Cold water dribbled off of Tara Jenkins’s chin and dripped down onto the
sink. She dipped her hands back under the faucet, and brought them up to
splash her face again, then leaned forward to inspect herself in the mirror.
The last vestiges of eyeliner had been eradicated.
She had known that midnight-blue was going to be a bad decision. She didn’t
give a damn if Ash wanted to coordinate. There was no way in hell Tara was
going to her Senior Prom looking like some slutty Vegas call-girl.
She glanced up at the Garfield clock her mom had installed sixteen years ago.
Only one hour until Adam was supposed to pick her up and she’d just destroyed
the makeup design she’d planned on for the past month.
No need to panic.
Tara grabbed the nearest bottle on the sink. Glossy pink lipstick? Maybe.
Taking a deep breath, she twisted the lid off. It was empty.
Suppressing the urge to scream, Tara hurled the container down into the
wastebasket. It hit the lip, bounced out, and rolled across the tiled floor.
Nothing was going right. She should have been ready thirty minutes ago. She
should be downstairs right now, promising she’d be back before morning and
kissing her dad on the cheek. Her mom should be taking her twentieth photo of
the night.
Tara grabbed the lip of the sink, squeezing until her palms turned clammy
white. She took another breath. She looked back up into the mirror. This time,
she couldn’t quite stifle her cry. It broke past her lips as a high pitched
whine. It was happening again.
Along the line of her seventeen year old jaw, a vein stood out. Stood out
because it glowed neon blue. Stood out because it pulsed.
With each throb, the glow spread. Soon, it branched out down her neck. In
seconds, it covered her chest, rising up her arms. Tara released the sink with
one hand and began clawing at her shoulder strap, trying to follow the glow’s
path.
The dress ripped. Tara heard it, felt it, but did not truly notice it. Her
tears dribbled off her chin and dripped down into the sink.
The bathroom door opened, and Tara whirled. The katana entered her head
through her left eye.
The blade did no physical damage to Tara Jenkins. It was the manifestation of
psychic energy, and left no mark upon its victim. But the sword was just as
lethal as its steel kin.
Tara fell to the ground with a thud, her head crashing down right next to the
bottle of empty glossy pink lipstick.
A woman with long purple hair, dressed in a black jumpsuit, raised her arm,
and with her other hand pressed a bracelet on her wrist.
The silver collar around Ororo Munroe’s neck was fastened to a metallic cord,
which in turn was bolted to the wall behind her. Similarly, the chair she sat on
and the solid table in front of her looked to have been firmly secured to the
floor. Sweaty palm prints marred the polished table’s surface, as Ororo was
having trouble keeping her hands still.
There were four men in the room with her. Two were standard hardened military
types, furnished in the familiar combat fatigues Ororo had been surrounded by
her whole life. The fact those same two men stared unblinking at her, twin gun
barrels focused straight at her heart was a more novel experience.
If the guards were stereotypical then men they guarded were anything but. The
first was sitting to her right, jaded emerald eyes perusing an open manila
envelop. Those eyes would occasionally lift to look up at Ororo, and it seemed
as if he was about to give her a little smile before they trailed backed down to
the folder.
The metal leash scraped along the ground when Ororo turned to regard the last
man in the room. Like his associate he was sitting next to, he wore a simple
black business suit. Unlike his associate, this last man was huge. Ororo had
rarely seen bigger men in all her life. Hands clasped underneath the table,
shocks of dirty blond hair spilling down over his ears, with unflinching eyes
that drilled Ororo back into her chair. There were no hints of little
half-smiles there.
“There’s been a mistake.” Ororo whispered, just has she had whispered, and
screamed, and pleaded for the past twenty-four hours. This time, for the first
time, to brought a reaction.
“And,” the green-eyed man paused to look back up at her, “What mistake would
that be?”
“I am not one of them. I am a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Army of Egypt. My
father has been, for the last thirty years, in the same service. I am not one of
them.”
In silent response, the green-eyed man reached into the envelop. A photograph
was produced. The image was grainy, in tones of muted gray. The picture of a
woman who was clearly Ororo was plain to see, as plain to see as the man being
hurled up into the air by a force that was more than human. His face was turned
in the photo, but Ororo remembered the look of total fear in his eyes. The
picture was time-stamped two days ago.
“Believe me, Miss Munroe, (and as of twenty-four hours ago it is Miss) in this
room, your father has become totally irrelevant.” The green-eyed man leaned
forward, pressing two fingers down on the table. “Two things to know. One:
escape is impossible. The collar around your throat can be electrified at any
given moment. It’ll be a race between the controller’s itchy finger, and the
highly regarded reflexes of my men.” he said, waving a hand toward the guards. Ororo’s eyes did not look up at their guns, but instead drifted over to the
silent blond man. “Oh, yes, and him.” The green-eyed man stood, dropping his
folder onto the table. “And the second thing. Though you may not believe this
now, there is no reason to try to escape.”
This time, Ororo did look up at the firearms pointed, still unwaveringly, right
at her, “Okay.”
At last the blond man spoke. For such a big man, his voice was soft, but still
deep, like distant thunder. “You know your history, Ororo?”
Ororo didn’t speak, but instead traced the movements of the green-eyed man as he
began to pace across the room. Her fingers curled and uncurled on the steel
tabletop.
The blond man tried again. “Modern, paranormal, history.”
“I know I should be dead.” She said it with a bare movement of her lips. The
statement and the admission that it implied, which had not been admitted for
years, felt to powerful to say with any more force.
“Perhaps,” the green-eyed man took up again, “but you are Ororo Monroe, lately
of the Royal Army of Egypt. It makes you a candidate.”
“A candidate for what?”
“There are problems in the world, Miss Munroe. Problems that threaten everyone
and everything you have ever known. Until recently, you were one of those
problems. Though perhaps you still are. Thus, all of this.” He swept his arms
out wide, nearly smacking one of the guards. “But there are solutions too. Would
you like to be a solution, Miss Monroe?”
Ororo interlaced her fingers in front of her, reminding herself to breath
deeply, calmly. “What, exactly, are you talking about, sir?”
“The SuperHuman Initiative, Emergency Legionary Defense. A group of… people,”
the green-eyed man’s voice gave a little hitch on the last word, but pressed on,
“dedicated to exterminating the paranormal threats of security this world
faces.” He came around the table, leaned over and touched the collar at Ororo’s
neck. “I’m talking about this,” the guards readjusted the grip on their firearms
as their master inched up beside her. The man turned to regard them, and gave a
little nod toward the weapons, “Or that.”
The jet came to a stop, and technicians in orange jumpsuits scrambled to drag
forth the set of stairs to meet it. As the engines shut down entirely, the
outside door was pushed open and soldiers began to descend. The green-eyed man
was fifth off the plane, with Ororo following just behind him out onto the windy
runway.
“The name’s Soren, by the way,” he called out over his shoulder, “and I’ll check
in on you later.” Soren’s tie flapped up, licking him in the chin. “For now, my
big, blond associate,” Ororo looked back to see the hulking man had had to bend
down and turn a little sideways to exit the plane’s hatch, “Will be giving you
the guided tour, and will answer any more of your questions.” They reached the
bottom of the stairs, and moved over a step to get out of the way. Soren spread
out his hands and did a little spin. “Welcome to Whiteground.” He said after he
had finished. He reached out and took Ororo’s wrist, face all seriousness.
“Welcome to the team.” He gripped her wrist a little tighter. “Welcome to
SHIELD. Ah,” the blond man had reached the pavement as well, and had joined
them. “And now, Miss Monroe, I leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Victor
Creed.”
Soren smiled, and took his leave.
Ororo turned and offered her hand. Creed shook it silently, dropped the contact,
and began walking. After hesitating for a second, Ororo hasted to catch up.
They were moving towards a cluster of squat gray buildings that were the only
ones in sight. Behind her on the runway, the technicians had begun unloading
wooden crates from the underbelly of the plane. Fifty yards to her right, was a
brick wall. The fortification extended out hundreds of yards to what looked to
be a second wall running perpendicular to it. In the distance, across lush green
acres of grass, Ororo could see similar walls in all directions. On top of each
were meshes of barbed wire, and armed guards on patrol. She was boxed in.
“They’ve got a white line twenty yards in front of them,” Creed’s voice broke
through her observation, “If you cross that line, the guards have standing
orders to shoot and kill you.” He turned his intense stare on her again, looking
directly into her eyes. Searching for something. “We’re not their guests. We’re
not their soldiers. We are here because of the big loving international
community; we‘re what they use to kill off their nightmares. We‘re here because
they‘ve got no better option. You make a problem? You‘re not going to be here.”
Creed did not slow his pace for a moment, just continued to stride toward the
buildings. Ororo was silent as she tried to process what was being told to her.
“Where are we?” Was the first question she settled on. A nice, safe question.
“Russia. Where else?” For the first time in Ororo’s brief memory of him, Victor
Creed allowed himself to smile a bit. “Of course, the operating of a project
like ours can’t be left to a less… useful nation.”
Ororo nodded. It made sense, of course. Most of the mutant terrorism reported on
was perpetrated against the Motherland.
“The bracelet Soren gave you,” Ororo looked down at her wrist, turning it around
to get a full look at the metal band snuggly fit there, “Don’t ever take it off,
don’t ever fool around with it.” Creed held up his own arm, and pulled back his
sleeve, showing a matching bracelet. It was also the first time Ororo saw his
claws.
They had reached the nearest building. Creed pulled open the large metal door,
which creaked on its hinges.
“Let’s meet the rest of the team.”
The lights inside had been dimmed. A plain white hallway gave way to another
room with wide glass windows facing the corridor and a glass door with white
block lettering etched on it. “Authorized Personnel Only”. Inside the glass room
five people sat around a round glass table, waiting for them. A large projector
screen dominated one of the walls.
Victor entered first, flicking a switch next to the door. The windows and
entrance began to haze over with a kind of white frost, blocking the hallway
view. The door clicked shut behind Ororo.
“Well. She’s young.” The person who spoke up was unlike anyone, or anything,
Ororo had ever seen before. She could, quite literally, see through him. It was
like he was made of the same glass as the table. Even his hair was translucent.
He seemed asexual, wearing no clothes, but Ororo still noted the bracelet on his
wrist. “I think she’s taken with me, Vic‘.”
“That’s Robert Drake.” Creed said as he began to circle around the table. Eyes
that looked only like etchings on that icy face began moving, watching Creed’s
path.
“This next is Laynia Petrovna, Sebastian Sokal, Elizabeth Braddock, and lastly
Shiro Yoshida.” Creed reached the edge of the table nearest the projector screen
and placed both hands down on the glass. Those named stared on impassively.
“Well. I present, Ororo Munroe.” She gave the room a small, polite nod. They sat
still, regarding her. Ororo could remember few times in her life when she had
felt quite this awkward and exposed. A month ago, if someone had told her there
were this many paranormals in one room anywhere in the world, she would have
been horrified. If they had told her she would be in this room with them, she
would have been terrified. And now? What did she feel? Relief. Relief she had
not died in that room, with a collar around her neck.
“Excellent.” Creed said, breaking the moment. “Please, Ororo, have a seat.”
She sat.
Elizabeth Braddock sat in her room, staring at her plain white walls.
Her purple hair was wrapped in a green towel, and she sat on the edge of
her bed, waiting for it to dry. She glanced over at Sebastian, who leaned
against her wall next to the dresser.
“So what do you think of her?”
Sebastian looked up and pushed a strand of lanky brown hair out of his
eyes. He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t muscular, and no one besides his mother
had ever called him good looking. He wondered if it even occurred to
Elizabeth that he was in her room while she sat half naked on her bed.
“Well, Drake was right. She is young.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Twenty isn’t so young, especially if everything
in her file is accurate.”
Of course, both of them knew the information was good. No one in the world
spent as much money on that kind of intelligence than their benefactors.
Ororo’s file they’d reviewed had been ten pages long, and that was only
the summarized version of her history. No one got into SHIELD without
someone, somewhere knowing what your favorite kind of ice cream was.
“She‘s strong, at least. If that storm she generated over Cairo was
anything like Creed says it was…” Sebastian trailed off. Elizabeth didn’t
need to be a telepath to know what he was really saying, to hear the
unspoken message. It was impossible not to be thinking something similar.
“But you’d still like it to be Kurt backing us up.”
“Yeah.” Sebastian shook his head slowly. He pushed his hair back again. “I
thought… if anyone could do… what we do, and make it through, it’d be
him.”
Elizabeth nodded, drawing her knees up to her chest, hugging them. Her
bathrobe slid down her leg a little more, but Sebastian wasn’t looking
now. “All his talk about God. Faith. Maybe he just couldn’t… you know.”
Sebastian knew. The doorway to Elizabeth’s bathroom was still steamy from
the recent shower. Sebastian knew she didn’t have any mirrors in there. He
lifted himself from the wall, and stood up straight. “Feel like a drink?”
“Go for it.”
He turned and opened up a squat oaken chest, retrieving two glasses. A
half-empty bottle of vodka emerged shortly after. Elizabeth watched him
pour a couple of shots before reaching up to take one.
Sebastian gave a toast. “To Kurt Wagner.”
“To Kurt.”
The drank in silence, letting time draw itself out, Elizabeth still on the
bed, Sebastian back to leaning against the wall. Elizabeth put her glass
down. She leaned back a little, supporting herself with both hands.
“How ‘bout we take the rookie into the Exercise Room first thing tomorrow.
Prep her up a little before Shiro gets his hands on her.”
Sebastian paused for a second, before letting one short laugh go. “Ah,
initiation. You know, I think he enjoys it?”
“I didn’t think Shiro enjoyed anything.”
Ororo heard laughter floating down the hallway and turned around,
trying to get a bearing on it. The complex’s white corridors all looked
alike, and most of the rooms she had tried were either locked or
completely empty. She thought the living space they’d assigned her was
somewhere around here, but then, she could have been entirely turned
around.
Following the laughter, Ororo came to yet another gray door. Not seeing
any restricted access signs, she gave the knob a try.
Inside, the icicle know as Robert Drake was sitting at a desk, pen in
hand. Posters of various supermodels hung on the walls, some of them
wearing just… paint. Her feet literally sank into the shag carpet that was
laid across the floor.
Drake didn’t turn around to look at her. Instead, he just twisted his head
around. All the way around, so that his chin was centered above his back.
Ororo dropped the papers she had been holding.
“Wow, if I had known this was why you keep staring at me, I would have put
on a little music, ‘Ro.” He gave her a large grin, mockingly fake.
She just stared at him, mouth moving soundlessly. “You… you… do you even
have a spine?”
Drake got up, his head twisting the back to the front. “Would you like to
see?” He chuckled a soft little chuckle. “Maybe later. I’ve got all kinds
of tricks.”
Ororo didn’t know what to say to that. Robert wasn’t patient enough to
wait for a response.
“You need something? Get lost on your way?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said, vaguely waving towards the door. “Trying to find my
new room. Will they… send my stuff? I kind of want to change.”
Drake moved past her and out into the hallway, motioning her to follow.
“There should be a uniform there, and not much else. You’ll need a new
wardrobe. They’ll give you whatever you want.” He glanced in at one of his
posters. “Well, not whatever you want.” He chuckled again and closed the
door.
They walked down the hall in silence, until Ororo worked up the courage to
ask another question. “So, you guys really… kill off mutants?”
Drake looked over at her. “You guys?” He parroted. “We, ‘Ro. We kill
mutants. You’re in this to, remember?”
She didn’t respond, just kept following him.
“Does anyone ever… ever go over the wall?” She hoped it was okay to ask.
Maybe she should have waited. Still, it might have been her first day, but
Ororo didn’t think Robert Drake was the type to run off and tell on her.
And she had to know if it was possible.
Drake looked over at her. Despite having a face made of ice, his emotions
were hardly frozen off. Just now, he was giving Ororo a very knowing look.
“No, actually. But its not the wall that stops them. It’s Vic Creed. You
make a run for it, and he’ll hunt you down. Sniff you out over miles, and
rip your fucking head off when he finds you.” Drake stopped walking.
“We’re one big family here, ‘Ro.” He smiled.
Ororo shifted her weight and looked down at her feet. When she looked back
up at him, her eyes were harder. Her entire body was stiffened. “And if I
can’t do it?”
Drake started walking again. “You can. You will. When it’s them or you out
there and their powers are going all haywire, shit’s flying through the
air and people are dying, everyone makes the same decision. It’s how we
get to live for another day: by making sure other people don’t.”
They stopped before a plain gray door that looked like all the others.
“Here we are.” Drake said as he turned the knob. Inside was a room with
plain white walls, a bed, and nothing else except a dark black jumpsuit.
“Home, sweet home.”
Red strobe lights flashed through the hallways of Whiteground. Through
speakers high on the walls, a stern voice was ordering, “All operatives to
report to the Briefing Room.”
Ororo was just finishing zipping up her jumpsuit even as she pushed open
the door to the room with a glass table and projector.
Again, all the others were there and seated. Creed stood at the head of
the table, lit cigar under his lip. He ignored Ororo when she came in.
On the wall behind Creed was the image of another blond man, this one in
his early forties. Creed identified him.
“Target’s name is Sean Cassidy.”
NEXT ISSUE: Well, the target’s name is Sean Cassidy. You guess what happens!
AUTHOR'S NOTES
SHIELD: Extermination Force has been rolling around in my head as an idea
for years as a rough idea. It was the merging of two ideas, really: I knew
I wanted a team of conflicted (and not so conflicted) “heroes” that
readers could sympathize with to go around doing terrible things. The
other idea was that, if a regular person developed super powers, it should
be horrifying. Some of these characters have the ability to decimate
continents, but when their powers emerge, they either have relatively
limited accidents, or quickly and easily subdued their abilities. SHIELD
is based around the premise that this is crap. That the emergence of
superpowers should be commonly so destructive and damaging it must be
stopped at all costs.
More on that in later issues.
For now, I’m just going to thank Cory Wiegel for opening the door for me
to write this here at M2K. The only thing that wasn’t of mine that wasn’t
lost in the site transfers was an issue of X-Men Unlimited that honestly
sucked. So thanks!
And now, my own random thoughts on the issue:
I had originally plan to open with Ororo’s first scene. Instead, I decided
there should be a little murder in the first issue, since that’s what this
whole thing’s based upon.
Key characters were barely mentioned. Laynia only has her name mentioned
once and Shiro doesn’t have any lines or descriptions. I wanted to keep
the first issue short. Establish the tone and central ideas, and get out.
No one thinks, “That was pretty mediocre, and seemed really long. Bring on
the second!” but they might think, “Eh, the first wasn’t so hot. But it
probably won’t take long to read the second, so why not give it another
shot?”
Anyway. I hope everyone enjoys what I have planned for this series - I
know I will! Feel free to send me any questions, comments, or suggestions
to mark-walsh@lycos.com. Until
then...
