The soft creaking of the mattress atop his cot fell on deaf ears. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth… Time had lost meaning years ago, back when his sanity was fully intact. His mind was fragmented at best, no longer subject to the same petty details that most people took for granted.
The attendants had strapped the straight jacket around him…last year? The year before? It didn’t matter anymore. Not when he was so close. So close to finally solving the riddle of his own mind.
He spouted languages he knew but had never learned. Memories he knew were real but had never experienced flashed before his eyes.
So close.
There was something important he was forgetting. If only he could remember.
Who had he become?
The attendants had strapped the straight jacket around him…last year? The year before? It didn’t matter anymore. Not when he was so close. So close to finally solving the riddle of his own mind.
He spouted languages he knew but had never learned. Memories he knew were real but had never experienced flashed before his eyes.
So close.
There was something important he was forgetting. If only he could remember.
Who had he become?
Back to GatefoldIssue #15 by D. Golightly
Featuring the Agent Axis! |
"Lost Time"
“It’s the strangest case I’ve run across in quite some time, doctor.”
The pair of men casually walked down the cold hallway, holding their clipboards to one side while engaged in their conversation. Entire lives were written onto their papers: medical charts, psychological evaluations, even employment records. To condense an entire person into something as compact as a single clipboard never seemed strange to the two doctors as they came upon their next patient.
“Hmm,” the second doctor replied to the first. “Would that be the schizophrenic you mentioned on the phone, Doctor Ruben?”
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure his diagnosis was proper. He displays hostile tendencies and seems to be largely confused with his identity, claiming to be multiple people at times.”
“Dissociative identity disorder?” Doctor Graff offered. “That does seem odd but still understandable given—”
“No, Doctor Graff. You misunderstand me. He doesn’t claim different identities one at a time. He claims to be several people all at once.”
“My, that is intriguing. Are the personalities distinctly unique?”
“Not at all, which perplexes me,” Doctor Ruben replied. “Even a CT scan showed no change in brain wave activity during an interview. Quite remarkable, really. Ah.” The doctor paused and checked his clipboard, making sure they were at the right confinement cell. “Here we are. Patient 626001. He hasn’t given us a name that we’ve been able to match.”
The room had only one door, which was split horizontally. The bottom half was stainless steel, a match to the rest of the décor in the facility. The top half was a sheet of three-inch thick Plexiglas, allowing the doctors to look in on the object of their curiosity. The glass reflected the doctors’ images back at them, showing their pristine white lab coats. A single occupant sat on his cot rocking back and forth, his arms wound up tightly in a straight jacket.
“How long has he been here?” Doctor Graff asked.
“Eight years. He was sent to us from our sister facility upstate, where they unfortunately suffered a fire that destroyed most of their records. We know virtually nothing of this patient, not even his age.”
Doctor Graff rubbed his chin as he peered into the room. “He’s provided name at all?” he asked. “His other identities don’t raise any flags in the federal database?”
“None that would make sense. He’s given us four names, three of which belong to men who died decades ago.”
“And the fourth?”
“Ah, another puzzle.” Doctor Ruben consulted his clipboard again, double-checking the information. “The predominant personality, the one that may actually be his own, makes references to past events as if they are still happening. I presume there was a preexisting fixation with the identity before he came to us here. Apparently he’s claiming to be a Nazi war criminal from the Second World War, although it’s been quite some time since he’s mentioned that name. It’s possible he’s forgotten it.”
“That may account for the hostile tendencies then. Acting out past aggression through displacement of identity; assuming another persona in order to alleviate the guilt.”
“I was thinking along the same lines,” Doctor Ruben added. “But, I was hoping you would interview the subject, doctor. Perhaps in speaking with him you may provide some insight that I have overlooked.”
Doctor Graff’s eyes widened as he checked his own clipboard. He smiled softly as he returned his gaze to the lone occupant of the sealed chamber, staring intently. “Yes, yes, of course. I have an exam to oversee in a few hours, plenty of time before that to interview the subject. Yes, yes. Most intriguing. Can we move him to more comfortable surroundings? I find that a change of atmosphere usually allows for better interaction with a new patient.”
Doctor Ruben motioned to an attendant down the hallway, who nodded in return and began to walk toward them. “Certainly. Phillip will escort the subject once you’re set up. He’ll wait outside the room while you conduct the interview. You can never be too careful.”
“No, no. I agree, doctor. We must go the extra mile to ensure the safety of our patients at all times.”
“Actually, Doctor Graff, I was referring to your own safety.”
# # # # #
The patient was seated at the table across from Doctor Graff. The doctor smiled softly again, believing that a non-threatening facial expression was the best way to begin any new interaction. The room smelled like disinfectant and air freshener. The walls were pale, but not as colorless as the room the patient had been taken from. A potted plant sat in one corner, attempting to raise the overall spirit of the room.
Phillip nodded at the doctor as he gently squeezed the patient’s shoulder as a reminder to keep his behavior in check. The muscular attendant stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him gently. It clicked shut, marking the beginning of the interview.
“Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Graff, a visiting psychologist.” The doctor placed his hands on the table, his fingers spread slightly. Body language was important, perhaps just as important as a non-threatening facial expression. The clipboard lay between his hands, flipped to the most recent exam conducted on the patient. “I was hoping to talk with you a little bit. Would that be all right?”
The patient remained silent. He stared vacantly at the table’s surface, unfocused on anything in particular.
“Let’s start with your name. Can you tell me your name?”
“Questo è uno spreco del mio tempo,” the patient replied with a thick European accent of some kind.
Doctor Graff tilted his head in curiosity. “Italian?” he asked. “You speak Italian fluently?”
“Ihre Höhe der Intelligenz schwankt,” the patient replied, his accent now distinctly different.
“And German as well.” Doctor Graff crossed his fingers one over the other as he tried to evaluate the patient. “Your accent is flawless for both. I spent a semester abroad in Europe, mostly slacking off, finding time to travel the landscape. I’ve forgotten most of what I picked up, aside from a little French I like to toss around now and again. Tell me…where are you from?”
“Where I am from is not important,” the patient responded. There was no trace of an accent in his speech now, his English also flawless. His eyes were still vaguely empty, staring into nothingness.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” said Doctor Graff, eager to pry into the patient’s psyche. “Our past is arguably the most important aspect of our personalities. It shapes us, molds us into what we are today. Geography notwithstanding, a point of origin can mean the difference between a set of several different variables.”
“My past is an amalgamation. You will at first seem interested, only to decide that I am, as you would say, incurable. You seem impressed with my knowledge of other languages. Aside from Italian, German, and English I am also fluent in Japanese, but I doubt you would recognize it. Save us both from this practice and reach the same conclusion that the other doctors already have.”
“Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment,” the doctor said. “That’s a quote from Shakespeare, and I find it to be quite true. You have judged me incorrectly, but I promise I won’t be so quick to error.”
The patient shifted in his seat, but kept any reply to himself.
“Obviously you’re a man that’s been educated,” Doctor Graff continued. “Where did you learn Italian? Or German?” After another long pause, the doctor cleared his throat and asked, “Can you tell me what year it is?”
“Time has little meaning to me anymore.”
“Interesting. Can you explain that?”
“When one bears the mantle of longevity, time slips away meaninglessly.”
Doctor Graff’s head tilted once again. “Longevity?” he repeated. “Do you think yourself immortal?”
“In the type of world we occupy, would that be so insane? However, no. I can die. Not easily, but I am sure that death will claim me some day.”
“So when you say longevity you simply mean you expect to live long. Is there a precise date in mind?”
The patient finally displayed a semblance of emotion as he answered, “The average man lives approximately seventy years. Thus I shall live approximately two hundred and ten years. I cannot give you an exact time, no man can. The keys to our fates are held by a higher power.”
“If that is true, then how old are you now? How much longer in your approximation do you have to live?”
“Unless I’ve miscalculated, I’m ninety-three this year. I could be wrong. That is not taking into account my rebirth, however.”
Doctor Graff regarded the patient carefully. In his studies of various psychoses he rarely discovered someone that suffered from several afflictions all at once. He glanced down at the clipboard again, comparing a few of the notes there with what was going through his head. He couldn’t help but think of what Doctor Ruben had told him in reference to World War II, especially given the age the patient had just stated.
“Rebirth,” Doctor Graff said after clearing his throat. “What do you mean by that? A religious experience perhaps?”
The patient opened his mouth to answer but no words came out. Instead he looked suddenly confused, as if he was having trouble deciding how to describe his intentions. “I… I’m not sure. I’m having trouble remembering. There was a bright light, and an explosion. After that I can’t…”
“It’s alright. Feel free to take your time, collect your thoughts.”
The patient closed his eyes tightly. He shook his head and exhaled sharply. His arms moved within the straight jacket but the clasps remained in place. “No. No, it doesn’t work. It never works. I feel so close. So close. But there’s something I’m forgetting.”
“Here,” Doctor Graff said as he held up a pen. “I want you to focus on this. Watch the pen and block out the rest of what you see. The only thing in this room is this pen.”
The patient opened his eyes back up and did as he was told. He studied the doctor’s face closely before turning his attention solely on the pen. His arms relaxed inside the straight jacket as he breathed calmly and rhythmically.
“The only sound you hear is the sound of my voice,” Doctor Graff continued. “Very good. Notice the pen’s color. Focus on how thin it is, as thin as something can possibly be. There is nothing in this room but you, the pen, and the sound of my voice.” The doctor repeated the same sentence over and over for a full minute until he saw the glaze overtake the patient’s eyes once more. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, yes. Very good. I want you to picture something in your mind for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” the patient answered lazily.
“Good. Picture a set of dark clouds resting over a valley. The clouds are large and puffy, filled with rain and just waiting to burst. Can you see the clouds?”
“Yes.”
“The clouds are close to one another, rubbing together. The soft clouds look as if they are ready to begin a thunderstorm at any minute. Can you feel the wind?”
“Yes. It’s going to rain soon.”
“Very good. You mentioned a bright light followed by an explosion. Is that going to happen now, as part of the storm?”
The patient’s face suddenly turned with a look of distaste. “No…yes. But it’s okay. I’m not alone.”
“That’s true. I’m here—”
“Not you. There are three others around me.”
Doctor Graff began to look concerned. “Focus on the sound of my voice. Who is with you?”
“I’m standing in the valley,” the patient answered, his eyes still held tightly shut. “I have no face, no skin, no body. The three men are watching me, waiting. They’re talking all at once, but I can understand each of them. None of their voices are overcoming the other. One is called Aldo. The second is Berthold. The third…the third is named Hiroyuki.”
The doctor checked his notes again. All three names were already there as part of several interviews that Doctor Ruben had overseen. He frowned, realizing that he hadn’t broken any new ground yet. The patient intrigued him more than most, and he wanted to press the matter to discover some of the secrets this man’s psyche held.
He decided to take a chance. He let the patient continue in his hypnotic daze while he bent down under the table and picked up a manila folder. He opened it, staring at the contents to make sure that what he was about to do was the right thing. He questioned whether or not it would actually help the patient. It may in fact reinforce his psychosis, backpedaling through whatever progress he had made in his years within an institution.
Doctor Graff’s intellect demanded answers. His curiosity got the better of him.
“I’d like you to imagine something for me,” the doctor said. “Think back to your earliest memories. Remember your experiences and picture them in your mind. These images are as crisp and clear to you as the day you saw them. Tell me…what do you see?”
“I see men, women, and children behind barbed fences. I see the rolling, nigh unstoppable armies of the Third Reich. I see my comrades, preparing to storm the bunkers where treacherous Allied forces hide, cowering in their sweat and dirt. I see… bombs.”
The doctor removed the contents of the folder, placing them one by one face up in front of the patient. “When I count to three I want you to open your eyes, but the visions of your past will remain fresh in your mind. These moments in your own history will be part of the present. One… two… three. Open your eyes.”
The patient opened his eyes, which looked immediately at the glossy photos that the doctor had placed on the table. He blinked, unsure of what to think. His pupils moved from photo to photo, scanning them with a mind that was still foggy.
“Doctor Ruben told me of your fixation with World War II,” Doctor Graff explained. “I want you to study these photos. Do you see the devastation that the war brought?”
The patient stared at the photos. The first was a famous one taken near the front line of an armored tank rolling across foliage, its long barrel pointed to one side. The Nazi swastika was stamped on the side, still somehow bright in the black and white photograph.
“Do you see how fixating on something so terrible is hurting you? We need to break you of this fixation. You need to realize that you cannot run from your own problems by displacing your anger through an event you never experienced. Looking at you, you don’t seem a day over forty-five.”
The next photograph was a shot of men and woman being filed into what looked like a concentration camp. The barbed fences corralled the prisoners, its only entrance guarded by a man vintage weapon.
“This constant recreation you are so intent on displaying needs to end before you do irreparable harm to your own mind. Why would you want to be a part of this? Does your own life not seem worth living? Did you do something you think you need to atone for?”
The third picture was a portrait of Adolph Hitler. His thin mustache, which made his image so infamous, rested above a set of thin lips. His eyes were intense, dominating the viewer’s attention. Behind him was a backdrop that displayed the swastika again, this time more vibrantly.
“Doctor Ruben told me of the character you used to portray, the same character I believe you are impersonating now…of course, with added doses of these other identities you seem to be fixated on. You must understand that this character simply isn’t you. You must shatter what you’ve imprinted on your own mind.”
Doctor Graff slipped the last photograph out of the folder and placed it on top of the other three. The patient’s eyes went wide as he focused on the image. His eyes began to bulge and turn red, his breathing increased, and his brow began to show tiny drops of sweat.
The last photograph showed a classic image of the hero of the Second World War, Captain America, standing victoriously over a battlefield. His iconic shield reflected a few rays of the rising sun in the background, which scholars had written entire theses on over the years.
“This character you claim to be,” the doctor stated. “Do you remember his name? Do you remember what he did? Do you really want to be that person?”
The patient’s breathing was getting faster and deeper, pulling in mouthfuls of air between quivering lips. Memories were washing over him at the sight of the so-called Sentinel of Liberty. The picture, seen so often in textbooks and magazines, had triggered that which the patient had desperately been trying to release from his thoughts.
He remembered everything.
“My name,” the patient said. He stood up, his arms wiggling to get free inside the straight jacket. “My name is probably spit on by arrogant people such as yourself. When the Fuhrer fell it was because of agents like me that the dream still flourished. It was not until that wretched American and his allies entered the conflict did our efforts extinguish. They thought me dead…but my powers are more than they seem, doctor.”
Doctor Graff pushed himself away from the table, but remained seated. He watched in fascination at the display of sudden aggression. Perhaps he had found a path of recovery for this man while whetting his intellectual appetite. Perhaps he could even convince Doctor Ruben to let him bring his graduate students to the hospital.
“Your powers?” the doctor repeated, stifling a laugh. “As I understand it the character you mimic didn’t—”
“There is no mimicry! I am the true agent of the lost cause! I am Agent Axis!”
The patient flexed his arms, snapping apart the restraints that were suffocating him. Doctor Graff jumped up and nearly fell over from the shocking scene, stumbling back over his chair. The long sleeves of the straight jacket fell to the patient’s sides as a look of insanity overtook his face.
He leapt on the table and dove on top of Doctor Graff. They fell to the floor in a heap, with the patient on top. Doctor Graff felt a strong pair of hands wrap around his throat, the cloth of the straight jacket rubbing between the fingers and his own skin. The hands clenched quickly, cutting off his air flow. His peripheral vision began to fade into blackness.
“Do you see, doctor?” the patient said as he chocked the life from Doctor Graff. “Even given the atrophy I very nearly suffered from sitting in this hellhole my strength is still greater than yours. In truth, the combined might of all three men that were fused together to create me is as virile as ever.”
Spots danced in front of the doctor’s eyes as the rest of his vision faded away. He heard something snap and realized it was his own trachea shattering. He felt hot blood bubble up in his throat, choked down along with the now toxic air in his lungs.
“Death is something to embrace, doctor. The last agent of the Axis Powers will bring this gift to many, many more.”
The door to the room flipped open, revealing the attendant, Phillip, standing in the doorway. He looked shocked and scared at the same time. He stepped into the room, kicking the patient’s chair out of his way as he ran around the table. By the time he reached them Doctor Graff was dead, his esophagus pinched shut by the augmented strength of the man who claimed to be Agent Axis.
The patient jumped up, striking Phillip in the face with his fist, still covered by the long sleeve of the straight jacket. Phillip teetered back, his bulky and muscular frame almost falling over from the sheer surprise the attack brought on. Before he could react, the patient shoved him up against the cold and colorless wall. Phillip felt something heavy and awkward hit his face, then fell over and lost consciousness.
Loose dirt fell out of the potted plant that had been beside them, now clutched tightly in the patient’s hand. He bashed Phillip’s head again with the pot, cracking the red porcelain. Blood began to pool on the floor. He brought the pot down again, shattering it completely this time. Phillip remained on the floor, sharing the same fate as Doctor Graff.
The patient let the potted plant slip to the floor beside Phillip’s cracked skull. He looked over the horror he had brought to the room, smiling delicately. The fierce display he had shown helped him to crystallize the memories he was so grateful to bring back. The destruction. The power. The knowledge. The Death.
He chuckled softly as he went back to the table, picking up the photographs and flinging them up into the air. His chuckle turned into a giggle, which in turn festered into a high-pitched cackle.
He was sure that the other attendants would be coming for him. He was also sure that he would kill them. He would escape this hellhole now that he understood what it was that he his mind had hidden from him. The accident that had fused the three individuals into one powerful agent had been so much more than his rebirth.
He was the last living emissary of the rightful rulers of this world.
He was Agent Axis.
END
Author’s Notes
Marvel 2000 is, I feel, unique amongst our collection of fanfic communities for its diversity. We have four branches, each with its own distinct voice at the site. As one of the longest running fanfic sites we have a group history that’s vastly different from anything else. Our writers enjoy taking advantage of that, all the while carving out their own little slice and leaving a mark. Something M2K does well is spotlight villains, giving them more characterization than most sites, which is why I really wanted to do a story like the one you just read.
Okay…so why Agent Axis, a largely forgotten and corny (let’s be honest – silly) villain from the early days of comics?
To be honest, I had never heard of this character until a week ago. I wanted to get a story in for the next release, but I didn’t have to the time to develop another issue of one of my ongoing titles. I think one-shots are a ton of fun, and am surprised that more writers don’t take advantage of the freedom that an anthology title offers. I searched online for a listing of Marvel characters, and Agent Axis was the first name that got my attention (with the double A’s, it was obviously at the top).
I researched the character and really wanted to bring this guy back in style. Agent Axis was born the night a freak accident fused together three men that were enlisted in the Axis armies during WW2 (Aldo Malvagio, Berthold Volker, and Hiroyuki Kanegawa). He had the strength of three men, could speak each of their native languages, and had possessed each man’s complete intellect. This seems hokey by today’s standards, but during the Golden Age of comics this came across as very creative and made for a threatening villain. I think, given the context, it still does.
Hopefully Agent Axis will be seen here at M2K again. Good villains are hard to come by, so I hope that this one will pop in and terrorize us again soon.
-D. Golightly
The pair of men casually walked down the cold hallway, holding their clipboards to one side while engaged in their conversation. Entire lives were written onto their papers: medical charts, psychological evaluations, even employment records. To condense an entire person into something as compact as a single clipboard never seemed strange to the two doctors as they came upon their next patient.
“Hmm,” the second doctor replied to the first. “Would that be the schizophrenic you mentioned on the phone, Doctor Ruben?”
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure his diagnosis was proper. He displays hostile tendencies and seems to be largely confused with his identity, claiming to be multiple people at times.”
“Dissociative identity disorder?” Doctor Graff offered. “That does seem odd but still understandable given—”
“No, Doctor Graff. You misunderstand me. He doesn’t claim different identities one at a time. He claims to be several people all at once.”
“My, that is intriguing. Are the personalities distinctly unique?”
“Not at all, which perplexes me,” Doctor Ruben replied. “Even a CT scan showed no change in brain wave activity during an interview. Quite remarkable, really. Ah.” The doctor paused and checked his clipboard, making sure they were at the right confinement cell. “Here we are. Patient 626001. He hasn’t given us a name that we’ve been able to match.”
The room had only one door, which was split horizontally. The bottom half was stainless steel, a match to the rest of the décor in the facility. The top half was a sheet of three-inch thick Plexiglas, allowing the doctors to look in on the object of their curiosity. The glass reflected the doctors’ images back at them, showing their pristine white lab coats. A single occupant sat on his cot rocking back and forth, his arms wound up tightly in a straight jacket.
“How long has he been here?” Doctor Graff asked.
“Eight years. He was sent to us from our sister facility upstate, where they unfortunately suffered a fire that destroyed most of their records. We know virtually nothing of this patient, not even his age.”
Doctor Graff rubbed his chin as he peered into the room. “He’s provided name at all?” he asked. “His other identities don’t raise any flags in the federal database?”
“None that would make sense. He’s given us four names, three of which belong to men who died decades ago.”
“And the fourth?”
“Ah, another puzzle.” Doctor Ruben consulted his clipboard again, double-checking the information. “The predominant personality, the one that may actually be his own, makes references to past events as if they are still happening. I presume there was a preexisting fixation with the identity before he came to us here. Apparently he’s claiming to be a Nazi war criminal from the Second World War, although it’s been quite some time since he’s mentioned that name. It’s possible he’s forgotten it.”
“That may account for the hostile tendencies then. Acting out past aggression through displacement of identity; assuming another persona in order to alleviate the guilt.”
“I was thinking along the same lines,” Doctor Ruben added. “But, I was hoping you would interview the subject, doctor. Perhaps in speaking with him you may provide some insight that I have overlooked.”
Doctor Graff’s eyes widened as he checked his own clipboard. He smiled softly as he returned his gaze to the lone occupant of the sealed chamber, staring intently. “Yes, yes, of course. I have an exam to oversee in a few hours, plenty of time before that to interview the subject. Yes, yes. Most intriguing. Can we move him to more comfortable surroundings? I find that a change of atmosphere usually allows for better interaction with a new patient.”
Doctor Ruben motioned to an attendant down the hallway, who nodded in return and began to walk toward them. “Certainly. Phillip will escort the subject once you’re set up. He’ll wait outside the room while you conduct the interview. You can never be too careful.”
“No, no. I agree, doctor. We must go the extra mile to ensure the safety of our patients at all times.”
“Actually, Doctor Graff, I was referring to your own safety.”
# # # # #
The patient was seated at the table across from Doctor Graff. The doctor smiled softly again, believing that a non-threatening facial expression was the best way to begin any new interaction. The room smelled like disinfectant and air freshener. The walls were pale, but not as colorless as the room the patient had been taken from. A potted plant sat in one corner, attempting to raise the overall spirit of the room.
Phillip nodded at the doctor as he gently squeezed the patient’s shoulder as a reminder to keep his behavior in check. The muscular attendant stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him gently. It clicked shut, marking the beginning of the interview.
“Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Graff, a visiting psychologist.” The doctor placed his hands on the table, his fingers spread slightly. Body language was important, perhaps just as important as a non-threatening facial expression. The clipboard lay between his hands, flipped to the most recent exam conducted on the patient. “I was hoping to talk with you a little bit. Would that be all right?”
The patient remained silent. He stared vacantly at the table’s surface, unfocused on anything in particular.
“Let’s start with your name. Can you tell me your name?”
“Questo è uno spreco del mio tempo,” the patient replied with a thick European accent of some kind.
Doctor Graff tilted his head in curiosity. “Italian?” he asked. “You speak Italian fluently?”
“Ihre Höhe der Intelligenz schwankt,” the patient replied, his accent now distinctly different.
“And German as well.” Doctor Graff crossed his fingers one over the other as he tried to evaluate the patient. “Your accent is flawless for both. I spent a semester abroad in Europe, mostly slacking off, finding time to travel the landscape. I’ve forgotten most of what I picked up, aside from a little French I like to toss around now and again. Tell me…where are you from?”
“Where I am from is not important,” the patient responded. There was no trace of an accent in his speech now, his English also flawless. His eyes were still vaguely empty, staring into nothingness.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” said Doctor Graff, eager to pry into the patient’s psyche. “Our past is arguably the most important aspect of our personalities. It shapes us, molds us into what we are today. Geography notwithstanding, a point of origin can mean the difference between a set of several different variables.”
“My past is an amalgamation. You will at first seem interested, only to decide that I am, as you would say, incurable. You seem impressed with my knowledge of other languages. Aside from Italian, German, and English I am also fluent in Japanese, but I doubt you would recognize it. Save us both from this practice and reach the same conclusion that the other doctors already have.”
“Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment,” the doctor said. “That’s a quote from Shakespeare, and I find it to be quite true. You have judged me incorrectly, but I promise I won’t be so quick to error.”
The patient shifted in his seat, but kept any reply to himself.
“Obviously you’re a man that’s been educated,” Doctor Graff continued. “Where did you learn Italian? Or German?” After another long pause, the doctor cleared his throat and asked, “Can you tell me what year it is?”
“Time has little meaning to me anymore.”
“Interesting. Can you explain that?”
“When one bears the mantle of longevity, time slips away meaninglessly.”
Doctor Graff’s head tilted once again. “Longevity?” he repeated. “Do you think yourself immortal?”
“In the type of world we occupy, would that be so insane? However, no. I can die. Not easily, but I am sure that death will claim me some day.”
“So when you say longevity you simply mean you expect to live long. Is there a precise date in mind?”
The patient finally displayed a semblance of emotion as he answered, “The average man lives approximately seventy years. Thus I shall live approximately two hundred and ten years. I cannot give you an exact time, no man can. The keys to our fates are held by a higher power.”
“If that is true, then how old are you now? How much longer in your approximation do you have to live?”
“Unless I’ve miscalculated, I’m ninety-three this year. I could be wrong. That is not taking into account my rebirth, however.”
Doctor Graff regarded the patient carefully. In his studies of various psychoses he rarely discovered someone that suffered from several afflictions all at once. He glanced down at the clipboard again, comparing a few of the notes there with what was going through his head. He couldn’t help but think of what Doctor Ruben had told him in reference to World War II, especially given the age the patient had just stated.
“Rebirth,” Doctor Graff said after clearing his throat. “What do you mean by that? A religious experience perhaps?”
The patient opened his mouth to answer but no words came out. Instead he looked suddenly confused, as if he was having trouble deciding how to describe his intentions. “I… I’m not sure. I’m having trouble remembering. There was a bright light, and an explosion. After that I can’t…”
“It’s alright. Feel free to take your time, collect your thoughts.”
The patient closed his eyes tightly. He shook his head and exhaled sharply. His arms moved within the straight jacket but the clasps remained in place. “No. No, it doesn’t work. It never works. I feel so close. So close. But there’s something I’m forgetting.”
“Here,” Doctor Graff said as he held up a pen. “I want you to focus on this. Watch the pen and block out the rest of what you see. The only thing in this room is this pen.”
The patient opened his eyes back up and did as he was told. He studied the doctor’s face closely before turning his attention solely on the pen. His arms relaxed inside the straight jacket as he breathed calmly and rhythmically.
“The only sound you hear is the sound of my voice,” Doctor Graff continued. “Very good. Notice the pen’s color. Focus on how thin it is, as thin as something can possibly be. There is nothing in this room but you, the pen, and the sound of my voice.” The doctor repeated the same sentence over and over for a full minute until he saw the glaze overtake the patient’s eyes once more. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, yes. Very good. I want you to picture something in your mind for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” the patient answered lazily.
“Good. Picture a set of dark clouds resting over a valley. The clouds are large and puffy, filled with rain and just waiting to burst. Can you see the clouds?”
“Yes.”
“The clouds are close to one another, rubbing together. The soft clouds look as if they are ready to begin a thunderstorm at any minute. Can you feel the wind?”
“Yes. It’s going to rain soon.”
“Very good. You mentioned a bright light followed by an explosion. Is that going to happen now, as part of the storm?”
The patient’s face suddenly turned with a look of distaste. “No…yes. But it’s okay. I’m not alone.”
“That’s true. I’m here—”
“Not you. There are three others around me.”
Doctor Graff began to look concerned. “Focus on the sound of my voice. Who is with you?”
“I’m standing in the valley,” the patient answered, his eyes still held tightly shut. “I have no face, no skin, no body. The three men are watching me, waiting. They’re talking all at once, but I can understand each of them. None of their voices are overcoming the other. One is called Aldo. The second is Berthold. The third…the third is named Hiroyuki.”
The doctor checked his notes again. All three names were already there as part of several interviews that Doctor Ruben had overseen. He frowned, realizing that he hadn’t broken any new ground yet. The patient intrigued him more than most, and he wanted to press the matter to discover some of the secrets this man’s psyche held.
He decided to take a chance. He let the patient continue in his hypnotic daze while he bent down under the table and picked up a manila folder. He opened it, staring at the contents to make sure that what he was about to do was the right thing. He questioned whether or not it would actually help the patient. It may in fact reinforce his psychosis, backpedaling through whatever progress he had made in his years within an institution.
Doctor Graff’s intellect demanded answers. His curiosity got the better of him.
“I’d like you to imagine something for me,” the doctor said. “Think back to your earliest memories. Remember your experiences and picture them in your mind. These images are as crisp and clear to you as the day you saw them. Tell me…what do you see?”
“I see men, women, and children behind barbed fences. I see the rolling, nigh unstoppable armies of the Third Reich. I see my comrades, preparing to storm the bunkers where treacherous Allied forces hide, cowering in their sweat and dirt. I see… bombs.”
The doctor removed the contents of the folder, placing them one by one face up in front of the patient. “When I count to three I want you to open your eyes, but the visions of your past will remain fresh in your mind. These moments in your own history will be part of the present. One… two… three. Open your eyes.”
The patient opened his eyes, which looked immediately at the glossy photos that the doctor had placed on the table. He blinked, unsure of what to think. His pupils moved from photo to photo, scanning them with a mind that was still foggy.
“Doctor Ruben told me of your fixation with World War II,” Doctor Graff explained. “I want you to study these photos. Do you see the devastation that the war brought?”
The patient stared at the photos. The first was a famous one taken near the front line of an armored tank rolling across foliage, its long barrel pointed to one side. The Nazi swastika was stamped on the side, still somehow bright in the black and white photograph.
“Do you see how fixating on something so terrible is hurting you? We need to break you of this fixation. You need to realize that you cannot run from your own problems by displacing your anger through an event you never experienced. Looking at you, you don’t seem a day over forty-five.”
The next photograph was a shot of men and woman being filed into what looked like a concentration camp. The barbed fences corralled the prisoners, its only entrance guarded by a man vintage weapon.
“This constant recreation you are so intent on displaying needs to end before you do irreparable harm to your own mind. Why would you want to be a part of this? Does your own life not seem worth living? Did you do something you think you need to atone for?”
The third picture was a portrait of Adolph Hitler. His thin mustache, which made his image so infamous, rested above a set of thin lips. His eyes were intense, dominating the viewer’s attention. Behind him was a backdrop that displayed the swastika again, this time more vibrantly.
“Doctor Ruben told me of the character you used to portray, the same character I believe you are impersonating now…of course, with added doses of these other identities you seem to be fixated on. You must understand that this character simply isn’t you. You must shatter what you’ve imprinted on your own mind.”
Doctor Graff slipped the last photograph out of the folder and placed it on top of the other three. The patient’s eyes went wide as he focused on the image. His eyes began to bulge and turn red, his breathing increased, and his brow began to show tiny drops of sweat.
The last photograph showed a classic image of the hero of the Second World War, Captain America, standing victoriously over a battlefield. His iconic shield reflected a few rays of the rising sun in the background, which scholars had written entire theses on over the years.
“This character you claim to be,” the doctor stated. “Do you remember his name? Do you remember what he did? Do you really want to be that person?”
The patient’s breathing was getting faster and deeper, pulling in mouthfuls of air between quivering lips. Memories were washing over him at the sight of the so-called Sentinel of Liberty. The picture, seen so often in textbooks and magazines, had triggered that which the patient had desperately been trying to release from his thoughts.
He remembered everything.
“My name,” the patient said. He stood up, his arms wiggling to get free inside the straight jacket. “My name is probably spit on by arrogant people such as yourself. When the Fuhrer fell it was because of agents like me that the dream still flourished. It was not until that wretched American and his allies entered the conflict did our efforts extinguish. They thought me dead…but my powers are more than they seem, doctor.”
Doctor Graff pushed himself away from the table, but remained seated. He watched in fascination at the display of sudden aggression. Perhaps he had found a path of recovery for this man while whetting his intellectual appetite. Perhaps he could even convince Doctor Ruben to let him bring his graduate students to the hospital.
“Your powers?” the doctor repeated, stifling a laugh. “As I understand it the character you mimic didn’t—”
“There is no mimicry! I am the true agent of the lost cause! I am Agent Axis!”
The patient flexed his arms, snapping apart the restraints that were suffocating him. Doctor Graff jumped up and nearly fell over from the shocking scene, stumbling back over his chair. The long sleeves of the straight jacket fell to the patient’s sides as a look of insanity overtook his face.
He leapt on the table and dove on top of Doctor Graff. They fell to the floor in a heap, with the patient on top. Doctor Graff felt a strong pair of hands wrap around his throat, the cloth of the straight jacket rubbing between the fingers and his own skin. The hands clenched quickly, cutting off his air flow. His peripheral vision began to fade into blackness.
“Do you see, doctor?” the patient said as he chocked the life from Doctor Graff. “Even given the atrophy I very nearly suffered from sitting in this hellhole my strength is still greater than yours. In truth, the combined might of all three men that were fused together to create me is as virile as ever.”
Spots danced in front of the doctor’s eyes as the rest of his vision faded away. He heard something snap and realized it was his own trachea shattering. He felt hot blood bubble up in his throat, choked down along with the now toxic air in his lungs.
“Death is something to embrace, doctor. The last agent of the Axis Powers will bring this gift to many, many more.”
The door to the room flipped open, revealing the attendant, Phillip, standing in the doorway. He looked shocked and scared at the same time. He stepped into the room, kicking the patient’s chair out of his way as he ran around the table. By the time he reached them Doctor Graff was dead, his esophagus pinched shut by the augmented strength of the man who claimed to be Agent Axis.
The patient jumped up, striking Phillip in the face with his fist, still covered by the long sleeve of the straight jacket. Phillip teetered back, his bulky and muscular frame almost falling over from the sheer surprise the attack brought on. Before he could react, the patient shoved him up against the cold and colorless wall. Phillip felt something heavy and awkward hit his face, then fell over and lost consciousness.
Loose dirt fell out of the potted plant that had been beside them, now clutched tightly in the patient’s hand. He bashed Phillip’s head again with the pot, cracking the red porcelain. Blood began to pool on the floor. He brought the pot down again, shattering it completely this time. Phillip remained on the floor, sharing the same fate as Doctor Graff.
The patient let the potted plant slip to the floor beside Phillip’s cracked skull. He looked over the horror he had brought to the room, smiling delicately. The fierce display he had shown helped him to crystallize the memories he was so grateful to bring back. The destruction. The power. The knowledge. The Death.
He chuckled softly as he went back to the table, picking up the photographs and flinging them up into the air. His chuckle turned into a giggle, which in turn festered into a high-pitched cackle.
He was sure that the other attendants would be coming for him. He was also sure that he would kill them. He would escape this hellhole now that he understood what it was that he his mind had hidden from him. The accident that had fused the three individuals into one powerful agent had been so much more than his rebirth.
He was the last living emissary of the rightful rulers of this world.
He was Agent Axis.
END
Author’s Notes
Marvel 2000 is, I feel, unique amongst our collection of fanfic communities for its diversity. We have four branches, each with its own distinct voice at the site. As one of the longest running fanfic sites we have a group history that’s vastly different from anything else. Our writers enjoy taking advantage of that, all the while carving out their own little slice and leaving a mark. Something M2K does well is spotlight villains, giving them more characterization than most sites, which is why I really wanted to do a story like the one you just read.
Okay…so why Agent Axis, a largely forgotten and corny (let’s be honest – silly) villain from the early days of comics?
To be honest, I had never heard of this character until a week ago. I wanted to get a story in for the next release, but I didn’t have to the time to develop another issue of one of my ongoing titles. I think one-shots are a ton of fun, and am surprised that more writers don’t take advantage of the freedom that an anthology title offers. I searched online for a listing of Marvel characters, and Agent Axis was the first name that got my attention (with the double A’s, it was obviously at the top).
I researched the character and really wanted to bring this guy back in style. Agent Axis was born the night a freak accident fused together three men that were enlisted in the Axis armies during WW2 (Aldo Malvagio, Berthold Volker, and Hiroyuki Kanegawa). He had the strength of three men, could speak each of their native languages, and had possessed each man’s complete intellect. This seems hokey by today’s standards, but during the Golden Age of comics this came across as very creative and made for a threatening villain. I think, given the context, it still does.
Hopefully Agent Axis will be seen here at M2K again. Good villains are hard to come by, so I hope that this one will pop in and terrorize us again soon.
-D. Golightly