The Initiative #4: Victor's Creed

The Initiative #4
Victor's Creed
Witchbreed Pt. 1

Now
The stress-ball fell perfectly into Tony's cupped hands. He tossed it again, feet propped up against his – now clean – desk. He had yet to return to the Expo since The Wolverine had somehow managed to overcome one of the most advanced security systems in the world. If it was anyone else, Tony would have been – relatively – okay. But that's not what the man was best at. He was… a wince caused the billionaire to miss his catch, the ball bouncing off his face and rolling across the concrete floor of his lab. Rubbing his nose, he cursed the synthetic-flesh covering his shoulder. Not even his armor could stop adamantium claws from piercing the metal.

There was no way that hairy, little bastard was capable of disabling J.A.R.V.I.S.'s system to such extent that he was taken entirely offline. Tony's mansion, the Expo, and his armor weren't the only things affected. It shut down the Tower, the factory here in Malibu, and more. It should have been impossible. J.A.R.V.I.S. in theory should have been able to defend himself or switch to a backup network at least long enough to warn Tony.

"You know, I never played catch with my father," Tony muttered as he went after the ball.

"You had others, I'm sure."

"I had you," Tony's wince grew as he reached under the nearest hotrod. Thank god this wasn't stitches. "Well, kinda. Mrs. Jarvis was a better cook though. She had you beat, bud."

J.A.R.V.I.S. had no witty retort at the ready. Not a good sign according to Tony's gut. J.A.R.V.I.S. was the first fully functional virtual intelligence he had ever designed that almost seemed like he bordered on true artificial Intelligence after nearly a decade knowing more about Tony's systems, business, and the world than he did. However, he was still a machine. He'd been programmed. Learning to cough to interrupt intimate moments, well if he ever reached killer robot stages, that's what memory wipes were for.

"Think fast!" Tony spun, throwing the ball

A claw hand held it squished in its clamps. It moved towards Tony, holding the ball out with as earnest an expression a faceless arm could have.

"You are on point this week. Why'd I put you in the Corner of Shame again?"

Dum-E made a gesture that was a bit like the worm but something Tony had learned to recognize as a shrug. His baby boy was older than even J.A.R.V.I.S., built when his dad was still alive. A crowning achievement that went largely ignored by his father.

"I have discovered the source of the intrusion, Mr. Stark."

"What was it?" Tony scrambled to catch the wild throw from Dum-E, diving for it and landing on his injured shoulder. God, he missed being able to take painkillers.

"Batman."

Tony stayed on the ground, realizing it needed to be swept as dust bunnies blew across the floor, for a long moment until the agony forced him to pick himself back up. That was not exactly the explanation he was expecting to hear. Of all the possible outcomes, Batman was not one of them. That crazy antisocial asshole with his cult of kids would never be caught dead in the sun of Malibu. And yet, he was missing according to his intel. Perhaps the reason was the same as Wolverine. The two had teamed up. They were seeking some sort of secret known only to Howard Stark and others involved in special operations during World War II.

It didn't make a lick of sense. At the same time, Wolverine busting in on his own was just as impossible. So which was more plausible? No. No way. Not happening. He'd eliminated the impossible, what remained, no matter how improbable must be the truth.

Batman and the Wolverine. Just… Wow.

"Not the Batman, sir. Simply the word input within one of the mansion's access panels outside of the property proper.

"Huh?" Tony was not accustomed to this sort of confusion.

J.A.R.V.I.S. possessed the decency to answer the question as tactfully as he could. "If you recall, the previous Mr. Stark is the one who began the work on my systems. Unfortunately, I was left unfinished until you built the mansion. Prior to that, your father understood the potential need for a backdoor hidden deep with my core processes that would grant complete administrative access if the command prompt: Batman was used."

"I guess dear old dad died before he learned about proper password security." Tony slammed both hands on his desk in frustration. How did Wolverine know that?

The light from black and white pictures illuminated his features. Behind him, or rather before him now, he had all the slides found in the attic updated to holograms. Just screens that no longer needed a wall to be seen. He watched them pass until his father, younger than he'd ever seen with a mustache and goatee of his own, appeared with a bunch of soldiers. The original Jarvis was there too, in soldier's fatigues instead of being dressed in the same pristine three-piece style suit Tony remembered from every day of his childhood.

"Stop." He raised his head for a closer look. "Enhance the center quadrant."

Son of a bitch.

His dad knew the Wolverine.



Then
The rain fell on the hooded Runt's face. He stood alone, out in the open, behind barbed fences with their gunmen pointing and laughing at him. He looked up at the dark clouds, awaiting the silver lining. The mud covered his bare feet. They hadn't given him shoes. Or socks. Or barely anything. So he stood there, rain washing the filth off his face.

What do we tell ourselves, mutt?

"First in," he said to the thundering sky.

But we don't say the next bit, do we?

"No."

Say it with me. What's the Victor's Creed?

"Only ones out."

Only ones. That's right. When it comes down to it, it's you and me, Runt. Not even the Sarge. Just us. Brothers, right?

"Only ones out." Runt recited by rote, cracking his knuckles, feeling the bones only he had ache to punch through the skin. Intel said Zemo had been linked to the area and he was in fact the Baron of Sokovia. This labor camp was as good as any to track down a lead. Unfortunately, not all the Howling Commandos could join him. And Dog, well… they'd have tried and failed to put Dog down. Only Runt could sell the con.

Sarge had taken him aside and told him that he didn't need to do this. They could find another way. Then pretty boy Trevor had said the same thing. Neither of them had experienced what Runt had as a child, the hatred, being treated like an animal, something not… human. The child of a devil, of a witch. If this would stop Zemo, if this would save his people then he had only one choice.

"Are you crazy?" A man came stomping through the mud. A red inverted triangle superimposed over a yellow one on his coat immediately identified the man at the most basic level. "Come, come in before you catch your death…" he glanced at the guards. "Poor phrasing on my part. Come in from the cold, my friend, we don't bite."

"I do."

"Ha," a tug on his sleeve and Runt followed, "A joker. It is my hope that you can keep your humor, my friend."

Eventually, his new friend led him out of the rain and into the company of miserable people within his comfortable little shack. They shared the double triangles for the most part. They were exhausted, tired, dirty. But they were alive. More than could said by many other people. Less likely to be said the longer this war raged.

"I am Samuel. Ah, you smile. It is a good smile. What makes you laugh, friend?"

Samuel's compatriots didn't seem to share his good nature. They looked at the ground, mended clothing, did their best to ignore Runt. That was fine by him.

"I know a Sam. Call him Happy."

"But does your Sam have long flowing locks like myself?" Samuel waved at nonexistent gray hair, whipping it over his shoulder in a great utilization of delusion.

"That's Samson."

"Oh ho," Samuel clapped his hand over his heart and another on the woman the must be his wife. "With such a savage visage, I did not expect you to possess erudite qualities. However, my son, wherever he may be does have glorious hair. I win this round of witticism."

The silence grew. Runt expected two questions, and as he waited, he recited the Victor's Creed in his head. It had many meanings. It differed by the decade, by who they served, whether Dog and Runt needed to have each other's back above all others. But for the most part, it meant no survivors. A difficult choice to make when you started befriending new people.

Made all the more difficult that this was already more personal than it should be.

"James," he offered when the question never came, giving them the fake identity the Commandos had come up with. "You can call me James."

Samuel nodded, talking about how it was some strong name. His wife though, she met Runt's eyes and read through the bullshit.

"What does you badge mean, James?"

He glanced down at his chest with the black triangle with a sideways cross – an X – through it.

"Means I picked the fight in the wrong bar and when I kept going after they stabbed me, well…" he shrugged.

There were murmurs and a backing away. Prayers were mutter. Samuel's wife was taken aback even.

"Normally they brand Witchbreed," Samuel said slowly, curiously.

Runt held his hand to the candlelight, letting the flame tickle at his skin. "Doesn't seem to take."

"Then I truly pity you, James, when Zemo comes… he will come for you."

"That's what I'm betting on."

First in. Only ones out.


"Incoming call from," AIDA's voice switched to masculine for a second, "Colonel James Rhodes"

Damn it. He was still breaking in AIDA despite the massive upgrades recently installed on top of the already beyond mass produced specs the digital assistant normally had. He programmed her to be more than a suitable operating system for his armors until he could trust J.A.R.V.I.S. fully again but even virtual intelligences, especially those designed to be ever so helpful in day-to-day matters needed to be broken in. She didn't know to disable his transponder. They needed to work on that.

"IL-118 to Stark-One… Tony, what the hell are you doing flying over the Caribbean?"

That and work on don't answer calls unless he granted permission. How was the Advance Intelligent Digital Assistant that you could carry in your pocket, wear on your wrist, or even set on your coffee table to be your own personal J.A.R.V.I.S. that the magnificent Tony Stark uses to manage his home, offices, and armors… How was it Stark Industries greatest profit earner last year? Useless. And his personal modifications apparently needed more tinkering.

"Oh, you know, all the stress from the Expo. Gonna relax on the beach. No margaritas I swear. Besides, I heard Tahiti is a magical place this time of year." Tony rambled.

"Tahiti is on the other side of the world."

"Shit… Okay, I'll be straight with you." He really needed to learn to lie better instead of just letting his mouth run. Rhodey could be trusted though. Probably. "Got a lead on the mutant that attacked the defenseless hotdog* stand at the Expo. The steroid he was pumped with had a natural additive from a lotus flower found only on Santa Prisca. Coupled with some pollen found on his suit… Thought it worth checking out."

"Did you hack –"

"I did not hack Fury's systems. He told me himself. And what did I tell you about using that word?"

"I'm supposed to believe the most paranoid man in the world just gave you that?"

"It was an equal exchange. I provided him some helpful info. Plus, he owed me for you guys." What Tony did not add was Fury asked him to investigate it personally to keep it off SHIELD's radar.

"Need any help?"

"I'm fine. Gotta break in my new copilot. Keep the Legion on Pepper and the Expo. Maybe assign a couple to help Fury if he asks, covertly of course. End Call." Tony sighed, relaxing because every word after getting caught in his lie was true. "AIDA. In the future, I answer the phone. Also delete all record of that call from the Legion's servers."

"My apologies, Mr. Stark. Deleting files now. Based on your increased heartrate, perspiration, and the evasiveness you attempted with Colonel Rhodes, would you like me to disable the Mark XLVI's transponder?

Okay. She could learn. Slight invasion of his privacy but who was he to judge? He was inside her… Even in the confines of his head, he realized that sounded wrong. After telling her yes – Rhodey would know where to start looking for him if he went missing – the rest of the flight passed in relative silence. Relative being even he needed some music on long trips and staying in this position for optimal speed wasn't entirely comfortable.

Iron Man hovered high above the isle. Ever helpful as a digital assistant, AIDA brought up the history of the island in the corner of his HUD starting with the origin of the name. Child Martyr. That was a new story to him. Young girl killed for her steadfast beliefs by Romans after multiple incarcerations failed to convert her. Not quite sure that led to a fitting name for an island with the giant prison on the horizon and a moderate beach town.

"Sensory blanket discovered on the southeast side of the island."

Thrusters blasting off, he landed mere seconds later without worrying about the environment. He stood up from his crater amidst the foliage and stepped out of his bootprints. Time to go at this old school style. He checked magnetic readings, finding what seemed to be a door farther inland and getting a few pings beneath him. Hmmm.

He punched the ground and pulled his fist out. Selecting the proper missile to drill into the ground and release an echoing pulse. It had static but the picture that came back was definitely some sort of facility. Bigger than a bunker at least. Continuing the old school, analogue route, he just walked to where he detected the potential entrance.

It was in the middle of a pond with lotus flowers floating atop it. Time for a swim. Or sink. Or both. He was Iron Man after all.

*To find out more about the Evil Hater of Hotdogs, go check out The Initiative Reserves #1


Runt woke to a bullet falling in his lap, the scent of his own blood running in rivers down either side of his nose. He blinked his eyes clear. His head was pounding beyond words yet he knew the man he saw sitting business-like behind a large desk neatly covered in papers and folders and other miscellaneous documents. The many headed serpent on his armband, the slick backed hair, the handsome features of an officer who sent others to die for him while he was comfy, in a chair, running everything because someone had to keep the trains on time.

Zemo.

The monster that paraded as a human.

Zemo looked up. A smile stretched cheek to cheek. He clapped once, satisfied at what he saw. He then pulled a watch from his chest pocket. The smile turned to a frown. He tucked it back into his uniform and came around the desk until he was almost in reaching distance of Runt. The bastard was right there. Right there. And if Runt wasn't shackled in a chair to the point of losing circulation in his hands and feet, he could end the creature once and for all.

"You gave your new comrades quite the fright, James," Zemo showed his teeth. "Imagine their terror when I toss a Witchbreed like you back among them. Risen from the dead like Christ himself though I doubt that holds much meaning to them."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Not original but what else can you expect from the runt of the litter? Ah yes. I know who you are. I was there in Markovia when you and that perfect specimen of the Führer's beliefs turned yourselves into meat-shields so that Captain Steve Trevor, guardian of America's traditional values, could cross No Man's Land with the rest of the Howling Commandos. First in, last out… yes? I suppose you had to be. I was smart enough to run from the men who would not die."

That was new information to Runt. They didn't know Zemo had been stationed in Markovia. And it was the perfect example of why the second part should be only ones out for the whole squad.

"News to you? Hmm. They did not send their man with the best poker face, did they?

Runt really wanted to spit at him, but instinct told him the Nazi bastard expected it. He was going to deny the Baron the satisfaction of being right.

"If you would be so accommodating," an impressed tone entered his voice, "I have made it my life's work to study your kind, to make man better, to control it. Like you Americans have if propaganda is to be believed. I do not trust nature. Or the breeding of witches." he laughed at his own joke. "Please, die for me."

The gun was out before Runt could react. The squeeze of the trigger. The bullet pierced his skull.

Runt woke to a bullet falling in his lap, the scent of his own dried blood running in rivers down either side of his nose. He blinked his eyes clear. Zemo was back at his desk, working. The sound of Runt stirring alerted him to the presence of no longer being alone in his office.

He pulled out the watch. Studied it. Came around his desk and grabbed Runt by the head, careful to keep his fingers out of biting range.

"Two minutes quicker."

The gun once more. The smell of the powder.

Runt woke to the third bullet in his lap, the scent of his stale blood running in rivers down either side of his nose. He blinked his eyes clear. His struggles trying to figure out where he was nearly pulled his hands free of their shackles in a painful tear of flesh.

Zemo checked his watch. Recorded it. Pulled the trigger a third time.

That was the Howling Commando's day. He'd wake up confused, Zemo would examine him and record the information. There'd been only one interruption. When he came to, Zemo was not alone. They spoke in hushed, angered tones about more escapees and a ghost. Runt tried to fake being dead but that was a lot harder to do when you had just spent god knows how many minutes toing the line to the afterlife. They went quiet after that and Zemo shot him quicker than usual.

Clipboard in hand, the Baron stood over his captured Witchbreed. "How long does a wound like that usually take to heal?"

"Varies."

"Hmm. Are you sure or are you lying to me?"

"Not exactly like there's always a clock around so I know the time when some asshole shoots me in the head, bub."

"Well then I am pleased to tell you out of ten trials with shots to your temple in the same precise position, your regeneration rate quickened by thirteen minutes. We both learned something today." He patted Runt's shoulder, happy, and withdrew it quickly when the latter tried to bite it. "So James… No. I do not like that. No surname. And runt, that could be anyone."

Zemo sat the clipboard down on the desk, fingers tip-tapping it. "I know. I will call you Howlette." He turned back to Runt, showing all his teeth. "Because you are small and weak like a woman or a child."

"I thought you bastards didn't care about the names of your lessers."

"Oh, but I do, Mr. Howlett. How else if say, your allies were to discover my research, would they know about the Witchbreed among us." Runt was going to knock all those teeth out after he shoved his fist down the Baron's throat, gutting him from the inside. "The Reich is not alone in the hatred of your kind."



"AIDA, if a facehugger drops from ceiling and starts secreting acid until it gets through my faceplate, you have my permission to begin self-destruction protocols."

"Would you prefer it to be initiated before or after your chest bursts open, Mr. Stark?"

"You got a pop-culture reference. I'm not sure if I should be proud or not."

"I can begin play –"

"Not proud it is."

After a decade or so of being the Hugh Hefner of superheroes, Tony could honestly say he was creeped out by all the creaking of pipes, skittering of bugs and spiders, the hiss of something broken in the distance and of course, the flickering lights. The facility had not seen use in a long time but he had a feeling it wasn't quite uninhabited. He was completely honest about getting the whole James Cameron vibes from the place.

It had that whole retro-futuretech going on. Stuff his dad used to make for SHIELD and other less savory buyers when the previous director wanted to play hard to get. Fury, on the other hand, knew better than to annoy the man who kept his couple of helicarriers in the air. It came dangerously close to Tony breaking his no more warmongering-code but they added the weapons after Stark Industries built the frame. What they did once they paid… Eh, it still gave him a queasy feeling in his gut. At least his Iron Legion could be trusted.

The illumination from his helmet and his armor's running lights provided a decent view. Ironically, Tony had been forced to resort to skills embodied by the very men he was on the trail of with the sensory blanket. Sonar reflected back in an unending ripple. He followed the tracks of in the dust. Pawprints and tiny little feet. He added Cujo and creepy children to his list of potential threats. It was a damn b-horror movie down here.

Skittering across the hall behind him.

Tony spun, hands up, repulsors whining.

Empty.

So far, all he'd found were traces of the pollen, tracks, and a pantry that could survive an apocalypse that had seen a limited amount of use. This trail was a dead-end until he found some central computer to boot up and download all the information it had. Whoever was here, well, they could always find him. Time to start down any one of those dusty corridors.

Something came flying out of an open doorway at about shin level. Tony reacted on instinct, firing off a single low-powered beam that blasted it back into the room with a whimper. Then everything went to hell. His greatest fear came true. A tiny, flexible, extremely agile creature dropped down from the pipes above. Tony was proud enough to admit while he was alone that it wasn't his greatest moment. He screamed a bit. Peed just a little. Then he remembered he was in one of the most powerful armors he ever created.

Snikt!

He hated that sound.