Baron Zemo's Lair. - Chapter Ten

Baron Zemo's Lair

Chapter Ten
Sunday, 04-Jul-1999 15:24:52
24.64.71.35 writes:

Chapter ten, spiffy

First was calm. Utter, undying calm. Loss, pain, and regret could be forgotten. He felt as though wave after wave of cool water were washing over him. He dimly registered a companion in the room, one that was all too familiar to him… but there was no threat. His mind returned to its state of bliss.
Then, a sudden flash of movement! There was a stunning noise and the roof collapsed. A figure shot down from the heavens and, pausing only a moment upon landing, attacked his companion. The dragon shot through the roof, the opposite of the newcomer. The king of sea monkeys tried desperately to make his mind work, to understand what had happened and what his reaction must be. The struggle to focus his eyes was fiercer than any he had experienced against hordes of villains. Finally, after an eternity, he made out a figure in purple chuckling to himself. The name escaped him, but it was an enemy. He stuttered out an attempt to be threatening, but this only seemed to push the villain to new levels of hilarity. This upset Banjooooo, but he couldn’t understand why.
As he continued to battle his sluggish mind, Fin Fang Foom returned, attacking Zemo with all his fading strength. His initial blow was shrugged off, but the full force of a Makulan dragon is nothing to be laughed at. His wrath was a tremendous thing, as was the powers of the Baron. Finally, the villain triumphed, holding some sort of weapon over his head. Banjooooo rested his chin on his chest, breathing heavily, trying to fight off whatever had taken control of him before it was too late. To his dismay, the villain’s laughter told him that it already was. Something had happened, and he’d been helpless to stop it. He doubled his efforts to be free.
It had been folly on Zemo’s part to think the dragon unconscious. He paid for the mistake. Fin Fang Foom rose to his full height, an awe-inspiring sight to see. An instant later, it was over. The dragon’s fangs closed on Zemo’s skull. The purple cloth split, exposing crushed bone and oozing blood. Some of it splattered on Banjooooo’s face. For some reason, this helped clear his mind a bit. He shook his head to rid it of cobwebs, then looked to the floor. There lay the dragon, barely conscious. He felt no sadness, only a bit of pity. Strange, considering this was the one that had cared for him in the past days.
“Banjooooo… I got ‘im…” Fin Fang Foom said weakly.
“Sure did,” the sea monkey replied.
“Tasted like… really crappy chicken,” he joked.
“I bet. You gonna make it or not?”
“Nice to see you’re… still sympathetic,” he coughed, “No… no, I don’t think I will.”
“Here I thought you were invincible. Easy come, easy go,” he turned to leave.
“Hey, wait! Aren’t you… gonna stop… the bomb?”
“Bomb?” he said over his shoulder. “I was a bit too groggy to notice. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that…?”
Finny sighed. “So I drugged you… big deal… you were… getting a bit violent.”
“A shame.” Banjooooo turned to the exit once more.
“Where’re you going? You’ve got to… stop it!”
“I don’t owe the world a thing, Finny,” he said, not turning. “My kingdom’s gone, my team is dead. Hell, if they get blown to bits, I get more time to myself. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing, man… nothing except…” he paused, gasping for breath. “Except… for these…” he wheezed, tossing something at the sea monkey. Banjooooo caught it, glanced down at his hand, and froze. “Thought that would get you…”
Banjooooo said nothing, and Finny grinned sickly. Abruptly the sea monkey turned and vanished down a corridor. Fin Fang Foom’s grin faded, but a glint stayed in his eyes. He closed them, and slowly the rising and falling of his chest stopped.

In the outskirts of Parodiopolis, there wasn’t much activity. Ever since the Incident, life in the Parodyverse had revolved around the giant industries, there simply wasn’t room for independent living. Farmer Bob’s house was an example of this. Once a prime example of country living, it was now only a shell. Some of its support structures stood, and the foundation was there. But the inside was hollow, gutted. The wooden beams were half-rotted, and looked as though a simple breeze could cause their collapse. And that’s probably what would have happened. That is, if the breeze were given a chance.
The air rippled with heat as flame shot down from the sky. Whatever it was slammed through the old house, annihilating it. It exploded into the earth several meters further, burying itself deep into the ground. Debris shot up, then fell back down. Quiet returned.
Then a hand appeared from under the wreckage.

The silence of the alley was interrupted with the sound of ragged breaths. A single pair of booted feet ran through, scattering puddles and crushing a soggy cardboard box. He left the alley, and calm reigned for all of five seconds. Then three pairs of feet followed the same path as the first, entering and leaving the alley in less time than it takes to tell. The sounds of gunfire echoed through the streets.

“So, honey,” Lisa grunted, hefting another group of guards through the wall, “Was this how you saw married life?”
“Pretty much,” he said distractedly, fiddling with a control panel, “Except with less constant hounding and battles, and more sleep.”
“Sleep is overrated. The night can be used for so many other things,” she replied mischievously as she barricaded the nearby door. “Not to rush you, but you almost finished? Vanderbilt’s groupies are almost getting annoying.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” he muttered, then gave a shout of success. “There we go!”
Lisa looked around. “What… exactly did that do, dear?”
“Uh…” Jarvis looked somewhat sheepish. “I was hoping it was his main security system… guess not. So either I’ve somehow disabled… something, or I wired his microwave to his television.”
“Now I know why I keep you around,” she sighed. A pounding came from behind the barricaded door. “They’re ba-ack…”
“Think you can take ‘em?”
“I dunno, Jarvikins… the last bunch took a lot out of me. Think you could lend a hand?”
Jarvis sighed. “This takes forever to recharge, y’know.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Which would be…?”
“The ‘Lisa not being killed’ Foundation.”
“I donated to that last year…”
“Giving has its own rewards. I can think of at least six right now… and I think you’d enjoy each of them.”
“Sold,” he grinned. “So how many of ‘em do you figure there are?” At that moment, the door blew inwards and three dozen grunts poured in.
“’Bout that many,” she replied, leaping for the first batch.
“You’re such a help,” he said, readying an energy blast. It was another one of those nights.

It had not been a good day for Gazza. He had forgotten to set his alarm the night before, and slept in. This had left him with ten minutes to get to work. He had quickly showered, skipped breakfast, and sped over to the royal palace with a minute and a half to spare. He had arrived in the change room with thirty seconds left, switched clothes, and arrived at his post exactly one second late. His supervisor had docked his pay.
Ever since then, Gazza had been rotating between several posts on the east wall, and continuously thinking evil thoughts about his supervisor. He had to admit that it wasn’t a bad job, if a bit strict and monotonous. Guarding Oceania’s leaders had its glory, but the fact was, no one knew enough about the leaders to bother attacking them. This left the guards with a slack, well-paying, and mind-numbing job. Gazza cursed his supervisor a few more times for good measure.
As he bent over to pick up what appeared to be a penny, he noticed a large, fast-moving shadow on the ground. He glanced upwards, and the breath caught in his throat. Directly above him was a veritable army of flying robots, each armed with enormous weapons of all types imaginable. Gazza swore under his breath and struggled to release the radio from his belt while running to a nearby gun turret. He tripped over a loose brick at the same moment as he loosed the radio. It went flying several meters in front of him. Swearing under his breath, he started crawling over to it, freeing his gun at the same time. When he was in reach of his target, though, the worst of all possibilities came to be. A pair of metal feet came to rest between him and the radio. The boot jets slowly turned off as the robot came to a landing. It didn’t even look down at him, but peered around. Noticing the gun turret, it calmly raised an arm. An instant later, the turret had vanished in a ball of flame. The robot didn’t flinch.
Gazza frantically went over his options. Retreat wasn’t very likely to succeed, with the firepower this thing had. Surrender was just as risky. He sighed, and resignedly raised his weapon, its muzzle pointed at the thing’s chest. He fired, and the special ammo ripped through the metal cavity. He breathed a sigh of relief, for he hadn’t really expected that to work. The sigh turned into a gasp as he saw the robot’s head move. It glanced downwards, as if examining its smoking chest, then its glowing eyes focused on him. He gulped as its arm slowly aimed at his head.

He had made his way slowly from the countryside to the edge of Parodiopolis. It had taken him an indeterminate amount of time, for he had crawled the entire way. He needed food, water, and sleep. Unfortunately, he was to receive none of these. For the centipede was then squashed by an enormous, powerful hand. The man was battered and bruised, his face hidden in the shadows. He was slowly making his way through the city streets, steadily approaching the center. He had been crawling for hours, ever since his landing kilometers away. He had a goal. And he meant to accomplish it.

The man had paused for breath in a doorway, hidden in the shadows. He was hunched over, gasping for breath. He knew that he couldn’t stay there long, and that there were several men after him. But he also knew that he was sick and tired of running. That’s about all he’d been doing for years. Ever since his destiny had been revealed.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a shot rang out, and a chip flew out of the wall in front of his face. He whirled around and peered out into the alleyway, but could see no one. Three more shots revealed that someone was there. He leapt behind a nearby dumpster and reached into his back pocket. Taking a deep breath, he spun around the corner and whipped several objects at seemingly random angles. He was rewarded with several cries of pain. With a triumphant grin, he strode into the open. He wasn’t cut down by gunfire. Whistling, he wandered away, in the general direction of downtown. All that was left were several men, each stuck to a wall with what looked suspiciously like razor-sharp envelopes.

“Well? How are we doing?” NTU-150 asked insistently.
“Have I mentioned that this needs concentration?” the Departed asked coldly.
“For heaven’s sakes, you’re more than powerful enough to handle this. So?”
The Departed sighed. “Oceania has fallen, the palace was taken. The Euroasian capital was taken with surprisingly little resistance. The United South America was in enough trouble before you interfered. Your robots have ignited conflicts again. Whatever government exists will be in shambles by morning. And,” he paused, then continued, “you’ll be happy to hear that Vanderbilt’s having troubles of his own.”
NTU, who had grown obviously more cheerful with each listed victory, suddenly became serious. “Troubles? Could this interfere with our plans?”
“Not at all. The Canadian Resistance is invading. The added chaos can only help us. Now, are you prepared?”
“Of course!” NTU cried, insulted. “The question is, are you?”
The Departed replied with a gesture that blew the front doors off of Vanderbilt Towers. “After you.”
The pair strode confidently into the lobby, where they found a couple dozen guns pointed at them.
“Evening, fellows,” NTU called out cheerfully. “I’d suggest putting those down, else my friend here won’t be too pleased.” The guards didn’t flinch. NTU shrugged. “I warned you.” The Departed raised both arms, and fire ripped out of each muzzle. None of it reached the intruders, but splashed off of an energy shield. The Departed chuckled, and suddenly the men exploded.
“Violence does have a certain charm,” he said thoughtfully.
“That was a touch gratuitous, you have to admit.”
“Even I have to have some fun every once and a while.”
NTU didn’t answer this, but walked purposefully to the stairs. He paused at the door and gestured to the Departed to follow. They made their way up several floors, and through many guards. At the seventh level, they found themselves facing a television screen. On it was the face of Hal Vanderbilt.
“NTU-150,” he murmured. “I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you.”
“You do realise that you have no chance, Vanderbilt,” NTU said arrogantly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied smugly. “I suppose it would be useless to try and reason with you?”
“I don’t think you’re in the place to bargain.”
“I beg to differ.” Vanderbilt snapped his fingers, and dozens of cannons appeared from the wall. Before NTU could react or the Departed could erect a shield, lasers shot out from all corners of the staircase. NTU-150 was annihilated without being able to scream. The Departed glanced at the still present cannons, then turned to Vanderbilt with a bemused look on his face.
“Well played,” he said simply.
“I thought so. Any reason I shouldn’t do the same to you?”
“Well, there are the explosives set at key support structures around the building, but I’d like to think that, as adults, we can discuss this without bringing those into the picture.”
“Are you suggesting a bargain of some sort?”
“Well, we are in a bit of a stalemate. You could doubtless vaporise me, but I could level your building. Neither suits my goals.”
“And those would be?”
The Departed chuckled. “I just don’t want to be bored.”

“Dammit, why did he have to do that?” Banjooooo muttered to himself as he sped through the air. “Of all things… I’m not a hero anymore, all I wanted was some peace and quiet.”
The king of sea monkeys had been flying almost non-stop since the confrontation with Zemo to try and stop the hydrogen bomb. He had been slowly gaining ever since, but now it was nearing Parodiopolis and he still had quite a way to go. Cursing himself and Fin Fang Foom, he pushed on the speed. As they passed over the remains, he managed to grab onto one of the tail fins. He pulled himself up onto the body of the missile at a painstakingly slow pace and anchored himself securely. By this time, they were well into the outer limits of Parodiopolis. He took a deep breath, glanced down at the deadly weapon below him, and realised something.
“I’m sitting on a freakin’ H-Bomb!” he yelled. Frantically, his hands went to work, searching for any means of prying open the thing and rewiring it, either to stop the explosion or to change its course. Unfortunately, the outer carapace seemed to be seamless. Growling in frustration, he concentrated on shifting his weight to aim it at the horizon. It seemed to be working until the jets kicked in and automatically steadied the course. He swore. They were now coming dangerously close to the roofs of buildings below. It was far too late for him to get out of the destruction zone. There was only one option left. He closed his eyes tightly, and slammed his fists through the bomb’s surface. Searching quickly, he took whatever handhold he could, and pulled with all his might. An inner section of the bomb came loose in his arms. He had no time for self-congratulation, for the bomb was nearing the ground. Praying that he’d done enough, Banjooooo leaped off the projectile and soared high into the air. If it had worked, he would be more than far enough away. If it hadn’t, then he’d be dead.
The bomb slammed into the ground.
An explosion ripped it to shreds, consuming everything around it.
Banjooooo sighed, and folded his arms, in what he expected to be the last seconds of his time on earth.
But his death never came.
The explosion was already calming, leaving flaming buildings and fiery debris, but nothing else. Banjooooo had removed both the atom and hydrogen bombs from inside, leaving only the kilograms of TNT. He had won. Breathing a sigh of relief, he reached beneath a scale and pulled out the prize that Fin Fang Foom had rewarded him. The last sea monkey eggs. With the eggs in one hand and the remains of the bomb under his arm, he began the journey back to his kingdom.

Donar had finally arrived within sight of his target. Vanderbilt Towers loomed above him. He had crawled through half the city, unable to summon the strength to even stand. The loss of Mjalcom had weakened him greatly. But now, he would be able to understand. He would be able to find the source of the threat to his kingdom. Whether it be Vanderbilt, the Canadian Resistance, or an unnamed third party, the king of Euroasia would squash the menace like the insect he had killed earlier. If only he could manage the last few blocks.
As he reached out yet again, ready to pull himself forward another meter or so, something made him look up. It could have been some Ausgardian sense, or maybe he saw a shadow on the ground. Either way, what he saw was not welcome. Almost directly above him was Banjooooo, king of sea monkeys, shooting into the air. More importantly, a missile was plummeting downwards, to its inevitable landing site about a half block between him and the Towers. With his last breath, he swore revenge on those who would threaten his kingdom. And then Zemo’s last act ended the Ausgardian’s life.

It had not been a good day for Samson. He had ignored his alarm after a long night of drinking, and slept in. This had left him with seven minutes to get to work. Forgoing his shower, he had hurriedly dressed and slammed a bowl of cereal down his throat, and practically flew to Vanderbilt Towers. He had arrived in the change room with twenty-five seconds to spare, had switched into his uniform, and had arrived at his post three minutes late. His pay had been severely docked.
And now, after almost a full day of cursing his supervisor and the world in general, they were being invaded by two separate groups. His squadron had been sent after the head group of the Canadian Rebels. The ones that happened to have superpowers. He was severely displeased.
His mood didn’t improve when suddenly the building was rocked by an explosion outside.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted, struggling to stand.
“Forget it!” the squad leader yelled back, “Nothing short of an H-Bomb could take this place down! Now, converge on sector 53!”
Samson muttered something about how bad a day this was turning out to be, then finally got to his feet and sprinted after his group. He caught up to them just in time to see a stunning woman rip a good chunk of the wall out, causing the ceiling to collapse on his fellow guards. He stopped dead in his tracks, stunned at what he had seen, then raised his gun. This caused the woman to notice him.
“Jarvikins, I missed one! Would you mind finishing him? I think I broke a nail.”
“I did mention this stuff takes forever to recharge, right?” he muttered, raising a fist nonetheless. Samson was rooted to the spot as a light began to form around the man’s hand. Within seconds it was glowing brightly. He instinctively raised his hands to protect his face as the energy shot at him. It splashed harmlessly off his wrists. The man looked down at his fist, disgusted.
“I used to be able to do a lot more than THAT without recharging. Honey, change of plans, you take him.”
“Fine, but you owe me,” she said, striding forward. Samson raised his gun to point at her, but she calmly reached over and crushed the muzzle. “Hey, you’re kinda cute… maybe after this whole invasion business, we could go out sometime,” she smiled.
“I am right here, y’know,” Samson heard the man say as her fist introduced him to unconsciousness.

As the man sat exhausted, hidden behind a pile of trash, his mind wandered back to his past. He had once been a hero, admired by the people. He had fought countless battles, often failing, but never giving up. He and his friends had always ended up triumphant. That is, until the Battle of Destinies. None of them remembered it, except for him. Boy, am I the lucky one, he thought dryly. The details weren’t clear, and not particularly important, but they had gone up against a foe that knew their futures. As he confronted each of them, their fates had been revealed. And, as suddenly as he had arrived, he had left, leaving no memory of the occurrence with any of them.
Except for him.
His destiny hadn’t been a particularly cheerful one. It certainly had its good parts. Staying with the Lair Legion, he would fight a good many battles. In fact, he would have been crucial in one of them, so the prophecy said. He would be the one to stop the destroyer, and save the earth. He would be the world’s hero and saviour. But there was a downside, and it was a whopper.
His death was supposed to herald the end of the world.
Desperate to change his future, he had quit the Legion and gone off on his own, living in isolation, hoping that a lack of human contact would somehow eliminate his effect on humanity’s fate. He kept himself informed through television and radio. Years later, he heard of the arrival of the Terrible One.
At first, he thought this would be just another battle in which the Legion would come out triumphant. But as the reports came through, he slowly came to realise that this was the battle prophesized to him. This was where he was supposed to triumph.
He did nothing, but continued to listen to reports. They became grimmer and grimmer, but he never gave up the hope that his former teammates would prevail. As they fell, one by one, so did his optimism. Finally, he decided that no destiny was worth the death of his friends, and, using the last of his money, had bought an airplane ticket to as close to the battle as possible.
When he arrived, everyone was gone.
He didn’t know what had happened, and had searched for clues. Eventually, he had discovered the truth, and his mind had snapped. For weeks, months, or years, he had stumbled drunkenly around the globe, in despair over his failure. When he finally sobered up, he found himself being gunned down by a group of assassins. It seemed that he had told everyone near him about his destiny, and an Armageddon cult had found out. They wanted him dead.
For years now, he had been running from them, not only to save his own life, but to save the world. He had no way of knowing whether the prophecy still held true, but he couldn’t risk it. He somehow knew, from the instant that he heard the words “With the death of the Messenger comes the death of all,” that he could never escape, that he was fighting the inevitable. And he was so tired.
“So tired…” he murmured.
“Then let me put you to sleep, pal,” grunted a rough voice from beside him. In an instant, Messenger had pulled out a handful of razor-sharp envelopes and had whipped them at the source of the voice. In the same instant, the assassin had shot. The gun had been point blank range from Messenger’s head. The bullet had entered through his eye to his brain. The man had died instantly, but the assassin had paid the price. The envelopes had cut him to ribbons. He was dying, and he knew it. But he didn’t seem terribly upset.
“The end is near,” he gloated. “The end… is here.” As the world turned dark, he saw a figure appear in midair in front of him. He smiled, and his world ended, knowing that the real world would soon follow.

by spiffy