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You were very brave, Captain, to volunteer for the experiment that made you what you are today. The experiment could have easily killed you. As it stands, due to the assassination of the scientist who's work `created' you, you are the first and the last of the Super Soldiers. On to history: You were first activated as an agent in World War II, used in secret missions in America and Europe against the Axis, sometimes partnered with several superhumans from other nationalities in a team known as the `Invaders'. World War II ended tragically for you, Captain. Though you managed to defeat the Nazis' own symbolic warrior, the `Red Skull', you were frozen in suspended animation. You were not revived until ten years ago, give or take. Upon returning, you continued your activities as one of America's greatest symbols and operatives. Continued, that is, until almost one year ago, when you were nearly killed in battle with a menace called `Onslaught'. But we revived you and brought you here. Welcome to Undermount, one of America's most secret off-shore installations. We hope your stay will be present as we bring you back to your former capability." The blonde eyebrows of Steve Rogers, Captain America, rose together in a bemused expression. The answer from his lips was quick. "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Mmm. Yes, we thought that memory loss might be present. Trauma-induced Amnesia, if I might make a `shoot-from-the-hip' psychological judgement. Not to fear, however, Captain. My assistants have brought every piece of equipment you might require to help you remember your life. You'll have access to them soon. For the time being, however, while you eat breakfast and merely-well, relax-think on this." And the man who wore a black tie on black produced for him a large, round package, nearly flat, hard and heavy, setting it on the table next to Steve Rogers. The man left shortly after that, mumbling something about necessary arrangements, taking that damned board that he always wrote on with him. Steve would have liked to know what was always written on that board. He ate first, just to show whoever was undoubtedly watching him that he was in no hurry to see what the package contained. Then, finally, he slowly put his plate aside and began to unwrap the paper. Inside lay a shield, beautiful, gleaming, a blazing white star in the center of it, ringed by the red and white of America's stripes. He shook his head at it, blinked. What? ***
New Marvel Presents:
CAPTAIN AMERICA RETURNS
Feature Story: "Captain America Returns: A Prologue to New Marvel"
Written By: Ben Kaine
Editor: Brian Provow
Back-Up: "The Red Skull Returns: A Prologue to New Marvel's THE AVENGERS"
Featuring: The Red Skull!
Written By: John Lichman & Ben Kaine
Editor: Brian Provow
(Continuity Note: The events of this issue take place prior to the events of New Marvel's The Avengers # 403-405.)
He loosened his tie, black on a black shirt, and collapsed exhausted into the comfortable office chair. Craning his neck, he took a long look at the men that surrounded him, waiting expectantly and impatiently. He smiled. It was a cruel little game to play with them, but he wanted to see how long they'd wait before one of them would finally break the silence to ask him how the initial interview had gone, and which of them it would be that would give in first. "Well, Programmer? What's the verdict?" The Programmer smiled. He had been right. It was Mr. `Sheriff' Cold, representative of the SHIELD Espionage Agency, that had spoken. The Programmer yawned. "It will take some amount of work," he replied. "But I am confident that, with time, I can transform this genetic creation of yours into an exact duplicate of the original Captain America, may he rest in peace. Falsified correspondence with friends will be necessary. Also, we will have to manipulate his subconscious, to give him that `nagging feeling' that he does in fact remember. I have the equipment to make it an easier transition." The Programmer rubbed his eyes and searched for his glasses. He began to clean them, said: "Remarkable piece of work, by the way. I never cease to be amazed by how far Cloning has developed since the Cold War. And where did you find the genetic material? It must have been quite a source. He's flawless." He looked across the room at Doctor Nietchze, who smiled at the appreciation of his talents. Nietchze was the head scientist who had, almost single-handedly really, performed the miracle of cloning Steve Rogers through eight months of hard work. If the Programmer had heard correctly, he was actually a former member of the Advanced Idea Mechanics, a criminal organization of scientists. It would explain where he got his name. A.I.M. members had a habit of renaming themselves after great thinkers, scientists, and artists. Before Nietchze could answer, however, Cold interrupted with a frown: "That's classified, `course. Ain't exactly a habit o' the government to give secrets out to its contracted employees." "Mind my own business, is it?" the Programmer smiled. "Well, just curious. I understand." "How long?" That was Mr. Wycroft, the Programmer thought. National Security Association. "Ballpark estimate? Four months," he said. "Four months and Captain America will have miraculously survived `certain doom' yet again. Acceptable?" "Four years would've been acceptable. You know that. Not like we have other options." "Quite right, Gentlemen," he said. The glasses were placed back over his eyes and he blinked. He could see clearly again now. "My occupation is, after all, a rarity nowadays. How many people do you know who specialize in brainwashing? With two doctorates, no less! Goodness, but you were lucky to find me alone! Finding Dr. Malzvich over there, though he is of far more limited experience, was lightning twice struck!" Doctor Malzvich gave a tight smile, accepting the compliment, such as it was. The Programmer continued: "And even if you did have a hope of finding another man or woman who holds my unique talents, you're on a time table." All of the men in the room, he noted, bristled at that. It was true. Every man and woman currently assembled around him was under incredible pressure from their own supervisors to have this project completed as soon as possible. It was, of course, because of the rumors. Word had spread. The United States government wasn't the only power trying to recreate a living symbol. It was whispered that somewhere within the dark recesses of the criminal underworld, an evil project was also underway to recreate Captain America's nemesis: The Red Skull. Where Captain America stood for Liberty and Freedom, rallying people about the United States government, the Red Skull stood for Tyranny and Death, one of the last and greatest vestiges of Adolph Hitler's dream of a Nazi empire. If the Red Skull should truly return-… "Still, time table or not, this must be done properly and carefully," the Programmer finally said. "Do not worry. Your clone of Steve Rogers will soon be more than a simple work of science. He will be Captain America returned. Guaranteed." And then he added with a smile: "Or your money back." *** "You are Captain America, a superhuman free agent who has acted for many years now as a top operative of the United States government through your own volition…" Two days after the first interview, the doctor had given him a suit. It was blue, made of chain mail. Much as the Shield, a bright, white star stood out starkly upon its chest. He was asked to wear it. He refused. "You are Captain America, a superhuman free agent who has acted for many years now as a top operative of the United States government through your own volition…" Now that was strange. He took on incredibly dangerous missions of his own free will? Why would he do such a thing? On the sixth day, the doctor did something very strange. He pulled a knife on Steve and tried to kill him. Steve quickly disarmed him and the doctor laughed, triumphantly pointing out how easily he had been beaten. "You are Captain America, a superhuman free agent who has acted for many years now as a top operative of the United States government through your own volition…" Fifteen days after the first interview, Steve asked to see his mother and father. He was informed that they had been dead for a very, very long time. The news was not unexpected. He asked to see a friend, then. He was asked who he would like to see. He said he didn't know, that he couldn't remember, that he only wanted to talk to someone that would know him. The doctor smiled at that and said: "Well, once you remember someone, just tell me and I'll fetch them!" Getting his hands off the doctor's throat had taken the effort of several men. "You are Captain America, a superhuman free agent who has acted for many years now as a top operative of the United States government through your own volition…" *** "I'm not getting through to him," the Programmer frowned in the darkness. About him, the shapes of NSA Representative Wycroft, SHIELD Representative `Sheriff' Cold, and Doctor Nietchze were made visible by the greenish glow of the computer monitors. The monitors were all busy now. If they were not reading off pages of text concerning the psychological history and profile of Steve Rogers, they were showing footage of him recorded at any number of locations. Farther back, almost completely invisible in the shadows, the guards of Undermount stood silently, clutching their rifles. The Programmer occasionally wondered to himself what exactly they were. None of the three primary branches of the United States military would be used in an installation such as Undermount. NSA, then? CIA? Longshots. Sheriff Cold's question broke the Programmer's train of thought: "Why not, Doc?" "Making him conform to the persona of Steve Rogers cannot be done without giving him a very powerful sense of Patriotism. Love of country is, after all, an integral part of Captain America. But there lies the rub, my friends. How do I mimic that?" the Programmer asked. It was not truly a question, not for them. In truth, he was only speaking to himself. He asked out loud: "How can I possibly learn and duplicate the forces that created such fervor within his heart?" He loosened his tie, black on black. He had a habit of doing that when he was thinking. Plus, his neck still hurt from when the clone had grabbed him. "There is simply not a way," the Programmer said after a moment. Wycroft's attention was immediately caught by that statement. The representative of the National Security Association's face contorted in horror. He said: "What do you mean?" "Easy, Wycroft! I simply mean that I can't accomplish our objectives through the direction I have been moving. I must simply rethink my strategy." "And how long will that take?" "Long as he wants, far as I'm concerned," Sheriff Cold said. He stroked his moustache absently as he continued: "The Programmer's paid `cause he knows what he's upta, Agent. If he says he's gotta rethink, he's gotta rethink. `Cause he's the only one o' us who could think about this kinda stuff in the first place, much less re-think." "I concur," Doctor Nietchze said. Wycroft took the rebuttal with candor, nodding. "I'm not trying to second-guess our man here, Cold. But I have reports to make. Again, Programmer: How long?" "Give me the night and we'll meet again tomorrow morning," the Programmer said. "And have Doctor Malzvich brought back from the Weisman Institute in America. I've decided I still need his help. Put his airplane ticket and renewed services on my expense account. And is that holographic training room still being brought up? Done? Excellent! Tell its supervisor we'll be using it tomorrow. Goodbye now. All of you." The Programmer was soon alone again. He turned gently in his chair, watched the footage, watched and watched. How could you instill such a love of country? How could he? *** It had been two months since the initial interview and the Shield felt good in his hand. Steve Rogers, Captain America, crouched comfortably in the chainmail of his costume. He waited. The dark about him lit up, just as he knew it would, and the Illusions began. They weren't completely illusions, of course, not really. The German soldiers from Adolph Hitler's Reich that suddenly besieged him were actually robots, strong and more than capable of doing him damage, their true nature simply disguised by holographic technology. He hurled the shield forward and let it destroy them. Then the laser blasts began. It was a stretch, of course. Why would a Nazi soldier from the 1940s have laser pistols? But the purpose of the exercise wasn't historical accuracy. He jumped out of the way and landed perfectly. His shield returned to his waiting hand from where he had thrown it, like a boomerang, almost as if by magic. He charged with it. Like bowling pins before a great ball, the Nazis were vanquished. Captain America stood alone. "An excellent performance, of course. Physically, Captain, you're improving every day. The many combat moves you've forgotten are being used through instinct. You're becoming healthier. I would say you're at 75% operability. Astounding, for two months' work," Dr. Nietchze said through the microphone. He shuffled uncomfortably within the protective bullet-proof glass of the holographic room's control area. The little control area was made for one person. Fitting the Programmer and his assistant, Dr. Malzvich, in was a less than enjoyable task. "Wonderful," Steve said. He tore the mask of the Captain from his face and used it to wipe the sweat away. He did not look at the men. "Indeed, Captain. Very wonderful. You will be capable of your inspirational exploits again very soon, I think," Nietchze said. "Why?" Nietchze's hand paused from its incessant note-taking. "I do not understand the question." "Why would I do that? All America has done for me, Nietchze, as far as I can tell, is keep me caged here. A lab rat. It doesn't sound like something I'm willing to fight for, much less die for. There are many other countries I could do that for just as easily. And they have far less of an army for defending themselves than America. I'll ask again. Why would I risk my life in any sort of exploit for your country?" The doctor put down his pencil and remained silent for a very long moment, locking eyes with the creature he had created in the room below. The perfect replica of a hero, at least physically. Nietchze had assumed that the Programmer would be able to do the rest. But- "He still lacks it," Nietchze said. The Programmer only nodded. He was perfectly aware of his failure. Physically, their clone was perfect. Perhaps even mentally, Steve Rogers the Second was all he was meant to be. The memories, the attitude. It was all there. But it was a jumbled mess, without anything to hold it together. Without that fierce, almost insane obsession that the first Steve Rogers had held for his country. Not that he hadn't brainwashed men into loving a country before. He'd turned American spies into lovers of China and vice-versa. He'd convinced anarchists that they'd rather die than strike the Cuban government. But he couldn't do the same thing to Captain America. The love would be an unhealthy one; it would show. He rubbed his hands together, frustrated, loosened his black tie on black. Dr. Malzvich pretended not to notice the habits. Finally, Nietchze spoke again: "I'm going to end his session for the day. Powering down. We'll- Hm. Doctors." They refocused their attentions. "I am embarassed to say I appear to have lost him again. Will one of you please call the Sheriff?" Minutes later, they were watching as the great titanium doors of the training room slid soundlessly open and allowed Sheriff Cold, garbed in the light blue uniform of SHIELD, to enter. From what the three doctors could see, he was not armed. Giving the subject the chance to gain a gun was, after all, inadvisable. But the SHIELD officer moved with ease anyhow, step by step along the cold, barren floor of metal, searching with eyes that had aged considerably since they first saw Light. Around him, Darkness. "I can turn the lights higher," Nietchze's voice crackled through the earpiece. Cold waved the idea off instead of talking and peered through the black. Somewhere, a shield glinted. "What are you tryin' to accomplish here, Kid?" Cold muttered. Above, the room's sound technology sent every word so much as whispered into Doctor Nietchze's headset. He resisted the urge to answer. He didn't want to distract the `Sheriff'. Especially since he truly didn't trust any other man presently within the Undermount Base to have the ability to rein in the power of Captain America. Cold was experienced, one of the SHIELD Espionage Agency's most skilled and ruthless officers, so much that he had been given the nickname `Sheriff' by those he constantly kept in line. He was getting older, it was true. Whatever they had used on Nick Fury to keep that fool out of the grave, they weren't giving it to the Sheriff. But Nietchze had always been a big believer in Wisdom and Old Age over Youth. And so far, Cold had proven his belief right. Nietchze's train of thought was derailed as a human roar blazed through his headset. The Captain leaped forward from the black, shield in hand, and Cold turned with his fist ready. He might as well, of course, have been moving in slow motion. The Star-Spangled Avenger ducked and sweeped, knocking the old man's legs from their purchase. The Sheriff fell and Nietchze was sure, merely by watching the landing, that something had broken- perhaps in several places. But the Sheriff only spun as he hit the floor and lashed out with his own foot, catching the Captain across the face. The Sheriff was taken by his uniform's collar, hooked with the Captain's fingers, and a solid punch from the Super Soldier completely banished the remaining fight left in him. Sheriff Cold was beaten and his body showed it, going limp. Victorious, the Captain moved on without a second's pause- He was running for the door. One of the helmeted guards was waiting for him, though, a weapon in hand. Over Nietchze's shoulder, the Programmer watched Captain America hurl himself at the lone guard and was surprised to see the guard reply with SHIELD defense training. He had never considered that the guards he occasionally wondered about, while not marked as such, might be Sheriff Cold's agents as well. "Ah. Success," Nietchze said. The Programmer nodded. The guard had taken a bad blow from the escaping hero clone, but had managed to blast the Captain with some sort of stun ray. The hero fell. The soldier stood guard over him, obviously hurt. "Get that soldier's name. He needs a commendation," Nietchze noted. "Programmer? Would you and Dr. Malzvich like to take it from here?" The Programmer nodded and left, Malzvich trailing him. The two psychology specialists were quickly joined by several guards. Together, they dragged their champion-in-development back to his cell. As they did, the Programmer made a mental observation that excited him: Why didn't the Captain kill Sheriff Cold? The day after, when Steve Rogers finally awoke after twelve hours' sleep, it was the first and only question that the Programmer asked in their daily interview. His patient had responded by walking over to stand in front of him (for a moment, the Programmer thought he would be attacked) and reaching into his pocket, seizing the wallet there. The Captain flipped through it until he found pictures that the Programmer very much loved: Those of his wife and children. He pointed at them. The wallet was returned into the doctor's hands. And the Programmer left. *** "Fascinating!" the Programmer hissed again, then repeated himself several times within the next minute of time. He had a habit of doing that, most of them had noticed, whenever he was excited. The Programmer moved about his office, sometimes retracing his steps, with no apparent destination in mind, saying: "Fascinating. Fascinating. Fascinating." Dutifully, Malzvich, Nietchze, and Wycroft sat or stood about the messy office, attempting not to disturb any of the piles of papers that, at least to them, seemed to be in complete disorder. After roughly sixty days in collaboration with the doctor, they had learned to wait out such tendencies, if only in respect for the work he accomplished. Wycroft, the least self-disciplined it often seemed, was the only one to betray any hint of impatience in his manner. The office door suddenly opened and Nietchze saw Sheriff Cold enter out of the corner of his eye. The man was on a crutch and one of his cheeks had been turned into a single, mass bruise, ending at a blackened left eye. He looked around at the assembled for just a moment and then took the seat that he was offered by Malzvich. The Programmer paid no attention. He only loosened his tie, black on black, then finally took it off. Sat again. Stood again. And ripped his wallet from its place in his pocket, holding it up, almost as if a trophy, and cried: "Look! At! This!" Cold said: "A photo?" "A puzzle! A question! An enigma and a maze! A conundrum, a riddle! One that saved your life, Mr. Cold. Our Steve didn't kill you in that room-don't look at me that way, I get no joy from reminding you of it-because he found Killing to be wrong!" "As the real Captain America would have," Wycroft said. "But for the same reasons? In the same mind? I don't know! He showed me this photo, James-" He had never used Wycroft's first name before. "-when I asked him why he didn't kill. Because of the Sheriff's family, any that he might have. On the off chance that someone outside the titanium walls of this base loves you, Sheriff. Would he have killed you if he knew for sure that none would mourn you? This has brought the case in an entirely new direction!" "How's that?" Cold asked. "What if we've been building the same moral rules within him, Good Sheriff, but we've been unaware that we're building them on a different foundation? Your new Captain might surprise the entire world one day, when those grounds give him reason to do something completely out of character. If some supervillain from several hundred years ago arrives and the Captain reasons that nobody in this world knows the man, would he end that supervillain's life right before his teammates? The real Captain would never do such a thing." "Is this going to set us back?" "Of that, there's no doubt, I'm afraid. You can file that away in your reports, Mr. Wycroft." "But what's it matter if he does the same things for different reasons? Is this absolutely necessary? All we really want is a faux Captain America-" "That, Mr. Wycroft, was never the intention of this project. You're asking me to simply produce a stand-in for the real, deceased Captain? The government's already attempted that! Or don't you remember John Walker, the `US Agent'? A sad case. No, Mr. Wycroft, we are interested here in recreating the original Captain America, not a new one. We want Steve Rogers. And nothing less! Eh? Lt. Halley! Finally, you join us!" The guard, completely dressed in the full body armor that had been ordered for the Undermount staff after a month of confrontations with the clone, had entered so silently that the Programmer had not noticed. He quickly stood at attention. Saluted. The Programmer looked deeply into the featureless faceplate that stared back at him, trying unsuccessfully to pierce it, and smiled. "I am sure that Mr. Cold, Dr. Nietchze, and everyone else present joins me in thanking you personally for your sterling display of work yesterday. Your apprehension of the subject was very well-executed." Halley remained motionless, but gave a curt: "Thank you, Sir." "Were you hurt badly?" "No, Sir. The medical officer gave me a clean bill." "Excellent. That only leaves your reward then. Tomorrow night, the commanding officers of Undermount and I will engage in dinner. We would very much like you to join us. Be formal." "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." "Dismissed," the Programmer said. He turned, then, began speaking once more with the others. The lieutenant turned and began to walk. Behind him, the voice of the Programmer grew more and more distant: "…new psychological evaluation…give me two days.. should have.. yes.." Slinging the bulky stun rifle over his shoulder, the lieutenant turned, moved down a new hall, turned again, unerringly making for the elevator that would lead him to the lower levels of Undermount. The elevator was soon reached. Several of the other guards turned as they saw him approach, nodded in greeting, let him by. The doors closed behind him. He dropped until the lift "dinged" again and the doors reopened. A sign read "Restricted Area - Prepare For Identification Check". "Just a moment," the floor supervisor muttered as he ran the small, red beam over the lieutenant's armor. "There. You're clean. The subject is eating in ten, so hurry up. You gonna be around for the poker game tonight?" The powerful hydraulics that controlled the floor's barriers began to churn and the doors opened. He made his way through the halls beyond, occasionally having trouble seeing. The flourescent bulbs of the sector needed replacing. They'd become weak and now barely lit the corridors. Finally, a door at the hall's end was found and a password entered. It opened. The lieutenant unslung the stun rifle and entered. The Steve Rogers of Undermount looked up at him from the bed. Uncomprehending. Halley turned, gripped his rifle tightly, and slammed its end into the password entry panel. A small red `ERROR' message quickly lit the screen. The lock was no longer functional. As Steve watched, Halley ran out of the room and was gone, the echo of his footsteps growing more and more distant. The Clone of Captain America stood. And then the bomb blew. *** "Sir? Sir?" Sheriff Cold's eyes slowly opened to a world of swimming images, a dreamlike state. Someone was above him, talking to him. They were Undermount soldiers. That was it. And they were trying to help him. From what? He realized that he was lying on the floor. Something heavy was on his chest. Cold blinked again and the vision cleared a little more. Blink. A little more yet. The room was dark. He could only see because the soldiers were holding- Flashlights? Flashlights. "What… happened?" Cold murmured. Blink. He could make out the soldier's helmeted face now. The trooper was kneeling down next to him, holding a first aid kit. Was he hurt? Badly? "We've been hit, Sir," the Undermount guard said. His faceplate gleamed in the light. "A bomb, we think. We're protected from outside attack. Or we were. Situation's a black out: Most generators are out and a good deal of the computer systems are blown to pieces, including Security and Base Automatics. That means a number of our doors are locked and won't open, including the ones to this cafeteria. Titanium, Sir, several inches thick. We're trapped. Delgado is working on getting us out." "Trapped," Cold repeated. Blink. The flashlight's beam hurt his eyes. "If whoever did this- sends in a cleanin' crew to finish the job- We're sittin' ducks. I wanna get up. Let me up." "Sir- You're badly hurt. I- I'm not a medic, Sir, only trained in the basic stuff- But a piece of a fractured wall has punctured your stomach. You've lost a lot of blood. Maybe- Er, maybe too much." The Sheriff cursed, nodded in submission. His eyes blinked and he allowed himself to stare at the cracked ceiling. It was leaking. "If they didn't just try to vaporize us with somethin' strong, like C-4, then they're sendin' in a crew. Whoever `they' are. They want somethin'. An' I'll bet I know what. You any idea where Wycroft is?" "The National Security Association representative is not with us, Sir." "He's dead?" "Not to my knowledge, Sir. Simply not present." "Try t'radio him. The subject needs to be- hngh- protected…" The impenetrable faceplate of the Undermount guard staring back at him, Sheriff Cold's eyes blinked one more time, and he lost consciousness. He heard several orders being barked as he faded back into the world of dreams. They were good men. *** NSA Representative James Wycroft clutched his pistol tightly and ground his back into the corner of the hallway. He could hear the footsteps of men hurrying through the base, somewhere close by. But the darkness was impenetrable, completely dominant. Wycroft shook his bleeding head and cursed. And once more, he began to move very carefully through the giant maze of corridors that was Undermount Base, relying solely on his memory. `Got a flashlight, but giving away my position would be suicide,' he thought as he moved. `Yet I don't see any beams from whoever's attacking us, either. They must be using night goggles. I don't know who they are. I wouldn't know if I saw them, not in this darkness. They're not soldiers, though. I can hear their feet hitting the metal floor. Those aren't boots they're wearing- They're shoes. Civilians-turned-terrorists, then. That probably means they're zealots of some sort, fighting for some movement. But that doesn't make any sense! How do civilians learn about a top secret installation?! `Not the time to jump into Twenty Questions, now is it? They didn't just disintegrate us, so they want what we have. They're going for the Programmer's clone. Not a doubt. And here I am on the same floor as that genetic jigsaw. Well, I'm not sacrificing my life for any project- Time to get out of this pit and fill out a report when I get back to Washington. I'll- Wait! I heard a-' A hand gripped him by the shoulder with a fierce strength and Wycroft turned, aiming his gun where he could only guess the head of his attacker would be. By the time he had completed the move, however, fast though Wycroft was for his age, the cold barrel of a gun was to his own brow. He froze. "Oh- It's you," a voice in the dark said, mere inches from his face. The tone was muffled, Wycroft realized, probably by a helmet. One of the guards? Yes- He recognized the voice! "Lieutenant Halley," Wycroft whispered. "Good. We need to get off this floor. It'll be the hotspot, if it isn't already. You have night vision in that helmet, I'm guessing. Hello?" But the hand had already released the NSA representative, and to Wycroft's astonishment, he heard the sound of the guard's feet quietly leaving him. He reached out quickly to try to grab hold of the lieutenant in the blackness. He only caught air. Wycroft began to breathe more deeply as the realization that Halley was abandoning him set in, hissed: "Halley! Halley?" Lt. Halley ignored the strenuous calls of his commanding officer and turned a corner, finding himself standing in front of a laboratory door. `DATA ANALYSIS - E3'. It was one of the places where the Dr. Nietzche poured over the genetic information of his creation. It could be called the Devil's workshop. "Halley!" he heard Wycroft cry to him again. Halley turned, silently damning the man. That had been far too loud! He ducked and was fortunate he did so, because a burst of machine gun fire immediately crashed through the hallway, ripping away the metal plates of the walls. The attackers were not conservative in firepower- The onslaught of bullets became a hailstorm instead of slowly ending. Halley opened the laboratory door-thank God it was one of the doors that still worked-and leaped inside. He rolled, turned, closed the door behind him before the attackers could follow. A shot from his rifle disabled the doors' opening mechanism, effectively locking it. Halley stood again in the black of Nietzche's laboratory. He had to assume that Wycroft hadn't been killed- There had been no scream. Looking around, Halley was surprised to see that at least two of the monitors in the room were still functional, illuminating the room in a deep blue glow. He raised his rifle and started to walk through it. Careful. One never knew where surprises lay- "Put the gun-!" a deep growl began, but Halley had already spun and trained the weapon perfectly on the surprised clone- "..Down!" "Make me. Whatever you are," the soldier replied. "Now: Back away. I mean it. I'll kill you." "You could have let me die already, if that was what you wanted," the Clone said. "But you don't. You freed me so I wouldn't be found helpless in my cell by those terrorists, or- Whatever they are. You're not one of them, though. They were shooting at you too. Who are you and what do you want with me?" "I freed you-…" Halley began, but for the first time, his voice seemed to waver, as if unsure. Or intimidated. "I freed you because I didn't want them to kill you before I learned what I want to know. Or- Before I have the chance to do it myself." "What is it you want to know?" the Clone said. And then, slowly, Halley lowered his weapon, setting it on one of the several tables that ran the length of the room. The man who would be Steve Rogers watched. The guard raised his hands and undid his helmet's latch with them, then slowly pulled it away. And when next Halley spoke, it was with the voice of- a woman! "I want to know what you are," Sharon Carter said.
***
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