Zemo: No Mister Kane, I Expect You To Die

[x-dominion.livejournal.com]

Christian Kane and his team face Baron Zemo and his Doom Fortress for the last time.



THAILAND, 1972

Whelan says the reactor is likely built around French lines, considering the materials stolen by the Melter two months ago. Assuming we can trust the bastard." Christian Kane was leaning on the edge of the jumpseat in the helicoptors, reading through a few pages of information which had been transmitted to the American Embassy in Bangkok and handed over to the team just prior to their departure for the inland mountains. Around him were the best of the world's intelligence community, on a mission bankrolled by the Americans, to stop a madman from holding the entire world hostage. For them, it was another day at the office.

The Zemocoptor dipped frighteningly close to the treeline as Shostakov manhandled the advanced rotor craft towards the homing beacon. The CIA had somehow managed to get hold of the vehicle and fake a destroyed transmission back to the central computer, allowing them to secretly keep one of Zemo's advanced creations. They'd stripped out the old identification and replaced it with a new one, hoping it would fool the computers, since it was the only way into what a madman had called his Doom Fortress.

Baron Zemo; twisted, evil, and almost alien in his lack of humanity. Each man had faced him or his Masters of Evil before, bizarre plots and schemes designed to attack their governments and subjegate the world. Each had thwarted them, but now, the stakes were higher than they had ever been. The beeping of the homing signal got louder, and Kane peered through the canopy at a massive carved mountainside Bhudda. Their trajectory was straight towards it, and as they got closed, a crack bisected the statue. With a grinding, shuddering motion, the mountainside statue split, opening like a pod to reveal a massive landing structure and the front piece of the Doom Fortress itself. Kane nodded to himself.

"Once more unto the breech. Alexei, take us in."

"Alors, into the belly of the beast, mes amis?" Georges Batroc smoothed his mustache with one hand, the other reflexively patting his purple-and-gold leather jumpsuit, looking for his nigh-omnipresent thin cigarettes. Flipping one expertly into his mouth despite the wind from the helicopter's rotors, he gave a long, thoughtful look out towards the horizon before the copter flew into the landing area.

"I for one, would like to personally carve that motherless bastard's eyes out," said Alejandro Montoya in a richly accented voice. The words were harsh, but the tone was nothing more than a smooth purr. He delicately balanced a small throwing blade on the back of his knuckles, passing it through his fingers like one would a coin. He was a man of opposites, all careless gestures and words, but to anyone who saw the dozens of tiny white scars dotting his hands, they would know that he was quite deadly. "What say you, Shostakov?" he said to the fourth man in the helicopter.

"RPGs." Shostakov informed the assemblage laconically and jerked the controls.

The elite of the global cloak-and-dagger world barely had the chance to process the warning before the copter veered sharply down and to the left dodging the screeching rockets that slammed into the gates slowly closing behind them, forever disfiguring the giant facsimile of Buddha carved into the mountain face.
The force of the explosions' wave buffeted the slender craft farther, tossing the crew about like ragdolls as the Russian fought the machine, swearing

in a dispassionate yet unending monotone of curses in several languages.
So much for stealth, he thought disgustedly and shrugged. Ah, well. Time for the Moscow approach.

Since any warning for the rest of the team to brace themselves would have been somewhat redundant at that point, he didn't. Instead he simply angled the chopper under the giant and, as far as he could tell, completely unnecessary bronze gong. He was almost positive the vehicle was small enough to fit into the access tunnel...

The sound of the crash was deafening, between the explosions of the fuel pods on the wings and the sound of metal grinding as the rotors, wings and tail rudder of the Zemocoptor were sheared clean off by the edges of the tunnel. The body cockscrewed down the access tunnel, driven both its own velocity and the massive fiery explosion behind them. With a long screeching wail, it finally came to a halt, the wreckage wedged crossway in the tunnel, metal groaning and bent.

After a few moments, the doorway was kicked open, and Kane stepped out, dusting off his leather jacket. "Excellent work, Shostakov. With that explosion, they'll believe we were killed on impact." Kane smiled wryly. "Unless, of course, any of you were killed?"

"Only la petite morte for Batroc, Monsieur Kane," the Frenchman quipped, leaping out of the helicopter with a theatrical flourish. "mais I do not think le Baron employs the type of femmes for a worthy rendezvous, non?"
Alexei pulled himself out from the craft and stepped back, shielding his face from the heat as he stared sadly at the burning wreckage. It had been a good machine, it served them well.

He sighed and fought the atavistic urge to cross himself. Well, any landing you walked away from...

The meaning of the conversation flowing around himself slowly penetrated his still foggy brain and his lips twisted in a grimace. Unless his colloquial French deteriorated completely , the Frog just said that he got off in the crash.

He should have figured that guy for a freak from the first. Hell, the polyester suit alone merited a good shooting in the head as far as Alexei was concerned.

He shook his hand. Fuck. He was drifting. He hoped he didn't have a damn concussion. Also...

"Where's Spanish?

"Over here," replied Montoya. Somehow he'd positioned himself ahead of the group against the setting sun, looking majestic in spite of the fact that he was bleeding from several shallow cuts. "Were are all in one piece, si? Then we must go qquickly while we have light enough to see."

"They have lights, you dago moron." Christian muttered to himself, looking around. "Zemo's going to have security around himself and his particle beam cannon, which helps us. Montoya, Shostakov, once we reach the command centre, if you can throw the secondary reactors into overload, it will shut down the main reactor and all the power for the base. The particle beam cannon has a special cooling system. Batroc, you and I will cut them out. If Zemo tries to fire the cannon on his battery load, it will take this whole fortress with it. The command centre overlooks the cannon plant controls. Keep an eye out for reinforcements."

Kane pulled his pistol and started up the access tunnels. If the plans they stole were right, this tunnel would take them all the way to the nucleus of the Doom Fortress, where the weapon and Zemo waited.

***

Zemo had the latest that technology could offer. Computers that only took up one room for instance. Now it was only a matter of finding the right control panel. Montoya dispatched two orange-suited goons with ease and beckoned Shostakov to follow.

Shostakov grunted in acknowledgment as he strung the wire and stepped back carefully to check the claymore. That should provide sufficient entertainment for anyone enterprising enough to get past the wreckage. And this being a Kraut operating, no doubt efficiency would be encouraged with intermittent executions.

Montoya was glaring at him impatiently so Alexei slowed down, demonstratively dusting off his fatigues before following the Spaniard. If the peacock wannabe aristo wanted to take point and soak up the bullets who was Shostakov to argue, after all...

In a way it was a perfect example of the Marxist-Leninist dialectic in action. The false consciousness of the dying feudal class would doom the capitalist running dogs, leaving the proletariat to inherit the earth.

Meanwhile, over by the cooling pipes, numerous orange-suited goons were leaping one at a time at Batroc, only to be met by a series of rapid kicks and jabs.

"Coup de pied chasse! Saut de bras! La fouette!" the Frenchman barked in between mocking laughter as his feet moved like lightning. "You see, mon ami, no hired thug can hope to be a match for a true master of savate, non?"

Kane smirked at the sound of Batroc behind him. The fighting call of the French, usually delivered in high retreat. But he could trust the ridiculous spy. For all his bizarre insults and silly mustache, Batroc had faced down Basque terrorists, Algerian separatists and Egyptian fundamentalists. The bantam Frenchman was dangerous in ways most people wouldn't expect. Which was exactly why he could be trusted with the coolant pipes as Christian went after the main prize: Zemo.

He could see him on a raised platform, barking out orders through his purple hood. Beside him, as always, was the enchanting mystery blonde, that no agency had been able to identify yet. It didn't matter. He fired twice, killing both goons at the controls near Zemo, and making the man spin around to face him.

"Zemo! It's over!" A blast from a rupturing coolant pipe punctuated his words, the explosion shaking the whole base, reaching Zemo to rock him on the dais.

The cape-clad figure grasped at the railing, the mad blue eyes glaring through the slits of his cowl. "KAAAAAANE!" The enraged roar echoed through the chamber, somehow piercing the din. "You will NOT meddle in my plans again! The Fourth Reich SHALL rise, this time with the divine blood of the Zemo genes flowing through its veins! And the world entire shall know peace of the new Golden Age. You will not stop me. I will not allow it! This is the last time you dare to interfere with the triumph of History! Do you hear me, Kane? Do you hear me?!"

Shostakov punched out the nearest henchman, silently thanking Zemo for the distraction. Despite the asinine uniforms, the Baron's footsoldiers were as competent as any he's faced. Fucking Afrikaaners, from the accents.

Zemo continued to rant at Kane, Shostakov noted resentfully as he trotted through the rows of dormant machinery clattering the hall, trying to keep up with Montoya. Every damn time, it somehow turned out to be all about the Limey.

He ducked, returning fire and swore realizing that he lost the sight of the spick once again. Montoya appeared to have gone completely nuts, streaking through the base like his ass was in fore and screaming out some sort of ancient war hymn as he dispensed the grenades with disturbing enthusiasm.

Shostakov spotted him just in time, and as the machine gunner on the terrace drew the bead on Montoya Alexei s[rayed the gun nest from the hip, estimating the angle on the fly. The screms of the gun's crew were gratifying but also distracting and the meaning of the German's screech took a minute to penetrate. Wait. Did he just say...

Thankfully Zemo felt the first command to be insufficient and the cavern rang again with his voice. "Release the robots!"

"Oh. Fuck."

"Batroc." Kane said, motioning at the robots. "I think they said something about your mother."

"Sacre bleu!" the hotheaded Frenchman exclaimed as he stood to face the platoon of lumbering gunmetal-grey automatons, their transistors crackling with power. "Bonjour, my name is Georges Batroc," he announced in a booming voice. "For the glory of France, I demand you surrender and... oh, oui. Le device." He looked rather sheepish as he pulled a pistol-like device from his pack, pointing it at the robots and pulling the trigger.

A screech of ultrasonic waves echoed throughout the chamber, shattering the glass vacuum tubes controlling the robots, causing them to stagger about like drunken sailors on leave. "And that is for ma mére," he said with a smile.

"Mat' tvoyu za nogu!" Shostakov leapt sidways, trying frantically to avoid being crashed by the toppling automaton. He made a mental note to have a careful talk with Batroc at the first opportunity. "Motherfucking showoff!"

And now he lost the Spaniard again. "Fuck!"

Above the fray the sound that tore its way out of Zemo's throat could not in any way be confused with human. His command to the blonde went unheard, but the woman nodded decisively and sprung in action, leaping off the platform with deadly grace. The baron turned his attention back to Kane. "It is time to feel the wrath of Aryan genius, you mongrel scum!" A strange gun of some sort gleamed dully in Zemo's hands, as he fiddled with it, his laugh growing in volume. "I shall pluck you and yours from the tree of life, Kane! My disintegrating pistol will erase you from the very pages of History!"

Montoya laughed from across the platform, taunting a set of orange-suited goons in Spanish while he balanced atop a narrow guard rail, expertly using his agility to force two groups of Zemo's men to shoot past him, hitting each other in the crossfire. A quick glance at Kane gave him pause - Zemo had the drop on him, unless...

"Senor Kane!" Montoya shouted, drawing a throwing knife and winging it underhanded towards the suave British agent.

Christian caught the knife out of the air and pivoted, letting it fly. It struck the ray gun point first, knocking it from Zemo's hand. He had no chance to follow it as the British agent closed and landed a solid blow across his jaw. The bag that had been sealed to his head did nothing to cushion his face from the strikes, and a second punch sent him reeling.

Christian broke off, grabbing for the disintegrating pistol as Zemo fled. He rolled and fired twice. His shots missed Zemo, but destroyed huge sections of the ceiling and wall, including load bearing supports. The entire antechamber seemed to groan, and metal and rock crashed down, cutting off Zemo's escape. A quick look determined that Kane's would be blocked to if he didn't move now. Motioning to the other agents, Christian made a break for the vehicle bay and a Zemocoptor. He stopped just before the door, watching as the Doom Fortress was breaking itself apart to see Zemo standing there, screaming his defiance at him, before he was obscured by falling rubble and then lost underneath it.

Kane flung away the pistol and ran for the helicopter. Finally, it was over.

***

Christian Kane's eyes popped open from his nap, having drifted off while in his chair. The entire room bobbed and swayed lightly to the movements of the waves, and the sound of the sea against the hull created a constant undertone of sound. He pushed himself upright and rubbed his eyes.

So this was what it was like to be getting old, he thought ruefully, and leaned forward to the piles of news clipping, files, and documents spread out on his desk. Intelligence agents of Kane's level never really retire, and he'd kept his hand into the world even after he was no longer officially employed by her Majesty's secret services.

It was an article about a theft in Pakistan, of a massive amount of old technology that made him pause, and pick up a file he'd been building for the past few months. The details filtered carefully through his mind, and finally Kane could see the larger picture.

"Didi! Change course, darling. We need to be in Brisbane as soon as possible. Call the airport there and book us two tickets to New York." He called back through the hall and received a muted affirmative. The aging spy placed his hands flat on the file while he considered it, and only a whisper escaped his lips.

"Zemo."