HYDRA Alpine Facility - November 1943
The factory floor hummed with malevolent efficiency as searchlights swept from watchtowers, their beams cutting through the Austrian night like luminous daggers. The barbed wire perimeter held more than mere steel—each strand pulsed with a faint blue energy that spoke of Tesseract enhancement, capable of disintegrating anything that dared breach the compound's boundaries. Smoke belched from multiple chimneys, but this was no ordinary industrial operation. The smoke carried an acrid, otherworldly smell that made even hardened HYDRA troops cover their faces.
Dr. Arnim Zola walked alongside Johann Schmidt through the main production facility, their footsteps echoing on the metal grating of the elevated walkway. Below them, a nightmarish scene of enforced labor unfolded. Allied prisoners of war, their faces gaunt with exhaustion and malnutrition, worked at assembly stations under the watchful eyes of HYDRA guards whose masks concealed expressions of mechanical indifference.
A HYDRA technician carefully loaded blue cartridges into a cluster bomb casing, each movement precise and reverent as he handled the Tesseract-powered ordnance. The cartridges glowed with that distinctive energy signature, promising destruction on a scale that conventional weapons could never achieve.
"As you can see, production of the Valkyrie is progressing on schedule, even with components of this size," Zola reported, gesturing toward the massive bomb being assembled below. His Swiss accent carried notes of both pride and barely concealed anxiety.
Schmidt nodded approvingly, his pale eyes reflecting the blue glow of the weapons. The scarred flesh of his face seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light, giving him an even more corpselike appearance in the industrial gloom.
"Increase the output by sixty percent and see to it our other facilities do the same," Schmidt commanded, his voice carrying the absolute authority of one who had transcended ordinary human limitations.
Zola's expression grew troubled as he watched the prisoners below. Many could barely stand, their bodies pushed beyond endurance by months of forced labor on inadequate rations. "But these prisoners, I'm not sure they have the strength."
"Then use up what strength they have left, Doctor," Schmidt replied with chilling indifference. "There are always more workers."
Before Zola could respond, the factory's main doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, admitting a figure whose presence immediately commanded attention. Baron Heinrich Zemo strode across the factory floor, his distinctive purple mask gleaming under the harsh industrial lighting. Behind him walked two HYDRA escorts, their weapons ready but deferential to the Baron's obvious authority.
"Schmidt," Zemo called out, his voice carrying a note of urgency that made both men turn from their observation of the production line.
"Baron," Schmidt said, waving for Zemo to join them on the platform. "Good timing. How did the Balkans mission go?"
Zemo climbed the metal stairs fast, moving smoother than he should have been able to. Even through his mask, you could tell he was excited. "The Ultra-Humanite's facility was useful, even though Trevor blew the whole thing to hell. I got what I needed before it went up."
"What happened exactly?" Zola asked.
"Captain Trevor, that American pilot," Zemo said. "Broke in and triggered some kind of self-destruct. The Ultra-Humanite barely got out alive, lost most of his research in the explosion." He straightened up. "But I'd already been working on my own projects."
Schmidt looked interested. "Like what?"
"Adhesive X," Zemo said, and you could hear the pride in his voice. "My own creation, though I used some of the Ultra-Humanite's basic research as a starting point. Once this stuff touches skin, it's not coming off without taking half the person with it."
Zola nodded. "Weapons applications?"
"Tons," Zemo said. "Coat bullets with it, one graze becomes a death sentence as it spreads through their blood. Or make bombs that don't just kill people, they trap whoever's left alive and slowly crush them to death."
Schmidt smiled, which looked awful on his ruined face. "Good. What about your other project?"
"Ah, that," Zemo said, and his whole posture changed. He pulled off one glove slowly, showing a normal-looking hand. Then he grabbed a steel support beam and crushed it like it was made of clay.
"I perfected my own super soldier serum," he said, putting the glove back on. "Used blood from our special prisoner, mixed it with my own formulas. I tested it on myself."
"You what?" Zola asked.
"I'm not asking my men to do anything I wouldn't do," Zemo said. "And the results? I'm stronger and faster than the American Captain Rogers. Hell, I might be as strong as you now, Schmidt. But unlike those early experiments, my brain works just fine. Better than fine, actually."
A new voice cut through their conversation, smooth and cultured, coming from the shadows below.
"How interesting. Mortals playing with forces they don't understand."
From the darkness stepped a figure in a perfect black suit, somehow unmarked by the industrial grime that coated everything else in the facility. The temperature dropped so fast that all three men could see their breath.
Zemo took an involuntary step back, his enhanced reflexes screaming danger. "Who the hell..."
"You have been busy," the figure said, walking up to their platform like gravity was optional. "Each of you working on your little projects. How productive."
Behind him came another figure, broader, wearing what looked like ancient armor under a military coat. The air around him shimmered with heat that had no business being there in the Austrian cold.
"Fear and desperation," the armored figure said, breathing in deep like he was smelling flowers. "Your prisoners make this place perfect for planning war."
Zemo's hand moved toward his sidearm, then stopped. Something told him bullets wouldn't help here.
Schmidt stepped forward, completely calm. "Gentlemen, good timing. We were just talking about expanding our capabilities."
"Wait," Zemo said, staring at the man in the black suit. Something about him made Zemo's enhanced senses scream warnings. "What are you?"
The figure smiled, showing teeth that were too white, too sharp. "I am the Devil, Baron Zemo. My name is Mephistopheles, though I've gone by many others over the centuries. Beelzebub, Lucifer's lieutenant, the Tempter, the Prince of Lies. But you can call me Mephisto."
Ares snorted from behind him. "The Devil," he scoffed. "Such grandiose claims."
Mephisto's smile never wavered. "I never claimed to betheDevil, my ancient friend. Merelyadevil. Though admittedly, one of the more... prominent ones."
Zemo felt genuine fear for the first time since his enhancement. This wasn't some HYDRA trick or advanced technology. The air around this thing felt wrong, like standing too close to an open grave. Without thinking, his Catholic upbringing kicked in and he started whispering, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..."
Mephisto's smile widened as he picked up seamlessly: "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."
Zemo stopped mid-prayer, horrified.
"Give us this day our daily bread," Mephisto continued alone, his voice mocking, "and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us." He chuckled softly. "I remember when that was written. Matthew had such lovely handwriting for a tax collector. Quite a shame about what happened to him later."
His smile turned cruel. "They say he was stabbed to death in Ethiopia. Or was it burned alive? The stories vary. Peter, now there was a man with conviction. Even when they crucified him upside down, he kept preaching. Admirable, really. Thomas made it all the way to India before they got him with spears. And poor James... well, Herod made quite the spectacle of that beheading."
Mephisto's eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he watched Zemo's growing horror. "Such dedicated men. Such... unfortunate endings. One might almost think someone was orchestrating their demise."
"Dear God," Zemo whispered, the prayer now genuine terror rather than rote recitation.
"Oh, He's not listening down here," Mephisto said pleasantly, clearly enjoying Zemo's fear. "This is my domain now. Though I must say, your little prayer brought back such fond memories. And I come with an offer that could make your little enhancement programs look like children's toys."
Schmidt stepped forward, completely unbothered by Zemo's obvious fear. "What kind of offer?" he asked calmly.
Mephisto smiled, revealing teeth that momentarily appeared too sharp. "Your HYDRA forces are formidable by human standards, but they remain fundamentally limited by their mortal nature. I propose to enhance selected units beyond those constraints."
"Enhancement how?" Schmidt asked.
"Demonic augmentation," Mephisto said like he was discussing the weather. "I can turn your best soldiers into something that keeps human brains but gets supernatural strength and toughness. They'd be bulletproof, able to fight in places that would kill normal men, and scary enough to make enemy soldiers wet themselves."
"Wait," Ares interrupted, stepping forward so hard the metal platform shook. "I have a better offer."
Mephisto's smile tightened. "Do you now?"
"Divine enhancement," Ares said. "Not demonic corruption, but actual godlike power. I can make your soldiers into warriors worthy of Valhalla itself."
"And what's the catch?" Zola asked, looking between the two supernatural beings.
"When I march on Omnipotence City to face the other gods, they serve in my army," Ares said simply. "Odin and the rest of those cowards have hidden long enough behind their walls. When I break down their gates, I want mortal soldiers who can stand beside me against divine enemies."
"Interesting," Schmidt said. "Two offers. What would each cost?"
"Souls," Mephisto said. "They serve me eternally, even after death. But they'd be bound to HYDRA as well."
"Blood and glory," Ares countered. "They die in my service fighting gods, they go to eternal battle in my halls. They live, they become legends. No soul-binding nonsense."
Zemo, still shaken, found his voice. "What kind of enhancements are we talking about?"
"My soldiers would be immune to normal weapons," Mephisto explained. "Stronger, faster, tougher. They'd spread fear just by existing."
"Mine would be actual warriors," Ares said with contempt. "Not corrupted monsters. Real fighters with divine strength and speed. The kind who could take on Thor himself."
"How many could you each enhance?" Schmidt asked.
"Fifty at first," Mephisto said. "Call it a test run."
"A hundred," Ares said, smirking at his rival. "I'm not interested in small experiments."
"And you want something from me beyond the soldiers," Schmidt said to Mephisto.
"Smart man," Mephisto nodded. "I know about your special prisoners. The mechanical one and the god you've got sleeping downstairs."
Zola's eyes went wide. "How do you..."
"I know lots of things, Doctor," Mephisto said smoothly, his smile turning predatory. "For instance, I know about your early experiments in Dachau. The children you dissected while they were still breathing. The way you convinced yourself it was for the greater good of science."
Zola went pale. "That was classified..."
"Nothing is classified from me, Arnim," Mephisto purred. "I know about the nurse you strangled in Geneva when she threatened to expose your work. I know about the family you burned alive in their farmhouse because they witnessed your test subjects escaping. I know every sin you've committed, every life you've taken, every soul you've damned in the name of progress."
"Stop," Zola whispered.
"Your soul has been marked for my collection for years, Doctor. Every atrocity adds another layer to your eternal punishment." Mephisto's eyes gleamed. "But today, I'm more interested in what you've been studying. That beautiful golden-haired specimen you think is just another enhanced human."
The three mortals exchanged glances. Their most classified research, known only to the highest levels of HYDRA leadership, had somehow become common knowledge to their supernatural ally.
"You're referring to our enhanced prisoner," Schmidt said carefully.
"Enhanced?" Mephisto laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Is that what you think he is? Oh, Schmidt, you have no idea what treasure you've stumbled upon."
"Balder the Beautiful," Ares confirmed, his voice carrying notes of ancient rage. "Prince of Asgard, God of Light, protector of mankind, and my greatest enemy. Reduced to a laboratory specimen. The irony is absolutely perfect."
"Greatest enemy?" Zemo asked, still shaken from Mephisto's revelations about Zola.
"For millennia, that self-righteous fool has interfered with my wars," Ares snarled. "Every time I would bring conflict to mortals, there he'd be. Inspiring hope in their hearts, giving them courage to resist, protecting the innocent." His armored fists clenched. "He cost me victories in Troy, in Rome, in countless battles across the centuries."
"The God of Light against the God of War," Mephisto observed with amusement. "How poetic."
"He's Odin's middle son," Ares continued, his hatred evident. "Thor may be the eldest and strongest, but Balder was always the most beloved. The pure one. The incorruptible one. While Thor fought for glory and Loki spread chaos with his lies and tricks, Balder actually cared about mortal lives."
"And now he's helpless," Schmidt said with satisfaction.
"Completely at our mercy," Ares agreed, his smile cruel. "The great protector of humanity, reduced to a test subject for the very forces he spent eons fighting against."
"Then perhaps we should see our subjects," Schmidt said, gesturing toward the corridor leading deeper into the facility. "You'll want to examine what we've accomplished."
Schmidt led them from the factory floor toward a more secure section of the facility. As they walked through the corridors, HYDRA guards and technicians they passed stopped and stared. Some backed against the walls, their eyes wide with fear at the sight of the two beings accompanying their leader. The temperature seemed to shift around the group - dropping to freezing near Mephisto, rising to uncomfortable heat near Ares.
"Your men seem nervous," Mephisto observed with amusement as a guard nearly dropped his rifle.
"They can sense what you are, even if they don't understand it," Schmidt replied.
They passed through multiple checkpoints, each one requiring biometric verification and coded access cards. The HYDRA personnel manning these stations saluted Schmidt but kept their eyes averted from his companions, some making small crosses over their chests when they thought no one was looking. The final door was nearly a foot thick, reinforced with Tesseract-enhanced alloys that could withstand direct hits from conventional artillery.
Beyond lay Dr. Zola's private laboratory, a space that combined cutting-edge technology with specimens that defied scientific classification. At various workstations, HYDRA scientists conducted research on materials and subjects that would have been dismissed as fantasy by the mainstream scientific community.
At the center of the laboratory sat two examination tables, each occupied by a subject that represented the pinnacle of their respective technologies. On the first, strapped down with heavy restraints, was G.I. Robot, the mechanical soldier that had been captured along with Easy Company several weeks earlier. The artificial man's chest cavity had been opened to reveal the complex circuitry and mechanical systems within, while diagnostic equipment monitored the strange energy signatures emanating from his power core.
"I'M GONNA KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU NAZI BASTARDS!" G.I. Robot roared as they approached, his mechanical voice echoing through the laboratory. "YOU HEAR ME? EVERY GODDAMN ONE!"
"He's been like this since we captured him," Zola explained with scholarly detachment, approaching the examination table as the robot strained against his bonds. "Quite vocal about his intentions."
"WHEN I GET OUT OF THESE RESTRAINTS, I'M GONNA RIP YOUR HEADS OFF AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECKS!" G.I. Robot continued, his optical sensors focusing on each member of the group. "ESPECIALLY YOU, SCARFACE!"
"Charming," Mephisto observed with amusement.
"The mechanical soldier has provided insights beyond our initial expectations, despite his... attitude," Zola continued over the robot's threats. "Its construction incorporates principles that our own engineers are still struggling to understand. The power source alone operates on frequencies we've never encountered."
"I'LL BURN THIS WHOLE PLACE DOWN AND DANCE ON THE ASHES!" G.I. Robot snarled. "YOU THINK THOSE RESTRAINTS CAN HOLD ME FOREVER?"
Zola gestured toward a bank of monitoring equipment. "Whatever created this machine had access to materials science centuries ahead of our current capabilities. I've been using its design principles to enhance my own mechanical augmentation research."
Mephisto moved to examine the robot's exposed internals, his perfect features showing genuine interest. "Fascinating. This represents a merger of technology and essence that even I find impressive."
"YOU'RE ALL DEAD MEN WALKING!" G.I. Robot continued his tirade. "WHEN THE ALLIES GET HERE, I'M GONNA PERSONALLY MAKE SURE THEY KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID!"
"The creators, Howard Stark and Patrick Wayne, were clearly working from theoretical frameworks that won't be discovered by mainstream science for decades," Zola said, raising his voice slightly over the mechanical soldier's threats. His tone carried obvious disdain. "Though I must say, for an American peasant who stumbled into wealth, Stark shows surprising technical competence. Still, his work lacks the sophistication of proper German engineering."
"STARK BUILT ME TO KILL NAZIS, AND THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I'M GONNA DO!" G.I. Robot roared. "YOU HEAR THAT, YOU SWISS BASTARD? HOWARD STARK IS WORTH A HUNDRED OF YOU!"
"Such crude programming," Zola observed with contempt. "No doubt reflecting the limited imagination of its nouveau riche creator. But that's not our most remarkable subject."
He led them to the second examination table, where a figure sat upright, awake and alert. The man was over seven feet tall and powerfully built, with golden hair that seemed to catch and hold light even in the laboratory's harsh illumination. His features were perfectly symmetrical, possessed of a beauty that seemed almost painful to observe directly. Despite his massive frame, he moved with careful gentleness, his hands folded politely in his lap as he watched their approach with calm, curious eyes.
"Hello, Dr. Zola," the golden-haired giant said with a gentle smile, his voice carrying warmth despite its deep timbre. "Are these the colleagues you mentioned? The ones working on the project to help end the war?"
"Yes, indeed," Zola replied carefully, his voice taking on a distinctly different tone than when addressing the robot. "This is Subject Wilhelm, as we've designated him. He's been invaluable to our research."
"Please, just call me by my name," the man said politely, though his brow furrowed slightly. "Though I still can't remember what it was before the accident. Sometimes I hear... singing. A woman's voice, very beautiful. Was she someone important to me?"
"Perhaps a nurse from the medical facility where you were treated," Zola said smoothly. "You suffered severe memory loss in what we've told you was an experimental aircraft crash. You were a volunteer test pilot for an Allied research program."
Wilhelm nodded earnestly, absently rubbing his wrist where small needle marks were visible. "I may not remember my past, but I'm glad I can help with the work you're doing here. Dr. Zemo explained how my blood samples have helped strengthen the serum. If my enhanced physiology can help you develop treatments for wounded soldiers, then the accident wasn't for nothing."
He looked up at Zemo with genuine concern. "I hope I didn't hurt you when we shook hands yesterday. I forget my own strength sometimes."
"Not at all," Zemo replied, flexing his enhanced hand. "Though I appreciate your care."
Schmidt stepped forward with evident pride, speaking quietly to his supernatural allies. "Gentlemen, behold Balder, son of Odin. The most valuable prisoner in all of HYDRA's custody."
Wilhelm looked confused, catching the unfamiliar names. "I'm sorry, who is Balder? And what's this about Odin? Is that some kind of code name for the project?"
Zemo stepped closer, studying the confused god. "He truly has no idea?"
"None whatsoever," Zola confirmed quietly. "As far as his conscious mind is concerned, he's simply a human volunteer helping us develop medical treatments for the war effort. He even offered his blood willingly when we explained it could help save lives."
Wilhelm's face brightened. "Oh, are you talking about the medical research? Yes, I'm happy to help however I can. Dr. Zola says my blood might help wounded soldiers heal faster. It's the least I can do."
Ares approached the table, his ancient eyes studying his former adversary with dark satisfaction. "Perfect," he said in a low voice. "The great protector of humanity, convinced he's helping his greatest enemies."
Wilhelm caught the tension in Ares's voice and looked between them with genuine concern, his massive form shifting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, is something wrong? You all seem very tense. Have I done something to upset you? I know I can be... overwhelming sometimes, given my size."
"Tell them," Schmidt instructed Ares. "They should understand the full scope of what we've accomplished."
Ares nodded, his gaze never leaving Wilhelm's confused face as he began to recount the events of that night over a year ago.