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CommanderQ

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  1. New Babylon, Reich Eternal, The American Reichschancellery "Would you care to repeat that, Herr Ribbentrop?" Ambassador Hans Gerd Von Ribbentrop had a noticeable quiver to his lower lip, a single bead of sweat retreating down his forehead. Such perspiration could not be attributed to the weather, as the dark, gray-green marble that lined the FuhrersKabinett reflected only the cold, crisp air of both the lack of heat in the room as well as the efficiency of the activities performed inside it. "Mein Furher..." stammered Ribbentrop. The Red Skull stood across from Ribbentrop, seperated only by a titanium black desk with a rich mahognay wood in-lay, polished to a blinding sheen. Behind the Red Skull's hellish profile hung a large, room-sized curtain, a giant swastika emblazoned upon it, a single red skull centered inside the black spider. With the Red Skull's bust on the desk, an elegant portrait placed tastefully to the right of the large curtain, the centered skull, and the imposing figure of Red Skull himself staring him down, Ribbentrop felt insignificant in the face of all who surveyed. All of whom were, in fact, the Red Skull. Ribbentrop struggled to finish his sentence. "...The Sinister Empire has sealed off all communications, our men at the Embassy are being singled out and killed as each tries to leave the safe territory agreed upon in the Trade Agreement of Steel...we are utilizing the Luftwaffe to airlift them as we speak." The Red Skull lifted a part of skin that would have belonged to an eyebrow had he any. "The Mandarins have also begun to follow suite, threatening our Pacific Fleets...the Silver Shogunate, as always, has chided our efforts to expand into their territory. The Shogun's ambassadors, however, are largely staying on the reservation, fulfilling their trade and defense agreements." The Red Skull's jaw loosened, his displeasure momentarily broken by what could best be described apathy, but to Ribbentrop, could also mean mercy. "And why are my legions being denied their respect in the Far East, Herr Ribbentrop?" The ambassador shifted his weight,"Mein Fuhrer...they...that is, the Sinister Squadrons caught whiff of a Reich team operating near Haeju. We've not heard anything since then, but we have reason to believe that they have successfully gone to ground to continue their mission..the one involving the tracking and capture of..." The Red Skull waved a hand to stop Ribbentrop. Loose lips sink ships? That was true for the last strong American who tried to stand against the Reich Eternal. He lost far more than a few ships. The Skull broke his expression, stating,"I knew your great grandfather, Herr Ribbentrop." "Truly, Mein Fuhrer?" The skull's nasal cavity wrinkled, a slight annoyance. "Yes, I did. Good soldier during the Great War. Fought against the foolishness of Versailles. But all such leadership then was weak." The Red Skull stalked around the table, his black boots clicking against the marble floor. "You and your great grandfather are similar men." The ominous Skull grabbed a small manila folder from his desk. It's print was warm and fresh, only recently made from the government offices below. Ribbentrop beamed at the thought of being like his great grandfather, the man who acted as Adolf Hitler's voice in foreign relations. "You are both foolish men. Both whom have left their leaders without proper intelligence and protection. What Untermensch would be so idiotic as to conduct covert operations over established channels?" The feeling of pride deserted Ribbentrop. The fear returned. The Red Skull moved swiftly and in a perfectly controlled rage, seizing Ribbentrop by his thick dirty, blond hair and smacking his head against the marble desk. If he'd used a fraction more of his immense strength, the ambassador's head would've popped like a melon. "Examples must be made, Herr Ribbentrop, be thankful that I desire you to learn from your mistakes." The man struggled upward, holding his bruised and bleeding skull as if he felt his brains would pour out. "Thank you, Mein Fuhrer..." Ribbentrop gave a half salute and turned on his heel to leave. A gloved hand grabbed his shoulder. "Oh, and Ribbentrop...deliver this final message to Sinister. I hear he likes music." Red Skull handed him the manila folder, little blood droplets coating its outside, giving it a more dramatic flair. "Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer." Ribbentrop hastily marched from the room, hearing the Red Skull say, with a sense of finality, "Two gods standing against each other in conflict always makes me think of Wagner." The Red Skull exhaled loudly. "Goetterdammerung may be upon him." Three Months Later Mandarin/Sinister Borderlands "3 days, no contact." Schultz lowered his enhanced binoculars, his breath turning to white clouds in the early morning air. "The Reichsmarshall doesn't want to make the same mistake, Becker." The SS soldier deactivated his communication advice, returning to complete radio silence. Schultz sat back down in the makeshift camoflage shelter the team had constructed. "We'll cross the border back into Sinister territory again. We must complete our objective." Becker nodded,"With our shields or on them, as they say." Schultz grunted an affirmative and looked at the well-worn dossier he'd just taken from his pack. The picture of their target was emblazoned on the first page. "Mia Ko cannot hide for long." Haeju Ruins Curtiss had firsthand experience with purge, but genocide was an entirely different matter. After leaving his quarters in Paju, he'd witnessed what he guessed was a complete failure of international policy. Human denizens who had found themselves under the thrall of the Sinister yoke were fleeing from the cities en masse. Communication had been cut off for the most part, rendering the communiques with the Central Bureau impossible. For once in his life, Curtiss had no idea what was truly happening. But he knew that whatever it was, it would shift world power once again. Those seemed far too common now. Because of the crowds, the military actions, the general chaos of the change, it had taken him far longer to reach Haeju than he had intended. He had only been in the area for 15 days, scavenging and trading for supplies with old Bureau merchant contacts who were seeking access outside of the Sinister Empire. Having worked with the Eternal Reich, deportations and executions were normal occurrences, but this level of displacement was ambitious. Prior to his field days and the discovery of his ability to perfectly empathize with targets, Curtiss had worked for the Bureau's Strategic Analysis Branch. He ran numbers on populations, crafted threat categories, and performed a triage affiliation of sorts within certain nations. It largely pertained to superhumans, but he also differentiated the Sinister Human population vs. the Sinister population....if their reports would be accurate, many many millions of persons were now refugees from a superior number of armed Sinister denizens. And Mia Ko was smack dab in the middle of it. He'd been gauging the ruins from a distance for days and interrogated a few refugees as they fled for the underground bunker beneath the city. The rebels were active, granting safety to many folks, but that also made them clear targets. Haeju's population was growing rapidly, it wouldn't be long before Sinister squadrons would put an end to this Humanitarian effort. As well as ending the chances for bringing a live bounty to the Bureau's coffers. Curtiss jumped down from his hiding place, an Akkaba spire half-burned, and walked quickly to join step with a small caravan of human refugees walking straight into Akkaba bunker. The Rebels were far too trusting. Why not walk right in? He thought.
  2. Paju hadn't changed much since Curtiss' last assignment. That mission, as well, had been a direct perogative from the Bureau Direktor. As another sign of goodwill, the dignitaries of the Sinister Empire had opened up a direct channel for members of the Bureau to eradicate dissenting superhumans, opening up a permanent bridge between the Reich Eternal and its Asian neighbors. Curtiss was the first company man to place his polished shoes upon the Paju tarmac, a day which had left his jet-black, well-tailored suit coated in dust and grime. By the time Curtiss had managed to leave later that week, 23 superhumans hung from the lamp posts and balconies of the Sinister Elite's domiciles. His suit, however, had remained unchanged. Curtiss remembered that the filthy, sheenless view of dirt and blood upon his expensive shoes was oddly similar to the mess in Paju, the mess that was also on his gloved hands. The mess that would only keep getting messier. The type of messy that no hand wash or disinfectant could clean. Curtiss' mind shot back to the present with the distinct triple-beat tone of his personal communication device. He quickly unclipped it from his belt as he stepped from the vehicle dropping off his gear at the Paju safehouse. The communique emblazoned itself in bright green light on a nearby wall. Von der Hande des Feldkommander Shultz: Our mission parameters cannot be shared at this time, but we have encountered a small group of rebels who fit the description of a dossier sent to us prior to our current engagement. Please view the following footage. This message's digital footprint will erase itself upon your closing of this message. Curtiss wasted no time as he accessed the surveillance files. The screen presented a darkened setting, broken occasionally by the flash of gunfire and other equipment. He managed to catch a glimpse of several of the rebels as they made their escape from the Sturmtruppen squad. A brief second was just enough for Curtiss' active mind to do its work. There she is, he thought, Mia Ko is far closer than even the Bureau had suspected. Old memories of bodies swaying in the wind broke his concentration and Curtiss accidentally closed the communique, inadvertantly deleting the footage and information. He visibly shuddered. Let's not make this any longer than it needs to be. The money would be waiting for him when he brought her in. For a while, maybe he could forget the putrid waste that each of these missions left on his personal memories. Curtiss refocused his mind, grabbed his bailout bag and got back into the vehicle. Utilizing his personal driving skill and knowledge of the backroads, Curtiss knew he could make it to the Haeju ruins in short order. Time meant everything in these types of breaks.
  3. That was a bit shameful on my part.

  4. Bad. There is no telling the rage the clan may have when they are infiltrated by a dirty casual. Starting a clan with no particular game to play.
  5. I feel empowered. I shipped us since the beginning.
  6. I actually know a guy who used to write for The Blaze. Yeah, that's why this particular guy left. Libertarians don't always get along with that site. Be careful what you wish for. As with this example, definitions can always be shifted to fit the situation at hand. When Cheney granted permissions for 'advanced interrogation' techniques, the definition of torture was shifted in order to justify what was being done to prisoners who may or may not have been involved with a terrorist organization (first rule of thumb when regarding intelligence in a combat situation is to not take someone who 'may or may not' be involved, every decision must be completed with at least 100% assurance that they will have the right individual, and that's often collected from first-hand intelligence which often isn't forcibly extracted from someone(or at least shouldn't be)). Now, I'm going to take the doom and gloom approach and say, "What if those definitions needed to be shifted again? What if the term terrorist could be applied to domestic dissenters, despite rulings like Debs V. United States?" Executive power that changes such definitions must be checked and checked again in order to avoid further abuse of both rights of the US citizen as well as the global citizen. It just isn't worth crossing the line like this publicly. There's just no guarantee we can cross back again. So, back to the main question, did Bin Laden win? No, at least not yet. Bin Laden is dead and Al-Qaeda is giving way to Al-jabaab, the short-term goals of the organization he symbolically led are in shambles. But neither did we win. That much is clear. As Tommycat alluded to the Russian defeat in Afghanistan and the eventual collapse of the USSR due to economic failure, we're headed down a familiar path. We are very much our own worst enemy, tearing at our own Constitutional truths in order to meet our agenda's goals. We're not the same nation that oversaw the fall of the Soviet Union, we're not even the same nation that involved itself in Somalia in the mid-90s. Bin laden's attacks have given way to a renewal of the military industrial complex, as we ourselves attack our own rights and pledge ourselves to new levels of extreme political thought. We're probably more divided now than we have been in a century. The cultural atmosphere has changed indelibly. If we are to reclaim our status as the leading superpower, that culture must change once again. Might as well begin with our foreign involvement and military actions. We cannot continue with our current policies.
  7. I think there is no use denying our primal need for entertainment. How would you feel about a joint abuse of gamership?
  8. Okay idea. I mean, depends on how you feel about helping old ladies and such. Wrapping pork in bacon, deep-frying it, and then shoving it inside the cooked carcass of a turkey.
  9. Wow. I really have been gone a long time. I thought I'd get banned long before any of them would get the chop. This is a really weird kind of nostalgia. On a side note, there's definitely an ebb and flow with any forum. I remember what brought me here was trying to figure out a modding error with Kotor, then that quickly got out of control and I stayed (then disappeared). I'm sure once the next major SW-related milestone is released, the forum will have life and vitality breathed back into it. Right now, it looks just like we have a skeleton-crew keeping the forums alive, but there is still a community. Even if that community is using urluckyday's third arm, which has far more evolutionary advantages than just using two arms. Or one arm and a hook. Or two arms and a third arm with a hook.
  10. Sniper Elite has given me an unhealthy hankering for x-ray vision violence. Or just long-range violence.
  11. Hasn't this always been our struggle?
  12. Hey Chev! Yep, that I am, just haven't posted in a week or so. I'll PM you my characters' plans very quickly (still trying to work them out myself XD )

  13. Undisclosed Location, Sinister Empire, Kangnyong Region Brief flashes of bright conical tubes of light bounced around the abandoned Akkaba ruins. "Is that our mark, Herr Oberscharfurher?" Asked Sturmbannfuhrer Ullrich Becker. Peter Schultz remained silent, his eyes watching the Egyptian silhouettes for any sign of a rear guard. Taking a deep breath, removing the standard issue Krieger A20 multipurpose goggles, and wiping the accumulated sweat from his brow, he turned to Becker. "Ja. These are the ones....if those intercepted Sinister reports were properly broken, these are the rebels the Reichsmarshall wants." Pulling his FG-62 assault rifle from his pack near his feet, Shultz pulled the scope to his eye, trigger hand resting on the stock. He flipped through the lenses, enhancing the image of the Akkaba port and viewing the infra-red signals emitted from the rebels' location. The heat emanating from the targets' bodies were hindered from view by pockets of radiation. "Becker, tell Toller, Friedrich, and Mohlen to check their Geiger counters and to dress in the Zyklon padding we hauled from the Mandies in China. This area still has some nasty pockets of radiation." For 3 weeks, Shultz's sturmgruppen had been tracking these rebels, always at least one step behind or just in time to smell the ashes of their last combatants. This particular operation was unusual for sturmtruppen, as Central Command had received orders from the Reichsmarshall himself, the second-in-command to Der Rote Schädel. Shultz rubbed his eyes with a black gloved hand and bit into a hard cracker from his ration box. Not only had they landed in Mandarin territory without permission, but they'd assembled listening posts and dead drops for future operations...and then they'd crossed the northern border of the Sinister Empire. They'd upset the sovereignty of two of the most meglomaniacal leaders on Earth. Their mission already had top security clearance, but its importance was solidified by the fact that their capture risked total war between the Eternal Reich and its Asian counterparts. He couldn't wait to get back to the Reich. Crawling around for days on end in a Ghillie suit and then cramping 5 large Deutsches-stock men into a small ruin while Sinister troops tramped about did little to change Shultz's negative opinion of the former Korean peninsula. Now wasn't the time to think such thoughts, though. "Ullrich, break position and load your depleted uranium rounds. I count 8, maybe 9 tangos and a few are superhuman. Men of the Reich, we move now." Incheon Airfield, Sinister Empire The flight had gone remarkably smooth, considering the fact that the Bureau and the Sinister Empire were far from amiable terms. Nonetheless, Curtiss hated turbulence...and there'd been more than enough of that on the flight. Combating a headache and fighting back the urge to advantage of the Bureau's extensive list of on-board alcoholic beverages, the agent's view on the world's condition had become increasingly negative with each passing hour that the differing time-zones changed. He still had his job to do. The passenger door slid open, temporarily blinding Curtiss with the bright sun of a surprisingly clear day in Incheon. It certainly wasn't like that the last time he had to land in the city...then again, he had been more undercover then in an attempt to build his list of informants and contacts within Sinister's high court. The airfield itself never failed to shock Curtiss. The field was perfectly flat with absolutely straight lines of bright green grass lining the cleaned concrete. The agrarian complex of an age long past had been revived and it always brought back his early memories of reading Jane Austen novels. That was long ago for Curtis and in a far more embarrassing period of time. At the bottom of the stairway stood a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a slightly portly figure and a deepening red complexion that suggested his drinking habits had far from died off. McDowell was an old colleague, though how he managed to remain within Sinister's service for so long a time remained a mystery for Curtis. A smile exploded onto the Sinister Minister's face. "Teddy, I'd not thought they'd send you here." Returning the smile with a nod, Curtis replied, "Hmm, it's not as if my jurisdiction ends with the East Coast, McDowell. This is my territory." The Minister's smile twitched slightly, inevitably taking insult with Curtis' poke, however small, at the Empire's power. The smile recovered quickly, though, and McDowell offered a soft hand. "I see nothing has changed, Teddy." Giving the hand a firm shake, Curtis, at last, returned the smile. Catching McDowell's eye, Curtis maintained the gaze for what seemed to be an awkward 3 seconds (they seemed much longer). It was as if Curtis wasn't absolutely sure McDowell was correct but failed to acknowledge it himself. Such doubts surfaced themselves in his mind far more frequently now. It was disconcerting to say the least. Breaking the trance, McDowell produced a manila envelope from a small leather briefcase. "By the way, you may wish to examine these. Whatever the Bureau sent you here for, I'm sure this is related to it. Consider it an act of goodwill from His Majesty." Tilting an eyebrow, Curtis accepted the envelope. He didn't like it when 'His Majesty' came into the conversation. Sinister's appearance was that of a benevolent ruler, but Curtis knew this world well enough to know that such men always hold a deeper agenda. Especially when they allow you, a possibly hostile force, on their territory. "The Bureau appreciates His Majesty's gift. I'm sure it will be of great use." Stealing himself away from the airfield, Curtis began reading the report. With any luck, finding Mia Ko may be one of the easier jobs the Bureau had ever had Curtis assigned to. And it worried him. North Eastern Amerika "I'm a bit confused. Maybe you can answer a question? How are you alive? I heard that one of the surviving X-men killed you a while back. What brought about your resurrection?" Logan. That name should never have been alluded to. Johann Schmidt knew the risks. A pity he let himself grow weak in victory. "You ask too many questions, Amerikan!" The Red Skull felt no need to divulge such origins to his enemies. Better to maintain the image that Der Rote Schädel never died, never felt such humiliating defeat at the hands of a decrepit Old Man. There was no need to reveal Docter Zola's survival into the far future and how he had prepared the ascension of the Master Race by safeguarding Johann Schmidt's dream within the DNA of a true Aryan. There was no need to divulge to the Amerikan that soon, the Eternal Reich, the Masters of the Earth, would soon break all bonds of peace with the world and begin the Grand Conquest...the Final Campaign to purify the Earth of iniquity and at last see the true Man Gods return to the Throne. Valhalla will tremble with the voices of the Victors, Asgard will be reborn in the shape of the Ubermensch. Rubbing his chest from the blows delivered, the Red Skull withdrew an adamantium blade from its sheath within his black leather jacket. "All will be revealed in time. Time, which these Untermensch do not have." With his other hand, the Skull waved to the Kommandant to resume the liquidation of the selected civilians. "Herr Mystery, I hope you realize that now may be the time to take our leave." He gestured with the blade to Mysterio, motioning to the black helicopters which had brought them to this remote location.
  14. I have been a neglecting comrade. Consider this the first half of my penance.

     

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  15. Major Henry Rathbone quite enjoyed the play. Well, really, he wasn't enjoying it, but due to the fact that firstly, his Commander-In-Chief and National Hero, Abraham Lincoln, had personally sent an invitation for his presence, and secondly, that his fiancee, Clara, was clearly angry for his previous tardiness to her Father's Senatorial Dinner in New York (she was one of 4 daughters of the illustrious Ira Harris, not to mention the most favoured of which), Henry Rathbone saw fit to kill two birds with a single stone....that is, to please his President with his presence and to soothe his wife's fury with a night viewing Our American Cousin, a shameless caricature of English nobility. Being an anglophile himself, Rathbone bit his tongue as he saw the old traditions of his ancestors laughed at with incessant vigour. This night could not get any worse. Suddenly, his ambassadorial sense told him that something was behind them in Lincoln's Presidential booth. However, he found himself unable to turn, as if someone else was physically preventing him from turning by not allowing the thought to pass from mind to body. Struggling with growing intensity, Rathbone could stand it no longer, and in a single sentence, sprang forth from the page and faced his adversary; none other than the sham of an actor, John Wilkes Boothe himself! However, Rathbone was hardly the man he used to be, and Booth was far too quick as he pulled a small single shot pistol, aiming at the President's head. In a moment's notice, Rathbone moved to jump in trajectory of the weapon, but again, found himself glued to the chair by the inaction of a post not yet written! Of opportunity lost before words could be transcribed! Summoning all his will power, he pulled his side-arm, overcoming the lethargy (or rather inaction) that this Boothe character had managed to convey in merely 3 short posts of all-powerful actions without conversing with the other members of this play within a play within a historical fiction based on a tragic event in history. Avast! He was too late! The President of the United States was shot! Empowered by rage (not only at Boothe, but also at his firearm whose powder had conveniently become wet in the rainy period before the play, thus ruining the shot), Rathbone leapt from his chair, bowie knife drawn (which he'd managed to smuggle past the Pinkerton guards outside) and moved to stab it into Booth's beating heart! Suddenly, Booth withdrew his own bowie knife, slicing Rathbone across the chest and sending him spiraling from the Presidential booth, landing 30 feet below on the idiot English noblemen himself. Feeling the dull thud and crack of bones beneath him, Henry Rathbone knew that the actor's condition was grave. Pulling himself from the crumbled mass of a Human being, Rathbone leaned his head to the ear of the now-soon-to-be-impoverished actor... "No worries, there are still 8 months before the Razzies..." Rathbone stood, blood seeping from his chest, his back bruised, his knee partially broken, wiping a slip of pure testosterone oozing from his hurt upper lip, and summoned the almighty Power of Emancipation. "By the power of Lincoln-Skull, I am the Emancipator!" Feet powered by the force of pure Liberty and Progressive Thought, Rathbone flew towards Booth (who was at the time jumping to the stage shouting 'sic semper tyrannus') kicking him midair, back into the booth. Following his kickstart, Rathbone followed with countless blows to Booth's ribs and face, allowing little time for a response post from Booth. A power emanated from Rathbone's eyes, the power of Unification, and shot bright light directly into the heartless Booth's stomach cavity, at last satisfying Booth's hunger for media attention in the Washington night life. With ashen fist raised, Rathbone shouted, "Consider getting your own Booth next time!" The sheer horribleness of Henry's pun burned imprints on Boothe's face, which was quickly enveloped by the flaming fist of Rathbone. The angry Rebel disintegrated into ashes, just before Major Rathbone's kindly Admin, none other than the bleeding Lincoln himself, gave him a punitive infraction for multiple cases of double posting. Rathbone relented and was at rest. At last, the War Between the States of Godmodders had ended.
  16. Well, I'm not really sure how splintered guerilla warfare and 2 failed invasions of the North constitute as fighting well...it really just makes them very...very stubborn. Yes, Lee fully earned the nickname "Wily Gray Fox" and certainly defeated several incompetent Federal generals time and again (alongside the likes of legends like the late Jackson, JEB Stuart, early-war Ewell, pre-Gettysburg Picket, the adopted Texan, John Bell Hood, and the founder of the Klan himself, Forrest), but in all honesty, those were pointless victories. For all the 'glory' and 'honor' of their southern culture these generals fought to defend, they were truly on the wrong side of progress. When it came to appearances, their military victories looked fantastic, but in reality, did little to curb the actual beast that was attacking them. The Federal forces, on the other hand? They understood how to cure the South of a need for war. I mean, for goodness sake, the Civil War was the birth of modern warfare, where Sherman burned and pillaged everything from Tennessee to Georgia, where Grant's numbers forced the Confederate line at Vicksburg to stretch itself so thin they could only place 1 man for every 6 meters in the trenches...the arrogance inherent in Southern strategy was the only thing that prevented a total capitulation. Furthermore, the blame is not on either the North or the South for the beginning of the war, rather, it is both. I mean, conflict between the two had always existed, going as far back as pre-revolution (It even decided the positioning of the US capital). The War for Southern Independence was really just...well, the Yellowstone Fire of 1988. You build up enough tinder without allowing the natural change to take place and a single spark sends everything straight to hell.
  17. Kapital Airport, New Babylon Curtis 'Teddy' Bentley walked slowly through the black, metallic, tiled hallways of one of the new world's most active airports on Earth. There was the crisp smell of steel rising from his every step, each footfall reverberating throughout the vacant private loading gate. he walked forward into a part of the corridor completely comprised of steel-enforced glass, allowing him to peer down the 300 foot distance to the main lobby below. There were countless civilians, bustling about with their brownish and yellow stained tags attached to their collars or suitcases. The lines, too, were countless, with at least a thousand black-clad Ostgruppen police officers positioned at various checkpoints, all the tall, dark, obelisks of men openly armed and hostile as they searched each and every ongoing or off going passenger. Though security was entirely visible with hardly any secrets, Curtis' instinct told him that it was far tighter than any transportation facility on the planet. Shifting his vision to the glass panel above him, he realized that the ceiling of the airport was pocked with guard posts and unmanned turrets. Clearly, the Eternal Reich didn't trust its populace. "Herr Bentley, halt." Curtis, temporarily enraptured by the sheer magnitude of the logistical masterpiece around him, mentally jumped in surprise. His focus returning, he slipped a black gloved hand into his coat pocket, producing a black book with a red swastika emblazoned upon its cover. The checkpoint officer took it with a purely deadpan expression on his face. "Your business, Agent?" Bentley adjusted his suit jacket, "Not disclosed as of yet, acting on orders to investigate an unspecified incident in Sinister Empire controlled Korea. Likely to be insurgent related activity." Lifting his left eyebrow slightly, the checkpoint officer indicated interest, briefly breaking his visage of clear indifference. "Very good. You may proceed." The officer looked back at the search crew, giving them a fair shake of the head. Every once in a while, Curtis' security clearance actually went through. Nodding in approval, Curtis strode through the checkpoint, embarking on The Bureau's private airline. "Also, Agent, I was instructed to give you this." Bentley turned and accepted a heavy manila envelope from the checkpoint officer. "Your eyes only, as instructed." Curtis turned back towards his destination and opened the envelope. In bright red letters read "Threat Assessment: Alpha, handle with caution." In black print below it read the name of Curtis' mark. Mia Ko. North Eastern Amerika A black boot on burning earth. Tiny specs of white waltzing across the sheen of a well polished exterior. The strangely sensuous and faintly delectable smell of burning flesh. All these things reminded the Red Skull of times long past. Of the Southern Ukraine. Of the Caucasus. The Volga. The Steppes. Moscow. Moments in history of great importance to him. This purification was like those moments. Only better. The Red Skull allowed a slight curve to form on his upper lip as he sniffed the ash filled air. These creatures immolating before him were minuscule in comparison to the greater cause...the cause which all the Skulls, all the true Fuhrers, had desired. However small the sacrifice of these subservient creatures must be, every great endeavour must begin with a promise for what is to come. That promise being the return of the Ubermensch. The Red Skull's predecessor had paved the road but had refused to tread upon it. He had become content with the mere death of a man with a shield, the final roadblock...and thus refused the road to Rome. "Subtle as usual, aren't we?" Skeletal eyes darted to the domed head of Mysterio. It seems this alliance had caused a slight pretense of familiarity between the two. Red Skull disliked that terribly. Do not make friends with your food. That being thought, though, Mysterio was an absolutely necessary asset and as such, would be treated as one. At least, until he becomes another roadblock to the ascension of the Reich Eternal. "Hmp. Subtlety is for the likes of the Untermensh, Herr Mystery. Though there is a certain art to it all." A burning hand reached for the Red Skull's boot, failing to grasp it. The Skull countered with a quick smashing of its fingers. The burnt appendage broke in two as flesh gave way to flame. "There is no reason their families be separated in their moment of ascension." Suddenly, the atmosphere of the situation changed entirely as a gust of wind brought forth a costumed individual. A hero. Red Skull's expression returned from its smile, taking on a frown. He returned the wave. Got any beauty tips for someone who's starting to get up there in age." "Decapitation is merely one form of constructive evolution. The survival of the Superior. When one is no longer viable, he is eliminated, with something greater taking his place." Calculating his adversary's movement, he threw out a fist, knocking the incredibly fast hero to the ground, if only temporarily. "As for your aging...well...there is only one true cure for that, Amerikan." Red Skull grasped the hero's jawbone with the intent of ripping it from its place.
  18. Hey Chev! Sorry, man, work has had me swamped...I will post and get this show on the road :D

  19. (This BBCode requires its accompanying plugin to work properly.) I still miss Tuco.
  20. New Babylon was eerily quiet this day. For a city that had managed to maintain a population of multiple millions throughout the last 50 years of nearly constant upheaval and warfare, one would think that its condition would reflect that of an aged man, skin spotted and pocked with his years, than that of a vibrant mega-city. Yet for all its might, between all the towering structures of titanium, each of them bearing the red and black banner of the skull, there was no activity. Silence filled the void, followed sometimes by the dancing crackle of an abandoned newspaper pushed alongside the road, forced, as it were, like the march of political prisoners that had marked the earlier week's festivities: purge. And to think that at one point New Babylon could have ever been the hub of opportunity the world had believed its name to be New York or that Kampfgruppe District 19 was once called Long Island. Or that at one time, children spoke openly of heroes. Curtiss "Teddy" Bentley could recall no such memories, however. "Herr Lynch, your surveillance report explained that the exchange would've taken place by now. You know how the Oberstandartenfuhrer feels about such delays..." The black clad 'stormtrooper' tried Bentley's patience every moment they were in business together...but at least Bohrmann's presence was more preferable in comparison to the stiff and uncompromising group of men who called New Babylon District 19 their home. Lynch, thought Bentley, You find one man, one man who happens to have the ability to jump more than 30 meters or can run faster than any vehicle...and can see farther than his own needs....and they never let you forget... Pulling the smoking cigarette from his mouth, Bentley batted away another brief memory of a neighborhood hero strung up on a thin wire by the very communities he had tried to save. That memory was quickly covered by nearly 250,000 Reichsmarck placed in 4 rucksacks with a personal commendation from his boss, the Bureau Direktor. "Bohrmann, trust me. He'll be here." Bohrmann's tensity didn't relent and Bentley did what he did best. He fully understood the man standing beside him. They had maintained 5 minutes of conversation, more than enough for him to analyze this man. Already, images of goals, ambitions, fears, swastikas, rationed tater tots, and an odd BBQ from 20 years ago, flooded Curtiss' mind. Bohrmann was an easy man to read. He stomped his cigarette with his dress shoe a little too vigorously. "Bohrmann, don't ever think of selling my information to the Black Market in case my leads end up getting you a reprimand from the StandartenFuhrer. I'm always right. Also, you left your refrigerator running. You already know that the electric bill from the Commissary will be arriving today. The note you read, on the nightstand." Before the disheveled Nazi could react, Bentley pointed out the mark, a gray-coated man of around 45 walking around with an old Fedex package. Bentley turned on his heel as Bohrmann stumbled for words, quickly regaining some sort of composure and shouting for his men to arrest the mark. The money for this little bit of information was already in his account and now, it was time to wash his hands clean of this matter...and purse trying to manage nearly 25 world districts of information that the Bureau had tasked him with maintaining. It was ironic to Bentley that a lifelong skill of total empathy could be used to effectively decipher any situation was now being used to police and manage superhumans and other dissenters...ironic because the skill's very existence marked him as a superhuman. His cellular phone beeped with a 12 digit number. A location of interest marked by the Bureau. A quick look told him all he needed to know regarding his next objective. Korea. North Eastern Amerika Exact Coordinates Unknown They'd dragged his family and himself out of their beds in the middle of the night. Giles Hendrick's could no more explain why than he could provide himself enough warmth. A dark green forest surrounded him and 300 other displaced persons, all of them rounded up in a pile of debris in a clearing. He could see his wife, Ema, not too far away, perhaps 10-20 meters. He'd run to her if it hadn't been for the fact that the black clad officers had separated the men and women from each other, threatening deadly force if they didn't comply. He could Ema clutching their daughter, Sarah, with a tightness that only a mother could truly muster under such freezing conditions. The atmosphere was poor in the middle of this forest north of New Babylon...everywhere there was weeping, coughing, muddled words here and there, all of which contributed to the utter sense of confusion as to why any of them had been selected and stolen away by the authorities of Amerika. Did it have to do with the death of the Red Skull? Word had traveled fast in the classes of New Babylon. Try as the Reichsministry could to hide the fact that the Eastern seaboard of the 'Eternal Reich' was now 'headless,' hope permeated the concrete walls that choked the ports and harbors from escapees. Talk of 'heroes' had sprung up...Giles was among them. Perhaps this was a ploy to scare them? Giles hoped so. He had gazed upon the banners of the Red Skull too long. The indoctrination, the speeches, the long lines of black clad men and women marching along Times Square to the Koniggratzer March, he'd had enough of the 'neue walt.' He could do with change. He gazed out at the tall, menacing, and faceless soldiers surrounding them. They were motionless, silent, without sympathy for those they guarded. "Please! Please! Just let us leave! We've done nothing!" Shouted a middle aged woman with red hair, likely dyed, as her age betrayed her appearance. She begged and begged, somehow managing a strong grip on a guard's black glove. Suddenly, the black guards moved aside, leaving the woman in the fallow Earth in the open ground. A figure approached and the woman became silent. The figure wore a black dress uniform. He was tall, muscular, and had the visage of a man all feared. The Red Skull. The protesting woman fell into line quickly. Giles wondered if it was because she was afraid...or that she knew that with men like the Red Skull...there is no compromise, no sense of empathy...no sense of Humanity. The group of captive civilians visibly shivered and moved away from the Skull. A pair of almost reptilian eyes surveyed the group. He waved a gloved hand. The guards parted from the middle of the group, allowing for the families to be joined back together. Instantly, Giles felt hope and he ran for Ema and Sarah,holding them tight and planting kisses on both of them, rejoicing in the security that family brought. But no way opened for them to leave this place. Instead, the stormtroopers encroached in their space even more so and man carrying pumps and gas canisters strapped to their backs began to make their way to the front of the line of stormtroopers. The Red Skull turned and look at the crowd again, approaching it. His cold gaze evaporated the temporary hope of reuniting with family. Giles felt his core begin to twist beneath the man's gaze. The Skull seemed to smell it and it spoke. "You are afraid...you are right to be." The voice was deeply accented but no less resonant. "All things which know that they are at a possible end feel fear. Animal instinct, if you will. But realize that fear is more than this. It is an indicator of your worth, of your importance...and the fact that I see it now...is proof, that you are truly, sheep." The words were cryptic to say the least. The half smile of the Red Skull did little to help. "I am your shepherd, your guide, to the better realm. A realm where you realize your place in the great wheel of the Gods, of society. And that is below me, beneath the boot of visionaries and activists...individuals who know the truth that they are true sons of the Masters....that they Masters. Quite honestly, you have forgotten such truths. You have spoken of pretenders, of creatures who pride themselves on weakness and refuse to truly save the societies they once served. But realize this..." "...they are not the Superior Men." "Because I am the Superior Man....and in your demise, I will find strength to help save you from your simplicity...and will forge the frontier to create the true Reich Eternal....one which will see perfection culminated in every man, woman, and child. The true Overman. The inevitable next step in evolution." Giles couldn't comprehend fully what this thing intended, but he knew it could only put his family in danger. "But remember...species move forward only when those who are weak have been weeded out. Only then can it progress. So...." He raised a gloved hand, "Realize that this cause is greater than all you have surveyed, all you have comprehended....and as such, you are heroes." Giles held his daughter closer. The Skull lilted his head to the side. "I will waste no more time." He waved his hand and the men with the gas canisters stepped forward and sprayed liquid flame into the group. Instantly, the air was filled with the screams of the crowd. Giles shielded his wife and daughter with his body, but there was no protecting them from the scalding heat surrounding them. It was only a matter of time before he would watch their skin peel from their flesh as the flame stole them from his arms a final time. Darkness panged with red flashes plagued Giles' vision as he fell away from his family...and watched a Red Skull walk amongst the flailing and flaming corpses, hands folded in a leather jacket. Giles could only scream and writhe as he watched all that he loved do the same. The only mercy from this fate was death. And the Red Skull, clad in black, amongst them walked confidently. Offering none.
  21. Name: Joachim Peiper Villain Name: The Red Skull Age: Unknown Gender: Superior Male Appearance: http://x.annihil.us/u/prod/marvel/i/mg/6/60/4e42bb56641d8/background.jpg Personality: Diabolically malicious, despite his quieter temperament. Unlike previous Red Skulls, Peiper is an ubermensch of relatively little speech. He is severe and without leeway for questioning. It is not uncommon for him to cut off metaphorical 'useless limbs' (usually his subordinates) at will due to inefficiency. The man is cool and calculating and is bent upon the continuation of an Eternal Reich. This determination is evident in his every action. Powers: Superhuman intelligence, regeneration, and incredible strength and endurance. He is the Superior Man. Additionally, due to advanced study in evolution combined with Nazi wartime science...he is able to manipulate metallic substances at will. Affiliation: Very evil. Equipment: Advanced Luger P08 and a shifting arsenal of Nazi weaponry. History: Peiper, the poster-boy of the Waffen SS served with distinction during the Second World War, gaining infamy not only for his strictly efficient military tactics but also for his absolute disregard for mercy. He was truly without ethics, choosing the objective over any and all other things, including morality. Additionally, he idolized Johann Schmidt (the original Red Skull) to the point where all his writings and observations were directly relayed to Hydra Command...where he was also offered a rare opportunity to join the paramilitary organization. On the grounds that the Third Reich needed true examples of the Overman, Peiper refused, vowing to one day return and learn from the man whose dangerous intellect (who is not, in any fashion, Adolf Hitler) opened the doors to his own personal philosophy of an Eternal Reich free from the Pedantry of lower Humanity..but also free from the ambitions of the so called 'master-race' of Aryan beings who claimed they were the progeny of the Gods. Peiper knew Johann Schmidt's truth. After committing hundreds of war crimes and slaughtering thousands upon thousands of enemy soldiers during the war, Peiper and his 6th SS were brought to bear by the war's ending (despite attempts to start a guerilla war) and was tried at Nuremberg. Peiper was sentenced to death but was denied the noose (perhaps by someone higher up in power). He lived quietly in France following his release...until the survivors of a small Russian village he had burned to the ground promptly set fire to his household, burning him to death. It is still largely a mystery as to how he is alive, but many theories point to the influential Doctor Arnhem Zola as a source of revival. It would certainly explain why Peiper is so similar to Schmidt in genetic structure and superhuman capability. Nonetheless, following Schmidt's death at the hands of Logan, Peiper returned from the shadows and assumed direct control of the Eternal Reich, refusing to give into complacency like his predecessor. Immediately, a purge unlike any other had began, echoing Peiper's early days on the Eastern front...back when the current Red Skull was really and truly known for the name "The Torch."
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