Issue 14

Company of Heroes

He screamed into the dark.

It drowned out the sound of rainfall, of idling engines, of hissing steam. The sounds of the city were eclipsed as he rebelled against the nightmare. The red eyes peering down at him were unperturbed. Blood dripped from talons wreathed with crackling lightning, falling onto his face.

Strung up by his legs from the lamp post, Frank Castle felt powerless. The presence above leered at him and reached out to gently run an electrified claw up his thigh, splitting the skin once more and cauterising the wound at the same time.

He screamed despite himself.

He screamed as he awoke.

His heart was pounding as he tore himself upright, panting heavily.

Eyes glancing about, his pulse slowed as he recognised the dishevelled nature of his apartment. A small and rundown place perfectly within his meagre veteran budget. He could hear police sirens screeching past his window as he took a deep breath.

It had been a while since he'd had a nightmare. Castle had thought that all past him by now. After reliving the memories of war, of losing…them, he had figured nothing in his mind could scare him any more. Not after living through all that.

The soft glow of his clock showed the time to be eight minutes past midnight. And he'd tried to get in an early night tonight too. Castle took another deep breath and untangled himself from the sheets before getting out of bed.

There was no way he was going back to sleep tonight after all. Might as well try to get something useful done.

"How are you not dead yet?!" Snipe asked, peering over his tinted glasses at the masked man standing without apparent discomfort in the midday sun.

Wilhelm didn't bother answering, focusing on the march. One foot after the other.

One. Two.

One. Two.

"Seriously mate, that can't be good for you," Snipe continued as he walked just to the Krieger's right. He waved a hand to encompass the soldier. "I should know – this heat? Comparable to the outback. Or have you got some water drip in that mask of yours? Air con?"

"Leave him be Snipe. Fellow is good at what he does, and knows his limits," Engie called from a few steps behind them.

The squad was out on patrol, again. Doing the rounds, they called it.

Liefeld Field Logistics had been contracted out to the UN, and assigned to support the Peacekeeper forces situated just north of the Wakandan border. Which meant they got all the shitty jobs to keep the actual peacekeepers fresh and ready for action.

Midday patrols in the African summer. Setting up camps and digging ditches. Playing courier for the various odds and ends the UN needed delivered from one place to another.

Hardly glamorous work, but it paid well.

For Wilhelm, it was the closest he had ever felt to home. Sure, the squad he had been assigned to was far more vocal than his kinsmen in the Korps had ever been, but he could lose himself in his duties here. The climate was unpleasant, true, but he had served across a multitude of worlds and knew how to best keep himself in fit condition no matter the temperature.

One. Two.

One. Two.

He kept walking at a steady pace, head slowly turning from side to side as he scanned their surroundings. They had a dedicated scout at the head of the group, a young man with a cap a brim shading the back of his neck, wielding a machete as he hacked through the tall grass. Snipe grumbled something and shifted the pack on his back, peering out through his glasses at their surroundings.

"Watering hole should be nearby. We can break there for a bit then swing back westwards," the man stated. To travel too far east was to get caught up in the war proper.

Wilhelm wouldn't have minded in truth, but he had been ordered to patrol with these soldiers, and he did so with no complaint. As a Korpsman, he knew well how vital the seemingly boring drudgery of soldiery was to a successful campaign. Logistics were the lifeblood of a regiment, especially the Death Korps. It ensured they were always ready to face whatever came their way, be it xenos or traitor.

He felt a twinge of pride at that, remembering the numerous times he and his had stood and fought and died in the name of the God-Emperor. A hundred worlds. A hundred wars. He had spent time digging trenches and living them. He had hauled heavy artillery shells by hand when the Trojans broke down. He had shot heretics fleeing the Emperor's wrath with lasgun and mortar. He had dispatched traitors and aliens with blade and fist. He had waited out besieged fortresses with sombre singing. He had guarded prisoners in steadfast silence.

He was a Korpsman of Krieg. And he had been granted a moment of peace in this strange world before the God-Emperor called upon him again.

And when that call would come, he would be ready. Ready to spread his Truth to the unenlightened masses, and to spread his Word to all.

СКАЛA CLAIMS LAKE VICTORIA!

Week One Ends With Victory For Wakanda

Following their initial clashes with the Wakandan military, the terrorist group has fallen back to the eastern border of the small nation and entrenched itself amongst the waters of the great lake. Independent reports from the region have painted a harrowing picture of the nature of futuristic warfare, exposing the might of the until-recently isolationist Wakanda to the world, and the potential threat of unchecked security organisations such as SHIELD.

Casualty reports have not been released by either side of the conflict, though there persist unconfirmed rumours that the Black Panther, a superhero native to Wakanda, has suffered several injuries and been pulled out of the front lines to recuperate. Several СКАЛA airships have been destroyed, and all ground based forces forced to retreat in the face of the power of Wakanda's Queen – Ororo Iqadi T'Challa, also known as the vigilante mutant Storm. The terrorist group's first venture into the wealthy nation was repulsed with extreme prejudice, though not at without seeming cost.

SHIELD has reportedly petitioned the UN to be permitted to intervene in the conflict, citing the usage of superpowers and controlled technology by both sides as proof of a "potential risk to international stability if a swift resolution of the matter is not reached". No word as yet has been received of the UN's response to this petition.

-Page 7 article of The Daily Bugle

Nick Fury was the very image of self-control as he stood at attention and nodded his farewell to the World Security Council. The screens displaying the various representatives died as the connections were cut, leaving him alone in the dim room.

He took a breath. And held it for a moment before swearing.

SHIELD was going to have to sit on the side-lines once again. Because of politics. Bloody typical. Here was a crisis of the kind they had been founded to handle, and were poised to resolve, only to be hamstrung before even starting.

Officially, Wakanda had not requested any aid from the UN, and as such trying to enter the country, even to help, would be construed as an act of aggression or seeking to capitalise on the current situation. And Wakanda would never request aid as they had far too much to lose to even think of being indebted to anyone else.

Ever since King T'Challa's revelation of his nation's full capabilities and achievements, the entire world had lined up to court the new player in international politics. So a degree of caution was certainly warranted, but Fury couldn't help but think there could be ways to arrange assistance without making it seem like they were trying to spy on their erstwhile allies at the same time.

Except that was exactly what the World Security Council wanted to do. The technology of Wakanda was a prize unlike any other, and worth any price in their eyes to obtain. This little demonstration was proof of that, or so the subtext of their words had hinted at.

Never mind that such technology would in time be shared or matched. Once scientists knew what was possible, it was only a matter of time for them to figure out how to make it happen. SHIELD had managed to create poor imitations of Asgard technology after all. Damn politicians.

He strode out of the meeting room and headed for his office, turning over the Wakandan issue in his head. T'Challa had things well in hand, even if he was wounded. His wife would hold down the entire war effort by herself until he recovered, and the Wakandan military, though somewhat fragmented, was more than a match for some cheap HYDRA knock-off.

Fury paused when he saw Agent 7 waiting outside his door. "Seven, what can I do for you?"

The redhead started and turned to face the approaching Director. "Ah sir, I have the personnel files for WAND ready," she stated, stepping aside to let him pass.

One eyebrow rocketed up as he stopped halfway through opening the door to his office and stared at her.

"It's...a name that was suggested," she explained with a gentle cough.

Fury kept staring at her.

"It stands for Wizardry, Alchemy & Necromancy Department, sir," Agent 7 added, still not quite able to meet Fury's one eye.

...well, this was hardly what he wanted to be dealing with today, but even SHIELD Directors needed something simple to handle now and then. Fury looked away and stepped into his office, followed by Agent 7, only for the phone to ring.

He sighed and glanced at the woman behind him, who just nodded and stepped back outside, closing the door and waiting her turn. Probably using the sudden extra time to figure out how to sell that ridiculous acronym.

Well, it was hardly any more ridiculous than SHIELD or SABRE he thought to himself as he took his seat behind the desk and lifted the phone.

"Fury."

"Ah, Director. I would say it is good to hear your voice but we both know that would be a lie," said the Russian on the other end.

Perfect. Just what he needed.

"Vasily," he sighed. "What is it?"

"No need for that tone. Just extending you a professional courtesy. Consider it...a thank you for Vladivostok," replied General Vasily Karparov.

"Mhm. So this is a social call?"

"Not at all! If you care to look in your sanctioned little inbox about now, you should see our gift."

There was a beep from his computer, alerting him to a new message in his inbox. The Director reached under his desk and flicked the small toggle that instantly isolated his system from the rest of the Triskelion. "An e-card Vasily? Really?"

There was a snort. "Hardly. I vouch for the information, but whatever you wish to do with it is your business. Good day Fury." And then the bastard hung up.

Bloody Russians. An enigma to the end. Fury's gaze flickered to the door, beyond which Agent 7 was waiting. She could probably use some more time composing her arguments. He scrolled over to his inbox and took a look at what the Red Room had sent him.

A nice little password protected folder simply labelled СКАЛA.

Scum were all the same.

Stupid and cowardly.

The man dangling before him from his ankles was no different. His eyes were wide with fear as he wriggled like a worm on a hook, straining against the duct tape that held his wrists and his lips together.

The Punisher paced around him slowly, keeping to the darkness. He wasn't usually one for such theatrics, but that was turning out to be a mistake. Fear and self-interest were powerful motivators, powerful tools. He had simply misjudged the degree of fear that was necessary.

His captive continued to squirm, droplets of sweat falling from his brow, and a dark stain working its way from his crotch down to his shirt. A typical reaction really.

He was already known to the underworld. His skull emblem a dreaded harbinger of doom. And still the lawless persisted. But of course they had – he had been naive. The underworld is a brutal place, and he was but a man.

The Punisher drew his knife. A simple blade, good for stabbing and slashing. He weighed it in his hand as he inspected the figure before him.

Scum were stupid.

So, it was time to become more than just a man.

More than just a bogeyman of the criminal world.

It was time to become a legend.

The muffled whimpers turned to stifled screams as he set to work.

Irusk stood on the bridge, silent. All around him, the systems of the Torch hummed and buzzed. Two large Juggernaught class drones stood at attention behind him. His personal guard of sorts, built with the finest approximation of Vanko genius the Red Room could scrounge up.

A poor imitation of the creations Stark could muster, but they had to make do. There was no other way to simulate the potential devastation that could have been brought to bear against them at a moments notice.

Though his face was worn with age, Irusk's blue eyes remained as clear as crystal as he looked out over Lake Victoria, at the bare handful of airships that had managed to survive the first clash with the Wakandans. They were truly a mighty and fearsome people, conducting war with an almost ritualistic flair that did nothing to affect their efficiency. The verdant green plains had glittered silver with the remains of the СКАЛA drones.

It would have been a swift and decisive victory if the 09 drone hadn't been activated.

Irusk sighed as he watched a flight of herons pass by, skimming the waters surface.

He had hoped to last at least a week before having to unshackle their secret weapon. But as usual, their plan had fallen apart when confronted by the enemy. Still, they had managed to wrest a stalemate from the whole thing.

With the 09 managing to drive away the Panther within its operational limit, it was safe to say they would be able to still achieve their objective.

The commander of СКАЛA turned away from the glass, walking between his guards across the bridge. Their heavy footfalls took a moment to sync to his as they followed.

Politicians were always such careful creatures. So eager to stick to the shadows. So quick to bury anything they didn't want rearing its head into the light. Such as the crimes of the vigilante mutant Storm, when she had violated Federation airspace to launch at attack against a government facility.

Never mind the purpose of the facility, or her justifications. She had came down from on high like a demigod and mocked them all.

But actions had consequences.

And whilst Moscow and the Red Room may have balked at the thought of doing anything beyond sabre rattling towards the Queen of Wakanda, Irusk and СКАЛA had not. They could not.

So here they were, the only ones willing to do what was necessary. To take a stand against the despotic actions of those blessed with power. Irusk had no allusions as to his chances of success. But that was fine. СКАЛA's funding had ceased three years ago, with the Red Room convinced he would simple retire like a good little soldier, as if ten years of training and twenty of acting as an aggressor army to simulate SHIELD offensives against the Federation would have instilled a sense of obedience in him.

No. He had refused to stop. He had a duty to carry out, to protect the Motherland, and he would see it done.

The bare metal corridors shook with the march of the Juggernauts as he made his way to his quarters. Once, each of the airships would have required a crew of hundreds to operate. But since the official dissolution of СКАЛA, they had made do with less than half that until he had brokered the services of someone who understood.

What it meant to have a calling. A duty.

The towering red robots assumed their positions flanking his door as Irusk entered his room, the metal door banging shut behind him. He took of his cap and hung it up on the hook next to the small mirror over the sink, glancing only momentarily at his reflection.

So much grey.

Growing old didn't suit him.

Though did it suit any of them?

He closed his eyes, losing himself in memories of younger days before rallying. There was still much to do. The blue eyes opened, staring flatly at their own reflection. Irusk nodded to himself before moving to sit at his desk, tapping a command into the computer upon it as he did so.

A few seconds later and the familiar voice of their benefactor came through. "What is it?"

"09 had to be deployed ahead of schedule. Transferring the data to you now. It performed...as you predicted, your grace."

"There could be no other outcome. The intelligence's parameters coupled with the platform's limitations were enough to counter the Black Panther."

"Yes." Irusk didn't bother reporting his losses. The other man would undoubtedly know them already. "I intend to head up after the repairs are done. I suppose this is the last time we shall speak."

Silence.

Irusk sighed. "I...thank you. For your indulgence."

"You are welcome."

He wanted to ask what would come next, what the other man would get from this whole experiment. But...Irusk realized it didn't matter. He would get what he wanted, as would his benefactor.

And though he would forever be known as a traitor, a terrorist, and a fool...Irusk would die knowing he did the right thing.

Frank Castle returned home as dawn broke.

He slept soundly that day.

A/N: Not dead yet.