Chapter 81
***
The following morning, in the Oval Office of the White House, a rapidly paling — and graying — President of the United States stared at an arrangement of five severed heads sitting on his desk, faces turned toward the door.
He knew not all of them personally. Only his Secretary of State and the Director of Langley. The other three were strangers to him.
Within half an hour, however, SHIELD Director Richard Keller arrived at the White House and placed three folders in his hands — personnel files, each containing photographs of the three unknowns. The names on the covers read: Sutter, Rice, Stryker.
"So what does all this mean?" the President asked, after leafing through the files.
"Creed did promise in his address yesterday that 'not one person responsible for Stalin's death would escape retribution,'" Keller said. "They didn't."
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"The Secretary of State issued the order to the Director of the CIA for Stalin's physical elimination. He tasked Colonel Stryker — the overseer of a classified government program called 'Weapon-X,' in which Rice and Sutter were directly involved. So 'Comrade Creed' worked the whole chain," Keller said drily.
"How could the Secretary of State issue an order like that without my approval?" the President frowned.
"Would you have approved it?"
"Of course not!"
"Which is precisely why he didn't ask. And for the same reason, your head is not sitting on that desk alongside the others. There would have been room for one more," Keller said with a sigh.
"Are you serious?"
"Completely," Keller replied, with equal grimness. "You have five heads on your desk. You should see mine. There's a whole pyramid of them, right in the center. The forensic team nearly lost their minds extracting them all — forty-eight heads. Forty-eight. Every one of them belonged to a SHIELD Agent or official."
"Isn't this Creed overstepping rather dramatically?" The President's expression shifted from grim to something sharper. "Perhaps it's time to deal with him. Shorten him by a head, so to speak."
"Kill Creed?" Keller exhaled. "That would be an ill-considered move, Mister President."
"Why? Can't it be done?"
"Creed himself is a difficult target, though not an impossible one. The issue is the consequences."
"What consequences?"
"Do you remember a Russian super-weapon used during the war — 'Magnet-43'?"
"I do. What does that have to do with this?"
"'Magnet-43' is Viktor Creed's younger brother. He would inevitably seek revenge. Additionally, Viktor's wife is the Supreme Sorcerer of the Earth Dimension — with all the capabilities that title entails. She would also seek revenge. And that's not even accounting for the Federation's reaction, which also warrants consideration. Nobody needs another 'Field Seminar.'"
"I take your point. Killing Creed is not an option. But what is actually happening here? The Secretary of State, the Director of Langley, Agents of your own service—"
"Creed left more than just the heads in my office. He also left several data storage devices that explain a great deal."
"And what do they explain? I still don't understand any of this."
"HYDRA, Mister President," Keller said darkly. "It turns out HYDRA was not destroyed in the forties. We cut off the head, and it took root. Your Secretary of State, the Director of Langley, and forty-eight members of SHIELD were all members of this terrorist organization. HYDRA made the decision to kill Stalin. And Creed went hunting for HYDRA."
"Hunting," the President repeated flatly.
"Last night, one hundred and thirty-eight facilities across America, Europe, Asia, and even Australia were attacked. All personnel at those facilities — combatants and support staff alike — were eliminated. The coordinates of the facilities were on the storage devices left in my office. Agents are already working those locations. And what they're finding there is… extremely interesting. Mountains of compromising material on some very influential people."
"But why didn't he take the material himself? Use it?"
"Creed is, broadly speaking, apolitical. He genuinely doesn't care what happens in the world — who does what to whom, where, or when."
"But he went to bat for Stalin."
"He got involved only because they tried to frame him personally. Had they killed Stalin a day earlier, or a couple of hours later, Creed wouldn't have lifted a finger. He might have sighed — he did know the man personally — but even that seems unlikely. This time, however, they touched him directly. They made him 'wake up,' forced him to step away from his own affairs. So he woke up and handed out consequences to whoever woke him. Now? Ninety percent chance he goes back to sleep."
"That's your personal opinion?"
"That's the assessment of the analytical division, based on a psychological profile compiled over several decades."
"So it's reliable. And what would you recommend to help this Creed go back to sleep faster?"
"Leave him alone," Keller said with confidence. "Him and his Federation. When Creed is 'asleep,' the Federation poses no threat. Without his direct involvement, the Federation has no teeth. They're not a political organization either. Their core and only philosophy is personal development — becoming faster, stronger, more resilient. And, paradoxical as it sounds, sharper mentally. There isn't a single slogan calling for 'overthrowing the world order' or 'justice for all,' let alone 'equality' or 'brotherhood.' A Master, by definition, cannot be equal to a novice. And the only Victory the Federation recognizes is victory over oneself — overcoming one's own laziness and weakness."
"You're wrong on that point, Mister Keller," the President said, frowning. "There is a saying: 'If you want to change the world, start with yourself.' And these people have started."
"You want to go to war with the Federation?" Keller's eyes widened.
"I'm not stupid enough to enter a fight I've already lost," the President said. "I won't provoke Creed — there's no benefit in it, short-term or long. But you're wrong that the Federation poses no threat to the world order. Clean up this mess." He clearly intended to end the conversation. "That's what SHIELD was created for. I have no desire to find any more 'gifts' in my office."
"We're already working on it, Mister President."
"Then go work on it. You're dismissed."
***
It had been a long night. A hundred and forty-nine facilities — that's a great many. And only eleven of them had been inside the Union. Though, in theory, numbers shouldn't matter when you have the kind of operational capacity that had been deployed tonight. It's not as if I was doing everything personally.
Except that was precisely the problem — it was personal, all of it: who else was going to collect all the operatives and bring them home afterward? No one but me, that's who. My children and grandchildren didn't include a single portal-maker among them. So it was all on me, every bit of it, manually — grimacing with revulsion each time at this accursed Magic, opening portal after portal. And after getting everyone collected, there were still the bags of heads to deal with — and the heads themselves to gather first, of course. Rounding up the SHIELD Agents I couldn't delegate to anyone else — they needed to be handled quickly and quietly, so I did it myself. Fortunately, I knew the location of every single one of them: Jean had pulled not only Stryker's memories, and I had kept her very busy that evening.
Then there was the matter of pulling the most significant intelligence from the facilities onto a pair of external hard drives for SHIELD. That also couldn't be handed off.
By morning, I was run down like — well, like a horse. Specifically, the kind that had died. And there was still one more matter to settle.
***
At a steel mill, beside a smelting furnace, a group of people had assembled. X-23 didn't know most of them. The Colonel, she'd seen before. He was bound and lying on the floor just like her — except X-23 was restrained with rebar, while the Colonel, the same one Madam Kimura had discussed the upcoming elimination with not so long ago, was secured with thick plastic zip ties. Sutter and Rice — scientists from the laboratory where X-23 had been created and raised — lay bound nearby as well.
There were other prisoners on the floor besides the four of them, but those she didn't recognize.
Some of the others present she had seen before, however, without knowing them by name: the red-haired girl from the library at the time of the hit, others she'd spotted running through the university corridors toward the library in the aftermath.
All of them were waiting for someone.
It became clear who, soon enough: a ring of fire opened in the air, and through it a body was thrown — Madam Kimura's body, launched by powerful hands, neck twisted at an impossible angle. Dead.
*It was that simple? Just that simple?* The thought formed on its own in the stunned girl's mind. She had always considered her tormentor invincible, untouchable, immortal. Someone her own adamantium claws couldn't even scratch. And yet all it had taken was a broken neck. Just that. Bones and joints, it turned out, were perfectly destructible.
And then through the ring of fire stepped the Beast himself — the one who had hunted her down not long ago like a wolf running down a sick, defenseless fawn.
Except something was different. He was missing an arm. X-23 stared at this and could not begin to imagine who could have wounded *him* like that. Certainly not Madam Kimura — the injury didn't look fresh. No bandages, no bleeding. And it didn't smell like a fresh wound. It didn't smell like a wound at all.
The ring of fire closed.
"We're ready, Comrade General," the Beast said in Russian. "You may begin."
X-23 knew Russian. She'd been made to learn it in the base laboratories.
"Very well, Comrade Colonel." The man who responded — solidly built, older, gray-haired, wearing glasses and a plain gray civilian suit — gave a nod, then turned to the others. "Proceed."
A younger-looking man standing nearby opened a paper folder and began to read in a dry, official voice. What he read was — a sentence. Handed down by an Extraordinary Military Tribunal in the matter of the premeditated murder of the Generalissimo of the Soviet Union, Marshal of the Soviet Union, Comrade Dzhugashvili — Stalin — Iosif Vissarionovich; the organization of an anti-Soviet conspiracy and the attempted coup d'état.
The text was long. It enumerated names, ranks, actions taken, and the names and ranks of those who had conducted the investigation.
A photographer was present. A cameraman with a film camera. An audio recording was being made.
"…On the basis of the foregoing, the Extraordinary Military Tribunal has ruled: the following individuals are sentenced to the supreme measure of punishment — execution by firing squad…" the man continued, and then began reciting names, ranks, and positions. She heard her own designation last on the list. "…X-23. The sentence is to be carried out immediately." He closed the folder.
The first of the prone figures was lifted from the floor. A knife cut the zip ties on his legs. He was walked to the wall and left standing there. Six soldiers carrying Kalashnikov automatic rifles formed a line across from him, raised their weapons, and fired on command. The condemned man fell, bleeding. The same two who had walked him to the wall ran forward, lifted the body, placed it on a stretcher, and carried it away. Two more were already dragging the next man.
Volley followed volley. The firing squad was on its second magazine. Sutter's turn came.
He too was dragged forward, his legs freed, and shot — but his body wasn't placed on a stretcher. Instead, the Beast — the one the General had called Colonel — stepped forward and with one motion of his single arm tore the head free and dropped it into a bag. The body was then seized and thrown directly into the furnace.
Rice received exactly the same treatment. That made X-23 very nervous. She was unlikely to survive the furnace — unlike a firing squad — regardless of her Healing Factor. Or rather, she was completely certain she wouldn't survive it. The temperature was too high. And the rebar left no chance of breaking free and running.
The Colonel was next. Same procedure. Madam Kimura's body was dropped into the furnace directly, without a shot fired.
Then it was X-23's turn.
She was lifted, dragged to the wall — legs still bound, which she had been quietly hoping wouldn't be the case — and left standing. The volley came. Six bullets tore through her, burning, searing. X-23 dropped to the floor.
And decided to play dead. On the chance that it might work.
"Finished," came the General's voice. Then the sound of many footsteps departing, and the clicks of rifle bolts being worked to clear the chambers.
A few minutes later: silence. X-23 decided to risk opening one eye.
The Beast — the Colonel — was standing directly in front of her. Standing there, watching her with complete indifference.
X-23 exhaled and opened both eyes. There was no point in pretending. He knew she was alive. He couldn't be fooled.
The red-haired girl had apparently stayed as well. She was working a long metal rod, pulling something out of the furnace. Specifically: the empty, hollowed-out, burned-through skin of Madam Kimura.
X-23 swallowed hard, watching.
"Here's how this works," the Beast began. "My name is Viktor Creed. You have been sentenced to death. But you have a choice."
She waited through the dragging, stretching minutes of silence, then couldn't hold out any longer.
"What choice?"
"Either the furnace," he said, nodding at the still-open mouth of the kiln.
"Or?" X-23 decided she wanted to know the alternative.
"Or you become my property. My personal Apprentice." He spread into a terrible, frightening, bloodthirsty snarl.
"The furnace might be the more merciful option," the red-haired girl muttered. And somehow, she seemed entirely sincere.
"Who said anything about merciful?" Viktor Creed replied. The girl instantly went quiet and adopted the appearance of an inanimate object that was not, in fact, present in the room. "Your answer?" He turned back to X-23.
"The furnace will always be an option later," X-23 managed.
"Not necessarily," Creed said with a smirk. "But it's your choice. Call me Sensei." He walked to her, grabbed her by the rebar, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of old rags. "You'll be dreaming of that furnace soon enough."
For some reason, X-23 believed him completely. She cast one last desolate look at the closing furnace door, and let her head drop in resignation.
***
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