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Chapter 39

…And Even Demon's May Weep

Midtown Manhattan

Hank Pym raced from the Quinjet, his heart thudding in his chest as he sprinted to his wife. Even in the darkness, lit only by streetlamps and the flashing of police cars and ambulances, he could see blood pouring down her forehead. She was holding her right arm gingerly as she stood on a huge chunk of brick and mortar, capped with a large slab of charred marble, the fireplace from the grand ballroom…or it had been, Hank thought, grimly. Jan was speaking to a score of heroes gathered around her. Her eyes brightened as she spotted him, but she tilted her hand, signaling him to hold back as she continued her conference.

"All right people, I know we're still reeling, but we have to get on-point, right now. I've just heard from our liaison with the police department. A mechanized Hydra force is mounting an attack on the UN, while a group of supervillains led by Moses Magnum is attacking the power stations downtown. We'll split into two teams. I'll lead the UN group—Susan, you and Reed head the downtown team. We have to stop them quickly…the capital is under assault."

Tony Stark retracted the helmet of his Iron Man suit. "The coast guard's reporting a mass of ships bearing down on New York harbor—some are Hydra, the rest are renegades from Atlantis. I need some heavy hitters." He turned to Namor. "You with us, Subby?"

Namor's face went dark with anger. "I…I cannot. Doubtless, it is the traitor, Attuma. Smash him for me, Stark…but leave his head intact. I will mount it on the city gates."

Jan turned to the others. "Carol, Jennifer, go with Tony. Sink the bastards."

Iron Man and Captain Marvel flew off, while She Hulk bounded after them in a miles long jump, heading towards the coastline. As the rest of the battered heroes began to form into teams, Jan stepped forward, intercepting Spider-Man.

"Spidey, you're injured."

Defiance flashed in his eyes, visible through his shredded mask. His boyish face was smudged with soot, and bright with anger.

"Everyone's injured. I'm going."

"Your arm is broken," she said, putting her hand gently on his shoulder. "You've done your part. If you hadn't shouted out that warning to Sue, we'd all be dead now. Sit this one out."

Spider-Man walked over to Hank. "Doc, grab my arm."

Hank hesitated for a moment, and then took hold. Spider-Man drew a deep breath, and yanked backwards. With an audible crack, the broken bones of his left arm realigned. He screamed in pain, and fell to his knees. Then he grabbed a two-by-four lying on the ground, and webbed it to his arm, making a splint. He turned to Jan, his face streaked with tears, but set, and grim.

"This is my city, Jan…my home. I won't sit by while a bunch of stormtroopers fly a Hydra flag on the Empire State."

Jan leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'd fight with you any day, Spidey. Get with the others, I'll be there in a second."

As Spider-Man headed off, Hank walked over to Jan, her shoulders slumping, her face showing weariness and pain. Hank put a hand to her head, wiping away blood. The cut was superficial, he saw with relief.

"It was Jarvis," Jan said, tears in her eyes. "He must have been mind controlled. I saw that something wasn't right with him, but I…I…"

Hank put his arms around her, her hot tears soaking his chest. "It wasn't your fault," he whispered, rocking her.

"We lost people tonight. The night staff, eight in all. Rosa was going to retire next month. We lost Wiccan…Guardian…Moon Knight…"

Jan paused, the strain of what she was about to say etching lines on her face. "Hank…we lost Casssie Lang."

"No…"

Pain lanced his heart. He had watched Cassie grow from childhood, the daughter of his good friend, Scott Lang. He held Jan tight, and felt her wince.

"You're hurt," he said, pulling back to look. Jan straightened herself, wiping tears away. Her face was strong again, resolute.

"It's just a sprain, nothing broken," she said, moving her shoulder in slow circles. "I have to get with my team."

"I…I'll come with you."

Jan put a hand to his cheek. "No, Hank. You have to get with your team. We need Cap now more than ever. Get him, darling."

"You know about our group?"

She smiled. "Sweetie, when are you going to realize you can't keep secrets from me?"

Squeezing his hand, Jan started to go. Hank pulled her close, kissing her, briefly, but passionately, and then looked in her eyes.

"When this mission's over, and the world is safe, we'll go someplace where they've never heard of the Avengers…and I'll never stop kissing you."

For a moment, they left the world aside. The moment ended, and the world returned. With a last look, Jan hurried to join the others. Hank heard footsteps crunching in the rubble behind him, and turned. It was Hawkeye, a look of apology on his face.

"Sorry, Hank, but time's wasting. Carter wants to get a move on."

They hurried towards the Quinjet, where Falcon, Namor, and Sharon Carter stood waiting.

"Have we located the Hydra base?" Hank asked Sharon.

"Melvin's engaged the Modok program, he expects to have the signal triangulated any minute. I want us onboard and ready to go the moment he has it."

A motorcycle roared behind them, flying up the access road from the hanger complex, which had survived the blast. Hawkeye whipped an arrow from his quiver, nocking and aiming it at the darkly clad rider.

"Hawk, no, he's a friendly," Sharon said. "That's Union Jack."

"I know! And that's my bike he's on!"

Jack dismounted and headed over. "Sorry, Avenger, I didn't have time to ask permission." He stared in shock at the destruction. "Christ…I heard the explosion, saw the flash, but I didn't expect…"

He tore his eyes away from the wreckage, and looked at Sharon. "I overheard you a moment ago," he said, tapping the side of his helmet. "The Hydra Base is on an uncharted island off the west coast of Africa. I have the coordinates."

"Where did you get this intel?"

Jack slipped his helmet off. "I followed Cap as he surrendered to Hydra—they kidnapped someone close to him. I couldn't stop them, but they left lookouts behind."

"And they talked? Hydra agents are usually quick to swallow the suicide chips in their teeth."

Jack reached into his belt pouch and tossed something to the ground. Two white molar teeth, spotted with blood. "Let's just say I pried the information out of them."

Hawkeye stuck the arrow back in its quiver, and slung the bow across his chest. "You and me are going to get along fine," he said, slapping the British hero on the shoulder.

"Enough talk!" Namor boomed. "There are villains to smite!"

The members of the team dashed into the jet, which lifted off seconds later, blazing into the night sky.

Hydra Base Alpha One

Cap kept his face impassive and his emotions hidden as the doors opened. Whatever he expected, this wasn't it. Instead of a cell, Hydra had assigned him a luxury suite. Ceramic tiled floors covered with Persian carpets; plaster walls with ornate frescos, trimmed with burnished marble and teak wood; ceiling adorned with rococo alabaster carvings, leading to a crystal chandelier. There were numerous paintings and sculptures displayed about the room, many of which he recognized. Knowing the Skull, they were authentic. The furnishings were of like quality, baroque and ornamental, luxury meant to mock. The image of Jacqueline and Emily's cells flashed in his mind, the bare gray walls of stone and steel, the few mean sticks of furniture. Cap stepped inside, carrying the chest Crossbones gave him earlier. The guards wisely dispensed with hackneyed threats, and the door closed behind him.

A lifetime of soldering taught Cap to observe details. The door had a wood veneer, but the core was steel, at least three inches thick. The walls were likely the same; it would be pointless to test them. Schmidt knew his strength well enough to design a cell that could check him. Coming from the laboratory, he saw hundreds of steel pods in the lower level, all connected to a vast computer control system. He couldn't make out their purpose, but it was clearly important. He memorized the route so he could make his way back, if need be. He wasn't able to see where Jackie and Emily were being held, but he'd seen other things that troubled him; a conference room filled with a rogue's gallery. Among the notables were Norman Osborn, Otto Octavius, and Mac Gargan, dangerous super powered foes of Spider-Man; a woman who's blue complexion and exotic dress clearly identified her as Atlantean, and at her side, the man known as Tiger Shark, a deadly enemy of Namor's. The renegade Russian scientist Ivan Kragoff, the Red Ghost was there, along with the international assassin known as Bullseye. Schmidt had formed alliances that threatened to ensnare the entire world.

He laid the chest on the canopied bed, finding the silk sheets and downy soft pillows a strange contrast with the rough-hewn box. There was a handwritten note lying on the nightstand and he picked it up, finding the sumptuous paper and delicate penmanship an unfathomable contrast with the man who wrote it.

Steven,

I invite you to dine with me this evening. Lady Falsworth will join us, as will her granddaughter. There is much to discuss, my brother, and little time to do so. The world is about to enter a new epoch and will soon require my full attention, but tonight I reserve for you.

I took the liberty of selecting items of clothing from your home wardrobe; you will find them hanging in the closet. Rather meager farer, but you never were a stylish dresser, were you? We will not stand on ceremony - wear your common garb, if it pleases you, or, if you prefer, wear your true colors. Dinner is at eight; come rested, refreshed…and with a cordial disposition. The wellbeing of your women depends upon it. Until then, my brother…

J.S. Schmidt

Postscript - You will find some personal items in the chest, ones long mislaid. I offer them, humbly.

Cap set the note on the table, taking a moment to calm the turmoil churning inside him. Hydra was monitoring the room. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing his emotions spill out. The chest sat on the bed, impossible to ignore. He reached out, flipped the latches, and opened the lid. Inside were photographs, notebooks, an old army uniform…personal items that belonged to him a lifetime ago. He took out a framed photograph of his mother, one he had not seen in seventy years. Beneath it was another photograph, of the Invaders, standing outside a B-17 Flying Fortress—Namor, Bucky, Jackie, Jim Hammond, Tom Raymond. He saw his father's pocket watch, and reached for it, when another item grabbed his attention, jarring him.

He picked up the yellowing piece of paper with care, as if it might shatter; an unfinished letter to Jackie, dated December 31, 1944…the day he fell into the ice. He wrote it in the troop compartment of a rattling Douglas C-47, en route to the mission in Norway. He remembered feeling foolish—he would see her before he could even mail it…but some intuition told him this might be his last opportunity to speak to her. Soldiers going into battle often have such feelings. He always dismissed them before, but not that time. On some unconscious level, he knew. His eyes drifted to the page.

Dear Jackie,

If I never see you again, I want you to know

That was all he had come up with, thirteen words, poor substitutes for a love lost. He remembered sitting in that plane, searching for words to tell Jackie what was in his heart…but they reached the coast of Norway before he found them. He and Bucky prepared for the raid on the Nazi base, and the letter was set aside, unfinished. Now it had returned, challenging him to find those lost words.

The weight of time pressed down on him. He slipped off his mask, laying it and the letter on the nightstand. The letter was a metaphor for his life; unfinished…but there was an opportunity to change that. Tonight he would find the ending to all the things of the past that haunted him. He breathed, deep, feeling the tension dissipate. The Skull meant for this box of memories to wound him. Instead, it gave him strength.

He put the items back in the chest, pausing only a moment to look at his mother's photograph, and his father's watch. He closed the chest and carried it to the far corner of the room, setting it by a writing table. There were candles on the table, and matches lying by them. He took the matches and walked back to the bed. Striking a match, he lifted the letter, and set it to flame. He dropped it to the wastebasket, where it flared, dimmed, and went to wisps of ash, in the space of a heartbeat. No Nazi hands would touch it again. Looking at the embers, he found the words that eluded him seventy years ago. He would see Jackie tonight, and he would give them to her.

His eyes narrowed; his first show of emotion since entering this gilded cage. He had words for Schmidt as well, the author of all this misery. He would give them to him tonight, and put a finish to all the ghosts of the past. New words came to him, ones hauntingly familiar.

You're the one.

Where had he heard that? He could picture Bucky saying it, yet couldn't recall when, or where. They weren't words of praise—that much he knew. They were words of duty. He was tasked to end Schmidt's twisted dreams of conquest…and by God, even if it cost him his life, he would do it.

He stretched his arms, flexing his muscles, feeling the supple strength of them. During the months of his sickness, he almost forgot the miraculous power the Super Soldier Serum imbued him with. His strength was many times that of a normal man. His reflexes were keen and fast, enabling him to dodge automatic gunfire. He was nearly tireless, able to push himself for hours of maximal effort. He healed from injuries that would kill most men, and did so astonishingly fast. Few could match him in hand-to-hand combat—but it was more than just fighting skill; he was able to outthink his opponents. As a boy, before polio, he'd been a skilled athlete, able to see the play before it developed; sense where the ball would be, where the players would go, and get there first. After the serum, this ability grew exponentially. With this remarkable combination of attributes, he had been able to defeat enemies of far greater power. He would need it all against Schmidt.

His shield—he would need it most of all. Schmidt would not pass up the opportunity to defeat him in personal combat; it was a need that drove him. He would have to play on Schmidt's ego, convince him that any victory over him without the shield would be hollow. There was a chance that play would fail. If so, he would just have to do it the hard way. There was no other option; Jackie and Emily's lives depended on it, not to mention the world.

Steve stretched out on the gaudy bed. Too much preparation could be worse than none at all. Slipping off his boots and gauntlets, he turned out the lights, and let sleep take him. His thoughts were of Sharon.

. . .

The Red Skull stood up from the table, casting his gaze over his lieutenants.

"Are there questions?"

Silence held. The people looked at him in a sidelong way, not wanting to stare the Gorgon in the eye. Even Osborne, conceited egotist that he was, with power and great wealth of his own, took care. Dread lay just below the surface of all their steely expressions.

There were many reasons people viewed him so. He was a terrifying apparition—a crimson skull, a sign of death, yet imbued with life and burning intelligence. He had great strength, enough to rend flesh and bone with the casual cruelty of a child pulling wings from a fly. He commanded the most terrible war machine the world had ever known—it was the consensus of the world's intelligence agencies that Hydra's forces numbered a million-and-a-half, but in truth, they numbered five million, the largest standing army in the world. His troopers burned with fanatical devotion, and carried the most advanced weaponry known. His generals had nuclear ICBMs in their arsenal. Soon, he would unleash a new weapon, a phalanx of soldiers of unmatched strength, a force that would sweep the world, smashing all opposition.

Given all this, it was understandable that even such men and women gathered here viewed him with awe, but there was more. Power emanated from his crimson bones, whispering of something otherworldly…something unknown and terrifying, coming from the depths of creation. When he called on this power, others felt it, and trembled. The Skull found it good. "When the world is won, you will receive fiefdoms to rule, under my banner. But first, the world must be won. The opening battles have begun. The east coast of the United States is under assault by Hydra forces, and our allies from Lemuria, with thanks to Lady Llyra," he said, nodding to the blue-skinned woman to his right. "Tomorrow, the full-scale invasion of Wakanda begins, along with the first incursion into Russia. I suggest you sleep well tonight…there will be little rest in the days to come."

Shouts of 'Hail Hydra!' rang out from the guards, but those at the table stayed silent. The Skull smiled, inwardly. That would change soon enough. Let them think they remained autonomous, if it soothed their egos. Osborn was now leading the conversation, making himself the focal point. That too would change, soon enough. The Skull motioned to one of his guests.

"Mr. Poindexter What news on the Kingpin?"

The man called Bullseye lifted his phone. "Just called me. He wants as much protection around him as possible. Guess the trouble in Manhattan has him jittery."

"Good. A jet will await you in the morning, along with a full squad of troopers. Make his death slow…and let him know I am the agent of his demise."

"I don't need any squad to kill a fat man."

"And the gangster's gunmen, they will not intervene?"

"I'll kill them all," he said, in a bored huff. "But hey, I'll take the squad along. Give me someone to talk to on the flight over."

The Skull's head guard simmered. "My Lord, let me kill this Kingpin for you. Hydra has no need of men like this," he said, glaring at Bullseye.

The assassin smirked, and reached into his pocket. He held up a small rubber ball, a child's toy. Without looking, he threw the ball backwards, his wrist whipping like a striking cobra. The ball bounced off the table, rebounded off the wall, hit the ceiling, and then hurtled into the barrel of the Hydra guard's rifle, sticking with a loud 'pop'. Bullseye smiled.

"When you want to kill a Kingpin, you don't send a grunt…you send the best."

The guard glared at the assassin, tensing to move. The Skull lifted his hand, halting any hostilities.

"Stand down, Klaus. You are needed for more important things." He turned to Bullseye. "Be ready to leave at dawn. And remember…he must know I am the agent of his demise."

The Skull dismissed his guards and left the room. He walked the bustling corridor, passing scores of Hydra agents—soldiers, technicians, administrators. They snapped cursory salutes, not the usual grand gesture, and quickly went on their way. This wasn't the time for pageantry, and it pleased him that they understood this. He entered the command center, seeing his people bent to their work. He glanced at one of the monitors. On screen was his brother, lying asleep in his dark room. He stalked over to the woman operating the workstation.

"Who told you to spy on him?"

She looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, my Lord. You ordered surveillance cameras in his cell, and I assumed—"

"Assumed?"

"I'm sorry, my Lord," she said, quickly closing the image off her screen. "I was in error."

"An understandable error," he said, diplomatically. "I should have explicitly stated he was not to be observed except on my direct order. What of the women?"

"The old one is sleeping," she said, bringing up the image of Lady Falsworth. "Dr. Lerner warns that her heart is weak. The girl seems…different. Her body language is no longer tense, or fearful. She is anxious, but not in a nervous way."

The Skull looked at the girl on the monitor. She seemed filled with a kind of quiet eagerness as she sat in the darkened room. It was hard to fathom. His eye was drawn to her. She had her grandmother's features, of course…but there was something below the surface that seemed to whisper to him…

"Continue to monitor her," he said, turning away from the screen. She was but a child, after all. "Where is Viper?"

"Sensors indicate she is in her private quarters," the woman said, tapping at her keyboard. "Shall I call her?"

"No. Rest before battle is wise. I will follow her example, and retire to my sanctum. Direct all calls to Baron Strucker, and contact me only in an emergency."

The Skull left the command center and walked to his private quarters, putting all matters from his mind. Strucker was coordinating with the generals and tactical commanders. A wise leader knows when to take an active hand, and when to trust his subordinates. Tonight, he would meet with his brother for the final time. He needed to be at his best, rested, and undistracted. Only by leaving his body could he recharge his power to its fullest.

He entered his quarters, not bothering with the lights as he walked to the secret doorway. He pressed the hidden panels in the stone wall, and the door opened. He stepped inside his sanctum, already in the process of disengaging his consciousness from his body. He did not see the shadowy figure in the corner of his room as the door closed.

. . .

Viper stepped from the shadows. Trained in ninjutsu and Tibetan mysticism, she called on all her skills, moving with liquid grace, and in utter silence. She came to the door of the Skull's sanctum, and waited. It usually took him two minutes to fully step outside his body—only then would he be vulnerable. Her heart raced, defying her best effort to control it. This was the all-or-nothing chance she had worked towards these many years. The spying, the excruciating caution…giving him counsel and sharing his bed, while guarding her thoughts from his piercing gaze. Years of painstaking preparation, all for this moment. Three minutes passed to four, and she deemed the time right. Pressing the stone markers that the Skull, in his arrogance, believed no one else knew, the door opened, and she entered the small enclosure.

Her breath caught in her throat; laying before her was a skeleton, stretched out on a golden table lying low to the ground. Schmidt was gone. In his place was a collection pale gray bones, dead as dust, draped in empty clothing. She knew this sight would greet her, yet still it shocked. The room was dimly lit by some ethereal, glowing stones set in a brazier, producing light, but no heat. Indeed, cold wrapped itself around her, penetrating like winters kiss. She lifted the lifeless arm, searching the fingers…and there it was; the ring, gleaming in the semi-darkness, the red gem dark as pigeon blood, deep, and pearlescent. Aside from her, only this ring, alone in this temple of death, was alive. It whispered to her, quickening her heart. She reached for it, but hesitated.

To take the ring was to cast off humanity…was she truly ready to do this? To rid herself of flesh, and the warmth of life? A moment's hesitation, perhaps only a second. Enough time for worlds to turn. She hardened her eyes; what was the flesh but weakness, an avenue to pain and suffering? Because of the weakness of the flesh, the rape gangs of Hong Kong preyed upon her as a child. Because of the flesh, she starved, learned to steal, learned to kill. Yes, that weakness led to strength, but under all that strength and hardness, which she spent a lifetime acquiring, she was still vulnerable. With this ring, she would gain power enough to lay the world at her feet, And all it would cost was her flesh.

She grabbed the ring, finding the band of gold like ice, and the vermilion gem like fire. She pulled. The ring resisted at first, and then it began to slide off the bony finger, moving in agonizingly slow increments. Cold and heat seared her hand, but she did not cry out. Nothing visible was holding it in place, yet the ring resisted…and then it came free in a rush, sliding from the lifeless knuckle. Dust swirled in the small room, a wind where none should be. She stood, terrified, exhilarated, and triumphant. Closing her eyes of flesh for the last time, she lifted the ring.

"With this ring…I thee wed."

She put the ring on her finger. Cold invaded her, fire ate her. She screamed, falling to her knees. Her flesh incinerated, and her emerald hair fell from her head, which was now but a skull. Her body melted like candle wax, her lips and tongue dissolved…and still she screamed. Her blood boiled and became dust that became nothing. All was crimson, she was crimson; a woman who became cadaver, who became skeleton, who became a queen. The ring whispered to her, and she stood, triumphant…

Something grabbed her ankle. She looked down, and saw the white, dead hand of Johan Schmidt clutching her. The ring ceased to whisper, and the glorious red within her bones began to flow like water, like lifeblood, from her, back to the ring. She screamed in rage, and fought against the tide. The skeleton that was Schmidt stood, and a raging gale blew, as if from some depthless cavern in the pit of the earth. She smashed blows upon the skeleton, making fine cracks in the bone, which was no longer white; red began to seep from the ring back into Schmidt, pooling, filling the cracks, making them strong. The ring whispered…but not to her.

Schmidt clasped his hand to hers, their bones locking them together. Schmidt remained wordless, no sound escaping his dead mouth, which was becoming alive again. Her rage turned to terror as she saw the ring shimmer, separate, and then flow from her finger to his. She screamed, and it seemed they were no longer in a small room but rather in a vast cave, which spiraled into a dark, yawning eternity of nothing. Her flesh returned, agonizingly alive. Her eyes, human again, boiled in their sockets, while her tears froze like the waters of winter on a face not red, but black and charred. The last thing she saw was the red skeleton of Johann Schmidt. And darkness took her.

The wind stopped. The dust settled. The Red Skull stood in his sanctum, alone save for the ruined thing in his arms. He dropped to the floor, cradling the burned flesh, as sobs racked his indissoluble body.

"Why? I would have given you anything! The world was ours! Together, we could have walked through eternity!"

For an hour, he sat in his stone sanctum, cradling her remains, streams of black ichor pouring from the empty sockets of his long vanished eyes. Outside, the world trembled from the war he had begun, and still he stayed in the small room. For even monsters may grieve, and even demons may weep.