 |
"We- We're going to die- God-" Malzvich whispered. Immediately, he was met with a slap across the face from the brainwashing specialist. The Programmer glared at him. "Words such as those are not productive," the Programmer hissed. Then he straightened his tie, black on black, and looked about the remains of Nietchze's private room. A single emergency light lit the room as best it could, feebly, and it looked to die out soon. They would be in pitch black within a very short time and utterly helpless. "But yes," the specialist conceded with a sigh. "You're right. We probably are. Now help me find something we can use. A gun would be exquisite." *** "Hello, Sharon. It's- I don't know. Nice to see you, I guess," the Clone said. He turned, moving purposefully through the ruined components of the lab. There was a locker where he remembered it. The lock on it was broken. He opened the doors and smiled, took out the Shield. "`Nice to see me'?" he heard Sharon say. "I'm sorry if that's not the greeting you were hoping for. It's- been a while. And things have happened to me since then. I'm not the same man you knew, whoever he was. They've been trying to make me him, but- I'm not." "No," Sharon said. The rifle was slung over her shoulder again. "You're right about that. You're not. And you never were." "That's not what I've been told." "You're a walking lie- `Rogers'. You don't think you could be told a few hundred untruths?" "Alright. I'm not Steve Rogers, Captain America. So what am I?" "You're- detached about all of this. You don't care." "Not particularly. Right now, I'm focusing on one thing at a time. Specifically, I'm in an underground base of some kind filled with hostile gunmen. I want out of it. After that, I can start asking questions," the Captain said. He met her eyes as he pulled the shield over his arm, pulled the blue mask of a national hero down over his face. She looked away from those eyes, to the shield. The white star imprinted on it seemed to blaze, even in the dim light. A hero's symbol. "For the record, though, for someone who says she wants to know what I am, you already seem pretty sure of the answer," he said. She unconsciously backed away slightly as he approached her again. The perfectly-reconstructed figure of the man she once knew loomed over her with eyes that no longer held- What? She took a deep breath. He could smile now and make this the most cruel moment in her life. "So if I'm not the man you once cared for, then again: What is it you wanted?" he asked. "I- I knew. I just- I hoped maybe- I could be wro-" She looked away. Looked back. The new Captain America raised his eyebrows bemusedly, surprised at how a face that had, for one moment, seemed overwhelmed in a torrent of emotion suddenly gave way to a soldier's steely gaze. The Professional Sharon Carter had returned. He remembered it. "We'll ask easier questions, then. What now? Shoot me?" he asked. Her gaze went to the rifle. "I could, you know," she said. "I beat you, earlier. I could do it again. And I should! You're an abomination. I can't believe they'd have the nerve, after all he's done for them- to try to replace him with some- construct! I'm glad they're hitting this place. You and this entire project need to be stopped!" She had picked up the rifle, by this time. Held it against his chest. He frowned. "Maybe it does," the mirror image said. The gun was brushed aside with a slap of the gloved hand and he stepped forward. "I don't know enough to have an opinion on it. But I know you're not going to hurt me. You came here for me. Maybe I'm not the man you wanted, but apparently I'm close enough to risk your life to save. In a way, that's sick. You care for this `Captain America'-whether or not I'm him- so much you'll take a carbon copy of him. You want to be independent, Sharon, but you're not. And at the moment, that's fine with me, because if you truly were so detached, you'd have me dead. As it is: I have you." He kissed her, held her close to him. The Professional Mind of Sharon Carter, besieged by a power far too strong to overcome, gave way and died a painful death. She felt his hand run down her body, across her sensually, finally finding its target. It pulled away the pistol in her holster and he very abruptly, coldly released her, cocked the weapon. "You wouldn't dream of killing me, Sharon. I'm the closest thing you have to a dead man. Now I want to get out of here, so start filling me in. Who are `they'?" "I- hate you." "Fine." "Communist radicals. Multi-national. Some are Russian, others Chinese, I think. The leader's actually an Australian, though. He's just a mercenary. Only in it for the money they're willing to pay him for a successful mission. He's called Ruger." "I remember hearing about him." "You probably have. SHIELD's got a file on him." She picked up the rifle once more as he headed for another exit that hadn't been locked. She steeled herself once again, almost an impossible task, threatening to crush her. Sharon checked the ammo left in her weapon and looked to her partner, a man- the mirror image of someone, now dead, who had meant so much to her- who she now regarded as the cruelest in the world. Had the Red Skull ever saved himself by seizing someone's heart as a tool? He opened the door and sidestepped as the gunfire immediately swept through the room, eliminating the monitors that had given them light. It wasn't an important matter. He had caught the position of the gunman. The Captain whirled back into the doorway and unloaded the pistol's clip, allowing the return fire to bounce harmlessly from his shield. From somewhere in the darkness beyond, he heard an Asian scream. Someone nearby yelled in Russian: "Fai is down!" "Back up! Rejoin Brencis!" someone answered. There was quiet, then the sound of footsteps, barely detectable, retreating. The Captain nodded to Sharon and dashed without further wait through the newly-available passage. It took seconds more, precious seconds, for Sharon to break free from her dumbfounded paralysis. `A gun- He actually shot a gun!' She silenced her thoughts and ran to catch up. *** "I can't see a thing-" "Quiet, Malzvich." "-but we've no idea even where we're going-!" "We can make an educated guess. We have lived within these quarters for quite some time now. If you have not familiarized yourself with its layout, you weren't paying attention. Again: Quiet!" "Dead. We're-" And suddenly, the blinding beam of a flashlight struck their faces, eliminating the night that had held them for nearly twenty minutes in its grip. The two specialists covered their eyes, cried out in pain from the sudden glare, and both tensed, waiting for bullets to strike them dead. But after twenty seconds, there was no such death, and the Programmer was the first of the two to look up at the men who had found them. "Programmer?" "Brencis Vanechka! I have not seen you in a very long time," the Programmer said. The Russian standing before them was a small man, badly-shaved. He lowered a sleek, black automatic and nodded at the two men, as if pleased. Malzvich tried to get a glimpse of the Programmer's expression, to see if perhaps they should no longer be worried. The brainwasher smiled. "You are, of course, free to go," Brencis said. "Have either of you seen the clone?" "I am afraid I have not," the Programmer said. "Thank you." The Russian nodded and left them with a new flashlight and directions out of the base, to Doctor Malzvich's astonishment. Together, they quickly left the floor and found the entry point that the attackers had used. It took another ten minutes to successfully climb out into the amazingly-bright afternoon sun. "I have done some work for his organization in the past," the Programmer explained. "And am scheduled to do so in the future. They would not simply slay someone of my skill, Malzvich. At least, not when they have already given me a deposit. Well! Free! We appear to have survived that ordeal. Back to the Institute for you, I suppose. Myself? Oh, I'll be fine. I have another project of great interest lined up in Germany. I'll be spending a few months there. I plan to see the Dark Forest, if time permits. Goodbye." *** The doors wouldn't open, so they had to break through them. It took several minutes. When the metal finally came apart, Sharon Carter and the Clone of Captain America looked up into the black heights of an elevator shaft, rising story after story to the surface above. It was the most direct path of escape without question, but the climb would be perilous. Sharon imagined that it was not lost on the double that should they be spotted during the climb, there would be no way they could maneuver out of the path of a storm of lead. The Captain smiled. "Me first." And then he leaped onto the cables, dangled there for a moment as he struggled to achieve the proper grip on the wires, finally began to ascend. Sharon Carter placed the rifle on her back again and took a last look behind them. It was tactical stupidity, leaving at least two of the attackers at their backs. But Escape was the priority. She agreed with the monstrosity on that. She jumped onto the cables and the battle to make it to the top began in earnest. They could only guess at when they had reached the correct floor. Going too high would put them in the tower that dominated the land over the base, and going too low would mean that there would be no exit. After nearly fifteen minutes of terrible exertion, Sharon said as quietly as she could: "This floor." The Shield of Captain America pried the correct doors open and they leaped out. Immediately, Sharon saw that she had chosen the wrong level. They were one, perhaps two, floors from the ground level. She began to speak but stopped. There was Light here, operational equipment that continued to grind out diagnostics after the base had been hit. The gigantic screens shined with information on the genetic recreation of an American hero. The Clone was staring at it. She checked his face, hoping for some clue as to his reaction, but there was no horror from the revelation written across his features, nor was there any surprise. Had he known all along, then, or suspected? Or had the Programmer's work resulted in a machine that took every event in stride? She gulped, finally spoke when she realized again that they had no time. "Er- `Steve'," she said. "We have to- move? Steve! Someone's coming!" The Captain turned as the door of the mighty office burst open. Sharon Carter recognized James Wycroft, NSA, as the agent ran in and then, before a final word could be released from his lips, was torn through by a sizzling blast of emerald energy. Wycroft's body fell. "Easy target, way too easy. Haven't met a proper kill, in fact, this entire mission." The accent was markedly Australian, its owner easily identifiable. Sharon raised her gun. Beside her, `Captain America' readied his shield. There was the sound of boots on metal. "`Course, I suppose it's possible they jus' don't make `em for a man with my abilities anymore. Ya don't suppose that's it, do ya? Be a damned cryin' shame, if it were. Understandable, tho'. How can ya dodge an assassin who can snipe a fly at sev'ral hundred yards in the night? How's it possible you could escape a man wit' all he needs right there in his eyes? Guess it's time to face facts, Luv- When ya cross RUGER, you're dead!" Ruger stepped forward from the doorway already firing. The room lit with the flash of his muzzle and Sharon Carter ducked. The monitors that showed that priceless information on the creation of a hero's facsimile blew open with the new attack. The room began to darken with the loss of those screens. She waited. Finally, the blasts stopped coming. Sharon peeked out. Ruger had been using an assault rifle that time, instead of the beam weapon he had used to slay Wycroft, and he dropped it now. The man was cleanly bald and thin, covered in a bulletproof vest decked with grenades, chains of ammunition, and other supplies that a paid warrior might require. The vest itself, she felt sure, was not useful: She could see Ruger's arms, and they were coated in tightly-spun protective rings of metal. Ruger's bionic eyes were searching for her and the man she had been trying to escape alongside. She heard steps and ducked again as two more men entered the room. Others! "Ruger!" one of the two, a Russian, said. "Mistah Vanechka? Mistah Shaiming? You stupid blokes- Stay down! There's a hostile in-!" Sharon let loose with several shots, smiled as one of the two, the Chinese one, screamed with sudden new pain. He fell amidst the wreckage and the other two men immediately ducked. She waited for another chance. Where was `Steve'? If she knew Captain America, by now both Ruger and his partner should have been soundly beaten. "Shaiming!" the Russian voice said softly, but then Ruger said: "Got what was comin' to him. You almost did, too. What is it ya wanted, now?" "The clone. We have just caught sight of him on the old security monitors. He is entering the base as we speak, Ruger." "`Entering it'? That doesn't make any sense at all! How did he escape in the first place, `less he sneaked out of here `fore we even attacked. Why didn't you just radio me?" "We attempted to do so. We are somehow losing communicative ability." "Well, your prized lil' subject outweighs the lil' lady, I'm sure. Get outta here and I'll join you. We'll intercept `im on the second level," Ruger said. Then he said, more loudly for her own ears: "Sorry `bout this one! I'm not a man t'run from an engagement, o' course, but the Boss didn't mention a girl, and the Boss is the one payin' the money. Who knows, though, right? The Future could bring anything! And we'll always have-" In a flash, Sharon made a realization and rolled, barely avoiding the green blast of power that suddenly tore her hiding place into shrapnel! "-UNDERMOUNT! Damn- Missed `er! She's a smart one. Go, go, go!" Sharon stood, but the distraction had sufficed: The room was empty again. She could hear the two terrorists retreating. It was possible, of course, that she could catch them if she tried to give chase. But she couldn't decide, not at that moment- She was too confused. Had the clone abandoned her, ready to save only himself? She could believe that. It was very unlike the man she knew, but there were differences in this clone. That was obvious. But even if he had done so, had he really had enough time to make it to the surface already, and then come back? For that matter, why would he come back? It was too improbable, all of it. `So,' she thought, `I'll tail Ruger and find out. Different goals aside, Ruger is doing exactly what I want to do now: He's finding Captain America. Or a copy of him.' *** Ruger and Brencis Vanechka reentered one of the first rooms they had blown their way into when they had attacked the base. They were rejoined there by Egor Krestyanov, another Russian, Glace Teague, a Welshman, and Kuan-Yin, the last Chinese member of the group left alive. "Shaiming is gone, Ruger. Fai Cong, too," Glace said. "The bleedin' witch," Ruger sniffed. "She's as much trouble as the Captain 'imself. A'right, listen. No more splittin' up. We don't got long 'fore somebody's sent here by America's government to clean up, and that either means they're gonna send extermination squads in here or just bomb the place to keep anyone else from learnin' more about it. We'll move through the floors one by one and do a sweep- Eh? There! The Clone!" Ruger's bionic eyes were extremely accurate, but even he had not caught sight of the Captain's shield in time. It flew out from the dark and slammed through Brencis and Egor. They fell with Russian curses and broken bones. Glace and Kuan-Yin immediately opened fire, only for the shield to rebound off a wall and crash into Kuan-Yin's back. Glace dived for cover, something Ruger had already accomplished. "Now, blast it! While he don't got his shield!" Ruger yelled to Glace. The Welshman nodded and stood, unloading his weapon even as Ruger's special energy beam joined the assault. The Captain flew forward over the attacks, executed a flip in the air, and brought down his boots on the heads of the two men. Glace fell immediately. Ruger was tougher. "Not a bad 'un, that blow!" he said as he wiped away blood, blasting again with his beam. The Captain ducked, letting it sail over his head. "Not a wonder you were rated so dangerous!" The Living Symbol of America threw a punch. "But ya'll have ta do better 'n that to- OOF!" "No problem," Ruger heard the man say. Another punch. Ruger went unconscious. The Captain picked up his shield and stood, looking over the five beaten terrorists. Then he heard a gun cock. He turned. And his eyes widened as he saw Sharon Carter step forward through the doors, a ready pistol clutched in her trembling hands. Her eyes. They looked determined now. "Sharon-?" he said. "You were right, 'Steve'. I let you toy with me," she whispered. She tightened her grip on the gun and aimed. "But not this time. He deserves better." "Sharon, what are you talking about? Why are you here?!" Her grip loosened. "S-Steve? It's not- It's really you? It is!" "Of course it is," CAPTAIN AMERICA said. "I learned about the attack and came to do what I could. I didn't think, not for an instant, that you might be here. Sharon, it's- that is- it's good to see you ali- Sharon?!" By that time, she had dropped the gun and wrapped her arms around him. And Captain America, more symbol than man for a long time, slowly relinquished that symbol-just for a moment, dropping his own shield-to hug her in return. Perhaps, as was true, there were bombers coming soon to annihilate the entire base. Perhaps, as was true, Ruger had regained consciousness and was escaping. Perhaps somewhere, Captain America's greatest old enemy was returning- or perhaps, just beneath them, his greatest new one was being created. It didn't matter. *** "Free! We're free!" said one of the Undermount guards, to which their highest-ranking member said: "Thank God! It worked! We've got the doors open! Get Sheriff Cold, now, and get us a clear signal on the radio. Move it, Squad! I've got a wife and kid back in Tennessee! I'm not going to die today!" He was not unconscious, not truly. Sheriff Cold did not, at that moment, have the strength to so much as open his eyes, but he could hear, and if he could have smiled at that moment, he would have. They had done it. Trapped by tons of debris, titanium doors that refused to open, and working in complete darkness, the staff of Undermount had still managed to pull together and free themselves. And by doing so, they had saved his life. They were, as he had thought before, good men, the best of the best, loyal to their country and a testament to the Human Spirit. As they picked him up on a stretcher and began to make their way out of Undermount's ruins, Sheriff Cold could not help but lament, even if he could not shed a tear. They knew too much about this failed project. He would sign their execution order personally. *** Doctor Nietchze's body lay at his feet. The Clone refused to so much as frown at it as he picked out the black trenchcoat in the closet and put it on. He had finished dressing in new clothes. There would have been no way to stay free once he left Undermount, not wearing the costume of one of the most-recognized men of the 20th century. 'Steve Rogers' straightened his new tie and shut the suitcase in which his costume lay, along with his shield. Try as he might, though, he could not help but look at Nietchze, the ex-AIM scientist, his creator. "I don't know where you currently are, Doctor," he said disdainfully. "I guess, though, I can hope. And that's what I'm doing, Doctor: I'm hoping you're in Hell. I'm not sure I- or the man who I'm based on, who I have the memories of- ever knew blacker souls than you or the Programmer. You two, you've done worse than Homicide. In many ways, I think, worse even than Genicide. You've CREATED a soul. And killed it. What you've committed, Doctor- what I now AM- is PROTOCIDE." The clone turned. It was time to leave. "Burn well, Doctor. Please, please- Burn. Never stop. I don't want you to ever stop burning. Hear that, Doctor. Wherever you are." The body made no response as Protocide stepped over it and out the door. *************************************************************************** EPILOGUE *************************************************************************** "Thank you for the ride, Sharon," Captain America said as he pulled on his mask. The windows of the car were darkly tinted, enough so that the dozens of reporters outside hadn't gotten a good shot of his face. And even though his life as Steve Rogers had always seemed to take a backseat to Captain America, he preferred to keep the ability to run into the cover of a private life. Sharon leaned against the steering wheel and nodded. "You really want to go back to- well, THEM- so quick?" she asked, obviously unpleased. "You actually have a chance to break from 'em, Steve. At least for a while. Why don't you take it?" "You know I couldn't," Captain America said. "It's me, Sharon. I never could. If there's something I could be doing, I should be doing it. That's how I've lived my life for a long time." She shook her head. "Some things never change, Rogers." "Funny. How you call me by your last name whenever you're not happy with me." She frowned. "You can get out anytime." "I'll be in touch, Sharon." "Yeah… Steve. So will I." Just as soon as she took care of a mission she didn't want him to ever hear about. Sharon watched him step out of the car, to the sound of crowds screaming his name and reporters yelling questions, taking pictures. And then, just as soon as she could do so without running over any pedestrians, she put the pedal to the metal. 'I guess I could ask you for help, Steve,' she thought as the trees went by in a blur outside. 'But this one, I need to do for myself as much as anything. The clone of you can't be dead. Ironically, I'm sure about this only because I know you too well for that. You'd have found a way out of that base. I'm sure he has, too. And I owe him. God, I owe him. 'He used me, Steve. He used my feelings, my emotions, like no man has in years, like I thought no man ever would again. Like I SWORE no man ever would again! He forced me to admit things I didn't want to, ever, and he laughed at me for doing it. And the worst part of that is that I can't blame him for it, not really. The only reason he could do that to me was because I refused to make peace with the idea that you were dead. I'm so damned addicted to you that I couldn't let you go. So I fell into his trap. Now it's time to take him out. Not just because he's a danger- but because I want Revenge.' Behind her, Captain America turned, straightening the shield on his arm, and turned as the black gates to the Avengers Mansion clanged and opened. The path to the door lay ahead. At the door, an anxious Jarvis waited. They smiled at each other and Captain America began to walk towards those doors. The sun shone down on him. It felt good. He had returned.
******************************************************************************
New Marvel Presents:
THE RED SKULL'S RETURN!
An Extra Tale of Evil Starring: The Red Skull!
A Prologue to New Marvel's THE AVENGERS
(Continuity Note: This story, like the main tale of this very issue, takes place prior to the events of 'New Marvel's The Avengers' # 403-405)
******************************************************************************
Kellen Lambert scowled at the grade placed upon his paper, a 4.0, about the benefits of a Socialist society and the impact it could have on the economy. By all means, it was a reasonable plan and worthy of a far better grade than a four-point-oh. He crumbled up the eight page piece and shoved it off into some pipe protruding out of his classroom. He rushed off to his dorm, eager to continue another project he had for an elective--the pros and cons of the Socialist dream. As he walked down the hall, an aged hand reached into the pipe to retrieve the four-point-oh paper. A quick glance-over, and the man folded the paper up and slid it into his pocket. *** The phrase " the world is your oyster" could not hold enough truth when concerning one Kellen Lambert. At age eight, he began to master the philosophies of Friedrich Engels, Edmund Husserl and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. He began to enter himself in debates on the "true world" and the "false world"; he would later apply the same logistics to government. His beliefs focused mainly on a government that in theory could not work, but in fact can flourish[true]; and a government which looks good in theory, but in fact is a ticking timebomb[false]. One of Kellen's most debated topics was Gottfried Leibniz, who held a belief that the universe is one large system expressing God's plans. This led him into the Socialist/Nationalist way of thinking-- He focused all of his studies into traits deemed `necessary' for reestablishing a Reich. One of the things that Lambert stressed was his disgust with Adolph Hitler's "final solution"; it was a blatant show of power, and a useless one. Without that horrible tactic, Hitler could have easily continued his blitzkrieg. That was not to say Lambert found the Jews as equals. He viewed them as the major cause of Germany's decline. But everything has to be dealt with in due time. Kellen, despite the mod-beat playing around him, kept his pen in a monotone beat against the desk. He used this as a way to think; every tactician should have a certain form of concentration. For Kellen, it was memories. The music played on. This was always the fun part of the brainstorming process: The Wait. Kellen knew it wouldn't be long. It never was. At the most, another five or ten minutes, and then a flood of emotions-- Hate, Angst, and all the fun stuff that comes out of repressed memories. You could say it all started when- The music suddenly died out with a cat-like scream of death. It barely phased Kellen, but the flickering of lights caught his attention more so. The music had always been a secondary notion to what was really going on. To Kellen, it was more of a detail than anything else. The lights flickered a few times, and finally came back on their fourth try. Kellen would have merely continued his pencil-tapping and brainstorming if not for the following events: a) The appearance of a new man in his room, wearing a completely-black suit and tie. b) Said man holding a four-inch long probe two inches from Kellen's left eye. c) Kellen was handcuffed to both arms of the chair. "Good day, Mr. Lambert. I'm here to offer you a choice. You may respond in the affirmative or negative, but only after I complete my sentence. Do you underst--?" "Who are you?! And how dare you invade my personal space, hold me at- at- knife point, threaten me-" Kellen let out a small yelp as the probe was dragged across his left cheek. It barely scratched the surface, yet it felt like- Well, a piece of cold metal being dragged across his warm skin. "You now have four hours before Tetanus ensues, Mr. Lambert, spreading through your face and becoming quite painful. I can do the same to other sensitive parts of your body, if you do not remain quiet. Do you comprehend this notion, 'Comrade'?" Despite the new pain, Kellen nodded. "Quite good," the man said. "I apologize. Perhaps you'll forgive me later on. Now, to business-- As I said previously, you may reply in the affirmative or negative. You've been chosen, Sir, to represent your people in the dark times to come. You've been chosen to lead the German people into victory against the- Let me check my notes. Ah!- 'Capitalist pigs' that stole our glory. You, Mr. Lambert, are to become the greatest symbol of pride the German population has had since Adolf Hitler and his Reich. But I'll reach the point. There is an interview for a position my employers would like you to hold, Mr. Lambert: The role of the RED SKULL!" The man smiled as he let this information sink in. Lambert was virtually speechless, mulling over the recent data and trying in some vain way to figure it all out. He was about to open his mouth, when the rusty probe appeared once again before him. "Yes , or no. It is not hard at all." Lambert paused for a moment, " I chose no, you pompous piece of cattle! I will not be a slave to any man's philosophy, I shall lead my own life, abide by my own rules! You have no choice in what I say, do, or feel!" The man merely smiled. " Good." Kellen Lambert saw the world disappear into a haze of purple, green and orange. Apparently, the piece of metal wasn't soaked in rust, but another, more mentally-challenging drug. *** "Wake up." Kellen Lambert struggled to open his eyes. They would not budge. "Wake up! Come now!" Regardless of what he tried, Kellen could not will his eyes to move. He thought: `Why can I not open them? What is wrong?! Where am I?' There was a reason: an adhesive that would evaporate in forty-five minutes was spread across his eyes and face. He could not open his eyes; he could not even talk. He could only listen, and feel. "Mr. Lambert, if you do not respond, I shall introduce you to a good friend of mine." A few millimeters away, Kellen heard a drill give off a shrill screech. "Fine. You'll learn to answer me, Mr. Lambert. You will learn." Kellen let loose a muffled scream. *** "Wake up." Kellen stirred silently, having no idea how long he had been captive. It seemed like this game would repeat itself forever: First, harshly being woken up; told to speak and watch, but unable to; then a drill would start up. Kellen began to have the idea that the drill would never touch him; it was a tape recording of some kind. There was no drill. "Mr. Lambert: Today, I have a surprise for you. I call it: `Be careful what you wish for'. Cliché, I know, but it serves its purpose," the Programmer said. Kellen would have smirked if he could move his lips. They hadn't moved for the entire time he had been captive. But something was different on this day-- He blinked. The fact that his eyes moved surprised Kellen to the point of shock. The first image that he saw with his restored vision was a long, gnarled gash on his left forearm. The blood flowed freely and coated the arm of the chair. The left side of his body was coated in the crimson liquid, and from the look of it, most of the blood was not fresh. His eyes darted up to the man standing in front of him, wearing a pair of silken pants and a short purple kimono to go along with it. There was a bloody power-drill, still screeching, in his right hand. Kellen looked back down at his left arm, watching the blood seeping through. His eyes darted over to his right arm, covered in ragged scars and marks. He looked down to his naked body. He had ragged scars all over it. He looked in front of him into a smeared and dust-covered mirror to see the final touch: A swastika ripped into his chest, along with assorted scars and abrasions from the drill. "Speak plainly, Mr. Lambert. Aren't you glad I impaired your vision? It might have spoiled the surprise if you watched. Congratulations." Kellen's mind did somersaults. "You are a single step closer to becoming the Superman. You are closer to being the Red Skull!" Kellen felt a small pin prick his neck, and the world began to dim. "When you next awake," the Programmer said as he went to sleep again, "I'll have another surprise. We should, after all, never be boring." *** "Wake up, Mr. Lambert." Kellen struggled to open his eyes, move his lips, shake his limbs in some form to prove control over his life--to show that he wasn't merely a robotic toy for a sick old man. Sadly, nothing happened. His eyes did not open; his lips did not water; his limbs hadn't even budged. They refused to function for Kellen Lambert. They were becoming the tools of the Programmer. "Good, Mr. Lambert. You are showing signs of life. You're far stronger than the last choices for this honor. Now then! Time for a history lesson. We will start in 1939: The Beginning of the War. The Dream was young then." The Programmer smiled. "Ready to battle the world, which Germany eventually did. It seemed like the Dream was about to have complete domination, too, when the United States entered the scene due to those idiotic Japanese. Even the U.S, however, knew its army was no match for Germany's, so it created a super-soldier, a man by the name of Steve Rogers. This guinea pig became the 'superhero' warrior known as Captain America. "But anything they could do, of course, the Axis could do better. They were also creating a super-soldier, to promote the strength of the Reich! To be a living symbol of Hitler's dream! This soldier's name was Johann Schmidt, Kellen. And he became known far and wide as: The RED SKULL! Yes, the Red Skull! Symbol of the Fuhrer's Ideals! Pride of the German People! Destroyer of the Allies, and the bitter archenemy of Captain America! "A greater man, Kellen, a mightier man than someone such as you could ever hope to be, and yet," the Programmer smiled, "You will strive to be. That is it, Mr. Lambert. The question you've been wanting to know. Why have I brought you here, tortured you for so long, begun your conditioning? Because you've been chosen, Mr. Lambert. After half a century of war against Democracy, Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull, is dead, and my employers believe that you are capable of taking his place. You are, after all, a strong believer in Nationalist-Socialism. You are an exceptional athlete. You are, plainly, Aryan. Perhaps you can truly rise to become Him!" The Programmer grinned. "But it will take work. Do you know where you are, Mr. Lambert?' Kellen shook his head. "Allow me to show you," the voice hissed directly in his ear. Kellen felt his chair spin around, and his eyes were bombarded with light. The bond over his eyes began to dissolve. "You are home, Kellen Lambert!" His eyelids fluttered open, then, as the Programmer said: "Welcome to the Fourth Reich!" The towers of Auschwitz, the most famous of Nazi death camps, came into view, while smoke curled around his nose and blinded his eyes. "Do you wonder what that is, Mr. Lambert? I shall tell you: It is your people. They die every single day for Socialism and Hitler! They die because you are wasting time! They die- and now, they want to have a word with you!" Kellen felt a push, and he stumbled out of the chair, into the darkness again. The fall couldn't have been more then eight feet. Kellen felt around him: Dust. He began to stand back up on shaky legs, for the first time in weeks- Months, a year? His balance, unforunately, still could have used work. He found this out by falling face-first onto the dusty floor once again. And stared into the hollow sockets of a SKULL. Kellen gave a sharp scream, pushing himself back up and falling over once more, this time into a collection of bones. The ancient objects broke Lambert's fall, as the dust kicked up around him once again. Then the voices began: "Murderer." "Nazi." "Killer." "Bastard." "Killer." "Nazi scum." "Devil." The words floated through the air, along with the dust, into Kellen's head. The world started to spin around again, as bones and voices started to combine into one entity. He looked around for some sort of exit or entrance, anything to escape this hellhole. "Hah! That is exactly what I was thinking, Nazi, when you gassed my family and I!" said someone. Kellen looked directly ahead: A small man, no older than forty-six, stood there in a tweed suit and stout blue tie. His eyes were hollow. He was Dead. His yamaka remained secured to his head. "Even in Death, I remain here, Nazi, in the Land of Demons. Before, I told my children and wife to not worry. `The Germans,' I said, `will not harm us. They are merely protecting us.' It burned me inside to lie to them." The short man walked closer as Kellen tried in vain to back away from the dead Jew. "They made us toil in the fields for eight weeks, picking us off one by one. It was finally my turn. I walked toward my fate, and my wife--my wife tried to run after me. She was shot for her trouble." Kellen continued to back away in the bones, scattering them around the dusty floor. More specters began to appear. "They took my children--" "I was shot--" "I asked my Papa, `What is that?'--" "--'Remain in line, Jew!' they shouted." "I dug my daughters' graves--" "I am in Hell, because of- You, Skull!" Kellen's eyes went wide, he struggled to put more distance between himself and the ghosts; the wraiths. He fought for control of his sanity, and it was a losing battle. "L- Leave me alone!!!" The scream from his lips was deafening. With a femur in hand, Kellen Lambert rose up against the spirits. Each one, he dealt a crushing blow! He caved in skulls, broke necks, smashed noses. After an unknown amount of time, he finally stood alone, breathless in the tomb. No more voices were haunting him, no more visitors were telling their stories. There was only a faint clapping from above. The Programmer was applauding. "Very good, Mr. Lambert," the Programmer whispered. "You may truly have it in you after all." *** "Wake up, Mr. Lambert." Kellen did. He was chained to his seat, a wooden chair that was rotting away. The chains were the same rusted colour as the dust and the probe from before. He was naked, again, and covered in the scars and swastika. He looked around his room. It was made from wooden planks-of which kind was a mystery-and plastics. A singular light bulb swung overhead, illuminating random parts of the room every second. He saw there was a mirror and a table. There was no window. "W- Where am I?" he asked weakly. "Home," the Programmer's voice obediently answered. The bulb swung forward, shining on the Programmer. He sat opposite Kellen in his normal black shirt and slacks. "Where are the skeletons? The bones?! The towers?!" "In your mind. But then, they always were." The bulb swung back, then forward again. But the Programmer was gone! "How much longer will I remain here?" Kellen asked. "Until you are finished, Mr. Lambert. Until you are dead, obliterated, and destroyed.." The bulb swung back, then forward, and the Programmer now stood beside Kellen. "Who will replace me?" Kellen asked. "The Red Skull," the Programmer answered. The bulb swung forward, and then everything went black. *** "Wake up, Mr. Lambert." Kellen Lambert was awake. He had been so, for the past eight hours. He never slept anymore. At least, it didn't feel like he did. When the Programmer started talking this time, however, Kellen didn't listen. He had a plan. With strong resolve, Kellen squared his bare feet on the wooden floor. And with a sudden jerk, the back of the chair gave way! Kellen was free! He roared and as the Programmer cried out, sent a kick into his captor's stomach. His fist followed suit, cracking the man's jaw with a single punch. The old man was startled, giving Kellen the opportunity he wanted to take- Revenge! He pounced upon the aged Programmer, digging fist after fist into his face and throat. Blood soon sprayed across the many scars of Lambert, giving him an eerily-sadistic grin as he did so. The Programmer was crying out. Lambert thoroughly enjoyed the entire event- but only until the cocking of a gun made him freeze. "Did you think it would be that simple, my friend?" someone said. Lambert turned around to find out who had come to help the torturer. But the answer was something Kellen's mind could not even accept. The gun fired and Kellen screamed, hitting the light bulb with his jerking arm as he fell backwards. The light bulb swayed. It swung back. The man with the gun, his face hidden in shadow, walked closer. The light bulb swung forward; the Programmer, beaten and bloodied, lay on the floor. The light bulb swung back; Lambert dropped back into the chair and fell to the floor, dying. The light bulb swung forward, back; Darkness. Blood flowed out of his mouth. The light bulb swung back; Kellen Lambert saw light. "Goodbye, my friend. I will miss you, Kellen," the man with the gun said. Kellen's eyes darted to the left to see the man who had shot him. His killer wore a black ensemble, pants and long-sleeved shirt of the same colour. He held a Luger pistol in his right gloved hand. Kellen died. The RED SKULL holstered his pistol. And then Kellen Lambert awoke from the dream. The Programmer was standing over his bed, ready to begin the day's work. "Wake up, Mr. Lambert," he said. It was almost tradition now. The Programmer untied Kellen from the chair and sat him upright. "It appears the psychological part of your training is done with. Be careful when you move now. You have not been fed, or exercised your body, in a week. But don't worry, Mr. Lambert, you'll soon be back to-" The Programmer was knocked to the floor with a single, powerful blow, and his pupil stood. The voice that came from Kellen Lambert's throat was like a snake's hiss: "That is not my name, Fool," he said, "Remember that. Now- Give me my assignment! Train me, if you must! Teach me, light the torch with which I shall burn down the red, white, and blue flags! Show me Death! Show me Destruction! That the world might know anew the terror that they felt for a half century's time when they heard the name- of the RED SKULL!" *** Months later, the Programmer made his report. "I am thoroughly pleased to announce, Sirs and Madames, that Kellen Lambert has just handed in his first homework assignment, which has been placed in your inspection. The study question was a simple one: 'Devise and implement a plan to successfully eliminate the Avengers.' In response, he has recruited and prepared a new team taking the name of the 'Masters of Evil' to deploy. I have gone over the plan myself and see little in the way of error. Thus, it behooves me to declare my own objectives met. "You asked me, Sirs and Madames, to prepare for you a new leader, a man who could replace the legendary Johann Schmidt. I believe I have done so." Behind the Programmer, a door slid open in the dark. Steeped in shadow, a form stepped out of it. Nearby, a man wearing a white skull-faced mask watched, his large, muscled body tense. The form in shadow stepped forward. The Programmer smiled. "Sirs and Madames, it is thus my final duty to present to you your terrorist organization's new council leader. A man who's name and face are feared throughout the world! A man who's very shadow eclipses the names of all others: Fidel Castro! Osama Bin Laden! Where were they, Sirs and Madames, but in the womb, when every continent quaked at the name of-" A crimson skull smiled as a human body that once belonged to a boy named Kellen Lambert stepped fully into the light. And the Programmer finished: "-THE RED SKULL!" As the faces of the council looked upon their paid-for creation, the man with the white skull mask stepped forward, into his place behind the Red Skull that he had occupied for many years. The white-masked, muscled man held a machine gun in his hands. The Skull's bodyguard stood ready. A councilman smiled and said: "Excellent work, Programmer-" "Too excellent, I'm afraid," the Programmer said. As he did, the doctor in black began to step back, away from his terrorist creation and that monster's bodyguard. The faces of the council turned to one of confusion. The Programmer gave his usual, charming smile. "I have, as you have asked, molded Kellen Lambert into a new Red Skull. Now I ask you, Gentlemen and Ladies: Do you really suppose the Red Skull would consent to simply take a place in a council?" For the first time, the Red Skull spoke. "Programmer. Have they given you your payment?" "The amount was transferred into my bank this morning," the Programmer responded. The Skull smiled. The faces of the council turned to horrified glares. Beside the new man that was forever more the Red Skull, replacer of Johann Schmidt, the white-masked bodyguard cocked his machine gun. And the Skull said: "Crossbones, please fire." Theirs were the first screams. As the Programmer turned away from the sick display of gunfire, putting on his hat and picking up his briefcase, he knew those screams would not be the last. -The Beginning- |
|
||
