Prologue
1944
Dachau Concentration Camp, Germany
The air in Dachau was harsh on the nose with the scent of various chemicals and the acrid stench of burning flesh. It was all very familiar to Dr. Ernst Falk. Even in the underground laboratory, the echoes of suffering reached him, muffled screams that seeped through the concrete walls, reminders of what they had done—of what he had helped create. The Furher's failed super soldier program. The vial felt cold and heavy in his trembling hands, its contents a vibrant, swirling blue, like liquid lightning captured in glass.
He shouldn't be here. Not now. Not after what he'd heard.
His heart still raced at the memory. He had been passing by Doctor Vought's office that night, intending to deliver the latest test results. The door was slightly ajar. He'd heard Vought's wife, Klara, speaking in low German, her words a venomous whisper that slithered under his skin.
"Leave. How can we leave? Without us, the Reich will fall."
Ernst had pressed himself against the wall, chest tight with fear. He remembered the cold sweat that broke out on his back, remembered holding his breath, terrified that she would hear the rapid drumming of his heart.
"The fatherland will fall regardless," Vought had murmured, his voice devoid of pity. "We go to America, and we begin again. Compound V will change the world… our world."
"Fine," Klara grumbled. Ernst could hear the frustration in her voice and wanted no part in it, especially if the two of them decided he needed to be silenced. He knew what she could do. The others whispered about it—how she could rip apart tanks, how she could flay a man alive with lightning. He didn't doubt it. He'd seen the charred remains. Her experiments. Her victims.
He knew then that he was already dead. They were all dead. Every assistant, every scientist who wasn't essential to her plans. Left behind to take the blame when the Führer found out the two had fled or when the Americans arrived.
He fled before she could come looking. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could down the long corridors, heart pounding, legs shaking, lungs aching for air as he held his breath. He didn't stop until he was in his office, shivering and gasping, convinced that any moment she would burst through the door and turn him to ashes.
But she never came. She never even noticed him.
He had made his decision. He wouldn't wait around to find out what the Führer would do once he learned the Voughts were traitors. He was a coward. He could admit that. But he wasn't a fool.
America was out of the question. Klara would find him, and she would kill him. She was too powerful and Frederick too thorough. He imagined her hands, crackling with electricity, tearing his head off his shoulders with a flick of her wrist. His knees nearly buckled at the thought.
Russia? No. The Russians were almost as terrifying. They had a reputation for brutality, and they wouldn't hesitate to rip the knowledge from his mind by force.
France? He almost laughed at the thought. The locals would hang him before he got a chance to explain himself. Even now, he could hear their screams through the walls, could see their hollow eyes staring at him as he walked by, their faces twisted in hate and fear. They would tear him apart the moment they recognized him for what he was—a monster wearing a scientist's coat.
That left only one option. Britain.
His lips curled into a bitter smile. The irony was palpable. Running to the enemy, seeking refuge from the people who would soon conquer this place. But it made sense, in a way. Their government would be just as happy to compromise as the Americans. More importantly, Britain was an island on this side of the Atlantic, safe from Vought's reach.
He clenched his fist around the vial, his resolve hardening.
He couldn't leave with nothing. If he was going to survive, if he was going to outrun the people hunting him, he needed leverage. Something that would make him valuable. And this—the blue liquid that hummed with untold power—this was the key.
He could reverse engineer it if he was lucky. If he was careful.
If he survived long enough.
He slipped the vial into his bag, tucking it beneath a false lining, careful not to let it touch the other vials. If it broke… no, he couldn't think about that. He had to move. Now.
With one last look at the cold, sterile laboratory, he turned and fled, his footsteps echoing down the hall, fading into the distant screams that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Autumn, 1980
Ballachulish, Scotland
The Highlands were cold, even in the summer. The wind howled around, but thankfully not through the plastered walls of the small office. Dr. Ethan Falkland was eating his lunch and watching the news.
He turned the dial on the ancient television set, the static giving way to grainy black-and-white footage. The news anchor's voice was tinny and distorted, but the message was clear enough.
"...hear it once again for America's first superhero team: Payback! Led by the indomitable Soldier Boy, this team represents America's strength and valour..."
The camera cut to a shot of Soldier Boy standing proudly, his grin wide and gleaming, arms crossed over his barrel chest. Then, the rest of the team—each more ridiculous than the last. Mindstorm with his haunted eyes, Swatto with his grotesque wings, and Crimson Countess, her smile charming and cruel.
Ethan's fingers tightened on the armrest of his worn leather chair, the old material creaking under the pressure. Payback. He let out a bitter laugh. How fitting. They had stolen everything from him—his work, his life, his future—and had the audacity to call their team of trained monkeys Payback.
"Monsters," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He saw them for what they truly were. Not heroes. Not saviours. But twisted creations of science, powered by the very experiments he'd helped perfect. They were Vought's puppets, just as Klara had always intended.
Klara. Her face flickered through his memory, eyes cold as winter, lips curved in that cruel, knowing smile. He could still hear her laughter echoing through the corridors of Dachau and could still feel the prickling fear that danced along his spine whenever she was near. She was going by Liberty now, he believed. What a farce.
"Verräterinnen (Traitors)," he spat in German. It was the only word he dared to say aloud, the only truth he allowed himself to speak. He'd long since given up his native accent in favour of something that sounded more local but still hard to place amongst the innumerable valleys and hills.
It had been almost thirty years since he had fled to this remote Scottish village, thirty-five years of hiding, of pretending to be a humble general practitioner, of listening to the sheep bleat outside his window, of watching the rain pour endlessly over the moors.
And in all that time, he'd never managed to duplicate Vought's masterpiece.
The first time, he'd stared at the blue vials, his heart racing with hope. He'd worked for years, trying to reverse engineer it, to break down its chemical composition and replicate its effects. But Vought had guarded the secret too well, and Ernst's attempts all ended in failure. Nothing he made could even compare to the original. He'd used up all but a single vial on failed attempts. He had nothing to show for it.
"Payback," he repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue, letting it twist into something darker. He could almost hear Klara laughing at him.
He stood abruptly, crossing the room and twisting the knob on the television, cutting off the anchor mid-sentence. The screen flickered, then went dark, the static fading to silence. The noise in his head didn't fade with it.
His eyes fell on the clipboard his nurse had left on his desk, the afternoon's appointments listed in neat, precise handwriting. His gaze lingered on the next name.
Mrs. Mackenzie.
He frowned, his fingers tapping absently against the desk. She was due for a checkup on her pregnancy, the latest in a string of routine visits. A healthy child, from what he'd seen. A future. A potential.
His mind drifted back to that single remaining sample.
His breath caught, his heart skipping a beat as the thought took root, and the plan began to form.
One vial. One chance.
Was it worth it?
The question hung in the air, his office cold and silent. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. It was a cruel smile, the ghost of a man who had once worked for monsters.
No, he wouldn't let the Voughts win. Not this time.
His decision was made; he took the clipboard and turned toward the exam room, his footsteps echoing softly against the worn wooden floor. As he opened the door, his voice was calm, and his smile once more looked like nothing but that of a humble family doctor.
"Mrs. Mackenzie? You can come in now. Let's see how your baby's doing today."
The young women entered, and Dr. Falkland closed the door behind her.
Winter, 1980
Ballachulish was a quiet village nestled on the coast of Scotland at the mouth of Loch Levan, where the days moved at a leisurely pace. Life in Ballachulish was simple, and news from the outside world rarely made much of an impact.
Until the day Dr. Ethan Falkland was arrested.
It happened in the early hours of a foggy morning. The locals gathered at their windows, peeking through lace curtains as black cars with government license plates pulled up outside the small stone building that served as the doctor's office. Men in dark suits poured out, their expressions hard, their movements precise.
By the time the sun had risen, the news had spread like wildfire. The doctor was a Nazi.
They called him Ernst Falk—a name no one in the village recognized but one that the newspapers said was infamous. A scientist who had fled Germany after the war. A war criminal. A monster hiding in plain sight.
The villagers were stunned. Old Mrs. MacTavish, who claimed the doctor had saved her life after a nasty bout of pneumonia, swore it couldn't be true. Hamish MacGregor, the blacksmith who'd shared a pint with the doctor more than once, refused to believe it. Father Callum, the village priest, held a vigil for forgiveness and understanding, though even he seemed shaken.
Yet, the evidence was undeniable. Photographs were printed in the newspapers—grainy images of a younger man in a lab coat, standing outside of the Dachau Concentration Camp with several others. Documents surfaced, detailing experiments conducted in Dachau, horrors that made even the most hardened men of Ballachulish shudder.
The doctor had been living among them, pretending to be a kind, gentle man. All the while hiding a monstrous past.
They took him away, extraditing him to Israel, where he would stand trial for his crimes. It became international news, and Ballachulish found itself the center of unwanted attention. Journalists flocked to the village, hounding the locals for stories, for quotes, for any scrap of information about the man who had once been Dr. Ethan Falkland.
The villagers mourned in their own way, not just for the betrayal, but for the loss of the man they thought they knew.
Yet, life went on. Next year's tourist season was coming, and they were all busy preparing for the incoming hikers.
Spring, 1981
Winter passed, and spring brought new life to the village. The heather bloomed once more, purple and vibrant, and the rains washed away the lingering whispers of scandal. Strathmore Glen returned to its quiet rhythm as a tourist town. A new doctor even moved into the old building, a nice young woman by the name of Alice Thompson.
David and Catherine Mackenzie were among those who tried to move on, though it was not easy. Catherine had been one of the doctor's last patients, coming to him for routine checkups throughout her pregnancy. She remembered his gentle demeanour, his soft voice, and his warm smile. Even now, she struggled to reconcile that man with the monster the world said he was.
But there was no denying the miracle of her child.
On the 2nd of April 1981, James Steven Mackenzie was born. A healthy baby boy with bright, piercing blue eyes that seemed far too wise for his age. He was perfect in every way, and Catherine wept tears of joy as she held him for the first time, David's arms wrapped around them both.
Yet, as Catherine held her son, rocking him gently to sleep, she sometimes wondered if she saw a flicker of something… strange… in his eyes. A spark of blue that danced just beneath the surface. It was probably nothing, she told herself. Just a trick of the light.
And so, life went on in Ballachulish, the shadows of the past fading beneath the bright laughter of a newborn child.
They did not know then what the child would one day grow up to be.