Are We Ourselves? - Stinger

[x-hawkeye.livejournal.com]

An unexpected resurrection takes place off the coast of Alaska.


It was so hard to find good help these days. Zemo didn't really have friends in the traditional sense of the word. He had resources. Assets. Tools, really. Still, it was hard to find good tools these days. So when one came by, he was so hesitant to let it go without putting a stake on it.

Norbert Ebersol was a useful tool, and as such couldn't simply be allowed to die. Not until Zemo was done with him.

Which was why he was currently hidden in the icy waters of the North Atlantic just off the coast of Alaska in 'The Forge', a deep-water submarine. Before him, the newly robotized body of Norbert Ebersol lay on a metal table. It was far from his normal arrangements, but for a genius of his level it was more than enough.

Cold. Cold metal beneath his back, cold air against his bare skin, cold through to the very marrow of his bones. Was he dead? He should be dead. He remembered the dark-haired girl, her impossible powers, the rush of air and then the crunch of breaking bones as he hit the wall, the flash of pain...

Norbert opened his eyes with a gasp, only it wasn't really a gasp. It was a hiss of hydraulics, the flex of metal plating. And when he lifted his hands into his field of view, there was the click and whir of camera lenses where his eyes should be, shining chrome digits. "Wha-what? Whe-where?" he stuttered. His voice was his own, but with a flat note to it which revealed to him it was synthetically produced.

"Oh," Zemo said, "You're awake. Good, good. Interesting, even. How do you feel?"

"Feel? Feel?" His voice rose in volume, even if the inflection remained as neutral and flat as ever. "What have you done to me, Zemo?"

"Hmm... seems the emotional feedback coil isn't responding. I shall have to have words with Amora about shoddy work, it seems." Again, was implied.

Good help was so hard to find.

"As for what I've done, I've saved your life. I believe that was our agreement, was it not?"

"Agreement?" Norbert - no, Fixer, he was truly the Fixer now, no longer human - slowly raised himself upright with a smooth humming of servos and hydraulics. "This wasn't part of the agreement. How much of my body is left?"

"Would you like a rough percentage, or a numerated list of parts?"

"A list. Please." It was perhaps ridiculous, tallying up his humanity like this, but humanity was ridiculous. And he had enough functioning parts to actually feel emotions, it seemed.

Zemo put down his (rather sharp looking) tool. "Let me think... there was the cerebellum, the cerebrum... a large chunk of your corpus collosum was salvageable as well. About a third of your cerebral cortex had to be converted to micro-circuitry, unfortunately. You also still have your optic nerves, most of your medulla oblongata... Oh! Also your amagdalya. That reminds me, do you still identify as a man?"

He waved off his own question. "Most of the right brain was unsalvageable, though, which might explain the lack of vocal inflections, now that I'm thinking about it. That's mostly it, aside from the occasional assorted nerve bundle that was transferred for touch, mostly."

There was a long silence, broken only by the minute tickings of Fixer's robotic body. "So I'm a brain in a metal jar," he said at last. Then a horrible squealing noise came from the speakers projecting his voice, a noise which ultimately identified itself as a form of laughter. "Not so far from my worst fears after my diagnosis. But at least I can move." He flexed one hand before his eyes, then the other. "Not exactly what I expected as my reward, but then again, neither was the job." He swiveled his head to fix an inhuman gaze on Zemo. "You told me you were after a weapon. Not what I actually found."

"Ah, but you did, you did! It does not look like much, I know, but what you have found is a weapon of science! More powerful than any gun, any bomb. Forgive me if I was unclear, but you have done very well. I am pleased, and you have my gratitude."

Even now, the blood was safely hidden away in one of his labs. Preliminary tests were already being run. Soon... soon, this entire event would pay off.

Gratitude. Small payment for the loss of his entire body, but at least he wasn't dead any more. Fixer jerked his head in a brief nod of acknowledgement. "This blood... why is it so important?"

Zemo waved a hand, checking over various fiddly bits and science-y things. "The blood is only as important as who it comes out of. As important as what it contains. And this blood, oh this blood belongs to that of America's 'Greatest Hero'." He spat the last two words as though they were vile.

"Steve Rogers?" The voice was as flat as ever, but somehow still managed to convey surprise - and some awe. "You have a sample of his blood, post-serum? How is it that SHIELD had it in mothballs in Barrow? They must have been too stupid to know what they had. And won't they be on high alert once they realize it was there and is missing?"

"You'd be surprised the number of things SHIELD does not know. I suspect it would fill many petabytes, as it were." Zemo grinned. It was not nice and had far too many teeth. "They will never realize that it was gone. I have people who will see to that."

"The same people who assisted you with... liberating my corpse from SHIELD's morgue, I suppose." Fixer looked down at his metallic body again. It was strange how quickly he was getting used to the idea. "And the trigger word for Black Widow?"

"If one knows where to look, one can find the most interesting people in Volgograd. Many of them are willing to part with information for the right price," Zemo non-answered. "I just happened to have the right price."

"Now," he stood. "With your success, we can move on to the next stage. If you will excuse me," Zemo said, not actually asking for permission in any form. "I have a phone call to make."