X-Men: First Class

By Alex Shannon and Kevin Ridley

Based on X-Men: First Class by Ashley Edward Miller, Zack Stentz, Jane Goldman, Sheldon Turner, Bryan Singer, and Matthew Vaughn, and characters/stories from Marvel and DC Comics.

Argentina, 1962.

Erik Lensherr left a trail of dead Nazis in his wake almost as bloody and numerous as Captain America himself. He'd killed his first in the clutches of the German war machine, and he did not know when he would kill his last, but he knew who the last would be. His tormentor. The murderer of his family, architect of his misery. Doctor Klaus Schmidt. The man who had escaped capture during the raid. One of the few who'd remained who had.

Erik had a map in his head he'd built from information he gathered through the years. In the seventeen years since his rescue, Erik collected everything that might lead him to one of those horrible people who'd caused so much pain. Each domino that fell led him to another, and another. He knew that some day, he'd find what he needed to nail Klaus Schmidt's hide to a wall.
All roads on the map led to Argentina. Erik drew his mind map out onto a real one on occasion, this being one of them. Schmidt's trail always ended at Auschwitz, but one memory shone out in Erik's mind like a beacon of light. When Schmidt grabbed the rail, he seemed to grow younger. Was that possible? Whether it was thought to be possible was irrelevant, for it had happened. For all Erik knew, it could happen again. Who knows how long Schmidt had been aging and de-aging himself over the years with... Whatever that power of his was. Energy absorption? For how long? Doubtlessly it was a long while. If he could allow himself to age and force himself to de-age, he could blend in anywhere, for any length of time. All he'd need was a new name every few decades and he'd be virtually untraceable.
Virtually.

As Erik had learned, some things rarely change over time. Certain speech patterns rang true even through the best of vocal disguise techniques and even aging, but with as large as the world was, Erik was unlikely to hear Schmidt's voice on purpose, much less by accident. His gait could be a clue, but again, only if Erik came across him, and that was an imperfect method at the best of times. Fingerprints returned nothing, as Klaus Schmidt's records did not contain copies of that information. One thing though, one thing that Erik had, was Klaus Schmidt's signature, and various handwritten notes that had escaped destruction. Every stroke of the pen or pencil was imprinted into Erik's mind like the serial number from the camp was into his left arm. He'd know it when he saw it.

But Schmidt wasn't his only target, by any means. No, he'd take the life of anyone who'd worn that red armband willingly, and he'd revel in doing so.

The little pub in Argentina seemed unassuming, even homely from the outside. But Erik knew who was inside, and the dark secrets held in their blackened souls. They were some of the men he was looking for. Highly ranked officers of important status at the camp, who'd escaped capture by a matter of mere hours. It was time that fate caught up to them, and maybe he'd find a few clues toward his ultimate goal.

Erik entered the pub, and casually strolled through to the bar at the back of the building. He could hear a song playing on the radio. Good Luck Charm, sung by Elvis Presley.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." He greeted the three men in the building in Spanish as he removed his sunglasses. Two were playing checkers at a table near the bar, and the other was tending bar.

"Good afternoon." The bartender replied.

"Hot out there, isn't it?" Erik asked, jovially.

"Indeed." The bartender replied.

"One beer, please." Erik requested as he took a seat at one of the bar's stools. The bartender took a pint glass and filled it from the tap. Erik glanced around the pub, until his eyes settled on something. A picture of two of the men in the pub with one who wasn't. One who he might not have recognized at first, if it wasn't for the handwriting on the lower half of the picture.

"The Caspartina on her maiden voyage. May she sail us to brotherhood, to the future, to a superior world. January 25, 1961"

Erik had seen a man who might have been that man's father, or grandfather, many years ago... But the handwriting gave it away. It was that of Doctor Klaus Schmidt. It told him who the man was, and what he looked like now. Erik felt his heart soar, but kept his emotions in check. It would do him no good to give the game away this early... But the pieces were finally coming together. The port of call on the boat told him exactly where he needed to look next. Miami.

The bartender brought him the full glass of beer.

"Ah, German beer!" Erik exclaimed.

"Of course!" The bartender replied.

"Yes, it's Bitburger! You like it?" One of the men at the table asked in German.

Erik allowed himself a small, sly grin. If he hadn't already known who they were, they'd have just given him an in. Unlike Shaw, these men hadn't been as careful with their visages. He had pictures of them in uniform.

"The best!" He replied in German, and turned to face the man. "What brings you to Argentina?"

The man shrugged. "The climate." He replied. "I am a pig farmer."

Erik chuckled, and looked at the other man expectantly.

The first man's checkers partner laughed uncomfortably. "Tailor." He said. "Since I was a boy. My father made the finest suits in Dusseldorf."

Erik put on a large grin, and rose from his seat with his glass in his hand. "My parents were from Dusseldorf!" He lied as he made to sit with the two men at their table.

"You have us at a loss." The first man said as Erik took his seat. "What do you do?"

Erik sat on the chair at the end of the table where he could see both of the men playing checkers, as well as the bartender.

"I am a soldier." Erik replied. "Just like my father was. He served in the first World War. He was a national hero, awarded the Iron Cross."

The tailor lifted his glass in salute. "To Dusseldorf, then!"

Erik and the other man raised their glasses and clinked them together. "To Dusseldorf!" They chorused.

The motion caused Erik's sleeve to ride up on his arm. One of the men caught a glimpse of something on Erik's arm, and looked down.

"What is that?" He asked.

"Ah," Erik said. "You saw my tattoo." Erik pulled up his sleeve to reveal a winged dagger with a banner reading "Who dares wins" near the tip of the blade.

"It might seem strange," Erik said with a smile as he allowed the men to ponder his tattoo. "For the son of a German hero to wind up with the British, but it helps me fulfill my boyhood dreams of travelling the world and dealing out justice to those who truly deserve punishment." He shrugged. "And it's not like that Iron Cross mattered much in the end, anyway."

Erik took a drink of his beer as the men eyed him suspiciously. Then, a new song came on the radio. Louis Armstrong, What A Wonderful World.

The bartender made to fiddle with the radio, perhaps to change the station or to turn it off, but Erik turned to him quickly.

"Do you mind leaving it?" He interjected, halting the man in his tracks. "This is my favorite song."

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but retreated from the radio.

Erik closed his eyes, and sang along to the song quietly. "I see trees of green... Red roses too. I see them bloom... For me and you... And I think to myself... What a wonderful world..." Erik trailed off, and opened his eyes to see the two men at the table staring at him, warily.

"Might I make a confession?" Erik asked with a small, sly smile. "My parents weren't actually from Dusseldorf. They were from Nuremburg." The men grew tense in response to this revelation. "I suppose it's fitting that my journey started where his would end. You could even say I had a hand in his downfall."

"Whose downfall?" The pig farmer asked.

"Hitler's." Erik replied, taking a sip of his beer. "A German soldier had Captain America square in his sights. I killed the soldier before he could make the shot."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence as Erik's smile grew larger across his face, until his teeth began to show through his lips.

"I have another tattoo." He said, smugly. "The SAS offered to cover it up with the one you've seen, but I insisted it remain intact. Would you like to see it?"

Erik slid his sleeve further up to reveal the numbers "214782" in a bold, black print, just above the winged dagger.

The pig farmer must have seen Erik's intent in his eyes, or something else, for he snapped the moment he saw the number. He drew a glowing red dagger from below the table in a move like lightning and stabbed it backhand at Erik. Erik didn't even need to manipulate the dagger to avoid being touched by the energy-charged blade. He kicked his chair out from under him and into the wall as he stepped backward as he slammed both of his forearms into the man's knife-arm, then grabbed the arm and slammed it into the table, pushing the man face-first into the checkers-board. The glow around the knife died as Erik removed the knife from the man's hand with his right.

"'Blood and honor...'" Erik read the inscription on the blade. "Well, you already lacked one of those things." He said as he ground his left palm into the man's triceps tendon. "Would you care for me to remove the other?"

"We were following orders!" The man snarled. "Good soldiers follow orders, you know that!"

Erik tucked the dagger back into the Nazi's hand with a smile.

"Then follow this one." Erik said with a sickly sweet tone. "Remove your terrible, heartness self from this beautiful world, so as not to trouble the civilized world again."

"Freeze, asshole!" The bartender screamed at Erik as he pointed his German Luger at Erik. His finger was on the trigger.

Erik shot the bartender a disdainful look, and forced the pistol to aim away from him, toward the tailor. The bartender painicked, and pried his finger off the trigger, but Erik pushed it with a thought, and a bullet fired at the tailor. The tailor made a swiping motion with one hand, sending the bullet flying toward the wall. Erik snapped the bullet around the man in a circle, and embedded the metal projectile in the man's brain, ending his life.

The two men's faces were covered in terror, but they knew there was no escape. Erik turned back to the pig farmer, and clasped the man's hand more tightly around the dagger.

"Be good little soldiers." Erik said as he rose, and took his beer from the table.

The two men struggled to save their own lives as their weapons turned against them. The blade moved toward the pig-farmer's neck as the gun pointed closer and closer to the bartender's head as Erik drank down the last of his beer, and sang along to the last lines of the song with a smile.

"And I think to myself... What a wonderful world."

Author's note: What A Wonderful World, as sung by Louis Armstrong, was originally released in 1967. As this story is set in 1962, this is an anachronism, but Alex couldn't divorce this version of the scene from that particular song.