'I have come for all of you!'
Konrad Curze, Primarch of the Night Lords Legion.
****************
Curt Connors. Morning... apparently.
Curt felt awful. Absolutely awful. The first things he noticed upon regaining consciousness were savage thirst and a horrifying taste in his mouth, as though a group of exceptionally fat and foul-smelling trolls—possibly internet trolls—had taken up residence there. He slowly opened one eye. Light sliced painfully across his nerves. The eye closed, but the unexpected illumination of his skull awakened a road crew armed with jackhammers. They began pounding enthusiastically upon his tormented brain.
A groan escaped his chest. Another groan answered nearby. Doc gathered his will and turned his vibrating head toward the sound. Spider-Man lay beside him in a condition even more pitiful than he had been one week earlier. 'Could the serum have failed? Is the transformation twisting him again?' The distant thought inspired the road workers in his skull to redouble their enthusiasm. The mutant dispelled every doubt with a single phrase.
"Water," rasped the sufferer in red and blue. "Mayer... I'll never drink with Russians again, even when they're German."
The healed man ended on a somewhat illogical note. 'Alive, intact, an eagle,' Curt concluded. He did not understand what birds had to do with the situation, but Walter had apparently said something like that. Gathering every remaining fragment of will, Connors crawled toward the table. Something might have remained there from yesterday. His labor was rewarded with a cold, misted bottle of beer left by some considerate individual (Walter was not yet a complete sadist, though he was still young).
Doc emptied the bottle in four greedy swallows and climbed onto a chair. He felt slightly better. A note lay beneath the bottle. 'I left on business. I'll return in several days. Walter.' Doc crumpled it and threw it into an ashtray. Good luck, my friend.
The other participants in the drinking session gradually returned to life.
"Oh... I haven't been this drunk since my college graduation," Maria reported while attaching herself greedily to another bottle of beer.
"Yeah... ow," Spider-Man agreed.
"Esteemed colleagues, what does anyone remember about yesterday?" Curt asked the vital question.
"Right," the crime fighter began. "First, we celebrated the success. Walter—where is he, by the way?—suggested that we 'mark the occasion' with a traditional drink from his homeland. What did he call it? 'Votka,' I think. But we didn't have any."
"True. We did have medical alcohol," Dr. Crawford continued darkly, holding her head. "A great deal of alcohol and distilled water. That bastard proposed making his own vodka."
She pronounced the word without an accent and perfectly naturally. Maria was married to a certain Sergei from Russia.
"What happened afterward?" Spider-Man asked.
"Dr. Connors declared that a true scientist must collect detailed statistics concerning any preparation, which meant we required several test samples."
Curt looked mildly embarrassed.
"Walter rejoiced at such enthusiasm from his mentor and raced away for 'additional equipment to improve the experiment.' He returned with beer, wine, and a mountain of food. I remember nothing after that."
"My memories also arrive in fragments," Curt admitted. "I remember Maria, under the careful direction of our friend who has so conveniently disappeared, making a strange mixture inside the centrifuge. I believe it contained alcohol and beer. It had an unusual name. 'Yozh'? 'Yosh'? Ah, yes—'Yorsh.'" The physician returned the teasing remark. Maria turned red. "Then we 'tested' it. Spider-Man tried to declare his love for everyone, so by majority vote we decided not to pour him any more. He became offended and went to sleep on the ceiling." Now Spider-Man turned red, though the mask concealed it. "Then darkness."
"Yes," the woman concluded. "We had quite an evening. Where did the instigator go?"
"Heh. He wisely escaped because he feared our revenge. Never mind—hic! I'll remember this. He will wash test tubes for a week. No, a month. But first, I require treatment."
Doc distributed another bottle of beer to everyone who desired one—which meant everyone—and began the healing process.
**********************
Walter Mayer.
Yes, we had celebrated the end of Peter's treatment properly. I soaked blissfully in my bathtub. It had been a heartfelt occasion and brought back immediate nostalgia for our university celebrations after another examination session. I looked forward to seeing their faces when I showed them the photographs from the banquet—especially the sacred preparation of a yorsh in the centrifuge and the other noncanonical uses of laboratory equipment. For the occasion, I had even purchased a camera while collecting food and beer.
Toward morning, however, one of the officers called with pleasant news. Kimura had crawled out of hiding and was currently in Philadelphia. What she wanted there remained unclear. Perhaps she was simply enjoying the scenery after remaining trapped inside a top-secret bunker. As an old and soulful song said, 'Then that is where our road leads.'
First, however, I needed preparation. Traveling there and then cleansing the bunker in Mayer's form would be foolish. I would have to disappear afterward, which I did not want. Nazgûl had attracted too much attention as well. The appropriate people already knew that some connection existed between the thing in black robes and a talented young geneticist—one must praise oneself when no one else will—though they lacked details such as the fact that we were the same creature. There was no reason to provide additional material for thought.
I needed someone new. Who? Perhaps the question should be approached differently. I was entering the bunker to retrieve a girl—frightened and hunted. Therefore, I needed a form that was not especially terrifying and inspired subconscious trust. Damn. I truly needed a psychology course. Ideally, a relative. Hm. The blades extending from the girl's hands in one vision suggested certain possibilities. Logan's daughter? Then why did he know nothing and do nothing? Though he had memory problems, I believed.
It did not matter. I possessed Logan's genes. With some flexibility, the girl in the bunker could be called my little sister or perhaps my niece. Why not create the image of an older brother who had come for the poor child? Or an uncle. I was somewhat too old for the brother role. I approached a mirror and altered my features, making them rougher and slightly more predatory, though not excessively so. I increased my mass and shortened my hair, making it coarser.
I studied the reflection critically. In build, he was pure Wolverine. The visible portion of his face resembled Logan too. My new 'brother' would be delighted by the addition to his family. I must remember to tease him. Knowing myself, resisting would be impossible. If so, perhaps I should limit myself to 'Uncle's' abilities: claws, senses, and regeneration. Those would not defeat Kimura.
Why limit myself at all? The important thing was disguising the other abilities properly—perhaps as some technological device. I imagined Logan wearing a nanosuit from 'Crysis.' Hm. There was definitely some good idea. The reflection became a humanoid in an unusual suit. It differed from the version in the game—which had never been released in this reality—only by openings over the knuckles for extending claws. To conceal the actions of Blood Magic, I would use small vials of 'combat chemicals.'
"Hm. Maximum armor. Damn, I'm handsome."
The voice. I had nearly exposed myself. That needed changing too.
"How about this?"
Much better. A powerful bass that suited the new physique. I left the eyes unchanged. Let them be a small distinguishing feature and give observers another reason to wonder why different people possessed the same eye color. It would not lead anyone to the correct conclusion. It might distract attention. For certainty, I should eventually arrange a witnessed meeting between Walter, Nazgûl, and... let the new one be called Arctic Fox. It sounded good and suited the meaning. I truly was bringing the end to them. As for the meeting, why not stage a small performance for everyone interested? I only needed a suitable time, place, and enough actors.
It required considerable effort, but I obtained two street thugs and carried them into the apartment unnoticed. In reality, I simply knocked them unconscious and covered them with Symba using Chameleon's effects. Finding them had been harder. The two senseless bodies moved to the bathroom, where I began the transformations. First, I burned out their brains. That proved fairly simple, though causing a cerebral hemorrhage... Mm. Then came plastic surgery. Several hours later, 'Walter Mayer' and 'Nazgûl'—the version with aristocratic features and white hair—lay before me.
I attempted to control the puppets. Success. They obeyed commands and could even speak, though I had to construct every sentence for them. I hoped that would suffice for a small performance. More interestingly, I transmitted thoughts directly into their brains rather than through my own cells. Was I slowly developing psionics? I would investigate after returning.
I fed my new acquisitions, once again emptying the refrigerator. 'Cosmetic' procedures required less energy and matter than serious alterations, but still produced savage hunger. I did not want my actors dying uselessly. Then I slowed their metabolisms as far as possible and placed them inside the study's closet. By old agreement, the maid never entered there. I locked the study anyway. It was strange. I had effectively killed two intelligent beings and felt no distress, yet the child's fate tormented me.
Why?
The answer was obvious. The thugs had possessed choices. They could have become anyone, but chose the bottom. That was where they belonged. No one had allowed the girl a choice. Meaningless cruelty disgusted me unless it was punishment. In that case, cruelty could be entirely justified. Wait for me, creature. I was already close. To hell with it. I acted according to what I considered right. I was tired of these doubts.
After informing Zinaida Prokopyevna that work would take me away for several days, I went to the airport. The considerate officers had already reserved a ticket to Philadelphia. Wait for me, Kimura. I was coming.
*************
Several hours later. Walter Mayer. Philadelphia.
The mercenary knew where to relax. My first impression of the city was none at all. Everyone appeared profoundly indifferent to what happened to anyone else. At the hotel, they asked for neither documents nor even my name. Perhaps I had merely chosen the right neighborhood. In any case, Mayer had left the airplane, but Arctic Fox entered the hotel.
Finding Kimura also proved easy. The bitch entertained herself in bars and brought men—and occasionally women—to her room. She was resting from her 'righteous labors.' Gods, the temptation to visit and tear off her legs was overwhelming. No. She had to lead me to the bunker. I was not certain I could extract all the necessary information quickly enough. If the people inside were paranoid, I might find only bare walls at the old location.
At last, the awaited moment arrived. The creature returned to her lair. A flight on a private airplane (nearly five hours in the baggage compartment, meaning I was no longer merely angry but extremely angry) brought her to Canada. From the airport, she transferred to a helicopter and continued to the bunker.
This 'doctor' paid well if his employee could use airplanes and helicopters for a pleasure trip. Or perhaps I had missed something more interesting. Whatever the answer, the objective stood before me.
Combat mode.
Mission: evacuate target. Priority: highest.
Secondary mission: cleansing. Priority: high.
Secondary mission: execution.
Target identified: Kimura.
Target identified: Rice.
Priority: high.
Secondary mission: destruction of evidence. Priority: low.
Proceed?
Additional restrictions received.
Full potential forbidden. Use only physical capabilities and invisibility.
Begin execution of assigned missions.
Arctic Fox dissolved into darkness.
Defensive structure.
One entrance, which also served as the exit.
Correction: one known entrance.
No opportunity to capture an information source.
Wait for a favorable moment?
Negative. Insufficient time. Highest-priority target may lose functionality.
Assault.
The body in the unusual suit lunged forward. Claws on the right hand tore through the armored door like paper. An armed squad already waited beyond it. Bullets struck the intruder and rebounded helplessly from the armor. Alarms sounded. Surprise filled the soldiers' faces. The stranger broke into the bunker, and a bloody bacchanal began. The man rushed from one guard to another, leaving people falling like broken dolls.
Blood smeared the walls, floor, and even ceiling. Then silence returned. Even the alarm stopped. During the frenzy, someone had fired badly and damaged the speaker. Only drops of blood falling from extended smoky-blue claws disturbed the quiet.
"Not bad. Not bad at all. You're an interesting specimen, but little claws won't frighten me."
The long-awaited Creature emerged from the corridor, grinning cheerfully.
"I have something else for you, Kimura."
The voice was calm, merely stating a fact. Meanwhile, I attempted to subjugate her blood. In one sense, it was easier. Its high energy content made it easier to sense. That same saturation, however, made it far harder to control.
"And what do they call you, Claw-Boy? You know me, but I don't know you. Don't you think that's slightly unfair?"
She stepped toward me. Was she planning something? Certainly. The pause benefited me too. Control of the target's blood was not yet complete. I needed to gain time.
"No one calls me. I come on my own." Connection established. "With a sentence."
I threw a tube of ordinary water at the mercenary's feet while paralyzing her through her blood. She fell. Complete incomprehension filled her eyes.
"You spoke so often of the Strong and the Weak. Of victims. Allow me to remind you what being a victim feels like."
I forced her teeth apart and poured another vial down her throat. This one contained a transparent Symbiote fragment. While continuing to torment her organism through its blood, I increased the sensitivity of every nerve ending. More. More. Now even the gentlest touch against her skin would feel like a sickle across... well, it would hurt. A scream struck my ears. The same cold, indifferent voice continued.
"This is only the beginning. Why aren't you happy? You wanted so badly to see an emotionless killing machine inside this bunker."
Next stage. Using my fragment inside her organism, I killed the cells in her toes and established the parameters: gangrene, but no sepsis. She would not die so easily. For appearance's sake, I rubbed more liquid—water again, this time lightly colored—into her feet after cutting away her boots with my claws. Her screams became wheezing. Ah, yes. Every touch now felt like a heated iron.
"You took such pride in your body and strength. Let us see how you react when your body begins breaking apart and rotting from within, while that same strength prevents the only possible method of saving your life—cutting away everything unnecessary. Now you are my victim... my perfect victim."
Something close to religious terror filled Kimura's eyes alongside the pain.
"I still have several matters to finish. Don't go anywhere. Although..." I removed a sack from my belt, gagged her, and packed her body inside. Then I returned to my assigned tasks.
**********************************
At approximately the same time. Dr. Rice.
The man watched the figure in strange armor cleanse the bunker's first level with a mixture of horror and delight. Not one unnecessary movement. No mercy or hesitation. Its speed and resistance to physical force were astounding. The half-mad scientist already longed to examine the suit and dissect such an interesting creature. Then there were the blades emerging from its hands. Had someone else continued Project Weapon X? Rice understood that the situation was critical only when the intruder paralyzed Kimura by some unknown method. Then it began torturing her.
"Some chemical agent? But the speed of effect... almost instantaneous. Incredible," the sadist muttered softly. "Very well. Time to leave."
The door opened, and two people entered the office. One was a tall woman of approximately forty. She might once have been beautiful, but constant stress and lack of sleep had damaged her appearance badly. The other was an eleven- or twelve-year-old girl with black hair and green eyes.
"Ah, Dr. Kinney. Excellent timing. It appears we must evacuate. A pity, naturally, but what can be done? I see X-23 is with you. Excellent. Let us go."
The hardened paranoid placed his hands inside his pockets and touched the precious tube of 'trigger'—a substance whose smell alone could send Twenty-Three into a berserk state. The woman did not move.
"Laura."
"What?" Rice asked, failing to understand.
"Her name is Laura."
The scalpel in the woman's hand entered the scientist's abdomen.
"Cough... how foolish. But I will enter Hell with an escort."
With numbing hands, the man removed the trigger vial from his pocket and crushed it. Droplets struck both him and Kinney, who had approached too closely. The other pocket contained the detonator for the base's self-destruct mechanism. Rice even entered the activation code. He did not manage to start the process. Twin adamantium claws ended the mad scientist's earthly journey.
*************************
Walter Mayer. Arctic Fox.
I cleansed the base methodically. Guards, scientists, technicians—it did not matter. Every one had participated in the atrocities committed inside the bunker. They knew and did nothing. I did not care that, broadly speaking, most could have done nothing. I had pronounced sentence. I had come for all of them. I did not care in the slightest about the opinions of universal humanists shouting from every corner about the value of human life. I had only one judge: what remained of my conscience and soul. Perhaps also the Great Darkness, whose protection I increasingly believed in. Something suggested it would approve my actions.
Even if it did not, I was clean before myself. Interesting. I had not noticed combat mode fading. Apparently, it possessed limits too. There was truly no one left to cleanse, and more than enough evidence remained. Only one unexplored room remained. I went there. Something was wrong. A strange sound. Crying? A child's crying. I entered cautiously.
A destroyed office appeared before me. Blood covered everything. Alongside its smell, a peculiar fragrance floated through the air. Perfume? Then I saw the horrifying scene. A small black-haired girl sat in a pool of blood, holding the cooling hand of a woman.
Dead. For approximately ten minutes, my mind noted distantly. Returning her to life was beyond me. I was not a god. Between sobs came a pitiful word.
"Mama."
The girl turned and saw me—covered in blood, claws extended, with slightly bestial features. I had removed the mask the moment I saw her, almost reflexively. Frightening her was the last thing I wanted. A strange mixture of emotions appeared on her face. Her emotional state itself was impossible to interpret. I withdrew my claws and approached carefully.
"This isn't how I imagined our reunion... niece."
The girl clung to my leg, crying. What girl? Few adults had witnessed even one quarter of the horrors endured by this poor child. I bent and lifted her into my arms. Time to leave. First, however... I leaned over the dead woman and closed her eyes. Something should be said.
"I don't know who you were, but it seems you were one of only two human beings inside this lair of monsters. Thank you for caring for her... and rest in peace."
I carefully removed a simple amulet from the woman's body and handed it to the girl. It was an ordinary trinket—a sphere of green cat's-eye stone in a plain setting on a cord. To Laura, it was the greatest treasure in the world. What was this? I picked up a broken vial containing the remains of some liquid. Hm. The same sweet smell. Before I could finish the thought, adamantium claws attempted to enter my neck. What? It was as though a demon had possessed the child in my arms. She growled, struggled, and tried to insert an additional seven inches of adamantium into my organism. Oh. Blades in her feet as well. Understanding the cause was easy. I hid the liquid inside the suit, away from temptation and accidents. It worked. Five seconds later, the child returned to herself and stared over my body in horror, evidently searching for fatal wounds.
"Don't worry, niece. Your uncle is an unpleasant bastard and therefore exceptionally difficult to kill."
The girl pressed her face into my neck and continued sobbing quietly. Monsters. What had they done to her? I kicked Rice's already dead body. What a pity he had died so quickly. I had prepared an entire program for him. A small object rolled away from the corpse. A detonator, apparently. The activation code had even been entered obligingly. Only the time remained to be set and the button pressed. We left the bunker almost immediately. We took only clean clothes for the girl. I had somehow failed to consider that detail. Along the way, I learned the child's name: Laura. She pronounced it uncertainly, as though still unaccustomed to it.
Had she possessed no name at all? Only a label—or rather, a serial number—X-23? If magic truly existed, I would learn it, summon the soul of the bastard Rice—or whatever he had possessed in its place—and feed it to demons. Once we had moved a considerable distance from the bunker, I set the timer to one second and handed Laura the detonator.
"I think it would be better if you did this. Unless you don't want to."
"No. Mama deserves a proper burial, not to rot in a dark bunker."
She pressed the button. A substantial explosion decorated the peaceful forest landscape.
"That's all," the girl said sadly.
"No, Laura. Everything is only beginning. Now let us go home."
I lifted her into my arms and adjusted the sack containing the still-living mercenary, much to the mercenary's enormous regret.
"I'll have a home?"
"Of course. And friends. I'll introduce you to my friends too. Everything will be all right now. I promise."