The Edge Nexus:
Exact location unknown…

Ronan stared at the swirling kaleidoscope of colors that washed against the crisp black backdrop of undiluted space. He hated the feeling of utter solitude there in the Nexus; that place where the galaxies were equidistant, relatively speaking. The void of space was one thing to be sure, but here in the in-between, the desolation was magnified beyond comprehension.

“It is calming, eh Accuser?”

Ronan afforded the slightest glance at the Skrull and his effrontery; daring to skulk within arm’s length, but actually attempting conversation. Ronan sneered, staring down his blue-tinted nose at the surly, scrawny alien, the creature’s hideous green-hued features only slightly distorted by the Kree’s Deep Space Armor. Or perhaps the Skrull was truly distorted in appearance…

“I do enjoy the silence of the void,” the Skrull scientist continued, either unaware of Ronan’s disdain, or simply ignoring it. “Gives one time to think and contemplate.”

“It was silent,” Ronan said, his deep voice echoing within his sweeping, streamlined helm. The Skrull shrugged, obviously ignorant and unperturbed and went back to whatever he had been doing, holding up a small rectangular device and waving it towards the Milky Way Galaxy in long, sweeping arcs. Ronan spared a quick look at the alien’s monitor, noting the readings that swiftly spiked as the sensors passed over the general coordinates that would lead to Earth.

Ronan suppressed the urge to sigh. Once again that insignificant, waterlogged blue speck of a world lost in a meager star system in a mundane galaxy had become the center of intergalactic attention. It was simply unbelievable that time and time again, the Earth would become the focus of contention. From the rebellion of the genetically altered failures, the Inhumans, to the actual destruction of a Sentry by the ignorant Terran savages and everything that had passed since the Accuser himself had first set foot on that backwater lunatic asylum ages ago. It was incomprehensible.

“No change, K’Rll?”

Ronan the Accuser shifted his sneer of contempt towards the Shi’ar contingent. Like all of the races gathered on the stellar platform, they were allowed three in their party. And like most of the other races they had chosen to send a diplomat, a scientist and a warrior to represent the voice of their empire. Their diplomat was an old man, his white plumage in apparent disarray within the confines of his helmet as he paced the near border of the designated space, his staff of rank probably clicking in the deadness of space as gravity and atmosphere continued to implement. Their scientist, like the Skrull equivalent was lost in survey and calculation, and Ronan could see the same sparkle of curiosity in the female scientist that had accompanied him from Hala, as in the eyes (or equivalent) of the Xandarians, the Technarchy, and the dozen other races represented. Oddly however, it had not been the Shi’ar scientist that had asked the question. One of the Shi’ar’s avian Furies.

“No change, Lady.”

As it had been for days now. Terran space surrounding Earth and its immediate environs had been fluctuating with power, sometimes ebbing to almost negligible readings while at other times swelling to overwhelming proportions. All empirical races of course continually monitored the Milky Way Galaxy for such phenomenon, ever since Galactus had been averted, fearing the worst; that the Terrans had eventually become the interstellar threat that all prophecy and hypothesis indicated they would one day become.

And of course there was the constant fear of the Phoenix…

“The energy bubble expands and contracts at whim, but the power output remains the same. At points it surrounds only Sol III, then inexplicably grows to the fringe of that solar system for a time. Briefly however, before shrinking back to its lesser confines.”

“And the energy itself?” Ronan watched the Nova Corp Warrior step forward, looking little different from the Xandarian scientist or diplomat but for a starburst upon his chest. The man turned to his own agent after scanning the gathered scientists at platforms’ edge.

“It does not resemble documented Phoenix energy emissions in the whole,” said a rather emotionless and clinical voice. Ronan looked to the one singular representative of stellar empire present; the Rigellian Recorder. Standing tall and aloof, his garish orange and green exoskeleton glistened as the platform’s atmosphere finally took hold and gravity settled. The Colonizer’s machine adjusted its fingers, forever thrust into the open compartment in its chest as it recorded all that transpired about it, offering explanation when necessary. The Rigellians apparently had not deemed the current Terran dilemma worth a true, living representative.

“You are certain?” one of the identical Phalanx said as its form shifted to accommodate the sudden gravity swell on the platform. Ronan heard the collective hiss of depressurizing space suits as the various members present acclimated to the platform’s atmosphere. Grudgingly, Ronan joined the gathering in good faith.

“This unit would not have relayed if facts were not justified.”

There was a moment of silence as translators altered the Recorders words accordingly. Ronan glanced at his own warrior escort, a Kree major bearing Shatterstar armor. He would rather a Sentry, but allowances were made only for the Recorder at the Technocracy’s bequest.

“So it’s not the Dark One,” the Skrull warrior said as he slid his helmet under his arm. Ronan noted the pinkish tint to his eyes and the slight drooping of the points of his ears. The Skrull was inebriated. “Who’s to say what other atrocity the Earth scum have created… or wakened. We Skrull,” he said, glancing at Ronan, “and the esteemed Kree can only guess at what might remain waiting for the Terrans to discover.”

“Or what their scientists might concoct.”

K’Rll the Skrull lowered his handheld monitor and turned to the assemblage. “We all know what they are capable of. Their Marvels… Their Mutants… The very fate of the Multiverse seems to hinge on their mood. And the whims of Xavier, Stark, Doom… and Richards.” The Skrull spat at that last, as though the name was foul and corrosive to his tongue.

“We are all well aware of the inherent danger of Earth and its varied inhabitants. Debating old grievances will not advance our gathering.” Ronan unsealed the last safety locks on his armor, satisfied that the platforms’ atmospheric bubble was in place and functioning to accommodate the various races surrounding him, as well as Kree. He cradled his Universal Weapon; his staff of office and power in the crook of his arm as he stepped to platforms’ edge.

“We all have reason to hate the Terrans. We must put aside that hatred however, and determine a course of action against this new anomaly. The sphere of energy fluctuating within the Sol System cannot bode well. Since its erection, Kree Intelligence has lost communication with all key operatives situated on the Earth itself, as well as its satellite. Random and sporadic communication emanates from their Moon when the energy sphere contracts to its tightest cohesion, but those instances are few and far between, and all that we receive are staticky pleas for assistance.”

“We too have lost contact,” the Skrull ambassador agreed, nodding. “Not only our lesser operatives, but… those of higher status as well.”

Ronan allowed a slight smile to crease his lips. The Skrull was obviously speaking of Kl’rt, the Super Skrull, and perhaps others. There was no way of knowing exactly of course, with the Skrulls’ shape-shifting powers. There were estimates however.

“As have we,” one of the Kymellian ambassadors announced. One of the three almost identical looking bi-pedal, white-furred equestrian like creatures stepped forward. “We have invested much time and effort in surveillance, as well as grooming certain Terrans to our future needs. This silence is infuriating. If it’s not the Phoenix Entity again, then what is it?”

“It resembles energies logged and catalogued as similar to those exhibited by the Shaper of Wolds.”

All eyes turned to stare at the Rigellian Recorder. He of course stood, unflinching under scrutiny.

“Shaper of Worlds?” the Xandarian scientist questioned, his fingers flying over the keypad of his own handheld, trying to reference.

“A Cosmic Cube.”

Now it was the Skrull diplomat’s turn to become the center of attention. The male was dressed in an armored space suit of a pale pinkish hue, his helmet held under arm as he gazed longingly off towards the Andromeda Galaxy, a whirling spiral of light in the background.

“Clarify,” the Recorder said.

The Skrull sighed. “I do not know the entire story. Things are classified and it was before the first Kree-Skrull War, so many records are lost or obscured. The Cosmic Cube is a weapon created by the Terrans that basically grants its bearer wishes. Like the Skrullian Timbor, or the Kree’s Aslan Candle, it was a device of great and potent power, often underestimated or abused. You will recall Thanos.” Everyone was silent.

“One of these Terran Cubes came into Skrull space years ago. There- and we know not how- it gained sentience, and became life itself. Calling itself the Shaper of Worlds, this Cosmic Cube set out to recreate Reality to its liking. It however has no imagination to speak of, so is forever seeking out others for guidance.”

“And this ‘Cube’ can indeed alter Reality?” one of the Technocracy asked. The Skrull diplomat nodded.

“We have heard of this ‘Shaper of Worlds’,” a Kymellian said as it scratched at the metallic grit tape on the platform’s flooring. “A force akin to an Elder of the Universe, or the Stranger perhaps. Not quite Galactus, but a force to be wary of indeed. And this Shaper’s power has enveloped the Earth?”

“So it would seem,” Doctor Trillian, Ronan’s associate provided. “The Earth, and then some as the power surges and swells. We have of course attempted egress,” she said, looking to Ronan, but he said nothing despite her security breach. It was time to pool ideas and resources at least- for a time. “Our efforts are stopped at the system’s asteroid belt. Ships are either destroyed or stopped dead, suddenly drained of power.”

“And what of your vaunted Captain Marvel, Kree?” the Skrull warrior spat in obvious disgust. “Why has he not saved the day as yet?”

“Mar-Vell was a traitor,” Ronan said softly, “his get no less so. Do not mention them again… Skrull.”

“A valid point however,” K’Rll the scientist interjected. “All of our genetically altered agents pale before this threat, comparing power ratios; Marvel, the Super Skrull, the Kymellian Power Pack… And against most Terran threats for that matter. Why is that I wonder?”

“Valid for another day’s quandary, Skrull,” Trillian said. “We must decide on a course of action. Our respective lords and worlds await our decision.”

“Quarantine,” the Kymellians said in unison. The Technocracy agreed oddly, after some internal debate.

“Abstain,” the Xandarian ambassador stated. “The Earthlings have helped the entire universe, let alone my own system and empire. I shall not condemn them to death, or cosmic ignorance. There is good and bad in us all, and until the full truth is revealed I retain my faith in the Terrans.”

“Obfuscation!” the Skrull diplomat shouted. “Deploy a series of Techno Pulses and obliterate their technology. Cast them into a darkened age and let our ancestors sort out the details eons from now.”

“The Rigellian Colonizers defer,” the Recorder stated.

Ronan stared hard at the delegates, ambassadors from dozens of worlds though many of the lesser had not even the courage to add to the debate. He dismissed those worlds, looking to the closer circle. Only the lowly Skrulls had the courage to attempt retribution. Past defeats held the others in check, if not fear. Ronan knew what he must do…

“With the authority granted me by the Supremor himself… for egressions and aggressions past, base affronts and threats to the very fabric of the universe by the Earth and its denizens…

“I ACCUSE!”

A Fourth Reich Tie-In

MEANWHILE…

By Curtis Fernlund

Greymoor Schloss:
A secluded location somewhere…

Doctor Cedric Rawlings stalked the dank corridors of the castle, heading ever deeper into the dim and sunken depths, those places that had been dungeons in an earlier age. He could hear the clack of his heels echoing on the ancient stone, the constant drip of fetid water seeping from above in some stagnant pool nearby. He could smell the dust and decay, dulled only by the ripe odor of mold as he descended another of the steep spiral stairs.

A torch fluttered in the distance finally, and he knew that he was nearing his destination at last. As he stepped from the winding steps he raised his lantern and dimmed the flame within, glancing first at the sconces lining that last long corridor, each alight with a reddish glow of fire, then at the guards standing within the staggered pools of light. Each stood at rapt attention, dressed in black and silver as befit their station, the colors broken only by the swath of scarlet wrapped about their left arms. Each held a gun, a silvery thing that glistened brilliantly in the flickering light, a threat of brilliant death. They were the Reich’s best, set to guard the castle, and more importantly the Fourth Reich’s greatest assets.

Rawlings tread the long corridor, the flaming sconces at last giving way to tubular fluorescents that cut at the shadows that threatened to linger there at the end of the hall. Ahead lay the sealed doors that led to the laboratory; the lab that had once been his own, what seemed another life and ages ago. They were massive, both tall and thick and reinforced metals of lead and steel and iron. He saw the computer keypad that was a recent addition, the thin glowing membrane of the palm register as well as the retinal scope. And even with all of that, still the final two guards stepped to bar his way.

Cedric Rawlings craned his neck and looked at the two men. They were hard, their faces stoic and stone, their blue eyes cold as a midnight frost as they stared down at him with contempt. “Papers,” one said, extending his black leather gloved hand. Rawlings sighed. These men knew him, saw him every day sometimes several times a day. Hölle, once they had worked for him.

Rawlings shook his head and produced his identity card. It showed a holographic image of his face on the front as well as his meager statistics and signature. On the back were three magnetic strips and a sin wave. The guard glanced at it; his eyes narrowing slightly before he stepped aside, allowing Doctor Rawlings access to the door and the security implements bordering its frame. Rawlings stepped forward and slipped the card into a slot, awaiting confirmation that arrived in the form of a digital chirp before tapping his six-digit access code into the keypad. A melodic chime then and he removed his glasses, leaning into the retinal scanner until the hand sensor pulsed slightly in a pale red. With another sigh, Rawlings slowly withdrew the single, thickly woven protective glove, which he wore over his right hand.

Cedric Rawlings held up the metallic ‘thing’ that was his right hand. A vast improvement of that which he seemed to remember, this was streamlined and sturdy, complete with a dexterity and strength that far outstripped his normal hand of flesh and blood and bone. He remembered vaguely how much he hated that other hand he once wore, and too the reason that he had lost his true hand to begin with. He thought then, as always, of Celia and frowned. He did miss his sister.

Rawlings pressed the metallic hand to the membrane and watched as the computers relayed and processed his pertinent information, verifying that he was indeed Doctor Cedric Rawlings. And of course that he belonged there.

It took three seconds total, and a tinny ‘ping’ before he heard the outer doors start to cycle, the air locks within adjusting for his eventual entrance. There was a gust of cold air; a slim, wispy fog slicking the damp stone at his feet as the inner lights came on. The two guards brought their weapons to bear as they quickly scrutinized the changing room beyond, then motioned Rawlings within once satisfied that all was well and proper.

They watched as Rawlings donned the thick and bulky containment suit that bore his Radiation Monitor Tag, the lesser of the two checking his seals before flipping on the life support unit lashed on the bag of the heavy reflective suit. Rawlings took deep breaths until his breathing regulated to the cool, clean air, then nodded. Finally a sharp salute and the guard sealed the door behind him.

Rawlings felt the pressures within the room change as the series of inner rooms began the cycle of egress. The entire process of moving from room to room would take nine minutes and thirty-six seconds; an eternity really, but apparently necessary for the strange and varied projects and experiments being conducted beyond. The doctor trudged on when allowed, stopped when he was supposed to and finally stood before the last barrier. Slowly a hexagonal opening appeared like the iris of a camera as three layers of dull gray metal disappeared into the thick walls with barely a whisper.

As always Rawlings squinted as the glaring brilliance within flooded the final chamber. Immediately he could hear and feel the dull thrum of machinery and the high-pitched whine and whistle of escaping steam coming from the reactor almost a mile beyond, down the long dark tunnel that sloped towards Hell. He saw the flickering lights decorating dozens of machines, most of which he had no clue as to purpose. There were tubes of metal and plastic crisscrossing the high, vaulted ceiling, some form of crackling plasma flowing through the latter and adding to the din of light and sound. Finally stepping over the threshold Rawlings looked about the immediate chamber, noting differences since the previous day. The long line of misty, translucent tubes arrayed along the western wall were glowing slightly from some bluish substance within. The protoplasmic blobs that he had noted on occasion seemed slightly larger now, and a few seemed to be taking on a roughly humanoid form. Beyond the line of tubes was a missile some thirty feet long and stripped to the bare skeletal frame. There were two men easing a heavy and delicate looking bit of machinery from a thick, rusting chain into the cradle within the nose section. Nearby, Rawlings could see others working on the propulsion system, oddly shaped parts of metal and plastic scattered upon a long, wooden table. Along the eastern wall of the vast chamber there was a series of tables littered with every conceivable size and shape of test tube, beaker and bottle. There was a strange web work of glass and copper tubes stretching and twisting through out that area where all forms of chemical work was done, perhaps a dozen scientists busily at work within. In fact, everywhere he looked there were men at work, experimenting or taking notes, manning machines or simply cleaning perpetually. The environment was sterile as the Director of Research demanded, a stickler for cleanliness, if not godliness.

Rawlings saw the Director then, standing before his latest experiment in one of the adjoining chambers that equally bulged with machinery. The man had been fixated since the incident in the Star Chamber over a month ago, and with good reason Rawlings supposed. It had been one of the Professor’s few failures since he had come to Greymoor, and one that weighed heavily upon his otherwise admittedly brilliant mind. That same disaster that had sent his wife into a coma and killed his best friend had changed the man as well; not only the scars that he wore from the fiery explosion, but the odd mutations that he now exhibited. Rawlings wondered briefly what the Führer would say if he knew.

“Herr Professor?” Rawlings said through the speaker in his containment suit. He noted that the Director was dressed in that same dark blue jumpsuit that he favored, covered only by a thin white lab coat that bulged at the pockets and sported a reddish brown stain on the left sleeve near the cuff. The professor’s mutation kept him somehow clean and sterile, and thus free of the encumbering suits that all the others were forced to wear. “Professor Richards?”

It took a moment before the man jokingly referred to as Herr Phantastisch finally turned, his head twisting oddly as his neck seemed to elongate. His entire body seemed shaky, like a thing of rubber that barely held in check and upright. The very sight of his face as always made Rawlings wince, the left half a melted and misshapen mass that seemed to drool, barely clinging to the bone and muscle beneath. His brown eyes were dark and full of contempt as he considered Rawlings, raking him head to toe with his gaze, his mouth a perpetual sneer.

“Rawlings,” he said before returning his attention to the machinery before him. Rawlings watched as the professor reached, his right arm stretching over two meters to adjust a tiny dial overhead, then another. Rawlings watched with a fascination, as well as a jealousy of a sort, his own robotic hand clenching involuntarily.

He heard a slight hum when Richards retracted his arm and both men glanced at the huge transteel chamber that pulsed in a spectrum of washed out colors. Rawlings could just make out the immobilized form of Richards’ wife within, a pale shadow amidst a series of wires and tubes that monitored her barely registering life essence on a score of machines. Richards was solely devoted to restoring his wife, Susan, to the point of ignoring other matters that the Führer deemed more important and imperative. It would be the director’s downfall if he did not succeed, in more ways than one. Rawlings hoped that he would be there to see it happen.

“Glad that you’ve finally arrived, Cedric,” Richards stated coolly as his left arm slowly snaked across the chamber until his hand grasped a thin electronic notebook. “I have some computations that I’d like you to double check for me,” he continued, reeling in his arm again. “I believe I’ve isolated the matrix for the Cosmic Energy at last, and hopefully the solution for purging it from Susan’s body.”

“I see,” Rawlings said, taking the notebook from Richards’ hand and glancing at the long lines of mathematical equations that scrolled down the screen. “This will take some time.”

“You have something better to do, Herr Rawlings?”

Rawlings heard the edge in Richards’ voice and shook his head sadly. “Of course not, Director. I shall start at once.”

“Good.”

Rawlings hesitated a moment, glancing a final time at the massive list of computations before closing the folder and slipping it under his arm. “I did wish to check my own experiments first, however. I feel I am on the verge of breaking the genetic code in the mass compensator, and–”

“No need,” Richards said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Pym has discovered the error in your initial equation and rectified your mistakes. Your groundwork was sound, but the energies of the converter that you devised were far too unstable. His own computations allowed for the merging of an extra-dimensional plasma, which once implemented, eliminated the ratio of potential fatality. Of course, with his success I gave the honor of the breakthrough to him and his ‘Pym Particles’, as he wanted to call them. Not to worry, however, Cedric. You will receive a footnote in the final report to the Reich.”

Cedric Rawlings sputtered, almost coughing as he stared at the Director’s back. Visions of his metallic fist smashing down on the rubbery freak’s head flashed through his mind’s eye, that same fist closing on the thin, pale throat of his superior. He should have expected as much, however. Richards had been bringing in many of the Reich’s top scientists to further his own goals of late. Not only the biologist Pym, but the likes of the Technologist Stane, the Reich’s foremost weapons’ master, and Banner the Radiologist and others; Octavius, Sandhurst, Parks, Conners. The list seemed endless.

Rawlings knew that Richards was gathering the best about him to resurrect his wife, though he was reporting to High Command that he was assembling a ‘Think Tank’ to further the Reich and its ambitions. Rawlings could feel for the man. If there was some way… some possible way to bring his beloved Celia back, Rawlings knew that he would stop at no end, but Richards was treating him as an underling. Little better than one of those that worked the mines and factories about the city, those servile drudges that had brought about the ire of the Reich and Führer. Rawlings knew that he was at least as brilliant as Pym was in their field, but Richards ignored his protestations. Richards ignored him.

“Thank you, Director,” Rawlings said with a sigh, unclenching his metal fist and slipping his hands into the over-sized pockets of his radiation suit. Richards waved him off again.

“No problem, Cedric,” Richards said as he stared at the screens that monitored his wife’s vital signs. “You deserve your credit for your efforts at least. I’ll expect those computations ASAP.”

“Of course.”

Cedric Rawlings stared at the director’s back for a moment longer before turning gruffly and stalking back towards the pressurized doors. He had been dismissed. An analytical man and mind, he knew there was little he might do but comply.

For the moment at least…

Der Steinbruch:
Elsewhere in the city…

“Okay! Hit the compressors!””

Jonathan Storm stepped back and away; shielding his eyes as the huge rock crushers surged and churned back to life. He heard the heavy Thrummn as the gears clicked into place, rolling over and over, picking up speed as the granite slid through the pressers, the following crack and smash as the ancient blocks of chiseled stone shattered for the glory of the Reich. Storm lowered his arm after a moment, watching the machinery, noting the thick clouds of black smoke gushing from the lower levels of the quarry, glad that his mechanical incline had got him out of that hell hole.

“Great work, kid!”

Johnny felt the sharp slap of a callused hand on his shoulder and turned to the voice shouting over the clank and clatter of the great machines. Clint Barton stood before him with his ever present ear-to-ear grin fixed in place. The floor Aufseher of The Quarry was Aryan through and though with his blonde hair and blue eyes. Not so unlike young Johnny, but Storm often sensed a… reluctance in the elder man, despite his zealous work record. Production under Barton was efficient, and compared to like installations, The Quarry always excelled in percentage and numbers, grinding stone for the betterment and expansion for the Reich, but too, there always seemed to be an underlying flow of resistance in the man’s efforts, overall. Johnny could not explain it really. Just a feeling that he had, as though Barton was not giving one hundred percent.

Still, he reveled in the praise. Johnny Storm flashed his own grin, wiping grease from his hands, then sweat from his brow. With the machinery running at full gain again, it was starting to get increasingly warm on the grinding floor.

“Danke,” Johnny said with a nod, glancing as steam burst from pipes on the upper level. It was expected, and would happen again and again until the massive rock grinding machines fully stabilized and found their rhythm once again. Still he watched as lesser workers scurried about to adjust the pressure gauges, venting steam while others clambered through the great wheels, pistons and gears lathing grease on the old metal at risk to their own life and limb. That had been him not so long ago. There but by the grace of the Führer…

The Oberführer Hossbach rather, as it had been he on one of his inspection tours that had seen the talents of young Jonathan Storm and promoted the youth to mechanik. That had been a red-letter day in the life of Johnny Storm; stepping up and out of the lathing grind, and finding true purpose in the Fourth Reich. He was moved up in rank and file. He became one of the privileged, with a real cot all to himself and a bath not shared with the masses. Two full breaks in each work shift and occasionally meat and vegetables with his meals. Heaven compared to what he had left behind.

“Your shift’s almost over?” Barton asked, taking up his gear and shouldering his quiver of ramrods as he headed towards the metal stairs leading down deeper into the complex. At Johnny’s nod, he added, “Care to grab a bite?”

“Ten minutes,” Johnny replied. “I still need to calibrate the gauges on the – “

A gout of flame flared up through the complex, a garish red and orange fire fountain that lit the grinding shaft and pummeled all within with a blast of sizzling, searing heat. The entire complex rocked with the sounds of the explosion that rolled through the factory a heartbeat later, knocking Barton, Storm and everyone from their feet. Screams were heard as a siren howled in the background; mad shouts of terror and panic.

Barton was on his feet first, slamming his hand on one of the many red ‘Panic Buttons’ situated throughout the complex. More alarms rang into a deafening cacophony of noise even as the Aufseher ran to the metal railings to peer down into the lower levels.

“What is it?” Johnny asked, shouting over the blare of claxon alarms.

“The conveyors,” Barton said, pointing into the fiery depths several levels below. “That glow! See… there… and there! Iridium in the ore! Kosmisch Strahlung!”

“Gott!”

Before he even knew what he was doing, Johnny Storm was charging down the stairs, shoving his way past the moaning, panicked Dregs as they raced upwards, away from the conflagration. The old metal stairs groaned and squealed, swaying with the heavy tread of the masses trying to escape the blast furnace that the lower levels had become. Johnny winced as he shouldered his way through the press of the escaping crowd, feeling the rising heat, his eyes dazzled by the bright lapping flames.

“Damn!”

Johnny lurched to hear Barton at his side. The Aufseher had followed him down the stairs and he had not even known. But Johnny could see the horror in his face as he chanced a glance at his superior and friend. Horror, but determination as well.

“The conveyors have shut down, but the pistons are still smashing! We need to shut down all the machinery so that the Feuer Gruppe can do their job!” Barton barely finished his sentence before he charged forward towards the inferno. There was only a moment’s hesitation, and Storm was hot on his heels.

Both men reached the machinery consoles together, abandoned by the Technickers that normally monitored the complex consoles. All gauges were in the RED, showing dangerous emissions, threatening to overload the hard-pressed machines that were operating out of control.

“Start shutting down!” Barton shouted, his voice but a whisper to Storm’s ears in the raucous din. Johnny nodded, glancing aside only at a nagging noise that seemed to beckon his attention. His face paled as his eyes widened, his mouth dropping open and agape.

“Mein Gott!” he shouted, though it was barely a whisper in the din. He stared in terror, seeing an old woman, one of the lathers that greased the great gears and pistons lying amidst the carnage of the original explosion, sprawled prostrate on one of the pressure plates, the hammer of a crusher threatening to smash her flat. Beyond, his vision sparkled at the glow of unfiltered radiation seeping forth, the uranium spilt on the grating floor. Odds were that the woman was dead already. But…

“Storm!”

Johnny ignored Barton’s shouts as they dwindled in the distance. He ran, leaping over the metal rails to land with a hard CLANG on the platform below. Barely breaking stride he surged forward, his vision divided between the old woman and the Rock Presser quivering over her splayed body.

“Hold on!” he shouted, leaping the safety rail and dashing across the Presser’s platform. The heat was stifling, but he ignored it, intent on the old woman and her peril. He could feel the remnants of countless rocks that had been crushed; mined ore shattered into workable mineral for the betterment and glory of the Reich, to create new weapons and wonders. He glanced up, his heart hammering as he saw the Rock Presser shaking, threatening to come crashing down. “Hold on, Mutter!”

The old woman looked up, her blue eyes wild with fright, her gray hair barely held at bay by the ragged cloth covering her head. She was withered and frail, ancient by all standards, but Johnny would be damned if he would let her die. He grabbed at her arms, intent on getting her to her feet, or at least pulling her from the platform –

Fire roared again, an explosion rocking the floor and almost bowling Johnny from his feet. The woman screamed, her claw like hands digging into his arms with surprising force that made him wince.

“Franklin!” she shouted, her head whipping about frantically. “Franklin!”

“Come, alte Mutter!” Johnny shouted, trying to drag the skinny old woman. “There’s no one here! Stop struggling against – “

Another explosion, and Johnny screamed as the blue glow of radiation washed over him. The floor beyond the Presser rocked and tilted as a column of fire shot skyward sending the irradiated rock that had been trapped within a larger boulder cascading his way. He felt the overwhelming heat as the radiation enveloped him. Still, he heard the screams of the withered crone that had brought about their end. His clothes, his very skin started to smolder, finally bursting into flame.

“Save us, Johnny!”

Jonathan Storm stared wide-eyed and in agony at the hand that wrapped about his arm. He stared at the woman, her eyes huge and beseeching as her long, ragged nails dug into his sizzling skin, her grip tightening as she gasped for air.

“Save us…”

Johnny screamed as a long, black rod slammed through the old woman’s breast, knocking her back and pinning her to the floor. He stared in horror at the projectile, vibrating madly and jutting from the old woman’s spasming body. Her mouth worked, sputtering, gasping as she clawed at the bar, her life ebbing away. Johnny’s hands caught fire where he still gripped her arms.

AHHHHHHHH!

Johnny heard someone screaming as he staggered back and away from the corpse of the old woman. He stared in horror as the fire spread from his hands, up his arms and then down his body. He waved his arms frantically, trying to put the flames out to no effect.

“Storm!”

Jonathan Storm looked up to see Aufseher Barton perched on the remnants of the metal catwalk overhead. He held a Tie Gun in hand, aimed like a crossbow right at Johnny’s heart, a dampening bar set to scope. He saw Barton lick his lips as the flames reared up into his vision.

“Hold still!”

YAHHH! Johnny shrieked, staggering with the surge of fire washing up about him. He heard another explosion, the force this time causing him to fall and rending the floor beneath him. He looked up again, his sight aglow in time to see Barton loose the rod.

Like an arrow the rod slammed into the cracked floor right beside him. Immediately Storm felt the tug of the metal, sucking the radiation from his skin that he had absorbed trying to save the crazy old woman. He gasped for breath, patting at the fires that ran rampant over his body.

A ball of fire washed over him as another explosion rocked the complex. Johnny felt the floor buckle and give way beneath him. He grabbed at the chunks of masonry and metal, groping for support, but there was nothing, all crumbling away beneath him.

He fell, down into the depths…

His body aflame, the fiery radiation washing through him. Ablaze…

Like an Mensch Taschenlampe!

A Human Torch…

Der Atlantik:

Kapitän Oppermann blinked, trying to focus his vision as he pressed his brow against the viewfinder. There was a thick blanket of fog drifting with some purpose across the choppy waves above, roiling on a stiff wind blowing down from the northern wastes of the Kanadin oil fields. A harbinger of an approaching storm no doubt, but hopefully Unterseeboot Falke would be well south in warmer, calmer straits before the brunt of the storm hit.

If not for the damnable Ping of the Sonar, the U-boat would have been well on its way already. But the mission of ship and crew was to seek out anomalies within their designated zone, and the ship’s sensors had done their job well. Better than Opperman at the moment as he squinted into the periscope, trying to find the ‘anomaly’ in question, lost in the mist.

“A curious whale maybe?”

Oppermann heard the lack of conviction in the voice of his Radio Bedienungsperson and had to agree. It was not the season or area, though perhaps a great fish might be lost or rogue, perhaps too old or slow or even dying. And the Sonar image was not moving as though alive, or making the howling whine that whales made.

“More likely an iceberg, Matrose. It’s damn cold enough up there.”

The Kapitän heard Seemann Wilson’s grunt of agreement as he returned to his duties, monitoring the radio and Sonar, now tracking the anomaly. The thing, whatever it was, was hard to fix, seemingly fading in and out of existence. That in itself led Oppermann to believe that it was probably a chunk of ice, drifting and spinning in the North Atlantik currents and playing havoc with the ship’s sensors. Still, they had their mission…

“There!” Oppermann almost shouted out as he finally caught the shadowy hulk in tunnel of his limited vision. It was ice, the remnants of a larger drift most likely, shrinking on its journey south. It was almost whale sized and shaped though; calf-sized, perhaps three meters in length and half that in breadth. “Bring us about… Point Three to Starboard.”

Oppermann would have dismissed the thing then and there, logged it for what it probably was; an iceberg stray. But he had seen something. Something within, it appeared. A trick of the false dawn no doubt, the early morning light above reflecting queerly off the waves and through the verdammt mist. They would have to investigate, as was their purpose in the Reich’s Kriegs-marine.

“Ah, Mutter,” Oppermann whispered as the ship veered to position. But for the heritage of his mother; an Österreichin rather than a full blood Deutscher, Oppermann would be in command of a true vessel rather than a Kapitän on a sardine can filled with the disposable refuse of mongrel pedigree. The Reich in its wisdom had a use even for those of darker incline and misguided morals. They were expendable, used to patrol the ocean’s depths, or the frigid hinterlands, or the scorching wastes of desert the world over. Forever seeking anomaly for the glory of the Führer and his grand designs. Still, it was better than life in the Fabriken, if one might call that living.

Still, the crew was not so bad, despite their obvious failings. There was no stench as his Vater had often ‘suggested’, rather the sometimes-pungent odors of unwashed manliness confined and mingling with the smells of the ship for months on end, of which he himself was criminal as well. And those that wished to ‘bond’ during the long lonely stretches at sea kept to themselves in the privacy of the crew’s quarters for the most part. It was not an unbearable service, but it was not the dream of glory at sea that Oppermann had envisioned in the Jugendführer when he was but a boy.

“Hold steady,” Oppermann commanded when the U-boat had come to position beside the berg. He looked away, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose before trying to focus through the scope again. He stared intently, scrutinizing the icy shape in the waters beyond. Yes, definitely a shape frozen within the ice. It almost looked to be the form of a man, though it appeared larger and bulkier. A trick of the scope and ice no doubt. Still, they must investigate. It was definitely an anomaly.

“Secure the hold and ready the grapples,” Oppermann said with a sigh, locking the bars of the periscope and lowering the shaft. “Take us up to surface. We’re bringing it in, whatever that thing is.”

Greymoor Schloss:
Four days later…

Richards watched the flurry of activity about him with a distracted interest. Technicians scurried about at their tasks, each with a specific purpose, each knowing that their continued existence lay with the perfect performance of their individual task. Failure was not an option. Not now…

His gaze drifted across the vast array of view screens that monitored the machinery that seemed to grow in hulking mass from every wall. Radiation levels, power output, heat indexes, chemical reactions and above all else the life support apparatus. Every piece of equipment was crucial, as was every erg of energy flowing in, out and around the vast Restoration Chamber. Richards had allowed a miniscule margin of error in his computations; he was not perfect after all. If he were, he would not be here at Greymoor in the first place, but rather in the heart of the Fatherland and on the Select Staff of the Führer himself.

It was his mistake that had cast him into the shadows of Greymoor. His error that had cost his best friend his life and placed his love in that nether region between life and death. The explosion of The Excalibur’s Hyper Engines in the Star Chamber had cost them all dearly; the radiation killing poor Benjamin and rendering Susan comatose, her very body imbued with the Kosmisch Strahlung, which ironically was keeping her alive as well. And it had not left Richards untouched.

He reached skyward, his right arm actually stretching, his hand elongating as his fingers gripped a dial set high above the pristine tiles of the floor. There were benefits to being a freak, a mutated monstrosity that seemed more rubber and plastic than flesh and blood. His reach was now measured in meters if he so willed. His senses were heightened with but a thought and a bit of will, allowing his vision for instance to take in the entirety of the vast chamber in a wide arch, or his hearing to record the slightest whisper from across the room even through the raucous din of the machinery. He was resilient, almost impervious to harm and sickness, and any wound short of fatal healed in miraculous time. The benefits were soon to be outweighed by the price of his failure however, as he wondered, oft worried just what Susan would think of his ghastly, melted visage; the hideous mocking mask that was once handsome, now more resembling a pasty and spent candle.

Richards sighed, trying to regain his focus, watching as the levels of power rose exponentially. The blue glow of radiation reflected from the high, polished ceiling and illuminated the chamber with a flickering azure cast. White lightning danced about the transteel tubing that directed the coursing radiation through its maze-like path of pipes crisscrossing the vaulted heights of the gargantuan room, each passage being logged and recorded, every circuit through the labyrinth powering the energy in leaps and bounds. Richards estimated that the amount of energy needed to restore Susan would climb into the gigawatts before the cycle would be complete. And if all went well, not only would his love be restored, but the Führer would have his unlimited source of energy to power the world.

Yet another glorious victory for the Fourth Reich!

“Herr Professor!”

Richards barely turned his head to acknowledge the worried cry of Rawlings. The man was getting on his nerves with his endless questions and fears. Emil Rawlings was intelligent, and one of the Reich’s greater assets in his field of expertise, but Richards had detected a growing edge of jealousy in the former director’s attitude. It was an unseemly thing, but not unexpected and Richards even suspected that it could possibly lead to the man actually undermining the operations at Greymoor, hoping to discredit Richards and be reappointed. Little did Rawlings know just how closely he was being watched.

“The monitors on the energy flow just crossed into the RED,” Rawlings stated, his voice more in control. “We are dangerously close to overloading the system… in my opinion.” Rawlings raised his robotic hand to adjust his glasses, but thumped the faceplate of his helmet instead, looking the fool. Richards smirked, then smiled at Rawlings’ wince at the sight.

“In your opinion, Rawlings. Not mine. I’ve extended my calculations to the twenty-third decimal since you returned my files. The margin for error has increased as well, and we are well within the safety zone as yet. Continue your monitoring.” Richards turned away again, noting the man’s whispered insults. He needed the likes of Rawlings, Hauptmann, Pym and Banner at least for the time being and duration. When he had succeeded he would let the High Command deal with whatever insubordination he had encountered. There were Science Stations in the frozen wastes that needed men like Rawlings on staff.

A sudden off-color flicker of light from the Holding Chamber caught his attention. With one elongated stride Richards moved to stand in front of the platform, which supported the huge transteel cube that held the still and suspended form of his love. His eyes adjusted to compensate for the brightness of the fluctuating energy, so close he stood, almost pressing at the transparent metal. Again he saw a shift in the spectrum of light; a darker staccato burst signaling that the Cosmic Energy was beginning to solidify, taking on a form akin to plasma. Again and again his expanded sight noted the bursts, and soon he heard the Tap-Tap-Tap, like rain sprinkling at first but growing towards a storm.

“Hauptmann,” he shouted over the noise, “open the batteries. Increase the outtake flow by .03% and for God’s sake don’t filter the stream. Banner! Watch for deviation in the Rad Spectrum! It’s crucial that the energy remain pure!” Richards did not have to see or hear Banner’s response. Robert Bruce Banner was dedicated, if not fully to the Reich, then to the advancement of science in whatever form it took.

A wave of darkness washed over him suddenly, a cold tingling blot that made him shiver to the core. He recognized again the feeling of the Kosmisch Strahlung, the Cosmic Radiation that had altered his world forever. Dizziness followed, and he felt the fever again as his skin heated even though his body was already saturated with the radioactive energy that had made him into the rubbery Herr Phantastisch that his underlings called him behind his back. He did not care; not of the name nor the potentially lethal radiation. His very being protected him, and the suits that the others wore would keep them reasonably safe from the fatal energy, the unstable molecular weave of the material dampening the effects within acceptable levels for the duration. Whatever long-term effects might incur were negligible and not of concern. Once Susan was revived, the others could fend for themselves.

“Yes!” he shouted, his emotions boiling over as the darkness surged again. Within the cube he saw the barest flicker of movement, but he tried to contain his excitement. Movement did not necessarily mean restoration as yet. It could be the result of the transformation of the energy and the increasing flow, like a tree branch caught in the current of a river.

“Please,” he whispered, almost a prayer as he leaned against the transteel wall, staring at the shadowy figure within. He had to trust the others now to do their respective jobs and duty. He had to be the one to open the cell and free Susan at the critical juncture. The connection to the radiation had to be severed quickly, and she had to be released from her own suit before she might ‘drown’ in the sudden surge of life. It was a window of seconds by his calculations, perhaps less.

“Professor!” Rawlings again, shouting.

“Not now, you fool! Pay attention to your station!” No interruptions…

“Fool?” Not shouting. Close…

Richards turned even as Rawlings metallic hand shot past his head. The deposed director had crept up from behind and was actually attacking, going to smash his prosthetic into the back of Richards’ head. An assassination attempt? But for Richards’ heightened senses –

“No!”

Too late Reed Richards realized his own mistake. He heard Rawlings’ fist hit the transteel wall of Susan’s cell. He heard the sound, almost like ice cracking, as the already overtaxed transparent metal splintered with the sudden stress of impact. He turned just in time to see the spider web spread out from Rawlings’ fist at point of impact. He saw the slightest bulge before the transteel shattered and the Kosmisch Strahlung came gushing out like water from a burst dam.

He heard Rawlings start to scream before the plasma washed over him, the scientist’s cries cut short as his body swiftly erupted in radioactive flame, then unceremoniously simply dissolved.

He felt the rush of heat as the darkness enveloped him as well, the tingling and the dizziness swelling within him. He heard the desperate cries of the others as the dark tide swept forth, swirling through the Restoration Chamber and destroying all in its path. He heard the claxon of bells and sirens as the machinery began to rattle and hum in compensation for the sudden shift in the rampant power, drowning out the desperate final screams of his staff.

He felt the floor at his back as his body seemed to lose cohesion and collapsed. His eyes were dazzled in the brilliance that coursed throughout the room, and try as he might he could no longer focus on the body of the woman he loved.

Something exploded nearby; one of the machines. Then another and another until his hearing was clouded and useless by the recurring noise, the endless collapse of his dreams. He gagged on the stench of burning fuel and smoke, his breath coming in short, choked gasps as he struggled to remain conscious. Failing…

A new darkness crept into the fringes of his bedazzled vision. A shadow, which seemed to loom over his helpless body, dominating the dwindling confines of his world. Death? It seemed absurd. A phantasm created by his failing and feverish mind. A delusion. Death was simply a termination of the Life sequence, the final event in a biochemical endeavor. It was not substance and form…

And then he knew. Not of mind, but of heart Reed Richards realized the truth. He had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

Susan…

But the darkness had swept him away.

Next Issue: Before returning here to learn the fates of our own intrepid heroes, be sure to check out the other goings on of the Fourth Reich over in The Avengers by Dino and Derrick. Then y’all come back as the Phantastisch Vier meet again… for the first time in… Malice!