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Chapter 102: Red Skull
Looking at the clear blue sky, George's thoughts turned inward, tracing the limits of his strength. The powers he had acquired across various worlds had mostly settled into his body now, integrated and refined. But that only meant it was time—time to expand again, to explore new boundaries.
From the "Three Thousand Worlds," George had harvested an eclectic array of talents. Shikotsumyaku, the Three Body Technique, and Shadow Clone from the Naruto world.
Alchemy and foundational magic from Nicolas Flamel in the Harry Potter realm.
Combat expertise, elite firearms proficiency, and most critically, the Speed Force from the DC world, specifically from the Suicide Squad timeline.
Then there was the Heart-Shaped Grass from Wakanda. And beyond all that, his own cultivated Chaos Energy had provided unique enhancements, unshareable by others.
Each of these powers sounded godlike when isolated, and yet, in real battle against powerful opponents, George had learned just how situational—and sometimes insufficient—they were.
Strength needed to be measured against more than wishful thinking. And so George began classifying the tiers of power he observed across realities.
Surface-Level: As the name implies, these were those confined to the Earth. Most well-known heroes fell under this—Iron Man, Captain America, Black Panther, the Winter Soldier, Black Widow, and Hawkeye.
Even Hulk, in his standard state, counted here. While rage could push him further, most of the time, he fought within limitations. Worldbreaker Hulk was an anomaly, not the rule.
Heroes in this tier could threaten a city block, maybe even a city, but never more than that.
George's combat training, magical spells, and sharpshooting could inflict real damage at this level. But he also knew that beyond this point, the rules changed entirely.
Cosmic-Level beings like Captain Marvel and Thor, in their full might, operated in a different arena. They could destroy fleets, level cities, or crack planets if fully unleashed.
Their mobility, resilience, and energy absorption made them nearly untouchable by conventional means. George's current Speed Force allowed him to tap into the outer edges of this class, but not comfortably. Not yet.
Captain Marvel, in particular, troubled him. Her Binary form continuously pulled external energy into her body and converted it into raw destructive power, mobility, and durability.
Light-speed movement, precognition, and energy immunity made her practically untouchable.
George, even with Chaos Energy and clones, lacked that kind of feedback loop. His powers burned out if pushed too hard. Space, for instance, still posed a threat—his clones had tested it. His real body could survive exposure briefly, but not without consequence.
He was Cosmic-Level, perhaps, but still unseasoned. Still climbing.
While he pondered the shape of his future, another man stood in a different corner of the world, planning to forcibly ascend in a single leap.
"Today, we stand here! We stand on German soil! We stand in Berlin, this land our ancestors watered with blood and dignity!"
The voice boomed through a hall in central Berlin. The crowd—hundreds packed into a grand marble-floored venue—hung on every word.
A massive statue loomed behind the speaker: André Corleone, immortalized in stone, standing with a broken chain in each hand.
"He is a universally recognized freedom fighter! He is the light of the whole world! Before me stands a nation, a nation groaning in humiliation! After that war ended, the pride of our nation was gone!"
Adolf Hitler, Chancellor of Germany, was in full oratorical form. His voice whipped through the hall like a whip, igniting the fervor of every listener.
"We do not fight for slavery! We fight for freedom! We are not machines, not cattle, we are people! We are Germans who have never yielded!"
Applause roared. Deafening. The entire hall thundered with it.
John Schmidt stood near the back, clapping with the crowd. But unlike the rest, his eyes were elsewhere.
He had once believed in the man on the stage. No more. Ever since the Institute of Technology had pulled him into its shadows, his loyalties had shifted.
He looked once more at Hitler, then pulled on a pair of black leather gloves and quietly exited through a side corridor. Tonight was too important to waste on speeches.
In the lab beneath the city, Dr. Abraham Erskine stood in protest. "Schmidt, the serum is not ready. It's unstable—it still requires refining. If you inject it now, the outcome is unpredictable."
Schmidt didn't pause. Two SS guards restrained the struggling doctor while Arnim Zola calmly prepped the injection.
"You've already had one successful trial," Schmidt said, unbuttoning his uniform. "That subject died after thirty minutes—but it was still a success. Better than any before."
Erskine's eyes flared. "He imploded from the inside. You're rushing this, science demands restraint!"
But the needle was already in Schmidt's hand.
"You'll see," he said coldly. "I will be your most successful subject."
He injected the serum directly into his vein. Almost instantly, his blood vessels bulged and his muscles trembled. His skin flushed red. He roared, a guttural, feral scream echoing across the chamber.
The pain was total. Like fire in his bones. Like thousands of ants crawling beneath his skin. He clawed at himself, tearing skin, which flaked off like dried paint. New flesh grew, hardening fast. His muscles swelled. But his face, his face did not heal.
His nose dissolved into a hole. His skin peeled off like wax, never regrowing. His skull turned a raw, grotesque red. A bloody skull with blazing eyes.
His scream quieted.
Silence followed. No one moved.
Then Schmidt stood.
The officer who had been holding Schmidt's military uniform slowly approached him. Just as he bent down to help Schmidt up, Schmidt, who was kneeling on the ground, stood up directly, one hand still on the officer's neck.
Under Schmidt's terrifying face, his eyes blazed with a menacing look. With a slight squeeze, the officer's feet left the ground. As Schmidt gently closed his five fingers, with a snap, the officer's neck broke.
The surrounding soldiers fearfully swallowed their saliva. Dr. Zola, hiding in the distance, had already lowered his head, not daring to look anymore.
Erskine simply sat on the ground, eyes hollow, wondering, "What have I made?" as he whispered to himself.
Schmidt turned slowly. His voice was calm now, though lower. "No more delays. No more failures. I am done with being human."
He stepped toward the mirror. The monster looked back.
The Red Skull had arrived.
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Spin-off Title: The Chancellor's Morning
Berlin, 1935
The morning light filtered through the high windows of the Reich Chancellery, casting long shadows across the parquet floors.
Adolf Hitler sat alone in his private office, a half-eaten piece of black bread on a porcelain plate beside a pot of herbal tea he had barely touched. His hands rested on the edges of his desk, fingers steepled, eyes vacant yet burning with quiet intensity.
The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the ornate brass clock on the wall. It was 7:13 a.m.
He had already walked the garden paths by 6:00, fed his beloved dog Blondi, and reviewed the press summaries brought to him by his adjutant, Fritz Darges.
His secretary, Christa Schröder, had prepared the day's itinerary, typed out in neat lines and stacked by importance. Yet he hadn't turned to it. Not yet.
Instead, he watched the steam curl from his cup, thinking.
"Schmidt," he muttered.
That name had surfaced again in his internal reports. Johann Schmidt. A man whose loyalties ran deep, yes, but whose mind strayed further and further from party discipline.
Ambition was expected, encouraged, even. But unchained, it was a threat. Still, Schmidt had proven indispensable at the Institute. Let him play god among machines and wires, for now.
*KNOCK
"Enter," Hitler said without raising his voice.
Christa entered briskly, notepad in hand. "Herr Chancellor, General Blomberg will accompany you to the venue. Dr. Goebbels has ensured the press arrangements. Your speech is ready—he's made some adjustments."
Hitler waved a hand. "He always does."
"Also," she continued, "your breakfast—"
"I'm not hungry."
Christa nodded, hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "The crowds have been gathering since last night. Many came by train from Leipzig and Hamburg. The statue unveiling has stirred something."
Hitler rose from his chair. "Good. Let them see it. Let them feel it."
He moved to the mirror behind his desk and adjusted his dark jacket. For a moment, his gaze lingered. In that reflection was no monster. Only a man who believed himself history's hammer.
The ride to the venue was quiet, flanked by SS motorbikes and open-top staff cars.
Along the route, thousands of Berliners stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Children waved flags. Women held bouquets. Men raised arms in salute.
"Never underestimate the value of pageantry," Goebbels had said.
In the hall, the grand auditorium was already thick with excitement. Marble pillars framed the stage. Banners draped from the balconies.
The statue of André Corleone stood tall, an almost ironic centerpiece, but Hitler insisted it remain. A symbol, he'd said, of struggle. Of order reclaimed.
In the side hall, Hitler stood with Blomberg, Göring, Himmler, and Goebbels. The ministers spoke in quiet murmurs.
Blomberg turned to him. "They're fired up today, Mein Führer. You'll have them eating out of your hand."
Hitler nodded but didn't smile.
Göring chuckled, "Give them your thunder. Let the old Reichswehr see how a soldier speaks."
When Hitler finally stepped onto the stage, the crowd erupted. The noise was almost unbearable: cheers, chants, whistles. He stood still for a long moment. Then, he raised his hand. Silence fell like a blanket.
He began.
"Today, we stand here! We stand on German soil! We stand in Berlin, this land our ancestors watered with blood and dignity!"
His voice built like a storm, rising and falling, a rhythm only a natural orator could master. Every line hit like a drumbeat.
"We are not machines, not cattle, we are people! We are Germans who have never yielded!"
And they roared back. Again and again.
Down in the audience, eyes glistened. A factory worker from Essen clenched his fists. A war widow from Munich sobbed silently. A student from Dresden mouthed the words as they were spoken.
Up in the government box, Blomberg leaned toward Goebbels. "Does he believe it all?"
Goebbels didn't answer. His eyes were locked on Hitler.
"I think," Goebbels said softly, "he believes he is it."
In the corridors afterward, as Hitler exited the stage and was ushered into the private reception room, applause still thundered. He allowed a sip of water before motioning for Christa.
"Send word to the Institute," he said. "Tell Schmidt I want a full report within the week."
"Shall I emphasize urgency?"
Hitler thought for a moment. "No. Let him think he's still invisible. I'd rather see how far he goes when he believes I'm not watching."
Christa nodded and disappeared through the side doors.
Hitler leaned back in his chair.
"I am history," he whispered. "And history does not blink."
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From UmU Studios (Just Me)
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