2014.01.14 - Where do You See Yourself?

"... almost miraculous, really. Of course, by 'miraculous' I mean that I carefully reconstructed all of the bits of bone and meat myself, utilizing my vast genius. Really, a few years now the word 'miraculous' will fall out of fashion in favor of something more along the lines of... 'Zolaesque.'"
"For both your sakes, I hope that you've restrained yourself, Zola. I gave strict orders that he was to be allowed to heal, not given one of your abominable 'upgrade' packages. If you've turned this man's arm into a plasma rifle I swear I'll..."
The second speaker's voice trails off, leaving any threat to be imagined rather than stated. But though his deadpan voice is difficult to read, there doesn't seem to be any genuine worry on his part in regard to the fastidiousness with which his orders have been obeyed.
"I know that you are unlikely to answer my question, Herr Skull, but I must admit to a certain degree of curiosity. I see nothing about this specimen that would warrant such expense. From what I know of his record, he's a common thug, easily replaceable." The 'man' who has been identified as Zola is unlike anything that most people have ever seen. An awkward monstrosity constructed of metal, with a boxy camera where his head should be. An almost primitive screen covers the majority of his chest, projecting the image of an elderly man's face. "If you simply wanted to test my skills, surely we could have shot up one of the meatheads in the cargo area."
The man identified as 'Herr Skull' is silent for a moment, peering through the two-way mirror into a spartan but fully-functional hospital room. Machines run constantly, monitoring the vitals of a patient who until very recently was little more than a corpse. Safely on the other side, the man with a Red Skull for a head casually swirls the contents of a brandy snifter. Judging by the color though, it's almost certainly not brandy. "Common? Possibly, Zola. Quite possibly. But I'm willing to spend HYDRA's money in order to find out."
Brock awoke slowly, his body desperately fighting for life, helped along by Zola's science and his own indefatigable will to live. He already bore his share of scars, a legacy of his lifetime on streets and in cells. The Reichsmark branded on his chest, just above his left nipple identifies him as an Aryan brother. When he recovers his wits, he's wary. He remembers the pain in his gut, the shrapnel. He could smell the stink of his own innards, a harbinger of death, one he's smelled splitting lesser men open
He pops his IV immediately, feeling dizzy, but shaking it off. The needle pokes out beteen two fingers, a savage stabbing tool in waiting. He knows they, whoever they are, saved him. He doesn't yet know why.
"There he goes. I told you it wouldn't be long, Herr Skull. I'll give him a full diagnostic..."
"Absolutely not!" The Red Skull dismisses this notion quite emphatically. So emphatically, that he nearly sloshes a bit of his drink out of the confines of the snifter. "You will do your tests once I've done mine. I must know immediately if my investment was wise. If my test fails, there will be no need whatsoever for yours."
The hulking robotic form of Arnim Zola takes a step back, as carefully as a hulking robotic form can. The Skull gives him barely a glance as he walks past him and presses his palm against the glowing panel in front of the door. Yet another robotic voice calls out from the speaker beside the panel "Identity Confirmed: Red Skull." and the door whooshes open like a standard prop from a science fiction series.
With a snifter in one hand, and a manila folder under the other arm, the Skull would look very unlike a doctor as he strides into the room. The black regalia of a HYDRA officer would further cement the impression that he was not here in any sort of curative capacity. But none of those signs are really all that necessary to clue someone in: his deformed head pretty much does that all by itself. For a moment he stands in front of the door, glaring at the patient the way a butcher might glare at a ruined tenderloin.
Crossbones had been prepared to strike fast, his body coiled and muscles tensed. He had been prepared to annihilate any potential captor, pluck out their eye, snap their neck...and then he saw the head. No, not the head. The Skull. Everyone knows of the Skull, of course, but, among his ilk, Skull is a legend and a hero rather than the villain the media would have you believe. The Last Nazi. The Red Fuhrer. Brock can't help but stare for a long moment and then lower his eyes, "Sir," he says simply.
The Skull does not respond, but that should hardly surprise anyone. Instead, for a moment, he just continues to stare. His blue eyes burn deep in their sunken red sockets, illuminating a face that would otherwise look very very dead. With his face relaxed, nearly all of his somewhat yellowed teeth are visible, making him look more like a slightly-melted hyena than a man.
But the hard appraising stare does not last forever. Eventually, the Skull walks over to a corner of the room, and wordlessly grabs a heavy chair by its back and slowly drags it across the room in as noisy and dramatic a fashion as possible. The room is filled with a sound very much like that of fingernails on a chalkboard. Finally, the noise, and the chair, stop. The Skull takes a seat, and makes himself comfortable, adjusting his uniform as well as he can with one hand full. With a casual toss, the folder under his arm is placed on the hospital bed, its contents spilling out to reveal a pretty extensive dossier on the man known to the world as Brock Rumlow.
"I know who you are, and you seem to know who I am. So let's skip that part of this conversation, shall we?"
Crossbones allows the great man to do as he will. He still can't exactly figure out how he got from working to kill a pack of Arab "terrorists" with a merc pack to here. He'd taken the job 'cause it paid and 'cause he'd get to kill ragheads. Still, Brock spent too much time in prison to expose too much throat to any man, even a legend like the Skull.
"Skip straight to it, then. What do you want me to do?" He has no illusions he's been saved out of sentiment or to discuss philosophy. He is a weapon. He just wants to know where the Skull will aim him.
"I want you to pause for a moment, and think. Explore the recesses of your mind. Think of the turns your life has taken." The Skull begins to sip the contents of his snifter. Even from several feet away, whatever is in the glass smells quite horrible. "Once you've done that, I want you to answer this very simple question: Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Crossbones feels a bit self conscious. He's imagined meeting the Skull, of course, what Neo-Nazi hasn't? But he'd always been triumphant, strong...armed. Not sitting here in a hospital gown, half-healed from death. "Alive," he says. "Beyond that, I don't think much about it. I take what comes and beat the future into submission."
The Skull doesn't respond right away. He nods his head, but he doesn't appear to have paid much attention to the answer. Instead, he's continued to stare at the man in the hospital gown. The casual observer might think that whatever accident caused his deformity also burned away his eyelids, so infrequently does he blink.
"Once, I might have given a very similar answer. I was so very young then, and like you I was a crude instrument. I would have probably lived an unremarkable life. One of petty crime, perhaps. Or one of service to my country. But due to a twist of fate, I came to the attention of a very great man. He saw something in me. Something that ordinary men do not have."
"Would you like to know what that something was?"
Brock would never describe himself as lacking confidence or self esteem. Yet, in some ways, he has accepted society's definition of him. As scum. As worthless. Prison does that to you, prison and the eyes of those on the outside. "Tell me." He, on the other hand, is listening very intently.
"Hatred."
The Red Skull finishes his drink, frowning only a bit at the taste. "Pardon me, my morning vinegar. I've taken to mixing it with schnapps." The glass is set down on the floor. Somebody will probably pick it up at some point. "But it was that simple. I possessed an uncommon hatred, even as a young man. A hatred that was pure and unrelenting. A hatred that made even the most feared leader of his day blink when he looked into my eyes. I didn't understand what a gift this was at the time, obviously. But He knew. That sort of burning hatred gives a man resolve."
"As I mentioned, hatred of this potency is one of the rarest traits found in men. But I think that I can detect a glimmer of it coming from you."
Crossbones takes it as the compliment it is meant to be. And it's true, hate has driven Brock, has kept him alive. Hate of the inner city and the pollution, human and material, that surrounded him. Hatred of the system and the hypocrites who run it. Hatred of the traitors that told him to smile and play nice and just get along. Hate kept him warm at night in juvie, made him smile as he choked out rival gang members, made him get up after nearly having his jaw broken during training. "Hate is fuel," he says. "I have a big engine."
"A bit of personal advice: Hang on to your hatred. Keep it burning at all costs. It will propel you to greater heights than your peers could ever dream of." The Skull stands up slowly, and reaches inside one of the pockets of his coat. "Hatred is something that can't be taught, and that can never be taken away from you. But it won't be all you'll need if you are to succeed as I did. You will also need a symbol that inspires fear."
From inside his trench coat, he produces a thin black balaclava and tosses it at the man who only a moment ago was an unknown quanitity to him. "I think that will work as a start. It's hard to beat the classics." Emblazoned across the facial portion of the black balaclava is a stark, almost simplistic rendering of a human skull.
Brock spends a long time looking at the mask. He'd never imagined himself among the masked set. They always seemed like cartoon characters, much larger than the brutal, bloody reality he lived. But the skull...and the Skull...feel right. And so he slides it on, feeling the cloth stretch over his face...or, in some ways, become his face. His new face. His true face. He simply nods in agreement. It's all the contract the two men will ever need.
................................................................................
Five years later, give or take...
Zola's laboratory has been largely re-purposed. Much of the machinery has been moved out, and replaced with cutting edge medical equipment. Where there used to be lab assistants, now there are teams of doctors scurrying around and reading charts. The effort and expense being wasted on a man who should have died decades ago would make the mind boggle if this were almost any other man in the world. But though there are plenty within HYDRA who would love to see the Red Skull die, there are many more who are terrified of what would happen should the old man actually kick the bucket.
In a hyperbaric chamber, with tubes covering the majority of his body, the Red Skull lies in a chemically-induced coma. The last five years have seen his body wear out beyond its capacity, and it's clear to anyone looking that the shriveled husk in the hyperbaric chamber is almost out of time. His right arm is gone, in its place a bandaged stump that hasn't quite stopped oozing dark blood.
In the distance, the boxy robotic head of Dr. Arnim Zola peers at a tissue sample. Judging by the faces of the doctors surrounding him, it appears that they've suffered yet another setback. But this does not stop them from experimenting as if their very lives depended on it.
Crossbones can't help but remember that long ago day...the day he was reborn. And now the Skull lies in repose, awaiting a cure that may never...no. Brock won't allow himself to believe that. He can already feel the human vultures circling, though, preparing to make power plays for control if the Skull dies. They'd barely wait for the body to cool. Mercenaries. Hirelings Thugs. He'd been one, once, and still was, sometimes, for others, in his free time, as a hobby. But he was also a true believer. And, like most with a radical faith, he wasnt' going to let a petty thing like reality get in his way.
"Soon, Master," he mutters to himself. "Soon."
Category:Log