of good it did him, I must say. Yes, six feet underground, while the lunatic visionary with such treasonous thoughts is alive and well, and certainly doing far better than him. You see, Wolfgang, I acted. If Erskine had not given in to Hitler, why on earth would he give in to me? I am but a lowly outcast – I am nothing to the Nazi party. Why would Erskine feel at all threatened by me? So I took matters into my own hands – I stole the serum, and here I am today, a new man – a better man than I ever could have been on my own. I acted, Wolfgang. I did not bother with petty flattery, I did not bother to 'ingratiate' myself within the upper tiers of Erskine's staff, I did not do any of these things, Wolfgang. And, I got exactly what I wanted. And where is my brother-in-law, Wolfgang? Where is he now? He is dead and here I am, alive and well. If that idiot were so damnably adept at being the diplomat, why isn't he here today, in my place?"
"Johann, I refuse to entertain that speech with an argument. In fact, I apologize for bringing your brother-in-law into this argument at all. I did not expect that it would rile you so passionately, especially since the man's been dead for quite some time now. I am proud of you Johann, I am proud of how far you have come in your career, and how magnificently you have been able to transcend the – political – setbacks that have hindered your advancement. But, indulge for me a moment and allow me to offer you a word of caution. Perhaps you think a proper consultation with Dr. Erskine regarding the nature of his experiment would have been a waste of your time; however, given that I apparently have ample spare time, I found such a consultation to be quite enriching."
Johann had stared at him blankly.
"You consulted Dr. Erskine then, I presume?"
"Yes, I did. I took the liberty of arranging to meet with the good doctor after hearing of the Führer's – and consequently your– interest in the serum. I am every bit as qualified a scientist as you are, I'll have you know, before you jump to conclusions and accuse me of snooping around your business. After I learned of Dr. Erskine's refusal to give in to your bullying, I decided to pay the good doctor a visit – if for no other reason than to discern whether or not you had murdered him, and why exactly he was so adamant about denying you access to the serum. Dr. Erskine was more than willing to have a conversation with me; in fact, he seemed quite amicable. He hastened to notify me that, as much as he stressed it, you seemed unwilling to accept the fact the serum was not and would not be ready for human use in half year, at the very least – "
"You have stated that already, Wolfgang. I am not deaf, nor stupid, if that's what you are insinuating."
The baron had narrowed his eyes.
"I believe that impatience is a worse fate than deafness and stupidity, Johann. You were incredibly lucky that the serum did not kill you – it merely left you a perpetual reminder of the price you paid for its power. Did you pause to listen to Erskine long enough for him to be able to tell you what exactly the serum does to its user, aside from bulking up one's musculature? Yes, you are faster, more agile, more alert – but. The serum emphasizes not only one's physicality but moreover, their mental faculties. You are brilliant, Johann, and you are far superior to any of your contemporaries in the party, I am not denying that fact. But, you are arrogant and you are impulsive and you are dangerous. And I strongly fear that the serum will only further inflate your confidence and embolden you to do something drastic. Your reputation has already been stained, Johann – I would caution you to tread carefully in these following months. The rumors of your… condition… are spreading like wildfire through the party; let them die down before you choose to outwardly wield your new power. I can name many a man who would like to see you dead, Johann. Keep your head down until this fades away – let them all think it's some sort of ruse. Please."
"You are asking me to run away from my enemies, Wolfgang. You are asking me to conceal my genius and to pretend that I am no better than the lowly outcast that Hitler's ilk have branded me as. Do you also think so little of me, Wolfgang? You sang the praises of HYDRA, of my work, once. You encouraged me and supported me, once. What has happened, Wolfgang? Have you fallen prey to Hitler's influence – do you too think me mad? Mad for wanting to raise this crumbling shell of a world out of the depths? After all this time, do you still unflinchingly support Hitler? Is that why you stand here chastising me and begging me not to take this gift that I have been given and with it, change this world forever? I am more powerful than anyone in Hitler's cult, Wolfgang – with my strength, with HYDRA's strength, I can crush him. And you know that I can crush him. So why do you stand here now begging and pleading for me to bury my head in the sand and forget all of the imbeciles that have wronged me? Why, Wolfgang? Truly, I would love to know."
Remorse. Sadness. Regret. They colored the baron's words, and awoke in Johann a raw pang of rage and hatred.
"You are a good man, Johann. And you were more than capable of reaching greatness alone, exactly the way the gods had intended you to be. You are brilliant, you are cunning. You did not need this 'magic' drug, Johann. But you were impatient and you were greedy, and because of that, you have now created a monster out of yourself. You are no better than Zemo, now. Granted, you were not so stupid as to douse yourself in a vat of extreme adhesive, but you have metaphorically stooped to that vile creature's level. Johann… I simply do not know what to think. Do not make me the villain – you know damn well that I would support you in a heartbeat, I would do absolutely anything for you. I am trying to protect you from the wrath of Hitler's cronies, although I'm sure you'll argue that you don't need my protection. But Johann – I'm fearful for you. I fear that this insatiable lust of yours for perfection will destroy you – or destroy the rest of us, if we get in your way. Forgive me for being skeptical. I simply think that you were fine the way you were before. But perhaps I am merely being too sentimental. I ask that you proceed with caution. Take my words, or leave them – that is all I can say."
Fearful. Fearful for him – it was utterly laughable.
Johann ran a gloved a hand across his scalp, letting his eyes flicker shut. Strucker, being afraid for him. It was as if the baron had been ashamed of him. He sounded so terribly like his sister – and it haunted him.
But it angered him, as well. And rage had colored so much of his existence. It simply embittered him, having to direct such rage upon those that he genuinely cared for. It was so cruelly ironic – how the ones he had loved and revered had treated him with such disdain. Angelica's last words had been, "You were perfect the way you were." And Strucker, "You were more than capable of reaching greatness alone, exactly the way the gods had intended you to be."
He wondered absently what Victoria would have said, had she seen him as he was now.
He felt a pang of remorse – sharp and bracing in his chest. But, he could not help but let it linger for a moment longer, thinking of her, her voice sweet and gentle and knowing. She could always see into him so deeply, she always knew him. What he felt, what he thought. She could see it in his eyes, immediately. He remembered her touch so perfectly – her lips soft and needy; her eyes, so vibrant and lively and bright; her laughter, so warm and charming and intoxicating –
And that was quite enough of that.
He shook his head, grating his teeth angrily. Why on earth would he be thinking of her at a time like this? At the impending climax of his plans – so close to victory that he could almost taste it – and here he was, waxing poetic over the vilest of creatures. A traitor – at the top of his long list of backstabbing, treacherous foes. He could not allow the pull of his wayward emotions to distract him so egregiously. Strucker, Angelica, Zemo, Victoria – Hitler, himself – not a single one of them mattered anymore. His sister was dead; Strucker was bent in pursuit over the 'momentary princess' – the Tesseract made a mockery of it; Zemo had long been mad, driven into insanity by a vat of one of his experiments; Hitler – that most lowly of creatures, shrouded in all-consuming paranoia – he would suffer and be exterminated in one of his precious gas-chambers, made to die as so many of his victims had. A foolish pursuit, really – trying to wipe out an entire race simply because of the scripture they read. Hitler was no church-going man; he was a deluded fool. One race was not the answer to the world's wounds– all of them were. And Victoria – she would be but a tool for his entertainment, a lovely china doll, to crush and rebuild and crush to slivers again, whenever he wished.
Now. Where had he been? Before his train of thought had diverged?
Ah, yes.
Johann Schmidt. He chuckled lowly. That man would die – and through his death, the monster that had taken his place would rise. He need not be concerned about the believability of his plan – the synthetic guise that he had once donned had been scrutinized by hundreds of skeptical Nazi officers, by Wilhelmina herself, for so many years. She would believe.
Her dear uncle, that man that she so desperately desired to 'save' from himself, from his 'lunatic master' – he would be dead, and what was more – he would have taken his own life because of her.
Yes. Yes, it would be utterly perfect.
Suicide. How fitting. The tragic hero, the real victim – so utterly destroyed by the news of his niece's betrayal that he was driven – what, what was he driven? Mad with rage or grief? No, not rage – grief. The grieving uncle, so devastated that the young girl that he had taken under his wing and nurtured to blossoming perfection had rejected everything he had aspired for her to have and thrown it all in his face.
Driven mad with grief – yes. Driven insane, driven to take his own life. Because of her. Yes – pound her restless skull with guilt, infuse her dreams, her thoughts, her words – with guilt. Guilt and sorrow and grief – make her suffer as he did now.
Yes. Johann Schmidt would die. The tale would unfurl in a carefully crafted declaration, accompanying his corpse.
The news of his niece's traitorous, treacherous acts would be delivered to him in a crowded laboratory. Not in isolation – no, there needed to be witnesses. Dozens of technicians toiling away, under his hawk-like supervision – attending every detail. Driven insane – massacring that entire room of men, only the guards surviving the rage and destruction, living to tell of this horrific and heart-wrenching tale.
He smiled, licking his lips. The perfect touch of drama.
She would believe it. He knew that she would. He simply wished that he could be there to watch her fly into grief-induced madness when she looked upon the body of her dear, dead uncle.
Oh, it was cruel – this was true. But it was also necessary.
She needed to suffer – to suffer as he had. Then she would learn – then she would know all that he had endured, and for her sake.
A mixture of pure, raw anger and deepest grief welled up within his chest, but he stifled it as quickly as it rose.
He had suffered long enough. Now, it was her turn. It would be a bitter lesson, and one that he did not wish to teach her. But, it was imperative. He could no longer afford to coddle her.
"Mina, my love – this is for your own good."
The staff car came to a halt. A uniformed HYDRA guard – a young corporal – scurried to the open window.
"Mein Herr, we are nearing the base, sir."
He nodded grimly. "Ready the artillery, Corporal. No surprises shall impede our progress today."
"As you wish, sir."
Johann laced his fingers before his lips, eyes gleaming with hungry anticipation.
Today marked the dawning of a new revolution – one that was destined for success. HYDRA would stand master of the world, born to victory on the wings of the Valkyrie. A new weapon stood before them – one far more powerful than that imbecilic Star-Spangled Man. But, he was confident that she would be twice as malleable – for he knew her most prominent weakness.
Her unwavering loyalty to her dear uncle.
She might fight it, yes, but it would hurt her – oh, it would tug at her heartstrings, it would cause her anguish of unimaginable proportions.
And he knew exactly how to manipulate her.
XXX
HYDRA Base
The Alps – 1943
The sky was darkening and the winds were picking up. The cloud were thick and heavy with rain. This high up in the mountains, it would likely be a heady mix of sleet and snow. Any HYDRA convoys would have to be weary of the conditions on the narrow, winding passes that wended their way up the mountainsides, and down into the valley below. Every entrance to the base was being observed round the clock by two or three American guards – just enough to observe, take note of any activity, and quietly slip away without attracting any attention. That was the way Colonel Phillips had wanted it. An empty, silent base – ransacked, picked over, and abandoned to the elements. HYDRA's headquarters snaked its way through the core of the mountains, etched deep into alpine stone. Narrow, winding corridors fed into large open laboratories, armories – a fortress of steel and chrome and solid rock. Deep within its cavernous maw, American soldiers were scattered about – waiting, ready. Colonel Phillips had wanted it this way – soldiers waiting at every corner, silent, nearly invisible. He wanted the HYDRA troops to come clattering in – to assume that the place was empty and abandoned. He wanted them to be taken by surprise, to be outsmarted – as often as HYDRA had outsmarted him.
Mina stood before the shattered remains of the once glorious panoramic window in her uncle's private laboratory, the bitter chill of the wind rattling her bones. The room was an empty shell of what it had once been – torn papers and shards of glass littered the floor; the hulking double doors had been blown off their hinges, the metal melted and mangled. A bottle of Schnapps had toppled from his desk and shattered, sticky traces of the dried liquid evident on the floor below. She let her fingers lightly ghost the surface of several small, miraculously untouched picture frames. It was surprising – she would have thought the Americans would have confiscated them. They must not have cared for petty sentimental items – only evidence of HYDRA's plans. The picture frames had been toppled over, but none of them had broken. She lifted them up, one by one, peering at the photographs they held. One, a school photograph, taken when she was six years old. Another, a formal portrait taken on her sixteenth birthday – she was wearing a cobalt blue gown, Johann's favorite. He loved blue on her – had always told her how it brought out the somber colors of her eyes, like storm-tossed seas. Had always chastised her for scowling – had always told her how much lovelier her face would have been if she would only smile.
Petty memories. They meant nothing now – to reminisce was to twist at her heart and she couldn't bear the pain of it any longer. Everywhere she looked, memories of Johann mocked her – she could almost hear his voice ringing off the metal walls of this godforsaken place. She wanted desperately to flee from its confines – but she knew she could not. Her stomach was in knots, and she had an ominous feeling that this day would only be the first of many spent in this fortress.
She glanced down at the desk, once again letting her fingers trail across its surface. But something at the corner caught her eye – a folded piece of paper, brittle with age, blackened at the corners. It was pinned down by a bookend – a gryphon, its head shot off by what must have been a wayward bullet, for the shell was embedded in the wall beyond. Gingerly, she tugged at the piece of paper, sliding it out from under the weight.
She held it up to the greyish, waning light of the sky.
It was a small photograph, badly creased, but the image was still visible to the naked eye. It was a colorized photograph – a woman with bright red hair, woven into a loose braid that tumbled over her shoulder. Her smile was bright and vivacious, a slender hand raised to cover her mouth – the photograph had been snapped as she was laughing, her eyes sparkling. Mina held the photograph closer to her eyes – was it her mother? No, no – someone different. Her mother had softer, rounder features and blue eyes – this woman had green eyes, the color of lush meadows in spring. This woman was all angles – with sharper features, a pointed chin and angular cheekbones. She looked thin – very thin, almost bony – and fragile and perhaps even tired. But the life in her eyes betrayed the delicate nature of her features – she was almost pixie-like, with a mischievous smile. She was beautiful – ethereal almost, and waiflike. She reminded her of the illustrations in the nursery tales she had committed to memory as a young child – like a wood sprite, tiny and fragile, but full of life and vibrancy.
But… the woman looked eerily familiar, yet she could not put her finger on who it was. She let eyes scan the photograph once more. At the woman's neck, a pendant peaked out from the collar of her cream-colored blouse – an octopus with a skull-like head, the tentacles practically dripping with diminutive rubies, the head glimmering with finely cut, tiny diamonds.
The HYDRA insignia.
Who on earth was this woman – and why did she look so achingly familiar?
She flipped the photograph over – hoping for some sort of inscription to be etched on its backside.
There had been words – but they had been scratched out; the ink had touched water or some sort of liquid, for the ink had bled. Only fragments of whatever script had been there remained – Vic t o Br a l.
And then, another word – this one clearly legible, untouched by ware or age. Charlotte.
Charlotte? She looked at the scratched out letters again. Vic t o Br a l.
Vic – her eyes widened.
"I know him better than you think, believe me."
Victoria Bradleigh.
"My God," she whispered. Whatever had this woman done before her tenure at Cornell?
"Mina!"
Her eyes darted up – Captain Leigh stood rigidly in the doorframe. Her eyes locked on his for but a moment, but the hard determination in his pale blue irises told her all she needed to know. She shoved the photograph into her pocket quickly, not removing her eyes from his.
"HYDRA. They're coming. We've spotted their tanks about five miles from here – looks like a convoy. We need to get ready."
"Where do you want me positioned?"
"The airfield. It's big, open – plus, they're liable to think that the remainder of the air-fleet that they weren't able to salvage during the last attack might still be there."
"They wouldn't assume that. They'd be fools to – they know better than to think that we've left their weapons untouched."
"Well, yeah. That's true. But Phillips intends to play a bit of hide-n-seek and with 'em. It'll be guerilla fighting – and HYDRA fights old-style."
"Your men will be scattered throughout the base – I'll be the hidden treasure at the center?" she smiled grimly.
"They'll have to get through us to get to you. You'll be the final blow."
"If he doesn't kill all of us in one fell swoop." She muttered. "Do you think he knows?"
"Who?"
"The Red Skull. Do you think he'll suspect my presence here? Do you think he'll know?"
Leigh's gaze hardened. "He's no fool. I'd be surprised if he isn't expecting you here."
"You know, it's really the oddest thing. I want more than anything to finally fight him – to see if I can finally beat the hell out of him. I've dreamt about doing it for so long. And yet, at the same time, I'm terrified."
Leigh's mouth quirked, as if to smile. "We're all terrified. Some of us just hide our fear better than others. You're not alone. You won't be fighting him alone. The rest of us have been up against him before – we won't abandon you."
"Will you say that as he destroys your comrades – your friends – Captain?"
"This is war, Miss Hofstadter. Death is inevitable. You get used to it."
She sighed heavily and nodded. "He will destroy, Captain. As much as he can. I've destroyed for him. But I've never seen him on the battlefield – I'd prefer not to think of what he will be like, if he is anywhere near as ruthless as my uncle."
"He's worse. Trust me on – "
A shattering bang punctuated his words –
Shards of glass spiraled from the already shattered window as the impact of the explosion shook the floor.
Mina looked at Leigh – Leigh stared back at her, eyes wide, but lips set in a grim line. He turned to look at the entrance to the laboratory – not a soul ran through those corridors – not a soul dare break their position, for fear of jeopardizing the plan.
Surprise attack – ambush at all angles.
He looked back at her. "Hold that thought."
XXX
They darted through the winding corridors, heading ever closer for the airfield.
"Why the hell are they shooting already?" Mina shouted. "Why are they shooting – there's no one to shoot at! Everyone's hiding!"
"Or some stupid son of a bitch got scared when he saw them coming and ran. That could be why." Leigh's eyes were blazing blue fire – so eerily like her uncle's, cold and calculating – yet, there was feeling there, real and raw emotion. A mixture of determination, deepest hatred, fear, and anger. "You need to get to the airfield – Phillips is there – he'll tell you what to do." He made to break off from her at the fork into the corridor but Mina stopped short, grabbing his arm.
"Where are you going?"
"To ground-level – I need to see what's going on out there."
"They'll kill you if they see you!"
"Then so be it."
"That's stupid – why would you pay that price, you wouldn't achieve anything! You can't report back if you're dead!"
"Well what the hell else am I supposed to do, huh? Just stand around and wait for them to come and light my ass on fire? Shoot me to ribbons? Is that what I'm supposed to do? Hell, if I'm gonna let them kill me, I might as well be the goddamned welcome wagon while I'm doing it! Hold open the door for the bastards!"
"Leigh – "
"Get to the airfield, Mina! Now!"
XXX
HYDRA Base
The Alps – 1943
The scent of smoke and sulfur wafted on the chill alpine air. With each explosion, shards of twisted metal and rubble sprayed across the air. Johann stood at the forefront, the mountain winds washing over him – clean and pure. He adored Alsace but it was truly much too close to civilization. Too many tourists – although France was practically bereft of them now. One of war's blessings – the entire world seemed quieter. Of course, the earsplitting howls of mothers sobbing over their dead sons' bodies did little to enhance the atmosphere.
But the Alps – that was where his heart belonged, surrounded by the majestic, glorious, snow-capped peaks. Alone, isolated - silent and peaceful. There were no grieving mothers, no heartbroken widows, no whining little children to contend with in the Alps. Simply pure cold air, rock, and snow.
The systematic detonation of HYDRA grenades played like a symphony across the once-silent air, and he felt every muscle in his body flex and clench in exhilaration. The final Revolution. His men were slaughtering the American troops in Alsace – the fools had blindly stepped into his trap, and once more, they would pay the price. Today would not be a battle – it would be a steal. The Americans had completely deserted the place, convinced that HYDRA ran amuck in France. Sharp pearlescent teeth gleamed as his crimson lips pealed apart into a snarling grin. Victory was his – he could practically taste it. A young corporal scurried up to him.
"Herr Schmidt, the entrances have all been cleared – there were a few stragglers wandering the corridors but we have dispatched them."
Johann nodded curtly. "And I trust that you have thoroughly searched interior, Corporal? Entertaining as they might be, I am in no mood for any more surprises."
The corporal nodded eagerly. "Yes, mein Herr – all but the central airfield have been examined, and the troops are carrying out a thorough search presently – in fact, sir, I believe they are finished."
Johann glanced over the corporal's shoulder to affirm – indeed, a battalion jogged out of the main entrance, the metal gnarled from the detonated explosives. No matter – HYDRA would rebuild, as it always had. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Nothing would stand in the way of his progress now.
"Sir, the base has been cleared. Not a soul lingers there, mein Herr." A lieutenant gasped excitedly. "Our progress can finally continue unhindered."
Johann chuckled quietly. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Lieutenant. You exemplify HYDRA's unfailing morale. I commend you." And if you were halfhearted in your search, he thought – with a twinge of bitterness – I will not fail to snap your neck as quickly as I laud it. "Gentlemen, shall we begin?"
He received a staunch 'Hail HYDRA!' in reply.
A wicked grin gnarled his crimson features. We shall rain fire upon them.
Let it begin.
XXX
Leigh crouched behind the gnarled steel of the outermost corridor, biting down hard on his lip as he looked into the glassy, lifeless eyes of one of his fallen comrades – a guard that had been killed in the string of explosions that HYDRA had set off. No doubt they were covering their bases – HYDRA had experienced its fair share of losses; no stone was liable to be left unturned. But he couldn't help the surge of anger he felt in his veins, anger and hatred at these men – these soulless creatures – that killed and destroyed without a second thought, all to achieve the swift creation of an apocalypse. And he wished fervently that he could look into the eyes of the creature they called The Red Skull, look him dead in the eyes and make him suffer for all of the boys he had killed – for Cap. He wanted to see the look on his face when Mina was poised toe to toe with that monster, ready to unleash power that HYDRA could only dream of having in its clutches. Power that had been in its clutches. How would they feel, then? To be beaten by one of their own, or one who had once been? He could only imagine first the shock, then the cold fury that would alight Schmidt's ghastly features when confronted by his own niece.
He felt a twinge of guilt – Mina was bound to discover eventually that her uncle and the monster that she believed was his master were one and the same. And perhaps – perhaps some part of her already knew that they were one and the same. But she had said as much to him – she would cling to the hope that her uncle could be redeemed, until the absolute truth had been presented to her, until she could see with her own eyes that this man was far beyond redemption. Could he blame her? Leigh was the son of a drunk – but that drunk was an Admiral in the United States Navy, an Annapolis graduate, a man of esteem. No one ever heeded his calls for help when the Admiral became the Drunk, beating him senseless with a broken bottle. No one ever saw the Drunk – not even his mother, who had spent countless hours covering up her bruises, bruises received at the Drunk's hand. The mask that Johann Schmidt donned was not unlike the pristine dress whites that the Admiral donned, smoothing away the glaring, harsh flaws that the outside world was not privy to. And Leigh had tried – in vain, albeit – to redeem his father, too. He had tried so desperately to placate the Drunk, to please the Admiral. He had tried for so long to turn a blind eye to his father's abuse, clinging desperately to the notion that maybe, maybe one day, his father would change.
But change would never come, and the rift between them would only deepen. Leigh knew the consequence of wishful thinking, and he knew painfully well that what had happened to him would happen to Mina in due time. She needed to accept her uncle's nature – she needed to accept what he was, or else it would tear her apart when the cold, hard reality finally dawned on her. Reality was not kind. It would slap you in the face, come down on you like a sack of bricks. It had no sympathy for wishful thinking, for vain and pointless hope. And for Mina – reality would be truly destructive. For Mina, he could see plainly, had been loved. Schmidt might be brilliant, cunning, deceitful – but the love and devotion that Mina clearly had for him could not have been fabricated. And why else would she have that deep devotion, if such devotion had not been given to her? Leigh had never had his father's love – he had only ever felt the rage of the Drunk and the cold, calculating indifference of the Admiral. His love was one-sided, and so it was that much easier to let it decay as the years went on, knowing that to hold on to such love would be pointless, as it would never be reciprocated. But Mina – it was so painfully obvious in her stormy grey eyes, in her soft voice, her grim determination. Schmidt might be a monster, but to this girl, he had been something entirely different, something Leigh could not possibly imagine.
But it was plain to see – the monster in Schmidt was slowly revealing itself to this girl, and it was tearing her apart. And it would tear her apart, if she did not see the truth, and soon.
XXX
The airfield was empty and cold – picked over by HYDRA scouts, eagerly sniffing out stragglers. They had caught a few, and she watched in painful silence as several young Americans had been shot with tesseract-powered rifles, their bodies obliterated in mid-air. But the HYDRA scouts did little more than briefly survey the area, ignoring the fact that the airfield itself was a vast honeycomb of alcoves and niches, hiding hundreds of American soldiers, poised for attack. They were either fools, or extremely confident. Or, even more likely, they truly believed that the Americans were idiotic buffoons who would simply stand in the middle of the airfield, in plain sight, waiting to be shot down.
She could stomach their foolishness better than their confidence. HYDRA's weakness – Johann's weakness – was arrogance. It was a lesson that they had still failed to learn, and she knew that to exploit it would be to secure victory. They were too confident, and confident men fell the furthest. She looked to her right, where Colonel Chester Phillips was crouched, steely and silent. She waited until the last of the HYDRA scouts had vacated the place, no doubt scurrying to tell their master that all was clear.
"Colonel," she breathed, her heart pounding.
Phillips cast a sidelong glance, but his eyes flitted quickly back to their fixed stare. He did not speak.
"I want to go out there." She spoke so softly as to be practically inaudible.
Phillips tensed beside her. "What, and be a piñata for them to shoot at when they bust the doors down? Do I look crazy, Miss Hofstadter?"
"I would be alone – or appear to be alone. It would play nicely into their confidence – thinking that perhaps I was giving myself up to them. If I were alone, they would be less likely to launch into a barrage of gunfire – they are wary of me, but they would be curious, too. It would stall them – it would give your men time. It would give me time. Time to set things alight."
"If you're alone, how I am to know you won't go running into their arms?" He hissed bitterly.
"If I were to do that, your snipers would have a prime target. At any rate, if I am dead, HYDRA would not have the weapon they want so dearly."
"They would still have the tesseract."
"You have never had the tesseract, and yet your Captain Rogers more than gave them a run for their money."
"I had a super soldier. Now I've got you. You're worth more to me dead than alive."
"If I am worth more to you alive, Colonel, I would beg you to trust me. You have trusted me once – please trust me again. I hold no sympathy for these men – they have tortured me. The Red Skull has tortured me." There was decided bitterness in her tone.
"You have sympathy for Johann Schmidt."
"You tell me that Johann Schmidt and the monster I believe to be his master are the same person."
"Do you believe that?"
"I do not know yet. I want to see it with my own eyes. If you let me confront him, perhaps I would have a chance to do so."
Phillips was silent, but she could tell that he was carefully weighing his options.
"You have to trust me at some point, Colonel. I cannot be of much use to you if you do not. You cannot well utilize my power if my hands are tied." She knew she was being cocky, but the words had escaped her tongue before she could reel them in. She desperately wanted Phillips' trust – needed his trust. She could do nothing for him without it, and without it, running back to HYDRA seemed like the most logical alternative. Without his trust, she was a prisoner, and powerless against the men that wanted her skin. She would truly be lost.
The colonel glared at her coldly – his eyes were only on her for a moment, but it felt like ages.
"I will not hesitate to kill you, Miss Hofstadter."
She nodded silently in understanding. She waited as Phillips silently motioned for his men to hold their fire, and she peeled herself away from the cold chrome wall, edging out towards the railing that divided the observation deck and the cavernous maw of the airfield. The vast expanse of chrome and steel was finely dusted in crystal-white snow, the scattered footprints of HYDRA soldiers the only hint that humanity had ever touched the hulking metal shell.
Her ears pricked at the sound of approaching footsteps – the clatter of HYDRA jack-boots echoing noisily through the winding catacombs of the HYDRA base. She dropped to her knees and pressed herself against the thick metal railing. She watched with gritted teeth as HYDRA troops flooded the room – anywhere from two hundred to two hundred and fifty men, silent, black-clad, their faces concealed by heavy leather masks. The airfield was dark and silent, save for the electric torches of the HYDRA scouts, but their probing lights no longer scoured the room for intruders. Rather, they were assembling, waiting for their master, no doubt. Mina shuddered at the image of that hideous crimson skin, sharp teeth peeking out from ghoulish lips that twisted into an ugly smirk.
A bolt of rage shot through her veins, and without another thought, she vaulted herself over the railing, plummeting into the sea of soldiers below.
XXX
The impact was astounding – the explosion of HYDRA gunfire, the surge of advancing soldiers like a tidal wave crashing against her, the searing sheets of blue fire that peeled away from her flesh, setting the scene alight. What began as a blur of ever-quickening movements seemed to slow to a halting crawl as time froze around her, the charging HYDRA soldiers suspended in the air. Bodies charging forward, bodies obliterated, bodies thrown into the air, the sounds of cracking limbs and agonized screams so perfectly crystal-clear in her ears. Crashing waves of humanity – she felt like Moses, parting the ocean. It felt righteous, but it also felt horrifying. It felt exhilarating, but also sobering. But the mixture of fear and lust disintegrated almost immediately, to be replaced by one thing. Rage. For at the center of it all stood one terrifyingly familiar figure.
He stood there like a god, hooded eyes coldly surveying the carnage before him. The blood red of his flesh was amplified by the stark black leather of his uniform, spine erect, broad shoulders proudly thrust back in a position of pure and raw power. There was no fear in his eyes, no shock, not even anger. He stood so perfectly still, like a statue hewn from a block of granite. There was nothing there but cold – a cold that sank so deeply into her bones that she could feel his touch against her skin, even now.
He mocked her. He didn't have the gall to smirk at her now, but the ice in his eyes chafed at her so relentlessly – it was as if he was willing her to lash out, to perform like a circus lion before him. She wanted to see his fear, to see his shock, to see his realization that his plans were falling apart before him again. But he would not give it to her – he was above her, and he expected her to fall to her knees before him.
It felt like hours had passed, her staring at him with hate and rage; he, glossing over her with distaste. She was not worthy enough for his reaction.
Hours, it felt like. But merely only a split second, her eyes meeting his for but a moment before she sprang.
XXX
Johann felt the heat of her onslaught long before she reached him, the blazing blue fire that exploded from her palms as smoothly as water jutting from a geyser. She blazed forward like the fabled Firebird, and behind her, a surge of beige uniforms charged forth like hounds after an ever-elusive fox. He licked his lips, a twinge of anger itching in his veins. His scouts had been pompous, and pomposity bred carelessness. Still – it mattered little. Those foolish young boys would not stand a chance against his weapons. Already their agonized screams echoed against the soaring walls of steel and chrome – they would all die, soon enough. He had cares only for one, now. He braced himself for the impact, knowing all too well that he could no longer toy with her emotions – she would not be stalled as readily as she would have if he'd been flaunting a flimsy silicon mask.
Perhaps in another time, he would have hesitated – questioned what he was about to do, agonized over the impulsiveness of it.
This time, everything would be different.
He drew his gun, and fired.
He watched with grim satisfaction as the blue blaze sliced through the air, homing in on its target with perfect accuracy. He knew, of course, that the shot would do little to halt her advance. Rather, he was more interested to see how she reacted to it – how she handled the oncoming fire.
Like twin flames, the arcing fire of from his pistol raced toward the girl that, in turn, raced toward him, closer and closer –
The explosion of fractured blue light was both fantastic and horrific. The sheer force of the collision hurled him backward, chrome and metal spiraling before his eyes before he was thrust into a wall of solid steel.
He slid to the floor, a sharp, stabbing pain throbbing in his ribs. He blinked rapidly, his vision clouded by pain. Through the smoke and stench of scorching metal and flesh, he could just begin to see the outline of a young girl, struggling to stand amid the blazing blue of his troops' rifles, and the familiar rattle of American semiautomatics. Her frame shuddered and quaked – she too had been violently thrown off her feet.
A pang of guilt threatened to overtake him, but he shoved it down, willing every trace of hurt, of love, of compassion to wither within him.
This girl had ruined everything. Had ruined him.
Cold fury shot through his veins. She would suffer today. No petty sentimentality would stand in the way of that sure fate.
He hauled his wracked frame up from the ground, throwing his shoulders back, feeling the weight of his leather uniform against his stiff muscles. He clenched his gloved fists and stalked forward, blazing blue fire and bullets flying every which way, darting around him, barely licking at his flesh.
She was mere feet away from him now, her thin frame trembling and convulsing, her eyes glassy as she propped herself up on her hands, trying desperately to stand. She was still so very flawed, still too weak to sustain the Gods' forces for long stretches. She had harnessed the power, but the energy it required to be sustained sapped her flimsy human frame of strength. Blue sparks flew up from her fingertips in short, uneven bursts. Sweat dripped from her skin, turned ghostly white – the power was trying desperately to free itself, to escape the confines of her body, but she had been badly weakened.
He lashed out with the toe of his jackboot, hitting her squarely in the chest. She cried out in pain, collapsing again to the ground. This time, she did not try to rise. She lay there, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. He stalked towards her like a beast cornering its prey.
"Get up!" he snarled at her. The toe of his boot caught her jaw, wrenching her head backward, causing her to yelp again, agony written across her features. She tried again to rise, lifting herself up to rest on her hands, but the strength in her arms gave out. She crumbled like a weak shell. He bent down and grabbed her collar, hauling her up until he was looking straight into her wide, grey eyes. Tears of pain and fatigue streamed down her ashen cheeks; blood stained her lips, wide gashes from where her teeth had gnashed against them beginning to swell. Pure terror seemed to drain the life from her feeble frame and she sagged in his grip like a broken doll.
"Do you feel powerful, girl?" He sneered at her, tightening his grip on her neck. "Fighting for a hopeless cause, fighting for a race that is doomed to destroy itself?"
Her eyes were glassy, staring at him lifelessly. She looked so hollow, so empty, void of life. He felt his grip begin to tremble ever so slightly, and his throat seemed to seize up at the sight of her – No.
He would not succumb to weakness. He could repent for his sins another day, but now was no time to crumble beneath the weight of foolish emotions.
He threw her – sent her flying like a ragdoll across the vast expanse of chrome and steel. Her thin frame slammed against the broad steel wall of the airfield with a wickedly satisfying thwack, and slid to the floor, motionless. She did not even cry out.
Sharp, hot pain rippled through his right shoulder blade as a bullet grazed his flesh. He whirled around to face a comically young American soldier, dark hair pasted to his forehead, sweat pouring from his flesh. Johann fixed a menacing glare on the boy, watching the color drain from his face. The boy gawked at him for but a moment and then, so very predictably, charged at him, rifle held up like a battle axe. Determined to sacrifice his life for the star spangled banner.
Johann caught his throat before the boy's fingers could pull at the trigger again, snapping his neck with a crushing squeeze.
Another soldier flew at him, but a roundhouse kick to the skull sent him careening high into the air. His screams played on the air like a symphony as he plummeted down, falling directly into the path of a HYDRA gunman's fire.
This was child's play. His gaze swiveled to the wall where the crumpled body of his niece – was nowhere to be found.
His eyes darted wildly.
A searing jolt of fire threw him forward, his knees buckling beneath him. Another blow to his back – this one dealt by the toe of a boot, not by an otherworldly blast of burning fire. He fell forward again, the tang of blood flooding into his mouth. He splayed his gloved fingers against the floor, pushing himself up to rebound – but the boot came down again, hard.
"Do you feel powerful?" A voice snarled from behind him.
That voice. Her voice – a young girl's voice, overlaid with the rich tones of a thousand gods, channeling their power through her.
A little girl's voice – a little girl that had been forced to grow up far too soon, a little girl that had been viciously pried from his arms, from his protection.
"Get up!" There was so much hate in her voice – so much raw fury. Directed at him.
He tried again to stand, but her boot remained firm against his spine, digging into the bone.
"I said, get up!" She screamed raggedly. He pushed up against her weight, but her strength was evenly matched with his – she shoved down hard, thrusting him into the steel floor. His teeth gnashed down on his tongue, filling his mouth with blood. He bit his lip, stifling the moan that begged to escape. But the weight suddenly lifted, allowing the fog of pain in his eyes to clear, if only slightly. The hollow clap of booted feet hitting the ground caused the steel beneath his skin to vibrate, setting his ears to ringing.
His vision spotted, sharp twinges of pain throbbing at every point of his body. He lifted his head just high enough to blink wearily at the figure that stood before him.
The grey eyes that had once been glassy now stared down at him with icy fury.
"Hard to stand when a crushing weight is driving you down, isn't it?"
"Mina," he rasped, disgusted at the weakness his voice betrayed.
"Stand up!" Murder glowed in her eyes savagely – it was so very unnerving, to see such raw anger in her once innocent eyes.
Obediently, he stood, keeping his face neutral – refusing to let his body betray the pain that throbbed within him. He gazed at her levelly, her grey eyes startlingly indifferent. He stifled a shudder, realizing how those cold grey eyes mirrored his own. He had looked at her with such indifference before, leaving her to weep, to cry out for him, to beg for his love, for his forgiveness.
"I can make this stop, Mina. The nightmares, all your fears – I can make it all go away. You don't have to fight anymore, you don't have to run. You will not ever have to be afraid again." He kept his eyes riveted to hers, gazing into her, watching her gaze visibly falter. His voice was quiet and measured – disarmingly gentle. But for once, it was not a lie. This was not a mask that he was dawning, a ruse that he was creating to tug at her feeble heartstrings. Truly, he meant his words – the honesty of it startled even him, and yet, it felt so righteous.
He reached out to her, gloved hand open, ready to take hers. "Come with me, Mina. Your uncle misses you." I miss you.
But the cracks in her stony gaze seemed to seize up, the fiery anger burning in her eyes with renewed strength.
"I will never come with you." She spat the words like poison. She stalked toward him, closing the gap between them, coming to stand toe to toe with him. "You will fight me. And I will kill you."
The blood in his veins turned to ice. His teeth grated, his fists clenched. All traces of compassion for that traitorous girl died as quickly as they had been brought to life. "So be it."
He lashed out with his fist, striking her jaw cleanly, watching in satisfaction as a stream of blood burst from her mouth. He swung out with his leg, his boot hitting her chest, knocking the air from her lungs.
"Where are you powers girl? If you want to fight me, then fight me. Make me feel alive! Not as though I am fighting a corpse!"
In turn, she lashed out at him with a sheet of searing fire that washed over his flesh. But he knew the pain of fire, the writhing fury of its slow burn. The scientist in him, however, knew that he was taking his life into his hands were he to chance allowing her flames to touch his flesh.
But, now was no time for second thoughts.
He walked through her cascade of flames, feeling only a light tingling against his skin, the heavy leather of his uniform protecting him from its wrath.
"You stupid little thing," he sneered. "I am a child of fire – your heat cannot possibly cause me more suffering than I've already endured."
Her body seemed to explode in front of him, cascades of blue fire erupting from her palms, her eyes – her whole body seemed to glow as it was lifted into the air by divine force. This fire was vastly different though – before, it had been orange flames, finely veined with blue.
Now, pure turquoise fire shot from her palms, free of impurities.
No wonder he had survived her earlier barrage – she was tiring, rapidly losing strength. As her energy sapped, her power lost its deadly accuracy – a common man, of course, could not survive her heat, but a superior one could.
Lamentably, fire was something he could not readily produce himself. He might survive her scorching heat for a time, but he had nothing to defend himself against it.
Or rather, perhaps he did.
He had committed to memory every detail of the infrastructure of this base, down to every single nut and bolt. Beyond the floors, walls, and ceilings of every corridor, every corner, and every room lay a complex network of concealed weaponry, installed for the sole purpose of protecting its master from harm.
The steel floors beneath his feet contained thousands of intricate metal tubes, filled with well over two tons of gunpowder. Levers quietly built into the walls at regular intervals enabled him to ignite the powder from virtually any location in the airfield, creating walls of fire to protect him from enemy onslaughts. With the flick of a switch, the fire would die as quickly as it was lit.
At peak strength, no doubt she could stride through that fire with ease. But – she was visibly exhausted. Sweat poured down her ashen flesh, her brow furrowed with the strain of fatigue and pain. The blue fire that cascaded from her outstretched hands seemed to flicker and gasp before him. Her arms trembled as the fire shot through her.
The power was far too strong for its human host, despite her heightened abilities, and it threatened to consume her.
Perhaps in defeating her, he was doing her a favor.
His eyes darted to his left – the nearest lever was roughly 30 feet away. If he took care to dodge her oncoming fire, he could manage the sprint to it.
His gloved hand hovered over his left side – a tesseract-powered pistol was holstered at his right side, but a traditional pistol, loaded with bullets, was poised at his left.
The tesseract's force was nothing against her – but bullets could still puncture her all too human flesh. They did not blur through the air with a flash of light – they were near silent, invisible on the air.
He needed to make his move.
Mina was tensed before him, no more than fifty feet away, body trembling with the force of the power that coursed through her, eyes glowing blue, blind to the world before her, fully consumed by the strength of the gods.
He dove at the lever, simultaneously reaching for the pistol at his side.
XXX
Everything happened so quickly – from the first shots fired to the last surges of clashing American soldiers and HYDRA troopers – screaming blue fire competing for airspace with humming bullets.
Everything had been orchestrated so carefully – albeit at the last minute.
The first wave of American soldiers was supposed to attack first – they were the first surge of force that HYDRA was supposed to incur, with wave upon wave of American battalions being systematically dispatched, a deluge of manpower that would completely overtake the unprepared and badly outmatched HYDRA forces. Then – and only then – would Mina attack, lashing out with the full force of her power, the final blow against the HYDRA troopers. The young German girl possessed otherworldly powers, yes, but they could not risk exhausting her physically before the HYDRA forces had been significantly diminished. God only knew what tricks Schmidt was hiding – they simply couldn't afford to exhaust the girl before the battle was won.
And yet, the plan had fallen apart at the seams.
The screams of dying men – men on both sides – seemed to blend together in one horrible, cacophonous symphony.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Mina stood at the center of it all, yes, but what Robert Leigh saw from his bombed out alcove of gnarled, melting chrome and steel made him shudder.
It had all happened so quickly.
He'd been dodging HYDRA troopers' blazing flame-throwers, punching and thrashing furiously, flailing desperately in an attempt to stop the enemy onslaught. Only when he'd sought shelter to reload his semiautomatic had he discovered that his comrades were accomplishing little out in the wide open airfield. He saw bodies – bodies littering the floor, bodies flying into the air like toy rockets before being vaporized by blinding blue light. Bodies clad in beige uniforms; terrifyingly few dressed in black leather uniforms.
And at the center of it all – a young girl, hanging limply from the iron grip of a blood-red monster.
What had happened in the space of mere minutes – it felt like hours.
He watched in a mixture of paralyzing shock and terror as Schmidt had thrown her like a ragdoll – the goddess careening through the air, no otherworldly power to lift her up. The sickening 'crack' with which she had hit the steel wall made his blood go cold, and it suddenly became terrifyingly apparent that this girl was all too human.
This was not the plan.
But she had risen – she loosed on Schmidt a palpable, coldblooded rage that colored her every feature – there were no second thoughts to be had in this girl, no traitorous actions – or if there were, she was truly a supreme actress.
They fought with an almost otherworldly grace, like practiced dancers – raw and electrified with the intensity of their movements, yet calculated and deadly accurate. The torrent of cold wrath that Schmidt had unleashed on her was returned in full as she threw him down with a blast of vicious fire, stomping her heel into his spine, knocking him down nearly every time he tried desperately to rise.
It was magnificent.
But her power waned and her body trembled with exhaustion, fighting to maintain that blasting cascade of fire that seemed to flow like water from her outstretched palms.
Quakes and tremors wracked her frame uncontrollably; sweat poured down her face as she fought to sustain the fire, which now came in short, pulsating gasps.
Vaporizing blue fire, spawned from the tesseract's might turned to mere mortal orange flame, a wall of fire that Schmidt simply walked through, as if he were some hellish incarnation of Moses, parting a sea of deadly fire. He taunted her, the pure raw arrogance in his voice making Leigh's blood boil with hate.
The goddess girl seemed to explode with raw fire at his taunts, and her body shook so violently with the force surging through her that she appeared on the verge of collapse, her limbs relinquishing their control entirely.
Schmidt stood mere feet away from her, staring at her with a look of such cold, calculating indifference – not a trace of fatherly love glimmered in the backdrop of his ice blue eyes – no tormented grief or guilt strained his sharply hewn features. Nothing betrayed the man that Mina Hofstadter spoke of with such blind devotion.
No, Leigh saw only a creature of hellish proportions, pure malice dripping from his features, murderous calculation gleaming in his hooded eyes.
Schmidt moved only a fraction before Leigh lunged across the airfield.
XXX
Her body felt as if it had been hit by a hurtling locomotive – every bone in her body registering the splitting pain of every blow he had dealt her. Her head pounded so loudly, the richly layered voices of the gods of Asgard blurring together into an ungodly cacophony in her ears.
She needed it to stop, the deluge of power that coursed through her. There was not a single muscle in her body that did not cry out in fatigued agony, and yet – she did not want to. No – he had mocked her, he had beaten her, he had tossed her about like a rag doll and sneered at her as if she were merely a stupid child. This was all a game to him – he relished that power play, pushing her down every time she tried to rise.
And then – to throw her uncle's love in her face, to sob so pitifully about how Johann missed her.
No, that creature would not win – not today, not ever. She would destroy him, here and now – she had to.
But her limbs were so numb, so wracked with pain – the fire came in short uneven bursts, as if it were gasping for air. There was so much power within her – so much to be unleashed, and yet, her body was still so frail, so human, so unable to sustain it.
Let go.
,
He was there – right in front of her, encased in black leather, vivid crimson skin like blood against the stark silver backdrop of chrome.
But her sight was sluggish with fatigue – he darted out of view, but her eyes were slow to follow, dragged down by exhaustion and pain.
Let go.
Her heart pounded in her chest – one last burst – one last burst of power, that was all she needed. She could destroy him.
Searing pain set every muscle in her leg on fire.
She felt her knees buckle beneath her, the fire flowing from her outstretched palms suddenly vanishing from the air like an extinguished candle, dragging with it the cacophonous noise in her ears. The gravity of her injuries, of the power leaving her body so forcefully, pressed down on her like a crushing weight, dragging her to the ground. Her skull collided with the steel floor with a solid crack, blood pouring from her mouth as her teeth gnashed down hard against her tongue.
But the cold steel felt so heavenly against her hot flesh – oh, she longed for the taste of alpine snow, of cold gusty winds – of silence.
Strong arms came around her, lifting her from the ground. A wall of orange fire seemed to separate her from the crimson beast beyond – had he created his own fire, to combat her?
She could barely hear herself screaming – crying out in desperation, begging whoever held her to let her go, to let her kill the madman that had brainwashed her uncle.
But the arms were clamped like steel around her, and a familiar voice – a strange Southern American accent – seemed to scream with everything in him, "Athena's down! Athena's down!"
Then, there was blackness.
XXX
HYDRA Base
The Alps – 1943
16 Hours Later
His fingers twitched with the memory of the trigger beneath them, the hollow ring of gunshot vibrating in his ears. A wall of vast fire rising up – separating him from the fallen goddess before him, the one that came so disturbingly close to destroying him. Traditional bullets still served him well, successfully disarming his opponent.
He felt no guilt whatsoever at his actions, no second thoughts about the brutality with which he had fought against her. She had asked for it; she had welcomed the bloodletting.
But of course, why would she not have? Here was not her uncle, but a monster that intended to kill her.
So it was so very satisfying to know that Johann Schmidt would die today. Then, his wayward niece would have no one left to run to for shelter or protection other than the Red Skull. The beacon of "safety" in her life, or what she thought of as safety, would be effectively eliminated. She would have no other choice. And he felt confidently that her usefulness to the Americans would soon be running its course – especially after the day's performance. Magnificent as it was, she had still ultimately failed to achieve her purpose: to vanquish the Americans' most hated enemy, more despised than Hitler himself.
He strongly doubted that they would reward her with high marks for effort. As it was, the Americans had lost their chief weapon to HYDRA's might; no doubt they still smarted over the death of young Steven Rogers. No doubt they held their new weapon at an arm's length – her failure today was nothing short of a strike against her, and he relished the thought of how they might punish her. Where would she run to, then, if her precious Americans were to throw her out by the scruff of her neck? Where would she flee to then?
Now, she would have no one to flee to – but him.
She would come. The helplessness that had made her eyes grow large, her body limp and lifeless in his grip – there was so much fear within her, so much fragility. She was weak, and he would manipulate her feeble emotions until she fell to her knees before him, begging for his grace.
There would be no raw rage left within her to show him – only lifeless submission. No anger, not even fear – she would give up, and give in to his might.
Johann watched indifferently as the wounds of a fallen HYDRA lieutenant were silently sutured, the raw stitches across his ashen flesh the only remnants of the American bullets that had slain in him. He was a tall young man, roughly his own height, give or take a centimeter, and he was lanky and slim. The scorched and torn uniform that he had once worn was now stripped from his body, and his white skin held taut and firm as it was injected liberally with embalming chemicals. He had silvery blond hair, but that mattered little. His eyes were a glassy ice blue, and they would be the only feature of this man to peak out from beneath layers of expertly crafted silicon. His hands would be gloved, his body shrouded in a stark black dress uniform, overlaid with a heavy leather coat, the silver HYDRA insignia gleaming on the lapel. The synthetic face pieces would be fastened to his flesh with a strong adhesive, so as not to slide out of place during its journey to the west, to London – the Allied Headquarters. It mattered little, truth be told, if they were to remove the mask from its new owner – in fact, he really truly hoped that they did. Oh, it would be the perfect touch of irony in his little drama. The Americans knew exactly who he was, after all. No flimsy silicon mask diluted their grasp of reality.
The only one who remained unaware of his connection to his grotesque alter ego was Wilhelmina. And what a perfectly cruel way to upend everything she believed in when she discovered that all that had divided her doting uncle from the horrific beast of her nightmares was a fake face.
Indeed – it would finally teach her the lesson that he had been simply too weak – too afraid – to teach her. She had betrayed him. Now, it was his turn.
With a flourish, he signed the initials R.S. onto creamy white stationary, emblazoned in stark black with the HYDRA insignia.
The obituary.
He grinned wickedly. Ah yes – the art of suicide.
XXX
American Barracks
London, England – 1943
24 Hours Later
Walls of blazing fire – a ghoulish, crimson face with eyes of ice, staring into her soul, his slender fingers wrapped around her throat.
Searing pain – of fractured bones, of torn muscles, of bullet wounds? So much seething, writhing pain – so much noise.
Strong arms lifting her – a familiar voice screaming at the top of his lungs, running his vocal chords ragged.
Athena's down! Athena's down!
Retreat! Retreat!
We've lost sight of him – Schmidt – he's vanished!
Athena's down! We can't keep this up – we can't do it without her! She's all we've got!
Athena's been shot! The girl's been shot! Schmidt shot her in the leg!
Stop the bleeding! Stop the bleeding! He hit an artery – she'll bleed out! Get the tourniquet! No – we'll lose the leg!
Lay her down! Lay her down! Easy then – easy!
Pain so vivid, her head pounding, throbbing.
Surely it was all a dream – she would wake up in Uncle's arms, she knew it, hearing his gentle and loving voice, feeling his gloved fingers tousling her hair, feeling his lips on her forehead, softly kissing her goodnight.
All a dream.
Mina.
Mina.
A familiar voice calling out to her – calling
Calling
Calling
"Miss Hofstadter!"
Her eyes snapped open. She bolted upright and wrenching pain shot through her leg.
"Easy now, easy." His hands – Captain Leigh's – flew out to grab her shoulders firmly, steadying her. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"No, no that's alright." She took in a gulp of air, clearing her throat. Her voice was raw and raspy from disuse. She lifted a hand to her pounding head, massaging it in the hopes of alleviating the horrible throbbing in her skull. "God what happened to me?"
"You were shot."
"By him?"
"If by him you are referring to the "Red Skull", then yes."
Mina closed her eyes. "Where is he now?"
"Probably having a celebratory glass of schnapps in the Alps." Leigh answered bluntly. "Sadly the only thing we achieved was drawing Skull out of his hideout. While we were able to kill roughly 40 percent of HYDRA's onslaught, we lost more than double that to their rifles. And while it looked like you were well on your way to killing him in the beginning, he was smart enough to realize that your power could be exhausted. He waited until you'd practically burnt yourself out to pull a gun on you. He hit your femoral artery – we had no choice but to retreat. As it is, you nearly bled out – and if we'd lost you, we wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against HYDRA's weaponry."
"We've lost HYDRA's main base, then. They've reclaimed their headquarters."
"That is correct."
Her heart seemed to turn to concrete, pounding sluggishly against her ribcage. "Oh God. Captain Leigh, I am so sorry."
"It wasn't your fault – you didn't fire the shot. We were well on our way to winning – but we asked for too much. Phillips should've known, I should've known that you're still a human. You get tired like the rest of us." His voice was soft and he seemed as though he was trying to offer her reassurance. But the somber note in his tone made his words hollow. "Besides. That's the least of your worries right now."
Mina looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"
Leigh shifted uncomfortably. "HYDRA seems to have left you a – a very cruel and unusual gift."
She blinked. "I do not like the sound of that."
"I don't suspect you'll appreciate the look of it either." He answered grimly.
"Leigh, what is it? A ticking time bomb, a grenade set to detonate at my touch, what in God's name have they done – what is it?"
He was silent for a moment. "It's a slap in the face. That's what it is." He answered.
She eyed him levelly. "Show me."
XXX
A body.
It lay in its black wrappings, a tall and lanky man with silvery blond hair, and ice blue eyes that had been stiffly embalmed, ensuring that they remained open, staring glassily at the ceiling. It wore a stark black uniform, modeled after those worn by the SS. A small pewter skull with curling tentacles was pinned to the lapel, opposite a Death's Head – the one remaining connection to Hitler's Reich. A closer examination of the face revealed a sticky, white reside on the flesh. Something had covered it, and this was what remained of liquid adhesive that had been applied to the dead man's features. Whatever had covered it had been sliced away with a jackknife, tearing pieces of the man's hardened flesh along with it. A creamy white envelope, emblazoned with a – already broken – wax seal bearing the HYDRA insignia, was tucked into the folds of the corpse's jacket.
She stared at it intensely – stupidly hoping that it could be willed away. She looked to Colonel Phillips, who stood before her, gazing at her with his steely eyes, waiting patiently as she assessed the body.
"Shall I open it?" she said softly, flatly. There was no emotion left within her to be expressed.
He nodded silently. She closed her eyes, and drew a sharp breath inward. She bent and retrieved the envelope, and with trembling fingers, she lifted . The letter within was written on matching stationary, in a curling script that she knew achingly well. Johann's practiced calligraphy – a sign of wealth and intellect, not the illegible scrawl of a once-upon-a-time street urchin.
She read it aloud.
"My dear girl,
I offer my sincerest apologies for the brutal treatment that you were subjected to during our most recent meeting. I had so hoped that when we met again, it would be on much more congenial terms. It is truly a shame that you are still so very unwilling to accept HYDRA's offer of safe haven, and of asylum. I promised you protection, and you have spurned my generosity by fleeing to my enemies – your enemies. You will then, of course, forgive my wrath upon meeting you again in the Alps. I do not take kindly to having my graciousness thrown back in my face, and your utter betrayal of everything I and your uncle have labored to offer you is simply insulting. I would beg you to believe that I had no intention of killing you, nor wounding you, but alas, my anger got the better of me.
I have done a dreadful thing, Wilhelmina, and I would ask that you accept this token with my sincerest and most heartfelt condolences. You see, my dear, it was not at all my desire to send you a coffin this day. Your uncle was perhaps my most trusted confidante, a brilliant scientist and, given your vast intellect and talent, a most loving and thoughtful guardian. My heart is broken, knowing that I have lost such a valuable asset, and moreover, a dear friend. Whatever divisions keep us separated, my dear girl, I knew that I had to put aside my anger with you in order to ensure that your uncle's remains be entrusted to good and loving hands."
She looked up from the disgusting words before her, hearing that wretched creature's horrible voice purring in her ear with saccharine sweetness. "That is not my uncle's body." She stared at Phillips, matching his steely gaze with one of burgeoning rage.
But the colonel remained expressionless. "Keep reading."
She furrowed her brows and scowled indignantly, but never the less, she continued.
"You see, my dear, when my officers delivered to me the news that you had massacred my scouts in the outskirts of London some days ago, I was certain that this was not merely an act of betrayal. I knew that this was a declaration of war. I knew in my heart that I could not allow Johann to be further disillusioned by his desperate hopes for your redemption. His niece or not, I could no longer afford to forgive your actions. I could not bring myself to deliver the news to Johann personally, for I knew it would devastate him to the point of insanity. I only hoped that he would manage to contain himself in time, so as not to harm those who surrounded him.
My hopes were in vain. I had dispatched an officer to brief Johann – that officer did not return. At the time, Johann had been testing a prototype in one of my laboratories with twenty of my junior scientists expecting to learn from his refined hand. The news of your betrayal devastated him so crushingly that it drove him over the edge. I began to suspect that something terribly wrong had occurred a mere hour after my officer had not returned. Imagine my horror entering a laboratory littered with bodies – his own included. You see, child, your uncle murdered every man in that room, and then took his own life – because of you, because of your actions. But all of that matters little, now. I only hope that, deep within you, you still love your uncle enough to honor his life and his legacy with a proper burial.
Until we meet again, my little goddess,
R.S."
Her blood boiled in her veins. She looked up at Phillips, angry tears brimming in her eyes, every muscle in her body on fire with rage. "Is this some kind of joke? What the hell is he talking about? That is not my uncle's body – what kind of insanity is this? Can someone please tell me what in god's name this is all supposed to mean?"
Phillips lowered his head slightly, his steely gaze turning chillingly morose. "Leigh, bring the mask."
Mina's eyes darted to her left, where Leigh stood rigidly straight. She looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in front of him. But as he lifted them up, she could see that they held something – some sort of strange material.
He looked her dead in the eyes, and in the softest of tones, he said, "This is your uncle's mask."
Her head spun, and her blood slowed to sludge within her veins as she mechanically lifted her outstretched palms, accepting the silicon face that Leigh bestowed upon her.
Silicon that had been painstakingly molded and shaped into an ashen complexion, with dark brown fabricated hair, thin lips, gaping holes for ice-blue eyes to stare out of, and a dark red seam at what would have been the wearer's neck.
And suddenly – terrifyingly – everything fell into place at once.
Johann habitually cracking his jaw with a deft flick of his gloved hand, probing at his jawbone instinctively, probing at shifted silicon, gently easing it back into position. Always cracking and probing.
That night in the Alps – Johann clutching his cheek where she had struck him, the skin around his left eye tugged downward, revealing blood-red beneath.
She had wondered so fervently why the Red Skull had never once shown up to her trials, to watch her exercise her newfound powers. That monster and the man she had thought to be her uncle had never once appeared in the same room, at the same time – it was always one or other, never ever both.
She had always wondered why that monster's voice sounded so achingly familiar, why she felt as though she had seen his ice-blue eyes a thousand times before.
She had always wondered why Colonel Phillips and Captain Leigh seemed to insist that Johann Schmidt and the Red Skull were one and the same.
"Come with me, Mina. Your uncle misses you."
The life seemed to spill from her body and she crumbled to the floor in a heap of misshapen limbs.
And she screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
Until the sharp twinge of a tranquilizer being jabbed into her arm dragged her into darkness.
