I remember once back on the Mainland, I saw a strange cartoon on the tube where a bee mutated into a massive light-pink monstrosity. After hatching from an egg, it basically pardropped from the Moon straight onto the sinful Earth. However, what surprised me most while watching this masterpiece of animation wasn't the look of the colorful freak or even its survival after a Gagarin-style freefall; it was the phrase "I am born!", said with a ear-to-ear grin that triggered unpleasant associations with a high-functioning psychopathic slasher.
Anyway, my point is that coming into the world is an extremely painful process. Aside from the actual fact of birth, there's little pleasant about it... and this time, returning from the dead felt remarkably similar in terms of pain levels.
My augmentics have gone into reboot yet again, so I'm forced to survey my surroundings with my one remaining organic eye. This is significantly hindered by the crimson fog clouding my vision, a skull that feels like it's splitting apart at the seam where it meets the metal, and a body that is literally howling in pain... Mephistopheles is really slacking on the quality control this time.
"Mr. Morzhov, I would ask you to refrain from false insinuations." Through the roar of blood in my ears, I hear a dry snap of fingers. The "veggie-state-after-a-bender" feeling is lifted as if by magic. I find my long-suffering carcass on a huge double bed in a spacious but sparsely furnished room. The Lord of Hell, in his usual guise of an elderly English gentleman, sits in a nearby armchair leaning on a cane and... Where the hell are we?! I was dying at one of the Syndicate's minor bases! "My, such expression."
I bolt upright, only to discover that besides my dead augmentics, my bionic prosthesis has also given up the ghost. My metal arm hangs like a lifeless whip along my body. To every attempt to clench a fist, the adamantium-coated fingers do everything except follow orders: they squirm like worms, dance a drunken jig, and even spark, but they won't bunch up.
Well, we're screwed... I'll need to lean on a certain fellow sufferer later. It looks like Laura's little tantrum didn't just whack me, it trashed the chassis of my mega-paw. There's not a single scratch on the indestructible coating, but apparently, the explosion reached the bionic control circuits through the fleshy bits. I hope the damage isn't too severe and Cable can patch me up... or at least that the prosthesis doesn't just explode. There's a cannon hidden inside it, after all, and I'm not exactly eager to head back to Hell anytime soon.
And speaking of the Underworld—or rather, its big boss.
"Where am I? Actually, no, I'll figure that out later... Where is Volkodav?" Aside from me and the British-looking old man, the room is empty. I highly doubt my pal managed to get plastic surgery while we were on the "other side."
"Your friend is where he belongs—in his home world. Or in your home world, if that makes it clearer for you." Mephistopheles shrugs calmly, leaning on his cane and drilling me with an attentive gaze. "Mr. Morzhov, do you remember the terms of our deal?"
"Crystal clear: Two deaths in exchange for two lives."
"And I have fulfilled my part of the bargain in full—you have risen from the dead, as has your colleague. As for the fact that these two events occurred in different realities..." The demon shakes his head with a slightly haughty smirk. "There was no talk of moving your comrade to this universe. So, if you please—refrain from baseless accusations of lying. I am always perfectly honest."
Yeah. Right. I think I just got seriously screwed over. And the worst part? He's technically right. I was a bit out of my mind after landing in Hell and didn't hammer out the contract details properly. This bastard, in the best tradition of fantasy djinns, decided to twist the terms to his advantage... Read the fine print, dammit!
"Now, now, don't think me so petty. If I truly wished to deceive you, I would have simply made it so that this device..." Rising to his feet, Mephistopheles tapped his cane against the dead weight of my metal arm. "...detonated a second after you woke. Then your soul would have been back in my domain. Simple, cheap, and maximally effective."
"Then why not..."
"Move your friend to this world? Mr. Morzhov, even if we set aside the fact that you alone are quite enough... the issue lies in a very specific feature of your home world." Seeing the total lack of comprehension on my mug, the Lord of Hell sighs heavily and begins to explain with a bored expression. "You've already seen what humanity can turn into when technologies they cannot fathom fall into their hands..." Walking to the window draped in semi-transparent curtains, the "British grandpa" surveys the landscape outside and twitches his shoulders in irritation. "Despite all the loud proclamations of superiority over the animal kingdom, humans are essentially the same apes they were thousands of years ago, only more loathsome this time. Primates at least have an excuse for their actions: they are primitive animals and simply cannot exist otherwise. But humans can, and know how, yet for some reason, they choose not to."
Well, damn. I didn't expect a post-resurrection episode of "In the World of Animals with Mr. Mephistopheles." Honestly, he has a point. Certain representatives of humanity could easily be awarded a Darwin Award and then used as a visual aid for "How to definitely not do things." But how does this relate to Volkodav?
"This is all terribly interesting, but let's skip to the part about my pal."
"As you wish... You see, the Noosphere that your scientists tapped into is an extremely dangerous toy even by our standards. The fewer individuals connected to it in this reality, the better. Here, you know, various Apocalypses, Judgment Days, and Ends of the World happen on a practically regular basis even without guests from other universes. I need the Earth intact, along with all its inhabitants." Turning toward me, the demon spreads his hands with a slight smile. "It may seem strange at first glance, but I am far more interested in preserving your world and its prosperity than your so-called 'superheroes' are."
Now, that I actually believe—and it's definitely not out of the Hell-lord's altruism.
From what I gathered in the Underworld, this Earth is like a farm to the demon. If all the "sheep" suddenly croak, who is this cunning bastard going to harvest for souls? In that case, Mephistopheles clearly doesn't want any extra headaches! However, while he's forced to tolerate me because of a certain charming skeletal lady, "diplomatic immunity" doesn't apply to anyone else. Nothing stopped the demon from leaving Volkodav in the Zone—formally, all points of our deal were met.
Talk about having your cake and eating it too.
Well... it sucks that I didn't get to see that bastard, but on the other hand, my unlucky comrade did make it back from the dead. I can consider the glass half full with a clear conscience. I just hope he has enough brains not to mess with Strelok again; that stalker seems to be the Zone's favorite.
"I trust I have sufficiently satisfied your curiosity and you won't needlessly accuse me of breaching our deal, as we shall be parting ways for a time on this somber note. However, allow me to give you one small piece of advice before I go..." In a small flash of flame, a felt hat appears in Mephistopheles's palm, which the demon places on his head. "Be more restrained with your numerous women, otherwise our next conversation will happen much sooner than either of us would like."
"I'll think about your offer." Heh, so what, Satan himself is advising me to practice celibacy? That's a new one...
Saluting with his hat like an English gentleman, the Lord of Hell vanishes in a flash of flame. Meanwhile, little Morzhik climbs out of his nest and heads off toward adventure! By which I mean the only door leading out of the room.
Judging by the view from the window, the flat I woke up in is in one of the many New York high-rises. They didn't have time to take my carcass far. So, first, I'll find out who lent me a helping hand and why, and then I'll head to one of the Syndicate bases. Brock is a smart guy, sure, but the boss is back from his business trip and ready for a fight!
But first, a technical inspection with Cable, because Logan's psychopathic copy trashed my entire suspension.
The door leading from the room is unlocked. I step out into a perfectly ordinary living room, in the center of which... a feast is laid out. And I mean a serious one: a massive table, about two meters in diameter, completely covered in food and booze. And not just any food, but strictly homemade: a literal basin of huge dumplings (Pelmeni), each the size of a small turnover, sits next to bowls filled with finely chopped herbs and thick sour cream. A dish of meat jelly (Kholodets) is thoughtfully placed next to a bowl of mustard, and beside that is a plate of sliced smoked meats. Towering over all this bounty are several bottles of berry liqueurs and a bottle of elite, chilled, store-bought vodka, dripping with condensation.
Everything would be fine, except the face of the lady in the black business suit sitting on the other side looks a lot like Viper. Not the one with scales and slit pupils, but the former flame of the local Walrus... also, my local counterpart once double-crossed her, and not too long ago, I personally threw a wrench in her plans while stomping all over the pride of a very self-centered and extremely vengeful woman.
Well, well, well...
Ah, who cares! With my dead augmentics, I'm about as useful in a fight as a screen door on a submarine. Besides, Madam Hydra wouldn't throw a feast just to laugh at her ex. Which means what? Exactly—they want to make me a business offer.
"Good morning to everyone, and bon appétit to me!" Sitting unceremoniously at the table, I toss my motionless metal arm onto my lap and start clearing out everything within reach.
Mmm... After grox-meat rations, normal home cooking tastes like the food of the gods. The chef really put in the effort. And generally, I'm as hungry as if I'd gone a month without a meal.
"So the demonologist kept his word." Is she referring to Mephistopheles? He is a demon himself. Hmm, if a resident of Hell summons himself, can he be considered a demonologist? I'll have to consult the right people; who knows, maybe I'll get a contract for some otherworldly riff-raff? "That is good."
"Be a doll, pass the mustard... Thanks." Because of the dead bionics, I have to do everything with one hand. As soon as the nearest plates were emptied, eating became a bit awkward, but manageable. Grabbing one of the bottles, I pull the cork out with my teeth, fill a shot glass, and down it in one go. "Phew... Now I'm thinking clearly and ready for a constructive dialogue. What did you want, beautiful?"
"Beautiful? At our last meeting, you chose far less flattering epithets." Uncorking a bottle of wine, Sarkissian fills a crystal glass and looks at me with a slightly mocking gaze. "Did a second death finally clear your head?"
"Let bygones be bygones. I've already 'picked a fork' once." Having sated my hunger, I lean back, satisfied, and return the look. "We both know you didn't need my carcass as a toy or for a cozy chat... What do you want?"
For a while, the dark-haired spy silently studies my half-metal mug, slowly sipping the creation of unknown winemakers. Then she shrugs phlegmatically and asks calmly:
"You're a mercenary now, and hopelessly in love with money, right? How do you feel about relieving the United States of America of the precious metal that burdens this beautiful country like a heavy weight?"
"Are you planning to hit Fort Knox?"
Not that I was against the idea... such thoughts have crossed my mind during bouts of greed. However, those impulses usually ended the moment I calculated the complexity of the task and imagined the size of the headache the robbed leadership of the wealthiest country on the planet would give the unlucky thief.
"Do you think I'm stupid enough to break into the most protected place in America—a place specifically publicized in every way so idiots will smash their heads against it?" Sneering, Viper downs the rest of her wine, sets the glass aside, and places a small holoprojector on the table. A semi-transparent projection of a building appears. "Why bother, when there's a simpler, far less obvious target?"
A familiar building.
If I'm not mistaken, it's the Federal Reserve Bank of New York... Damn, Viper is right. Cracking this nut is a bit easier than storming a military base full of soldiers, but the consequences would be much more severe. If Fort Knox is just a storage site for the gold reserves of the USA and isn't active in the financial system, the FRB is actively involved in the state economy. Anyone who dares touch it becomes Enemy Number One for America automatically.
"Right... the target is easier, but we won't get to spend the loot—they'll bury us first. Likely alive. And that's me skipping the 'fun' parts, like a non-trivial bank heist and the massive crowds wanting to stop us. I wouldn't be surprised if Iron Man himself showed up to give us a lecture on financial literacy."
"And who said we'd be storming the bank itself?" Smirking deviously, Madam Hydra presses a few keys. The hologram of the building transforms into an image of several freight trains. "Due to the fallout between the government and the mutants, a high-alert status has been declared in the city. All objects of state importance are ready to evacuate at the first sign of threat. In the event of an open uprising by X-Gene carriers, the gold reserves will be secretly moved out of New York through a classified network of underground tunnels on seven freight trains, with a thousand tons in each."
"Security?"
"It's funny you mentioned Stark, because that Avenger signed a contract with the Department of Defense, and his bots will be guarding every train. Additionally, several containers will have trackers, and a satellite will be positioned over every train. But I'll handle the monitoring electronics. From you and your people, I only need muscle. We expect no fewer than several dozen robots, and I don't have enough fighters under my command for an operation of this scale."
"Why not sick your metal-armed guy on them?"
"The Winter Soldier reports directly to Wolfgang, and this is my personal initiative that the other leaders of Hydra shouldn't know about... And speaking of them—as a small advance, I'd like to share a very interesting piece of information with you."
Pressing a few more keys, Sarkissian creates a floating holoscreen showing a photo of von Strucker talking to a massive, blind-looking man in a long robe. Well, probably blind—I'm guessing this "Illidan-on-a-budget" has vision problems based on the opaque blindfold over his eyes.
"Weren't you surprised by the ease with which you defeated the Hand fighters? No suspicions about such an easy victory?" Ophelia's tone really does hiss like a viper—she lives up to the name. How did my local copy manage to get a bitch like this into bed? "This Japanese man is named Gorgon, and currently, he is the Fist of the Beast—the leader of the red ninjas you know so well. He also happens to hold a post as one of the commanders of Hydra."
"Are you saying Khan's group was deliberately fed to us?" It looks like I'm going to have a serious talk with a certain slanted-eyed ninja. News like this definitely won't make him happy. And who knows—maybe I can pull some of those red-jumpsuit lovers over to the Syndicate's side.
"The Hand is a serious criminal organization with extensive ties and a decent roster. If they had sent a serious contingent to New York, your Syndicate would have lasted a week at most: they would have simply buried you in bodies."
"And why the hell would your outfit play dive?"
"Well, for example, to get their hands on Kingpin, and with him, the entire underworld of one of the wealthiest cities on Earth..." Sacrifice your Lieutenant to get the enemy General, right? A questionable trade, but considering the Asian mentality of Japanese sorcerers and Hydra's methods—it sounds like the truth.
"And you're just selling out your own like that?"
"Firstly—not my own, but competitors who would do the same to me given the chance. Secondly..." The woman rests her chin on her hand and starts looking at me with a sultry gaze. "I'm selling them to you. Appreciate my candor."
She's bullsh*tting. And she's not even hiding it.
But I have to admit, the info Viper provided is actually useful. If I play my cards right and reach a deal with Khan, the Syndicate stands a real chance of taking over all of New York—or at least its underworld. Think about it: me, Brock, Cable, plus two companies of professional mercenaries, plus a company of former Hand ninjas... We won't count Taskmaster yet, but in the future, I'll have to lean on our time traveler—maybe we can fix that memory leak problem?
Basically, if we add a couple of decent freaks to our colorful circus and bring in another fifty fighters, we can take out Kingpin or the Maggia without breaking a sweat. And if the plan to rob the Federal Reserve works out, with that kind of financial cushion, the Syndicate will become a force even states have to reckon with.
Damn... it seems my business trip to Hell didn't go unnoticed. I've caught Morg's Napoleonic ambitions.
And that's a good thing!
"Last question and I'll be off..." Tossing back one last shot of liqueur, I chase it with a piece of boiled pork and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "You said the gold would be moved in case of a mutant uprising. Judging by what I saw out the window, the masses aren't exactly in the mood for revolutionary struggle yet. How do you plan to inspire people to form a union and go for radical social transformation?"
"You will do that."
"Me?!" At that statement, my "second last shot of liqueur" almost came out my nose. "Ahem! No offense, gorgeous, but the only things I share with Lenin are the bald spot and the country of origin. Getting on top of an armored car to give a fiery speech is really not my thing."
"It won't be necessary—you'll just do your usual job, and the people pushed to the edge will start the riots and chaos themselves." The image changes again, and this time the holoprojector shows me the pretty face of a mulatto woman with sadistic tendencies—one I would prefer never to see again. Ever. "Do you know this woman?"