Back to GatefoldIssue #29 by Chris Munn (plot) & Steve Crosby (script)
How About A Little Fire? |
It was night in London, England. Night was when the undesirables came out, the addicts and the prostitutes and, perhaps worst of all, the costumes. Oh yes, even London had its share of costumes, that special class of villain that could make things so much more interesting. But of late, a number of costumes have disappeared, been dying. Someone, or something, hunts them.
Heh. Even your inner monologues are like bad trailer narration.
Though his eyes were unseen from behind the fishbowl helmet, Mysterio gazed at the mutant Mentallo with annoyance. “Stay out of my head, freak. I’m envisioning the scene in my mind, practicing the grand tale that our employer will be told.”
In contrast to Mysterio’s annoyance, Mentallo smirked with amusement. “Oh, the true colors now come out.” He turned to the green-skinned mutant who stood farther down the roof’s edge. “What do you think about working with a bigot, Mesmero?”
“He didn’t call you that because you’re a mutant,” Mesmero responded. “Straight-up human, you would still be a freak. Take a glance in the mirror. A red jumpsuit and goggles are not a good look.”
Mentallo sneered and said, “Yeah well, at least Magneto never tried to kill me.”
“Never tried to kill me either. You he just laughed at.”
At that remark, Mentallo’s face began to darken nearly to the shade of his costume. Before he could say anything in response, the young man standing between the two mutants spoke up first. “He’s going to strike soon. Eight minutes, not exactly but I know you’re all getting annoyed by it. We shouldn’t be distracting ourselves.”
Mysterio nodded at the Mathemanic. “Very true. Before, we costumed predators were hunted, but now we’re the ones hunting the hunter.”
Mentallo couldn’t help but guffaw. “Oh, if I’m the worst dressed then you say the most inane things.” To Mesmero he added, “And you just look like a big green-”
“Not as much as you resemble a big red-”
“Bicker telepathically if you must continue,” Mathemanic interrupted. “So long as we all get into position. If we don’t take advantage, the calculations may be off and things could go wrong.”
“Assuming he’ll strike here,” Mesmero questioned. “If you’re wrong about that, then this whole night will have been a huge waste of time. How can you be so sure he’ll-”
Instead of answering, Mathemanic hopped lightly off the rooftop. Almost gliding, he was carried to a roof at the opposite side of the street. Nothing aided him save for his knowledge of mathematics. It was Mysterio who gave the response.
“The same way he can do that. Math is the blueprint of the universe, and the creepy kid knows every equation.”
Mentallo turned from the roof’s edge. “Creepy, sure. But the other one scares me, even more than Scourge.”
Mysterio just chuckled and said. “Me too. It must be the magic.”
# # # # # # # # # #
He observed the play from a catwalk above, hidden within the shadowy folds of his cape. The performance was supposed to be from a work of Oscar Wilde, though the actors couldn’t do the words justice. So few proper thespians left in the world, reflected the observer. Excepting of course for him, shunned and unappreciated, forced to watch from the outside. A Phantom of the Theatre, but he was more than some harmless specter.
Black-gloved hands crept to the sword hilts on either side of the Theatre Phantom’s waist. Two rapiers were about to be unleashed, and his true public debut would occur. No more rehearsals or small venues, there would be a proper audience for the massacre of base amateurs. Well-muscled legs were coiled to leap.
Movement from the audience caught Theatre Phantom’s eye. Without realizing why, he reacted, leapt back rather than down onto the stage. This act saved the villain’s life, as automatic gunfire peppered the catwalk. Back-flipping off the catwalk, Theatre Phantom felt the air of passing bullets graze his cheek, just below the domino-mask worn over his eyes. The audience was screaming now, but it wasn’t the Theatre Phantom’s doing, and that burned him.
Both rapiers were unsheathed and crossed over Theatre Phantom’s head when he landed upon the stage. There was still gunfire, and out of the corner of his eye Theatre Phantom could see the assailant. It was a man dressed in white, with an expressionless mask that made him look a ghost. Even from his side of the pond, Theatre Phantom knew of the Scourge, and thus felt pangs of fear.
But also in Theatre Phantom’s heart was the desire for infamy, to be as known and feared as the man now trying to kill him. “Cowards die many times before their deaths,” Theatre Phantom whispered as he rushed at the Scourge. “The valiant never taste of death but once.”
One shot is fired, that Scourge’s prey ducked. But Scourge carried two guns, and the second bullet took Theatre Phantom in the middle. He is thrown from his feet and crashes against his back to the stage. Blood dribbling from his mouth, the thespian villain had time to mutter only one phrase.
“The rest…is silence.”
Its deed done, Scourge was about to turn from the killed target. However, it stopped when Theatre Phantom’s corpse convulsed suddenly. It was not the throes of death but rather the knocking about of something trying to get out. Out of the jaws of death it came, a hideous black raven.
No. Scourge’s eyes recorded the bird and ran it through a database. A crow was flying at him, and it changed as the wings flapped. Feathers dropped away. The beak shrank back over the head to resemble a burlap sack. Crow’s feet came together and elongated into a jet black pitchfork.
A flying crow became a leaping Scarecrow, and his weapon plunged into the Scourge’s chest.
Sparks flew from severed wires. Yet the Scourge did not fall, instead firing point-blank at the Scarecrow’s head. The burlap sack exploded into a swarm of tiny crows. They cawed and pecked at the Scourge, while the headless Scarecrow lifted the impaled villain off the stage. It was thrown, and carried by the crows smashed into a balcony. The crows retreated, coming together at the shoulders and Scarecrow was headless once more.
Struggling from the shattered seats, its chest beginning to heal but still sparking, the cold heart of Scourge felt fear. It jumped for the exit, barely avoiding a downward thrust of his pitchfork as Scarecrow leapt into the box. With mechanical hydraulics that never tired, Scourge ran. With dead muscled fueled by pain and fear, Scarecrow followed after the creature with a flaming white skull.
# # # # # # # # # #
“Some of the simplest illusions are the best,” Mysterio stated. Mathemanic had been right about the balcony. Some sprinkled phosphorus and an effect was made around Scourge’s head. “How’s his mental state?”
“This freak was insane before he died,” was the only explanation Mentallo gave. “Just peeking into his head hurts my brain. There are some mommy issues you can use.”
“Sheesh, it’s always about the mother,” Mysterio said. “Electro and Doctor Octopus too.”
“Oh please. You’re entire life began when your mother took you to the movies,” Mentallo rebuked. “We all have mother issues, whether she was there or not. It’s the one woman that shapes our lives more than anybody else.”
“Let’s do the support group another time. For now just give me the information so I can manipulate Scarecrow accordingly.”
“Just so long as you don’t neglect to hide us from Scourge. The last thing I want is to be shot.”
“Don’t worry. I have us all hidden.”
On the street below, an unseen man with green skin moved among the panicked as they exited a theatre. One-by-one and sometimes more he would look into eyes, and suddenly the panic was gone. Those people had seen death and maiming and a creature from hell itself, but Mesmero made them forget. His eyes would keep the world blind to the night’s activities.
# # # # # # # # # #
The eyes of the world are on me. Had I not witnessed the ignorance of the masses on multiple occasions, I would almost be nervous.
Lights blazed, shining down on the altered features of Helmut, the 13th Baron Zemo. What everybody else saw was industrialist and Presidential candidate Justin Hammer. The hologram was flawless, to the point that Zemo had even allowed makeup to be applied. Now he sat in a lush couch, being interviewed by one the nation’s leading political pundits.
“As a third-party candidate, do you consider yourself in a serious campaign?”
“I do consider my campaign serious, but first I would like to clarify something. I am not a third-party candidate, and in fact I am not affiliated with any political party. It was George Washington, remember, who warned against the evils of political parties in his farewell address.
“Now granted, a benefit to political parties is an established support base and funding machine. The larger and more influential the party, the greater the funds it can generate. This has led to a virtual monopoly of our political system as two parties firmly divided this nation between opposite points of view. What I seek to achieve is true national unity, getting both side to work together for our nation’s best interests and not the special interests.”
It will be easily achieved once the individual is removed from participating. There will be no need of parties once elections themselves are eliminated. Those who now feed on this flawed system will be the first eliminated, after which all the masses will fall in line.
“It’s interesting that you would say that. Not too long ago you were one of those special interests, a wealthy industrialist who vied for government contracts.”
“That is true, and in that role I saw a side of politics that the average voter never sees. People vote for a candidate expecting that man or women to protect their interests, but the sad fact is that many candidates put their own, non-altruistic interests firsts. That was something I would take advantage of, to ensure that my company would remain profitable.
“No, I don’t apologize for seeking a profit,” Baron Zemo added quickly with Justin Hammer’s voice. “Because businesses that don’t see profits fail. That reduces industry, reduces jobs, takes money from investors and lowers the tax base while increasing the need for public services. A successful business, on the other hand, strengthens the industry and invites competitors, adding to the work force and building the economy.”
“However, your business practices have often been categorized as unethical, even illegal at times.”
“Accusations were made yes,” Zemo conceded. Even had Zemo killed his hated foe Captain America and run for office with his face, there would have been such questions. No man is without sin, and Hammer has his benefits. “Many of which from my aforementioned competitors. But I was never convicted, tried, indicted nor even arrested. Anything, untoward I may have done would have only been acts necessary in our broken political system. A system that I am in a unique position to reform, given my knowledge of the specific ways in which it can be exploited.”
“Some would also argue it would put you in a unique position to help your friends in the private sector.”
“That would be true if I had such friends.” And Zemo knew that Justin Hammer in fact didn’t. “My years in business left me with many enemies in the private sector, and I’m not looking to do them any favors at the expense of the America people. And to those who argue I’d damage business just out of spite…” Zemo spread Hammer’s wrinkled hands. “I just do that more easily, and profitably, by remaining in the private sector.”
A blatant lie. I will use America soldiers to lock up citizens in the dead of night and plunder their bank accounts. You will know this in your hearts and do nothing. Not because I keep you safe, but because I could just as easily do the same to any of you.
“You spoke earlier of the nation’s interests. Now, you recently took it upon yourself to attempt the overthrow of the Genoshan government. How exactly does this serve America’s interests?”
“The leader of Genosha, Magneto, is a terrorist,” Zemo said bluntly, believing every word. “The entire reason he is in charge of Genosha is because the United Nations capitulated to his terrorist acts. Aside from the world, Magneto has held American military bases hostage on multiple occasions. Now yes, my attempt to bring this terrorist to justice failed, as did the French government’s. But just imagine, if you will, the United States government committing resources to bring this terrorist, this so-called world leader who has destroyed cities, to justice? And I’m not simply speaking in terms of raw military power.”
When the time comes, I will personally fire a wooden bullet through that gypsy genetic aberration’s brain. Then France will burn, because for all it’s posturing those people are brave and dangerous. France will be razed and the earth salted, as my father should have done.
“Well, it’s doubtful that any nation’s military could match the power you sent into Genosha in the form of super-criminals. Let’s talk about the Thunderbolts, Mr. Hammer.”
# # # # # # # # # #
A section of the wall blew out, followed by the Scourge. The dapper white suit stood out in the black London night as the killer of caped criminals leapt to the opposite wall of the narrow alleyway. With a mechanical strength that no man that size could possess, Scourge rapidly scaled the wall to reach the rooftop opposite the theatre. This building was two stories shorter, and Scourge was readied to jump the difference when he saw Scarecrow climbing after him.
Before he was a criminal, the Scarecrow had been a circus contortionist. Now that he was dead, with the lack of pain that allowed, he could contort his body further than any living being. Like a spider he was skittering up the building, legs and arms twisting over his body and pressing against the walls as Scarecrow carried himself up.
As terrifying as the pursuer was at that moment, Scourge knew an easy target when it saw one. The gun’s barrel was pointed into the alleyway and ejected a bullet. That was the wrong thing to do, because Scarecrow didn’t see a bullet. He saw a shield. Red, white and blue.
Twisting his body in remarkable overcompensation, Scarecrow dodged the bullet and skittered up the wall. Hopping from one side of the alley to the other, Scarecrow dived up at Scourge. Blackness extended out his arm into the shape of a pitchfork. Scourge stepped back, a machine in body but with a man’s soul and scared in spite of itself.
Fear drove the killer back and when the demon was above it stabbed down.
Scourge grabbed the pitchfork’s hilt. It stopped yet kept going, the shaft extending past the point Scourge held. Again the body was pierced by three prongs, searing metal body and mortal soul. Enduring the pain Scourge raised its other arm and fired the pistol it held. One, two, three times metal spat at Scarecrow.
To Scarecrow’s eyes he was struck by three separate attacks in succession. A spider’s webbing covered the eyeholes of his burlap sack. An arrow with purple feathers pierced his shoulder. Finally, a repulsor beam took Scarecrow in the chest. His body was propelled away from Scourge and up over the theatre’s roof. Observing from a distance, Mentallo was confused.
“Oh geez, the psycho’s actually happy.”
Behind the clear fishbowl, Mysterio frowned. “Ah, and what is his motivation for this?”
“His mom beat him, then gave him presents out of guilt. So poor Ebenezer learned that rewards followed punishments. Oh, the sick child actually got into trouble on purpose so he’d be punished.”
Mysterio brought a hand up and pretended to stroke a goatee. “Hmmm, an interesting take on sadomasochism. We’ll need to perpetuate this.”
“Well, here’s the image of a young lady who reminds him of mommy,” Mentallo said as he transmitted. “Enjoy.”
Alone on the rooftop, Scourge struggled to remain on its feet. The gun remained in hand, raised and smoking. Scarecrow had yet to reappear, and Scourge suspected he had not instantly recovered like before. Would it be possible….Scourge considered pressing on, killing the costumed criminal. Every erg of Scourge’s, of Techno’s logic processes were tasked to this question. Exactly as Mathemanic had calculated.
Creeping silently behind his target on the rooftop, Mathemanic rushed forward and plunged something resembling a spiked flash drive into Scourge’s back. A miniature electromagnetic pulse immediately occurred within the crazed machine’s body, sending waves of an electric-blue current through its form. The light in Scourge’s eyes went dim, and Mathemanic stepped back as its body slumped to the roof. He casually kicked the gun away, and while Scourge should have been too heavy to lift easily hefted the killer’s body.
“We’re done. Collect Scarecrow at meet at the location.”
A cloud had appeared beneath Mysterio’s feet, carrying him to the theatre’s rooftop where Scarecrow was in the midst of convulsions. “Oh, of course,” Mysterio said. “Just as soon as I’ve rewarded him properly.”
# # # # # # # # # #
“Our nation’s system of corrections is more about rehabilitation than punishment,” Baron Zemo responded in Justin Hammer’s voice. “In a way my program is no different from what many employers do with released criminals. These men are paying their debts to society by performing public service, using their special talents and gifts to undo any past damage they’ve caused in the past.”
“Is this a program you hope to implement should you win the Presidency?” asked the interviewer.
Of course, you fool, Baron Zemo silently answered. An army of super-humans at my disposal. More than that, I’ll duplicate the inborn powers and mass-produce those incredible weapons. Legions of warriors, loyal only to me. Those who refuse to submit will be taken and abused as I see fit!
“I’m sure that there are many Americans who would breathe easier at the idea of a nationwide Super-Hero Initiative,” Justin Hammer answered aloud. “These are men and women with extremely dangerous abilities, after all, with secret identities and zero accountability. But forcing such people to serve their country would not be in our nation’s best interests. Aside from that fact that enforcing this Initiative would be tantamount to a super-hero civil war, it also would be against our nation’s most base principles.”
Fortunately I care nothing for your principles, nor for the loss of life such war would wrought. In fact I welcome it, and would relish each dead hero because it would be one less annoyance.
“Those who use their abilities to overtly violate the law must be punished of course,” Justin Hammer continued. “And if possible those powers must be removed, just as we make every effort to disarm convicted criminals. But those who otherwise aid and defend should be free to act of their own accord. Much as we allow all law-abiding citizens to go about their daily lives.”
Another of those so-called rights I would abolish. All life will be in service of the state, at which I will be the head. Our strongest united will be unbroken, so long as the weak are culled from the whole.
“Well, my producer is signaling me that we’re nearly out of time. Do you have any parting words for potential voters out there.”
“My words are for every American, regardless of their voting eligibility.” Baron Zemo looked into the camera, and all the world saw Justin Hammer’s compassion. “Remember that this nation was founded on freedom, on giving all citizens a voice in their government. Our system cannot work without participation, and the silent voice achieves nothing. Vote for the America you want, and I’ll do my best to make it a reality.”
The smile Justin Hammer gave was Baron Zemo’s smile as the audience applauded. Yes, that is just now democracy will end. Not with blood, but with applause. Then, later, will come the blood, squeezed from America’s heart through my steel fist.
# # # # # # # # # #
Next Issue: Baron Zemo’s plans continue to reach fruition, even as outside forces continue to strike against him! And finally, the rest of the Thunderbolts team!
Heh. Even your inner monologues are like bad trailer narration.
Though his eyes were unseen from behind the fishbowl helmet, Mysterio gazed at the mutant Mentallo with annoyance. “Stay out of my head, freak. I’m envisioning the scene in my mind, practicing the grand tale that our employer will be told.”
In contrast to Mysterio’s annoyance, Mentallo smirked with amusement. “Oh, the true colors now come out.” He turned to the green-skinned mutant who stood farther down the roof’s edge. “What do you think about working with a bigot, Mesmero?”
“He didn’t call you that because you’re a mutant,” Mesmero responded. “Straight-up human, you would still be a freak. Take a glance in the mirror. A red jumpsuit and goggles are not a good look.”
Mentallo sneered and said, “Yeah well, at least Magneto never tried to kill me.”
“Never tried to kill me either. You he just laughed at.”
At that remark, Mentallo’s face began to darken nearly to the shade of his costume. Before he could say anything in response, the young man standing between the two mutants spoke up first. “He’s going to strike soon. Eight minutes, not exactly but I know you’re all getting annoyed by it. We shouldn’t be distracting ourselves.”
Mysterio nodded at the Mathemanic. “Very true. Before, we costumed predators were hunted, but now we’re the ones hunting the hunter.”
Mentallo couldn’t help but guffaw. “Oh, if I’m the worst dressed then you say the most inane things.” To Mesmero he added, “And you just look like a big green-”
“Not as much as you resemble a big red-”
“Bicker telepathically if you must continue,” Mathemanic interrupted. “So long as we all get into position. If we don’t take advantage, the calculations may be off and things could go wrong.”
“Assuming he’ll strike here,” Mesmero questioned. “If you’re wrong about that, then this whole night will have been a huge waste of time. How can you be so sure he’ll-”
Instead of answering, Mathemanic hopped lightly off the rooftop. Almost gliding, he was carried to a roof at the opposite side of the street. Nothing aided him save for his knowledge of mathematics. It was Mysterio who gave the response.
“The same way he can do that. Math is the blueprint of the universe, and the creepy kid knows every equation.”
Mentallo turned from the roof’s edge. “Creepy, sure. But the other one scares me, even more than Scourge.”
Mysterio just chuckled and said. “Me too. It must be the magic.”
# # # # # # # # # #
He observed the play from a catwalk above, hidden within the shadowy folds of his cape. The performance was supposed to be from a work of Oscar Wilde, though the actors couldn’t do the words justice. So few proper thespians left in the world, reflected the observer. Excepting of course for him, shunned and unappreciated, forced to watch from the outside. A Phantom of the Theatre, but he was more than some harmless specter.
Black-gloved hands crept to the sword hilts on either side of the Theatre Phantom’s waist. Two rapiers were about to be unleashed, and his true public debut would occur. No more rehearsals or small venues, there would be a proper audience for the massacre of base amateurs. Well-muscled legs were coiled to leap.
Movement from the audience caught Theatre Phantom’s eye. Without realizing why, he reacted, leapt back rather than down onto the stage. This act saved the villain’s life, as automatic gunfire peppered the catwalk. Back-flipping off the catwalk, Theatre Phantom felt the air of passing bullets graze his cheek, just below the domino-mask worn over his eyes. The audience was screaming now, but it wasn’t the Theatre Phantom’s doing, and that burned him.
Both rapiers were unsheathed and crossed over Theatre Phantom’s head when he landed upon the stage. There was still gunfire, and out of the corner of his eye Theatre Phantom could see the assailant. It was a man dressed in white, with an expressionless mask that made him look a ghost. Even from his side of the pond, Theatre Phantom knew of the Scourge, and thus felt pangs of fear.
But also in Theatre Phantom’s heart was the desire for infamy, to be as known and feared as the man now trying to kill him. “Cowards die many times before their deaths,” Theatre Phantom whispered as he rushed at the Scourge. “The valiant never taste of death but once.”
One shot is fired, that Scourge’s prey ducked. But Scourge carried two guns, and the second bullet took Theatre Phantom in the middle. He is thrown from his feet and crashes against his back to the stage. Blood dribbling from his mouth, the thespian villain had time to mutter only one phrase.
“The rest…is silence.”
Its deed done, Scourge was about to turn from the killed target. However, it stopped when Theatre Phantom’s corpse convulsed suddenly. It was not the throes of death but rather the knocking about of something trying to get out. Out of the jaws of death it came, a hideous black raven.
No. Scourge’s eyes recorded the bird and ran it through a database. A crow was flying at him, and it changed as the wings flapped. Feathers dropped away. The beak shrank back over the head to resemble a burlap sack. Crow’s feet came together and elongated into a jet black pitchfork.
A flying crow became a leaping Scarecrow, and his weapon plunged into the Scourge’s chest.
Sparks flew from severed wires. Yet the Scourge did not fall, instead firing point-blank at the Scarecrow’s head. The burlap sack exploded into a swarm of tiny crows. They cawed and pecked at the Scourge, while the headless Scarecrow lifted the impaled villain off the stage. It was thrown, and carried by the crows smashed into a balcony. The crows retreated, coming together at the shoulders and Scarecrow was headless once more.
Struggling from the shattered seats, its chest beginning to heal but still sparking, the cold heart of Scourge felt fear. It jumped for the exit, barely avoiding a downward thrust of his pitchfork as Scarecrow leapt into the box. With mechanical hydraulics that never tired, Scourge ran. With dead muscled fueled by pain and fear, Scarecrow followed after the creature with a flaming white skull.
# # # # # # # # # #
“Some of the simplest illusions are the best,” Mysterio stated. Mathemanic had been right about the balcony. Some sprinkled phosphorus and an effect was made around Scourge’s head. “How’s his mental state?”
“This freak was insane before he died,” was the only explanation Mentallo gave. “Just peeking into his head hurts my brain. There are some mommy issues you can use.”
“Sheesh, it’s always about the mother,” Mysterio said. “Electro and Doctor Octopus too.”
“Oh please. You’re entire life began when your mother took you to the movies,” Mentallo rebuked. “We all have mother issues, whether she was there or not. It’s the one woman that shapes our lives more than anybody else.”
“Let’s do the support group another time. For now just give me the information so I can manipulate Scarecrow accordingly.”
“Just so long as you don’t neglect to hide us from Scourge. The last thing I want is to be shot.”
“Don’t worry. I have us all hidden.”
On the street below, an unseen man with green skin moved among the panicked as they exited a theatre. One-by-one and sometimes more he would look into eyes, and suddenly the panic was gone. Those people had seen death and maiming and a creature from hell itself, but Mesmero made them forget. His eyes would keep the world blind to the night’s activities.
# # # # # # # # # #
The eyes of the world are on me. Had I not witnessed the ignorance of the masses on multiple occasions, I would almost be nervous.
Lights blazed, shining down on the altered features of Helmut, the 13th Baron Zemo. What everybody else saw was industrialist and Presidential candidate Justin Hammer. The hologram was flawless, to the point that Zemo had even allowed makeup to be applied. Now he sat in a lush couch, being interviewed by one the nation’s leading political pundits.
“As a third-party candidate, do you consider yourself in a serious campaign?”
“I do consider my campaign serious, but first I would like to clarify something. I am not a third-party candidate, and in fact I am not affiliated with any political party. It was George Washington, remember, who warned against the evils of political parties in his farewell address.
“Now granted, a benefit to political parties is an established support base and funding machine. The larger and more influential the party, the greater the funds it can generate. This has led to a virtual monopoly of our political system as two parties firmly divided this nation between opposite points of view. What I seek to achieve is true national unity, getting both side to work together for our nation’s best interests and not the special interests.”
It will be easily achieved once the individual is removed from participating. There will be no need of parties once elections themselves are eliminated. Those who now feed on this flawed system will be the first eliminated, after which all the masses will fall in line.
“It’s interesting that you would say that. Not too long ago you were one of those special interests, a wealthy industrialist who vied for government contracts.”
“That is true, and in that role I saw a side of politics that the average voter never sees. People vote for a candidate expecting that man or women to protect their interests, but the sad fact is that many candidates put their own, non-altruistic interests firsts. That was something I would take advantage of, to ensure that my company would remain profitable.
“No, I don’t apologize for seeking a profit,” Baron Zemo added quickly with Justin Hammer’s voice. “Because businesses that don’t see profits fail. That reduces industry, reduces jobs, takes money from investors and lowers the tax base while increasing the need for public services. A successful business, on the other hand, strengthens the industry and invites competitors, adding to the work force and building the economy.”
“However, your business practices have often been categorized as unethical, even illegal at times.”
“Accusations were made yes,” Zemo conceded. Even had Zemo killed his hated foe Captain America and run for office with his face, there would have been such questions. No man is without sin, and Hammer has his benefits. “Many of which from my aforementioned competitors. But I was never convicted, tried, indicted nor even arrested. Anything, untoward I may have done would have only been acts necessary in our broken political system. A system that I am in a unique position to reform, given my knowledge of the specific ways in which it can be exploited.”
“Some would also argue it would put you in a unique position to help your friends in the private sector.”
“That would be true if I had such friends.” And Zemo knew that Justin Hammer in fact didn’t. “My years in business left me with many enemies in the private sector, and I’m not looking to do them any favors at the expense of the America people. And to those who argue I’d damage business just out of spite…” Zemo spread Hammer’s wrinkled hands. “I just do that more easily, and profitably, by remaining in the private sector.”
A blatant lie. I will use America soldiers to lock up citizens in the dead of night and plunder their bank accounts. You will know this in your hearts and do nothing. Not because I keep you safe, but because I could just as easily do the same to any of you.
“You spoke earlier of the nation’s interests. Now, you recently took it upon yourself to attempt the overthrow of the Genoshan government. How exactly does this serve America’s interests?”
“The leader of Genosha, Magneto, is a terrorist,” Zemo said bluntly, believing every word. “The entire reason he is in charge of Genosha is because the United Nations capitulated to his terrorist acts. Aside from the world, Magneto has held American military bases hostage on multiple occasions. Now yes, my attempt to bring this terrorist to justice failed, as did the French government’s. But just imagine, if you will, the United States government committing resources to bring this terrorist, this so-called world leader who has destroyed cities, to justice? And I’m not simply speaking in terms of raw military power.”
When the time comes, I will personally fire a wooden bullet through that gypsy genetic aberration’s brain. Then France will burn, because for all it’s posturing those people are brave and dangerous. France will be razed and the earth salted, as my father should have done.
“Well, it’s doubtful that any nation’s military could match the power you sent into Genosha in the form of super-criminals. Let’s talk about the Thunderbolts, Mr. Hammer.”
# # # # # # # # # #
A section of the wall blew out, followed by the Scourge. The dapper white suit stood out in the black London night as the killer of caped criminals leapt to the opposite wall of the narrow alleyway. With a mechanical strength that no man that size could possess, Scourge rapidly scaled the wall to reach the rooftop opposite the theatre. This building was two stories shorter, and Scourge was readied to jump the difference when he saw Scarecrow climbing after him.
Before he was a criminal, the Scarecrow had been a circus contortionist. Now that he was dead, with the lack of pain that allowed, he could contort his body further than any living being. Like a spider he was skittering up the building, legs and arms twisting over his body and pressing against the walls as Scarecrow carried himself up.
As terrifying as the pursuer was at that moment, Scourge knew an easy target when it saw one. The gun’s barrel was pointed into the alleyway and ejected a bullet. That was the wrong thing to do, because Scarecrow didn’t see a bullet. He saw a shield. Red, white and blue.
Twisting his body in remarkable overcompensation, Scarecrow dodged the bullet and skittered up the wall. Hopping from one side of the alley to the other, Scarecrow dived up at Scourge. Blackness extended out his arm into the shape of a pitchfork. Scourge stepped back, a machine in body but with a man’s soul and scared in spite of itself.
Fear drove the killer back and when the demon was above it stabbed down.
Scourge grabbed the pitchfork’s hilt. It stopped yet kept going, the shaft extending past the point Scourge held. Again the body was pierced by three prongs, searing metal body and mortal soul. Enduring the pain Scourge raised its other arm and fired the pistol it held. One, two, three times metal spat at Scarecrow.
To Scarecrow’s eyes he was struck by three separate attacks in succession. A spider’s webbing covered the eyeholes of his burlap sack. An arrow with purple feathers pierced his shoulder. Finally, a repulsor beam took Scarecrow in the chest. His body was propelled away from Scourge and up over the theatre’s roof. Observing from a distance, Mentallo was confused.
“Oh geez, the psycho’s actually happy.”
Behind the clear fishbowl, Mysterio frowned. “Ah, and what is his motivation for this?”
“His mom beat him, then gave him presents out of guilt. So poor Ebenezer learned that rewards followed punishments. Oh, the sick child actually got into trouble on purpose so he’d be punished.”
Mysterio brought a hand up and pretended to stroke a goatee. “Hmmm, an interesting take on sadomasochism. We’ll need to perpetuate this.”
“Well, here’s the image of a young lady who reminds him of mommy,” Mentallo said as he transmitted. “Enjoy.”
Alone on the rooftop, Scourge struggled to remain on its feet. The gun remained in hand, raised and smoking. Scarecrow had yet to reappear, and Scourge suspected he had not instantly recovered like before. Would it be possible….Scourge considered pressing on, killing the costumed criminal. Every erg of Scourge’s, of Techno’s logic processes were tasked to this question. Exactly as Mathemanic had calculated.
Creeping silently behind his target on the rooftop, Mathemanic rushed forward and plunged something resembling a spiked flash drive into Scourge’s back. A miniature electromagnetic pulse immediately occurred within the crazed machine’s body, sending waves of an electric-blue current through its form. The light in Scourge’s eyes went dim, and Mathemanic stepped back as its body slumped to the roof. He casually kicked the gun away, and while Scourge should have been too heavy to lift easily hefted the killer’s body.
“We’re done. Collect Scarecrow at meet at the location.”
A cloud had appeared beneath Mysterio’s feet, carrying him to the theatre’s rooftop where Scarecrow was in the midst of convulsions. “Oh, of course,” Mysterio said. “Just as soon as I’ve rewarded him properly.”
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“Our nation’s system of corrections is more about rehabilitation than punishment,” Baron Zemo responded in Justin Hammer’s voice. “In a way my program is no different from what many employers do with released criminals. These men are paying their debts to society by performing public service, using their special talents and gifts to undo any past damage they’ve caused in the past.”
“Is this a program you hope to implement should you win the Presidency?” asked the interviewer.
Of course, you fool, Baron Zemo silently answered. An army of super-humans at my disposal. More than that, I’ll duplicate the inborn powers and mass-produce those incredible weapons. Legions of warriors, loyal only to me. Those who refuse to submit will be taken and abused as I see fit!
“I’m sure that there are many Americans who would breathe easier at the idea of a nationwide Super-Hero Initiative,” Justin Hammer answered aloud. “These are men and women with extremely dangerous abilities, after all, with secret identities and zero accountability. But forcing such people to serve their country would not be in our nation’s best interests. Aside from that fact that enforcing this Initiative would be tantamount to a super-hero civil war, it also would be against our nation’s most base principles.”
Fortunately I care nothing for your principles, nor for the loss of life such war would wrought. In fact I welcome it, and would relish each dead hero because it would be one less annoyance.
“Those who use their abilities to overtly violate the law must be punished of course,” Justin Hammer continued. “And if possible those powers must be removed, just as we make every effort to disarm convicted criminals. But those who otherwise aid and defend should be free to act of their own accord. Much as we allow all law-abiding citizens to go about their daily lives.”
Another of those so-called rights I would abolish. All life will be in service of the state, at which I will be the head. Our strongest united will be unbroken, so long as the weak are culled from the whole.
“Well, my producer is signaling me that we’re nearly out of time. Do you have any parting words for potential voters out there.”
“My words are for every American, regardless of their voting eligibility.” Baron Zemo looked into the camera, and all the world saw Justin Hammer’s compassion. “Remember that this nation was founded on freedom, on giving all citizens a voice in their government. Our system cannot work without participation, and the silent voice achieves nothing. Vote for the America you want, and I’ll do my best to make it a reality.”
The smile Justin Hammer gave was Baron Zemo’s smile as the audience applauded. Yes, that is just now democracy will end. Not with blood, but with applause. Then, later, will come the blood, squeezed from America’s heart through my steel fist.
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Next Issue: Baron Zemo’s plans continue to reach fruition, even as outside forces continue to strike against him! And finally, the rest of the Thunderbolts team!