Fantastic Four

Greymoor Schloss:

Cold…

Despite the conflagration raging about her, she felt cold. Her fair skin pimpled with chill bumps beneath the strange black and purple fabric of the uniform that she wore. She raised her trembling hands, flexing fingers beneath the taut black gloves looking curiously like leather but feeling different. Her entire body seemed wracked with shivers as her hands slid down her sleek body, the form-fitting jumpsuit enhancing her figure. Droplets of water clung to her gloved fingers as she wiped her long blonde hair back from her eyes and face, icy crystals evaporating even as she stared, uncomprehending.

She remembered the darkness that had been all encompassing, unending. It had enveloped her for so long, dulling her senses and her mind. It had made her body sluggish and unresponsive as she lay within it, a womb of ice that kept her alive but trapped. She had craved freedom; warmth and light fleeting memories that sparked with every coherent thought within that dark, frigid tomb. She had struggled against the obfuscation whenever her consciousness had allowed, but the black void had been unyielding and uncompromising in its hold.

There had been sound though, occasionally. A voice suppressed by the distance, though not fully silenced. A familiar voice that fanned the flames of hope and gave her confidence, or at least reassurance. A voice from the swirl that her memories had become, the vortex that spat out the twisted remains of whatever it touched. There might be a feeling, an occasional random image that seemed familiar, followed by another that held nothing but confusion. And in the dark and cold, things she could never quite grasp.

Then suddenly there had been light…

The dark had shattered with the flashing bombardment of radiance. Like hail bursts of brilliance pierced her prison, pushing the black away with each bolt, a kaleidoscope of garish, glowing colors that at first threatened to sear and blind. But she knew somehow that the radiance was not a threat, at least not to her. It was like a long lost friend, gathering her into its warm embrace, taking her by the hand to guide her towards freedom.

And the cold receded slowly as her senses returned. Her vision was still blurred, seeing only colors; flickering reds and gold, swirls of gray. She smelled smoke lacing every precious breath as her lungs expanded and contracted, filling her with life once again. She felt the crunch and crackle of brittle glass snapping beneath the soles of her boots as she gingerly stepped from that place that she knew was once her prison. She heard screams, tortured shrieks of terror that sent new shivers racing along her spine. Explosions that made the colors twist, oddly sharpening slowly into clarity. She felt the warmth of flame, the hot gust of the explosions pushing away the smoke and the cold as she moved forward through the storm –

Storm…

She stopped. A flood of memories came rushing unbidden, threatening to drown her again, though this time in a floodtide of confusion rather than a frigid, darkling sea. She froze, clenching her eyelids shut as she concentrated, trying to focus on the jagged shards of memory stabbing into her mind, trying to sort their meaning:

She saw three others – men – but dressed as she, though their own uniforms were more bulky and loose fitting. The closest was a boy, a teenager with blond hair and blue eyes that were wild with fright as his body suddenly burst into flame. There was another man, big, but he was on the ground clawing at the earth as though some massive weight was pressing him to the dirt. And the third, slim and attractive for a heartbeat, then horror as his features began to melt, his body sagging like a spent candle…

She saw a child, little more than a babe. He resembled the burning boy from before, and the candle man as well curiously. He stood in the shadow of some monstrous beast, a great dog whose forehead crackled with a strange bluish electricity. Tears welled in the child’s eyes as he seemed lost, and her heart ached to see him so…

A younger child – a girl wailing in the darkness…

And other images, more fleeting than fact:

An armored man with cold hard eyes…

Another, muscular and regal, his bare skin rippling as he soared through blue on tiny wings that sprouted from his ankles…

A ship – a space craft exploding – No! Crashing to the Earth…

A mocking, horrid skull, blood red…

A storm…

Kosmisch Strahlung…

Cosmic Storm.

Her name was Strahlung. Susan Strahlung. No. Storm. But that did not seem quite right either.

Whatever…

She rubbed at her temples forcing the barrage of memories to the back recesses of her mind once again. She opened her eyes and saw the raging fires within the vast chamber. She could feel the barest heat despite the flames that danced perilously close, licking at her boots as she slowly turned to survey her surroundings. The gray stone beneath her feet rumbled as something exploded far and away. Through the thick, cloying smoke and glare of flame she could see the remains of machines, twisted and charred and knew the source of the chaos about her.

She saw bodies, what had once been men and women. Most were blackened, smoldering lumps as twisted and charred as the machinery. Most were dead, but she saw an occasional twitch, heard a sorrowful, pleading moan. She ignored their pleas, steeling her heart and clutching just a bit of the cold that remained within. These were her jailers she knew, the ones that had imprisoned her for how long? If this was their reward, it was just.

Still turning she saw the remnants of that prison, the source of the darkness that had contained her mercilessly. There was a metallic frame, the bars of a four-corned cage bulging outward, tiny shards of glass clinging to the twisted limbs. It sat upraised, as though on a pedestal, another machine that crackled with the cleansing fire, bent metal wrenched free and charred, melting with a heat that she did not feel except for the growing burn of her heart.

She was angry as she continued her scrutiny. She hated these faceless creatures for holding her against her will. Who knew what perverse experiments they had enacted on her helpless body and mind while she slept. The devastation within the chamber was not simply retribution she decided. It was sweet revenge, and deserving. And not nearly enough. There were probably others beyond the ravaged chamber, survivors trying to flee this place that was her prison. She would find them. Hunt them down. Make them pay.

A blast of light and concussive wind from beyond revealed an opening, pushing away the clouds of smoke. She smiled, her full lips pressed into a thin, curving line that seemed to reflect the malice in her icy blue eyes. There lay freedom and vengeance, she thought. She took a step forward –

And froze again as the ground seemed to sag underfoot. And groan…

Susan Storm gasped, the anger momentarily forgotten as she stared down at the strangely pulsating puddle that she had stepped in. It seemed rubbery, melted wax almost, colored in merging shades of white and gray and pink. She cocked her head in curiosity as she stared down, images of the candle man flickering through her mind’s eye again.

She squatted down, a tentative hand reaching for the strange swirl of pink, rimmed by a faded brown. It seemed to swell and deflate with a regular rhythm. Bubbles frothed through a deeper crimson scar with every bloated bulge. As her fingers brushed the thin, dark line she yelped in surprise, almost falling backwards into the queer mire.

Twin spots of brown had opened, surrounded by a pinkish, milky white. It took her a moment as her racing heart started to slow again to realize that they were eyes. They seemed to shudder slightly, as though trying to focus and she could see the agony behind the blurry gaze, an agony that she was adding to by standing in the melted mess that had once been a human being –

The candle man…

The cold grin returned as she stood once more, those pleading, aching eyes following her movement. She shifted her stance, uncaring of the pain that she was probably inflicting with the slightest trample and pressure. She knew him now- the candle man. He was the cause of her pain, her captor.

Herr Phantastisch…

“Reed.” The name came unbidden to her lips, but she knew she was correct.

The eyes widened in recognition then, sharpening to crystal clarity as they stared up at her. Susan suppressed a laugh as she glared down at the puddle now bubbling and writhing underfoot. She could feel the Director trying to pull himself back together, his body sloshing against her feet like the dull current of a lazy creek in summer. She knew that given time he would succeed. It would almost be worth it.

“Susan…”

The voice was a burbling whisper, a man drowning, gasping for air and begging for help. She almost hesitated, hearing the longing in the voice, a taint of familiarity lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. She reached out…

The scream was music to her ears, abrupt as it was. Her eyes sparkled with a malevolence as, with a wave of her hand she dispersed the puddle that had been Herr Richards, her captor and bane. The brown eyes had flared briefly and a hole opened where the mouth might have been revealing the cold gray stone beneath. What was once the body of Reed Richards splattered in the far reaches of the vast chamber, sizzling in the fires, drooling down the walls, speckling the floor in dots of white, lavender, pink and black.

Satisfied and smiling openly now, cruelly, Susan Richards – NO – Susan Storm strode purposefully towards the opening she had spied before. It was though a great weight had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders, as though with the final death of Herr Phantastisch, she had been freed from yet another invisible prison. The shackles binding her mind fell away with every step, her courage and determination growing.

She waved her hand again, a broad, sweeping gesture and the wall before her exploded, blowing away. She heard screams beyond as the masonry fell, but she did not care. She left behind many in her wake that had tried to hurt her, change her, and enslave her. One had felt her wrath, but she knew that there were others waiting, hiding from her fury. What else could those images have been but memories of those who had made her suffer.

She would find them. Find them all and make them suffer in kind. And she knew, somehow, just where to look. But first…

She stepped from the castle and luxuriated in the cool, fresh air. The land beyond was lush and green and she could see a river flowing in the distance, mountains beyond. The sun was high in a sky showing nothing but clear blue save for the roiling column of smoke rising from the castle at her back.

She turned and saw. The great spires and squat turrets crumbled more and more as the explosions within continued. Fire gouts rose as floors gave way and ceilings fell. Walls tumbled, exploding outwards with a continuous crash like thunder. She knew that given time Greymoor Schloss would collapse totally on its own, under its own mass and weight. But she was not satisfied with time.

Time had been stolen from her, and she would reciprocate, with malice.

Susan Storm raised her arms skyward, her hands slowly closing into fists. It took little effort to let the energies that she controlled build, coalescing, hardening. She envisioned a sword…

A hammer…

An anvil. She smiled…

In one swift and fluid motion, Susan Storm brought her fists crashing down. And with that motion, Greymoor Castle shattered, instantly crumbling to dust in a deadened cacophony of suppressed and contained devastation. The fires died as oxygen was stolen away. Smoke rose, evaporating on the wind. All dust, sound, movement froze, held in check by a greater elemental force; the whim of woman scorned.

She looked to the south then, her body warm with satisfaction. Gracefully she rose skyward and left her shattered prison behind, riding the invisible winds…

A Fourth Reich Tie-In

MALICE…

By Curtis Fernlund

Georgetown, NW Washington, D.C.
Georgetown University
The H.O.L.E.

“Concentrate!”

Horton leaned into the microphone, shouting to be heard over the boy’s screams of terror. He could emphasize with the youth, though in truth he could not imagine his own body engulfed in flame. The psychic scarring would be devastating, but he had to make the boy understand that despite the raging fire that encompassed him, he was not burning.

It was the air about him that was enflamed. Somehow the youth was exuding a field of force that had erupted with fire. A raging fire of varying heat that rose beyond normal temperatures, then as abruptly dropped to something akin to a Bunsen Burner’s bluish glow. There seemed to be a collation between the flame’s intensity and the boy’s anxiety, and it was obvious that the youth – one Jonathan Storm – had the ability to control the raging fire, but he was too terrified to do so.

The boy stalked and raged about the fire-resistant chamber that they had locked him into, first pounding on the door for help, then release. He was scared, panicking as the flames licked at his naked skin. He wanted out, more so since they had first drained the oxygen from the room to dowse the flames, which had unfortunately deprived him of the life-giving element as well, causing him to pass out and lose consciousness. They had filtered air back into the sealed chamber, letting the boy regain consciousness, but eventually the flames had sparked to life again. They had lowered the oxygen content as far as they dared, but the fire continued, adapting like a living thing.

Phineus Horton had been called in for his expertise, such as it was. A downtrodden Jew, scum in the eyes of the overlords but allowed to live for his brilliance in robotics. In years past he had created a creature not unlike the boy. An android that for some strange and inexplicable reason burst into flame when it came in contact with oxygen. The SS had taken his creation of course, but he had been allowed to live, to further the glory of the Fourth Reich. They hated him, but acknowledged his brilliance in certain fields. And he had done all that he could to remain in their good graces; inventing, creating, upgrading. He did not want to share the fate of his people that could not contribute anything useful to the New World Order.

He did not want to die.

“Damn you, boy!” Horton shouted. “Concentrate! You can control this!”

He watched as the youth staggered back and forth, almost running and bouncing off the walls in panic. Horton checked the oxygen levels and wondered how the boy even managed to stay awake, let alone burn so brightly. He was obviously building in resistance. He needed to gain control.

“Jesus…”

Horton glanced back to see Aufseher Barton staring wide-eyed at the boy beyond the Trans-steel barrier. Horton had wanted the overseer of Der Steinbruch present for his insight, but thus far the man nicknamed ‘Hawkeye’ had proven useless beyond his initial statement.

“Doubtful an aged and impotent Christian god will have any sway on this matter, Barton,” Horton said turning back to the subject. “Far better to pray to Der Führer for deliverance.”

Horton eased the oxygen flow down another notch even as Clint Barton sighed. He saw the flames about the boy flicker slightly, then flare again, adjusting. Oxygen was the key he knew, but the boy’s plasma field seemed to draw strength on an almost microscopic level. The monitors indicated that the heat and flame were becoming more intense with every passing moment.

Horton licked his lips as a chill ran the length of his spine. If the youth happened to gather his concentration to a focal point, he could easily burn his way through the walls of his prison and instantly incinerate everyone within several dozen yards. The potential was staggering, far beyond the limits of the android that he had created years before. He had to break through- make the boy listen.

“Concentrate, Storm!” he shouted into the mike again. “You can control the flame! Do not let it control you!”

Johnny Storm ignored him, crashing about the chamber, his body alight and growing in intensity. Horton was sweating while he watched. The boy’s body temperature was off the scale. If he had the mind to focus, he could easily escape confinement, blasting his way to freedom. The thought kept recurring, over and over.

“Look!” he heard Barton’s shout. Horton stared at the youth, suddenly frozen in place, staring up towards the ceiling of his holding cell.

“Johnny… “ he said, calmly trying to regain the boy’s attention.

“Sue,” the youth whispered and Horton saw the dials rise as the heat flared within. Something had agitated the boy and caught his attention. What, Horton could not be certain. He remembered from the files that the boy had an older sister, but –

Johnny Storm leapt skyward, the ceiling of his cell melting like butter before a hot knife. In a second, less he was free. Alarm claxons sounded as the youth burned his way through the lower floors of the hospital, eventually gaining freedom and the open air beyond.

Storm Troopers surged into the control room, into the holding cell, into the halls beyond. Guns were raised. Barton was thrown to the floor and secured. Horton himself was shoved to the wall, the barrels of rifles planted in his chest, stomach and cheeks as Der Führer’s elite took control of the situation.

Zola strolled into the room.

The dwarf was a mockery of humanity; a body amalgamated between flesh and blood and robotics. His mechanical appendages clicked and whirred as he walked the area, the tiny box that sat atop the mishmash body glowing with intelligence and insight. The view screen set into the body’s chest swirled as the digital face mimicked its annoyance, frowning.

“Not the outcome that I was expecting, Horton,” Zola stated. “You assured me that you could contain the youth. Now another wildcard has been loosed, like the sister. Tell me, why should I let you live after this travesty?”

The wide-screen eyes shifted and stared at Horton, still pinned to the wall, the barrel of an assault rifle touching his lips. Phineus Horton felt a damp warmth between his legs.

“Not my fault,” he rasped as the gunmetal shoved against his teeth. “The boy was too wild. The little box above Zola’s shoulders swiveled from side to side.

“Not what you said when you volunteered, Jew.” Zola stepped to the Trans-steel window, staring up at the hole that Storm had melted into the ceiling. Without turning he continued, “You said you could talk him down. Control him. More lies. Now he goes to rejoin his sibling, I suppose.”

“No!” Horton shouted, squirming. One of the Shock Troops jammed the butt of his rifle into Horton’s groin, eliciting a whimper of pain as he sagged in their grip. “No… time… “ Horton whimpered. They hefted him back up against the wall.

“Nothing but time, Jew,” Zola cooed, the box rotating. “For you. You’ve failed. You know the penalty for failure.”

The control box swiveled, focusing on Barton. The Shock Troops riddled the bound form with bullets. Horton watched in terror as the man’s body writhed under the impact and onslaught, finally laying still as the clips emptied. Blood oozed forth under the still form. Smoke roiled from the spent guns.

“You’re next,” Zola said matter of factly, turning his body fully towards Horton. “Fail again, Jew, and that is your fate.”

The Shock Troops sneered as they released him, following Zola from the room. Horton had thought that his bowels had been empty, but he was wrong. He slumped to the floor, staring at what had once been Clinton Francis Barton, now cooling flesh, blood and lead, gagging on the stench of death and excrement.

Washington, D.C.
The Red House;
The Red Room

Schmidt watched contentedly as darkness draped the land once again.

Another day passed, he thought, raising the tumbler, three fingers of twenty year old Dewars scotch to his lips. He allowed himself to feel the smooth burning sensation as the alcohol eased down his throat, allowed the sensation of inebriation the slightest touch at the back of his mind before dismissing the effects. Another day post Ragnarrok.

The Twilight of the Gods had come and gone at his whim. The Fourth Reich had risen to supremacy, and the old gods were now forgotten, or at worst feared and ignored, distrusted at best as insurgents in the brave new world that he had envisioned, and created. A perfect world.

A boring world.

Granted, omnipotence and omniscience did have their advantages. There was no strife. There was no pestilence or poverty. Death came at his whim, and war had become a thing of the past. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were his lackeys now, slaves to the new Führer, master of the world. The sun rose and set for his pleasure. The sheep bleated as he directed, gathering in the mundane drudgery that he devised.

Godhood he found was over rated.

How did Thor do it? he wondered as he sipped again at the scotch, the tumbler refilled with a thought. How did he strive on amongst the chattel, day after day, eon after eon? Certainly the Thunder God was no where near as powerful, yet he was Immortal, allegedly, and near invulnerable. Through the ages, how many had he seen die, both friend and foe? How did he continue to live among these lesser beings and remain sane from the sheer idleness? It seemed incomprehensible.

There were divergences of course. He enjoyed the glimpses of the world’s once heroes as they struggled along, little realizing that their every move had been foreseen and coordinated. Those that he had allowed to be separate from the reality that he had created. The X-Men, knowing true oppression for the first time. The Defenders cast into rolls of subservience. The Champions, the Thunderbolts, the New Warriors; all fodder for his New World Order. And of course the greatest threats: the Avengers and the Fantastic Four.

Most of the former were dealt with easily enough. Those with something to contribute like Pym and Banner were melded into the Reich as useful cogs in a vast, well-oiled machine. Schmidt was omniscient, however he was limited to what he knew. The sciences; radiation, robotics, biology and the like had been beyond him when he was simply normal. True, he could create with a thought, but he had to know what he wanted, and he would admit, at least to himself, that his imagination lacked that drive to create what he did not know, understand or conceive. Left unfettered, there were others with the spark to further his goals and invent things that he might one day need.

Richards especially. The man’s mind was a wellspring of information. The obvious thing was to incorporate him into the Reich and give him a goal: save the woman that he loved. Simplistic but effective. Richards had recreated many of his past wonders as well as many new creations as he struggled to revive his wife. Things which the Fourth Reich would exploit.

And as to the Avengers, it amused him to let this latest incarnation to run free, struggling to survive in a vain attempt to stop him. The fools did not realize yet that he could wipe them away with an errant thought. And he would, eventually. But for now let them struggle. Without their beacon of hope, their sentinel of liberty, they were lost.

And Rogers of course, was the best divergence. He had yet to break, but he would. No man could long survive the tortures that Schmidt had inflicted. The degradations of humanity under the jack-booted heel of the Fourth Reich; mongrel women raped by Aryan overlords, babes slaughtered in bloody massacre, Jewish scum writhing as gas and flame purged the earth of their infestation.

Schmidt tipped back another shot, placing the empty tumbler on the marble top of the circular table before the western window. The Red Room was garish and archaic, a certain sign of America’s decadence. Dressed in shades of crimson, the walls a reddish plum broken by paintings, landscapes of the country’s lands; Florida, Niagara Falls, the Rocky Mountains. There was an Empiric theme to the room, from one of France’s Napoleonic eras. Fitting somehow. Napoleon, the little general draped in red.

Perhaps he would reinvent Zemo again –

Schmidt tensed, feeling an… electricity in the air. Something had altered against his will.

He reached out, trying to pinpoint the source of disturbance. He let his consciousness expand… until… contact.

Energy. He sensed a force beyond, pressing on the reality that he had created. It was powerful, perhaps as strong as the Cube itself, but in a different way. But he did not recognize it. The sign wave was beyond his grasp.

Schmidt sneered. He would admit, only to himself of course, that he was woefully lacking in the ways of science. At his peak, atomic power was a hushed secret, and the Hydrogen atom was yet to be shattered. Space flight was a dream, let alone walking on a foreign world. Grudgingly, he would need help – no – insight.

He considered, then thought.

Reed Richards appeared before him, whole once again as he had been before. The man blinked, then staggered and dropped to his knees, weeping.

“Sue!”

Schmidt stared and the man went silent.

“I require your knowledge, Richards,” Schmidt said staring at the groveling, broken man. He had not been watching his Herr Phantastisch, letting the leader of the Fantastic Four go about his business of advancing science and inventing. He had twisted the ‘world’s greatest mind’ to a deformed creature, his vaunted powers now more a curse than a blessing. He wanted Richards about and active for his ingenuity however, so did not care. Schmidt wondered what had happened to break the man to a sobbing fool. “What is this?”

Schmidt shifted the ‘feeling’, sending it to Richards, bombarding and overwhelming the broken Marvel. He had no respect for the fool, wasting his time helping humanity, and little consideration. Compassion was for lesser men. He watched as Mister Fantastic rocked on his knees, his arms hugging his chest as the information roiled through his brain.

“Hypertime…” the former leader of the world’s greatest team whispered. “Hyperspace,” he said then as his eyes focused for a moment. “The other Force of Nature, beyond gravity. The other bond.”

“Explain yourself, idiot,” Schmidt ordered, placing a cigarette holder to his crimson lips (or lack there of). The cigarette burst to flame at his whim.

“Sue…” Richards said, almost whimpering.

Susan Richards, the Invisible Woman. Schmidt had made her the goal, something for Herr Phantastisch to strive for. Had he succeeded? Regrettably, he had not been paying close attention. Rogers and his Avengers had been more amusing.

“Sue…”

Johann Schmidt waved his cigarette holder and Richards vanished. Pathetic. But still, he knew immediately what was happening.

What was coming…

Schmidt could feel it. The electricity in the air was increasing. The intensity growing. Whatever it was, was coming closer, ever closer with every breath and heartbeat.

Diversity…

Challenge perhaps?

Amusement at least.

The Red Skull could not wait.

Alexandria,
Der Potomac:

Kapitän Oppermann stared at the melting block of ice with dismay. There was a sense of dread building in his tired body, growing with every drop of water that melted away and dripped from the chunk of ice sitting in the hold of his ship. He did not know what he had expected to find within the small iceberg that his men had struggled to bring aboard, and seeing it up close and personal, he still had no idea.

Man-like? Yes, but huge, over 200 centimeters easily, and massive. Even with the ice evaporating in the closed heat of the U-boat, the thing within the ice required several men to move it, simply to shift it. A man perhaps, but unlike any he had ever seen before.

And orange?

Perhaps whoever it was – emphasis on was he hoped – had been flash frozen in a winter suit, foul weather gear. That would account for the sizable bulk, though not the mass.

Opperman shivered as his thoughts took a dark turn. He, like all in his position – a commander in the Fourth Reich – had heard the horror stories. Hushed whispers of fairy tales and legends, things that had been created by the scientists that served the Fourth Reich and hidden away for a time when they might be needed. Sleepers they were called; monstrous robots, chemically altered animals, human beings that had been subjected to vile experimentation in bionics and radiation. Though Opperman wondered just what dire need might actually draw them forth. The Reich and Der Führer had an iron, vice-like grip on the world. Oh, there were pockets of resistance here and there. There always were rebels in any regime. But the Reich was not any regime simply lording over a plot of land, a country. It had changed the world.

The very lands had changed to accommodate. Many areas that were once hubs of human activity were once again fertile rolling hills and vast fields. The houses, farms, cities that once were, were gone, the oppressed peoples relocated to massive housing complexes to better control them and guide them in their day to day lives that were devoted to the glory and furtherment of the fourth Reich. The people now lived, worked, breathed for the Reich, and never complained if they knew what was in their best interest.

The world’s leaders were gone. The world’s heroes beaten down save for a few that continued their mad struggle to retain their freedom. And perhaps that was what the Sleepers were for. That off chance that one of the old heroes might gain some ground.

And if this thing was one of them. A Sleeper…

“Kapitän.”

Opperman shifted his focus to the RO, the young Negro looking up at him expectantly. Patterson. A good sailor, and adept at his job.

“Report.”

“Sir. We are five minutes out of the Washington Navy Yards. Reich Command: Arlington has cleared us for entrance and docking.”

“Good,” Opperman smiled. “Ahead slow. Follow the markers,” he said off hand towards the intra-ship radio, sensing more than seeing the flurry of activity as his command crew set to task. They would bring the Unterseeboot Falke into port at the Navy Yard with no problems, where the ship would receive much needed refurbishing, the crew much need shore leave. “Contact me when we are docking.”

“It’s alive.”

Opperman almost jumped, and still let a gasp escape his lips. He turned back to the icy mass and saw on the far side of the orange bulk the thin and frail form of the ship’s surgeon, Liptman. The man seemed stereotypical as doctors went; frail and old with wispy white hair and thick, coke-bottle glasses. A Jew of course, but he knew his trade and offered little complaint despite the cramped conditions on board; the heat, the closeness, the blacks.

“What?” Opperman said as he looked again at the icy form. Liptman held a stethoscope to the ice at one of the thinnest points. His brows furrowed as he slid the disc of the device over the ice.

“Heartbeat,” the surgeon replied, “faint and erratic, but there. It’s not a machine.”

“Impossible.”

Liptman removed the probes from his ears and stood straight, stretching with a hand in the small of his back. Opperman heard loud popping noises before the surgeon spoke again.

“Improbable, yes, but impossible?” Liptman shook his head as he pulled a bent cigarette from a crumpled pack secreted within his long, stained white coat. He lit it, ignoring protest, sucking deeply and exhaling as he waved his hand in the air. “We live in a world of wonders, Kapitän, despite our oppressors and their best efforts. Many have forgotten the world of the Marvels, tending instead to simply survive in the day by day drudgery that has replaced what was. Some yet recall. Am I correct?” Opperman nodded.

“Perhaps this,” he said waving his cigarette at the ice, “is a forgotten Atlantean. Maybe a hero lost in the change?” He shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough I think.”

CRACK!

All eyes turned to the ice. Opperman swallowed as he saw a twitch in the thing’s arm, a large chunk of frozen water dropping away with the slight movement to crash on the steel floor. It was waking.

“Perhaps sooner than I anticipated.”

Delaware

The world swept past, purple mountains giving way to endless fields of green and amber waves of grain. The vast expanse of unsoiled land seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, as far as she could see. Clear blue skies beckoned, faint wispy clouds roiling on cool breezes. A pleasant land ripe for the taking.

All wrong.

The images, the memories flashing through her mind’s eye were nowhere near complete, but she knew the open lands that trundled away beneath her were not supposed to be. She saw houses, buildings, towns that merged with cities into a huge metropolis that stretched and sprawled for hundreds of square miles. Thousands…

Or should have.

And where were the people?

Her head ached, and she tried not to think. She tried not to focus on the oddities that she passed, but rather on her goal. Somewhere ahead lay the bane of her existence. She could feel it, calling her, beckoning. That which had stripped her of the things that she held dear, the things she had once loved lay somewhere ahead.

The tow-headed child sprang to mind again.

“Franklin…”

She whispered the name as she directed the roiling wave of force that she rode. It was massive, invisible as it mowed down and crushed anything within its path. Trees shattered and stone exploded, grinding to dust in its wake. Animals were trampled, pummeled as they fled before her, rolled into the dirt by some great invisible mass that was at her command. She did not care. They were impediments, distractions from her goal.

“Franklin…”

And then she saw. The horizon fell away and she saw the telltale signs of humanity in the distance. It was a city, and somewhere in the back of her mind she recognized sights and landmarks; high-domed buildings of marble, a stone column stretching high into the twilight sky, a long shimmering pool of water centered in a verdant expanse…

But her mind rebelled at the sight of the huge red building. It was wrong, out of place and a blight in her memories. It was a cancer, which needed to be eradicated. She knew too that that was her goal.

She shifted her stance, calling the energy in and about her. She felt the power grow as the massive wave contracted, coiling up and about, enveloping her, shielding her. The wave became a spout, rising higher and higher at her whim. What little friction she had been feeling fell away. The winds in her face died to a breeze, finally a faint breath that barely brushed at her golden hair. She steeled herself for what was to come, allowing the spout of force that she rode to writhe across the land like a snake, coiling and ready to strike.

She heard small, tinny explosions, staccato bursts that echoed over and over. Glowing black flecks bounced away from the force that she had wrapped about her, gnats splattering against the windscreen of a speeding semi. She looked down and saw the army of her opposition; black suited, jack booted men in shell like helmets firing their guns as the snake she rode trod them into the lush grass that surrounded the garish red house. She ignored their screams, pressing on.

She focused on the blight, the building. She knew suddenly what lay beyond those blood-soaked walls, and whom she must face but she did not care. He would fall as he always did, beaten by his own vanity.

“Doom.”

Susan Storm clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, willing the force to thrust her forward…

The Washington Navy Yards

His head was pounding, spinning with a million images. Fleeting things, they taunted and teased, flickering briefly, just enough to tantalize but not long enough to grasp before they swirled away again into the recesses of his mind.

He growled as he stomped from the water of the Potomac, shaking his head and flicking water from his stony skin. He could hear the screams from those that he had left behind, those he had left alive, now dying in the sinking submarine.

Germans. Go figger.

He wondered briefly what year he was in now as he stood on the docks, looking around. There were people about, dockworkers and long-shoremen by the look. They were staring – the ones that weren’t running – in shock. Let ‘em.

Grimm looked about, trying to get his bearings.

He heard the explosion first, glancing up as the ground rumbled beneath his feet. The dockworkers too looked up in surprise, momentarily forgetting that he was in their midst. Fine by him. He didn’t want no trouble. But what –

Then he saw it. A plume of smoke or dust was rising in the distance, not quite beyond the horizon, but the source was hidden behind the buildings of the city before him. The buildings looked vaguely familiar, but his head still spun, his mind still frozen as far as he knew.

But somehow he figured that that plume was a beacon for him, and where he should go. What the hell, it wasn’t so far away, a few miles and maybe the jog would warm him up.

He was freezing…

Over Maryland

Johnny Storm kept screaming as he soared through the skies. His mind reeled at the flames dancing across his body; unable to comprehend why he had not been burnt to a crisp already. Unable to understand why… how he was flying.

It made no sense. No more sense than the impulsive drive burning in every fiber of his being to head south, fast as he could, towards what?

What awaited him there? He had no idea, but the need to find out was overwhelming. It was like a call, a siren voice in the back of his mind that relentlessly shouted his name, beckoning.

So he flew on.

He felt the burn. The miles were taking their toll, but he would not succumb to fatigue. As long as the flame continued, he would fly until he reached his destination.

Fly and scream…

The Red House,
Washington, D.C.

Dell Rusk watched with some amusement as the front façade of the Red House bulged inward, then collapsed. He ignored the screams of his SS Elite as the fluted marble columns once adorning the outer landing snapped under the pressure of the Hyper Force, sending great red boulders pounding through the grand entryway. He drew on his cigarette, watching his soldiers fall, crushed under the weight of those boulders, the outer wall, the roof and above stories that came raining down. Dust billowed through the great hall, choking those lesser beings as they scurried for safety, stumbling as the very foundations of the decades old monolithic building rumbled.

He almost laughed. Sheep and chattel. Even his prime Aryan choices bred to stand tall and unflinching in the advent of adversity. Fear was always a great motivator, at least in lesser men.

Dell Rusk brushed a speck of dust from the lapel of his Armani jacket, frowning. With a slight dismissive wave of his hand, the area surrounding the archaic Presidential Seal of the United States on which he stood cleared of dust and debris. He adjusted the small insignia on the lapel; the red, black and white image of the Swastika cast in a cloisonné pin. He sighed, watching as the dust and debris continued to fall and churn, the opening in the front of the Red House now a huge floor to roof gash that presented a view of the Washington Monument in the distance.

With another simple – and unneeded – gesture he reinforced the gaping hole in the building. She had made her point with her assault, like taking a huge invisible sledgehammer to the building’s face. Still, he did not wish either he or she to be distracted by falling masonry when the Invisible Woman finally made her grand entrance. He did wish that she would get on with it…

And finally she appeared.

He had half-expected her to attack invisibly, and had adjusted to compensate, but in retrospect he realized that she was seeking vengeance. Revenge not necessarily for herself, or even her husband, but rather for her children. From what he recalled, Susan Richards was a passionate mother above all else. Her children had been her world, and he was certain that even in the fantasy she was now enmeshed within, that burning desire would still be foremost in her being. Rage and not subterfuge would be guiding her this night, and that more than the unimaginable power of the Cube would be her ultimate downfall.

Rusk had to admit that she was beautiful. He was not certain of her heritage – Storm could be Jewish – but her features were Aryan through and through; comely, golden hair flying, piercing blue eyes and a proud stance. She seemed to ride the wind, her graceful form standing easily on apparently empty air, drifting casually to the rubble-strewn floor. She was dressed in a mostly skin-tight uniform of purple accentuated with black boots, gloves, belt and wide high collar. Truly magnificent as she scanned the area no doubt seeking potential threats, and finding none settled her gaze on Dell Rusk.

He ‘saw’ the energy flow then, swirling and writhing like a thing alive as she cast it forth with no effort to encase him. He momentarily allowed himself to feel the pressure of her force field and was amazed at the strength behind it. Her will must be strong indeed, he thought as he focused his own will to ease the pressure back. He smirked to see the brief flash of confusion knit her brow.

“Where is Doom?” she asked as she stepped lightly to the slick marble floor. He could hear the rage in her voice, barely held in check, but he was more amused by the words themselves. She thought Doctor Doom was behind this New World Order?

It did make sense however, as he considered. Her last thoughts would have been of her battle with the Avengers in Latveria, which led to the eventual confrontation with Victor Von Doom. A cosmically powered Doom at that, using powers stolen from her own Mutant son. A logical leap though to an erroneous conclusion. Dell Rusk smiled. Time to play.

“Doom is… occupied,” he answered between puffs on his cigarette. He could feel the force surging about him as she tried to tighten her ‘grip’. He met her force to force in their psychic arm-wrestling match.

“Occupied!” she spat. “If he thinks he can hide behind some lackey – “

“Lackey?” Rusk sputtered, momentarily angered. How dare she? He thought of wiping her from existence with a thought, her and her lineage, past present and future. He thought of a dozen tortures to whisk her away into. He thought of reducing her to her most primordial ancestor, leaving her aware and writhing in a Petrie dish for eternity…

He regained control, realizing that she truly did not know. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Should I?” she asked smugly, her gaze drifting about the room. He saw her eyes widen, then narrow as she took in the new décor that remained from her initial assault; Nationalist flags draping the high red walls, statues dedicated to the Master Race and the Fourth Reich, and finally the portrait of the new Führer. Slowly she returned her attention to him, the first spark of recognition kindled in her eyes. He would fan that to flame.

“One of Doom’s scientists? Some flunky threatened or enslaved to bring him power? You do look familiar.”

Rusk grinned, a tight line reminiscent of his true face. He took a final long drag from his cigarette, then cast it away. “My name was Dell Rusk, but perhaps you will better identify with another guise of mine.”

With barely a thought his form shifted. His body became shorter, less muscular, the hair kinkier and speckled with gray. The dark Armani was replaced by a suit tailored in America with simpler cuts and cheaper material. His face aged, sagging a bit as the conceited masque of Dell Rusk morphed into the simplistic visage of the last, final president of the United States of America.

“Do you know me now?” he asked, his voice affecting the southwestern drawl of the man he had once been.

He saw her eyes widen then. Her head turned sharply as she once again eyed the room, exactly where she was finally making impact. “Dell Rusk,” she whispered…

He was unprepared as the weight of the world suddenly slammed into his chest. He flew back in astonishment, swiftly smashing into the far back wall, and through it into the room beyond.

And beyond…

The back wall of the Red House exploded outward as the form of the president rocketed out onto the rear lawn, finally to plow into the grass like a meteor fallen to earth. The pressure of impact did not ease with the sudden lack of momentum however. If anything, it seemed to grow as though a giant heel were grinding him into the dirt. He was astounded, actually feeling pain as his concentration wavered slightly. He could not begin to believe that the woman was this powerful.

Something slammed down, hard! He felt the pressure multiply a thousandfold as his own personal defenses cracked from the onslaught. He actually moaned as his face was shoved into the depression beneath him. Involuntarily he gasped for breath, his fingers clawing at the ground and ripping up tufts of grass as he started to panic.

Until he felt a new pressure at the base of his skull. The woman had dared put her heel to his throat. His anger boiled forth at the effrontery, the insolence.

“I don’t care what game you’re playing, Skull,” she said, her voice barely held in check, seething with anger. “I want my children. Now!”

The Red Skull willed the pain away. With some effort – granted – he repositioned his arms and pushed up off of the ground. He knew that the Cosmic Cube laced within his being was not all-powerful, but only as powerful as the being that wielded it. He had learned in the past that his simplistic goals of revenge and humiliation were inadequate, both to his own grandeur and the overall capabilities of the Cube itself. That was why Captain America had beaten him in the past. That was why Thanos had failed. Vanity and limited aspirations had been their downfall, and he had almost succumbed again.

He could have simply vanished and reappeared unfazed. He could have willed himself immaterial, or grown to incalculable heights, or willed the woman away. Instead he stood, simply, brushing the dirt and grass away from his Nazi dress uniform. He heard the woman gasp as he (not so) easily dismissed her hold on his form, his face melting away and deepening in the blood red hue and raggedy skull that was his true visage. Satisfied with his appearance he stood at ease, willing a cigarette and long holder into his fingers as he eyed her, his vision shifting through the spectrum of light to reveal her personal shields.

“I do not have your children, sow,” he sneered, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “But if I did, your mongrel son and daughter would be proud members of the Reich Jugend, serving the greater cause. Or perhaps in one of the many relocation centers where the Mutant filth resides.” He saw the woman’s face redden with anger, her body swelling with rage. This time he was ready.

The force disrupted, washing over him as a wave roiling upon the sandy beach. He stepped back, but did not fall or falter. He blew smoke in her general direction.

“You begin to bore me, woman. Surrender and I will allow you to please me sexually. Persist and I shall make your every heartbeat agonized hell.”

He saw her lips part as she started to retort, no doubt about to spout some expletive concerning his political beliefs when the world erupted in a firestorm…

Johnny Storm had finally stopped screaming. Not because the panic had passed, but because his voice had failed him. His throat was raw and it hurt simply to swallow.

He was still ablaze, still flying south, but finally he saw what had to be his goal. The huge red building looked as though it had seen better days. Its front wall was smashed in, and there was a huge hole in the rear as well. He could see fires blazing within and people running about in a panic, probably trying to regain some kind of control. His eyes however were drawn to the rear lawn where he saw to people apparently struggling against one another.

He saw energies flaring in the strange new sight that distorted his vision. One glowed with a radiance that was almost blinding, while the other was a amorphous blob shifting in hue and brilliance. He arched his flight, flailing slightly as he zeroed in on them, drawn like a moth to a flame.

“No,” he whispered, his voice feeble and cracking, lost amidst the crackle of the fires that enveloped him. He saw Der Führer standing before a woman, and she looking familiar, like a ghost from his past. They were squaring off he could see, facing one another down. He marveled at the woman, that she would so face the master of the Fourth Reich. Who was she? He had to know, had to help. Maybe this was the chance that they had been waiting for.

His eyes widened as he swept lower. Recognition flickered, pushing past the fear and panic. He knew that hair, blond like his own. He knew the stance; sure and proud. His memory came swirling back, choking, and overwhelming like the flood tide.

“Sue!”

Jonathan Storm rocketed earthward letting his inner fires build, finally unleashing what had been burning at his soul for release. He saw the land smolder, finally erupting in flame as he expounded, gathering the cosmic fires to his will. He sucked the heat from the very air, agitating the molecules and redistributing the fiery force of his Marvel, letting it grow, building in intensity as he shot towards the form of Der Führer.

He saw the man say something, his crimson skull tilting as he spoke, his stance conceited and overbearing. Jonathan Storm screamed a final time as his world exploded in a fiery conflagration of Nova Force…

The Red Skull looked down at his scorched and smoldering naked body and sighed. He could not believe this…

He was standing in midair, his charred form healing at his whim. His flesh reformed even as he willed the burned oxygen away, replenishing the area with fresh air. He willed his uniform back into place as he stared down at the spent and naked form of the boy; Jonathan Storm.

The youth lay twisted and unconscious at the bottom of the crater that he had created. The ground was fused into a hard, simmering glass-like state all around. Spot fires flared all about; the grass ablaze, trees burning and the Red House actually appearing to have melted with the force of his assault. The Human Torch had attacked, and he had been unprepared. He had again thought short term and had been defended against the woman’s force, mainly. Only by the grace of the Cube had he survived the youth’s attack.

He looked to the woman and she seemed unscathed, at least physically. She stared down at the boy however and he saw that she recognized him. All the better.

The Skull made a fist and the boy writhed. His body snapped, twisting as his bones shattered, his form convulsing and shuddering as the Red Skull exacted vengeance. When the Skull opened his fist, the Human Torch lay spent, his torso twisted about, his head cocked at an odd angle, dead.

He felt the sledgehammer hit him again, but this time he stood firm, prepared. He barely flinched as the woman strode forward, pummeling him with invisible projectiles that simply bounced away from his person like gnats stopped by a screen door.

“Damn you!” she shouted, realizing that her brother was dead. No doubt realizing too that her husband was gone, and her precious children beyond her reach. Truly, he had no idea where they might be, nor did he care. He longed to break the woman however, so continued to mock.

“You cannot damn God, woman,” he mused, bringing the cigarette and holder back as her forces pummeled at his shields. He exhaled a cloud of crimson smoke that would have slain anyone else. His skull-like visage twisted into something akin to a smile. “But as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, you begin to bore me – “

A tremendous force slammed between his shoulder blades and sent him sprawling forward. The Skull hit the base of the crater, landing face first into the fused and smoldering dirt right next to the body of the boy. He felt the pain of the initial impact, uncomprehending as top what had happened. Something had struck him, obviously, but as he rolled over he saw only the woman standing in midair and staring off into space. What?

Some massive weight fell onto his chest and he felt his head snap to the side, driven into the dirt again.

ENOUGH!

Time froze…

The Red Skull coughed and healed. He had toyed with the Invisible Woman enough and simply willed her away. Let her wander Limbo in search of her Mutant get. He no longer cared.

But what had struck him? He sensed that it had not been Susan Richards. What then?

His teeth shattered in his mouth as something smashed down. His mind reeled as he screamed in pain and rage, spitting blood. What was happening?

He willed the cosmic forces of the Cube to protect him, heal him, then willed those forces through all radiance to project anomaly. Something hammered his head down again. He felt his neck snap, then heal just as swiftly. What was happening?

Panic swelled. There was something beyond his comprehension attacking. He could not adjust. Something slammed into his ribs and he felt pain. Another blow to his chest.

No!

He willed the Cube to expand. His mind swirled as omniscience overwhelmed him, the Cosmic Awareness that came with Godhood. He felt the initial peace as his mind reached out, probing, seeking the source of his woe…

A shadow flitted and pain erupted again, this time in his cheek.

The shadow was bulky and massive, the silhouette vaguely familiar. Oddly though it seemed out of sync, as though trapped between real time and the space between seconds. He did not understand, but at last he had a focus to assault. The Red Skull willed his essence into that space between moments and finally saw his assailant. He should have known.

“Grimm…”

He remembered then, when he was reshaping reality that the Thing was oddly missing. He thought nothing of it at the time, confident in his abilities, but now the memory of that vacancy returned to haunt him. Of the Four, Benjamin J. Grimm was the least. An elemental, but of the Earth and plain and simple a rock man with mass and strength. The other three members of the World’s greatest Fighting Team were far more formidable, and more of a threat. Both the woman and the boy had proven that.

Yet here was the Thing, inflicting damage and all but invisible to his senses, momentarily at least.

The Skull thought, and Grimm froze. He watched as the brute’s chipped rock skin fused and he froze in mid-strike. The look on the fool’s face was priceless as the Skull stood and brushed himself off… again.

“I sense a greater power behind you, oaf. One of my detractors?” the Red Skull walked calmly about the frozen form of the Thing. “I cannot discern which, but I do know that you are no where near competent enough to achieve this state without outside help. Some failsafe of Doom’s perhaps?”

The Red Skull remembered the battle between the Hulk and the Thing then, and the battles that preceded that, against X-whatever and the Warriors. They had ripped through Manhattan, creating mass destruction, and somewhere along the line Grimm had vanished.

Lost in the Time Stream?

It would seem so. But who had manipulated these events? Kang? Doom? Zarko?

Someone had foreseen and tried to manipulate events. There was another player in the mix. But the Red Skull had triumphed. The Red Skull remained supreme. And, as always, the Red Skull planned…

With a snap of his fingers, the Skull made Grimm snap to attention. His hulking form floated helplessly over the blasted crater as the Red Skull thought, transferring ideas and goals into the brute. People trusted Grimm, adored him for some reason despite the grotesque mockery of his body. All the better. And Grimm knew things, and knew people; everyone it seemed at times.

He was perfect.

The ultimate Sleeper…

The Red Skull remembered, and thought, and then on a whim made the Thing vanish. He stood alone then, hovering over the blasted land, the crater that contained the twisted body of the boy. He raised the cigarette holder to his lips and remembered again…

The Red House stood whole and unmolested.

The lawns appeared unbroken and lush, verdant and appealing.

His troops patrolled the grounds with ferocity, fear stricken from their beings.

Dell Rusk stood on the steps of the restored Red House, his gaze focused on the monument that pointed towards the heavens, just a short distance away.

Liberty was a fleeting thing.

He drew deeply of his cigarette and started to laugh…

NEXT: My next issue of the Fantastic Four is Post Fourth Reich, and will start my final arch on the comic. Be here as Ronan the Accuser comes to Earth to exact vengeance in the name of the assembled sentient races of the known universe. Learn the fate of Franklin, Valeria and Luna! Did Sue really kill Reed? Is Johnny really dead? And what is up with Ben? Well, he will be gearing up for another run in Marvel Two-In-One, that will be focusing on the upcoming Conspiracy crossover. BIG things are on the horizon, and Marvel Omega will deliver! Return here soon for…

COUNT DOWN: 4…
God Save the Children

You will not be disappointed.

 

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