This is a re-write of the GI Joe movie because it was completely disappointing. The character backstories were screwed up, their relations with each other, the action… everything needed tweaking. Now I will do what I can to keep close to the movie, because I think that it did have potential, but it needed more in order to be really good. To that end, I have added characters, dialogue and small scenes that I think would have made this a far better movie. I have most of the story written out already, it just needs some tweaking and finishing, so unless I become majorly distracted by other projects (a distinct possibility), then this story should not take too long to complete.
Your reviews are appreciated, so for now, thank you… and enjoy.
PARIS, FRANCE – 1641
Lord James McCullen IX shivered in his cell. October in France was cold, and wet, and miserable. His cell did not have the comfort of a warm fire like his family estate in Scotland.
From now on, whenever doing business in Paris, always have an escape plan, he thought miserably. Then he had another thought. And never, ever, ever trust a Frenchman.
McCullen was a tall man, once broad across the chest, but near starvation in prison had thinned him, making his already pale skin look like that of a man who belonged in a sickbed. His normally carefully trimmed hair fell in strings and clumps to his shoulders, and the moustache that hung nearly to his chin was accompanied with a scruffy beard. Once expensive clothes were now tattered rags, and dark eyes that had glittered with ambition now showed only rage and hatred.
The door slammed open, revealing two French legionnaires, each with a matchlock musket that they kept trained on him as if he might explode into movement.
"Still using matchlocks, are ye?" McCullen growled, "I can get ye a pair of flintlocks if ye let me sneak out of here."
The guard on the left took a half a step forward and relaxed ever-so-slightly. "Good ones?" he asked, ignoring the glare the other guard sent his way.
"The best," McCullen ensured the man, hoping he'd shoot the other guard before agreeing to anything. Otherwise the other guard might shoot first. "From Spain. Perhaps a couple of pretty Spanish lasses to show you how to use them."
"Shut up!" snapped the other guard, and the first returned to his cautionary stance. "On your feet, you Scottish dog!"
Both men stormed forward and grabbed his upper arms, hauling McCullen to his feet. He grimaced at their bruising grips but he would be damned if he gave them the satisfaction of groaning in pain.
The two soldiers led him through the prison, past the men screaming in pain as they were tortured. Pokers, hot irons, the rack, and the iron maiden.
Bloody barbarians, thought McCullen, haven't they moved beyond the Dark Ages yet?
Finally they brought him into a new chamber, set up to torture prisoners. McCullen sneered in disgust at the lack of imagination being shown. The soldiers began hauling him over towards a new set of chains and immediately began connecting them to his manacles. To one side, a furnace gave off enough heat to throw back the autumn chill. A man stood in front of the furnace, stirring something in the flames and hot coals. McCullen began to sweat, he was close enough to the furnace that he'd never felt such heat even in his native Scotland.
Unnoticed by virtually everyone else in the room, a young priest began muttering in Latin.
"James McCullen," intoned an officer, his French clipped and with a southern accent, standing at the far side of the room, "you have been found guilty of treason against our good King Louis the Thirteenth. You have been discovered selling the same military arms to our enemies even as you have sold them to our lord. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
"Only that if your stupid cur of a king had a brain he would have known that a man selling weapons can't choose sides in a war," McCullen snarled back, stubbornly speaking in English. He'd be damned if he spoke their language back to them after what they'd done to him. "Louis is a bloody wanker who murders his own allies! I should have charged him double!"
The officer stepped forward, his face twisting into a snarl. "You conspired to overthrow the Crown with the enemies of the king!"
"Those careless idiots offered me a chancellorship in the new government, because unlike your simpleton king, they knew what I want. It's one thing to sell arms, but it's quite another to have the power to control the wars! Clan McCullen is more powerful than any of you maggots can even imagine. It has survived for three hundred years, and nothing you do to me will stop our survival," he continued angrily, his dark eyes boring into the French officer. "Even if you kill me, my legacy will live on in my sons, and they will continue to rise long after I am gone. As will their sons, and God willing, their sons as well. They'll make it so that you need our weapons, that you'll need to deal with the devil, or you'll face enemies better armed than you! Without the weapons of Clan McCullen, you'll end up throwing rocks!"
The officer never moved during McCullen's outburst, never twitched an eye. That sneer stayed on his face the whole time.
"Since you have no defense, the sentence is to be carried out forthwith," declared the officer.
McCullen laughed. "Come on, then! Kill me! And I swear my sons will make France pay for this! This will not end with my death!"
The officer stepped away from the wall. If anything, his sneer became wider, and cruel amusement showed in his face. McCullen barely noticed the man at the furnace grasp something in the coals with a set of large tongs.
"Oh, no, Lord McCullen," said the officer snidely, "we're not going to kill you. We're going to ruin you. We will make an example of you."
McCullen turned to a sizzling sound, and saw what the man at the furnace was pulling out of the coals.
A red-hot mask of iron.
"James McCullen, you are hereby condemned to wear this mask for the remainder of your natural life," declared the French officer as the mask came ever closer to its target. "No man, woman or child shall ever again have see the face of treason. As well, for your treachery you shall henceforth be known as Destro, the Destroyer of Nations."
McCullen was struggling with all his might against his bonds, but he was unable to move more than an inch, certainly not enough to escape that burning hot mask.
"No!" he yelled, over and over again, as if the word had the power to keep that mask at bay.
The mask approached, and another man used a set of his own tongs to help manipulate it to McCullen's face. The heat was unbearable, and McCullen strained with all his might to stay away from it. But the red-hot iron soon surrounded his face, and he could feel his skin burning away.
McCullen screamed in agony. The mask was bolted into place even as the skin of his face and neck continued to burn beneath the iron. He fell to his knees, writhing in pain, screaming and begging.
He only distantly heard the sound of gunfire, and the screams of men. Curses and orders in French drifted in through the small windows. He could see the French officer rush to one of the windows and look down into the courtyards.
"We're under attack!" he cried and began reaching for his pistol.
The door to the chamber crashed open and men in breastplates and rifles and four-barreled pistols rushed in, weapons ablaze. The two guards went down with at least three bullets in each of them, while the man at the forge took a bullet to his head. One of the new men tossed a metal ball at the officer. The grenade exploded as it hit him in the chest, vaporizing the upper half of his body. The priest tried to run and received a bullet in the back for his efforts.
"Lord McCullen!" said one of the men, and McCullen weakly pushed himself upright.
Men quickly surrounded him and worked at freeing him from the chains and manacles. McCullen managed a painful smile of relief. He recognized the men around him; his personal guard from Scotland. They had crossed the Channel and assaulted a prison in the middle of Paris to rescue him.
The fruits of loyalty, he thought with pride.
"Come, m'lord," said the captain of his guard, "we've managed to eliminate the guards but it won't be long before more French soldiers arrive. We have carriages ready to take us to Calais, where a ship is waiting to bring us home. We'll get this mask off of you once we're safely away from here. Help our lord!"
Two of the guards immediately grabbed McCullen and helped him to his feet, half-dragging him out of the prison.
CALLANDER, SCOTLAND – 1641, One month later
James McCullen X hurried out of the manor as he saw the carriages approach. The guards had either returned with his father, or they were bringing news of his father's death. Two of his brothers stood with him at the main entrance, waiting eagerly.
The eldest son, James X had inherited his father's height and breadth of shoulders. At seventeen years of age, he was still fresh-faced and healthy.
Guards started descending from the carriages, and then from the one in the center a thin man stepped out, his face enclosed by an iron mask. But James X would know his father anywhere, and ran to greet him.
"Father!" he cried out happily, "You're alive! I will contact the craftsmen and have them get that mask off you immediately."
"No James," came his father's calm voice, "there will be no removing this mask." At his son's uncomprehending look, McCullen continued. "It was red-hot when they put it on. My skin is gone. But the French thought that this mask would be a disgrace. Instead, it shall be a badge of honor. My son, when you take command of our clan, you shall forge a mask of your own, and so shall your son, and all the sons of our line who lead our clan. This mask shall be our symbol.
"My guards I shall call the Iron Grenadiers, for the weapons they used to free me from Paris. One day, my son, we shall have vengeance against the French for what they did to me. Never forget that, and don't ever let anyone of our line forget to punish the French at every opportunity. But also let this mask be a reminder, James: Do. Not. Get. Caught."