Chapter 65: Living History #65
Slowly opening her eyes, Ororo found herself in a state of momentary confusion as her surroundings gradually came into focus. She lay on a comfortable bed and blinked away the remnants of sleep. A warm smile graced her lips as she observed Evan, who sat attentively in a chair beside the bed, expertly peeling an apple.
"Shouldn't our roles be reversed?" she quipped, her voice carrying a touch of amusement at the unconventional scene.
Evan responded with a gentle smile, his hands skillfully putting away the apple. "I'd say our roles are as they should be. As you can see, I'm perfectly fine, and you're clearly exhausted," he replied, his tone carrying an undertone of concern. "The battle can't have been easy on you," he added, his eyes reflecting genuine worry for her well-being.
Ororo sighed, her fatigue evident as she recalled the intensity of the battle. "I'm not the one who was covered in so many wounds at the end of the battle," she pointed out, her arms crossing in a manner that conveyed her stubbornness.
Evan shrugged casually, his demeanor relaxed. "And now I'm as good as new. McCoy patched me up," he explained, referring to their resident scientist and healer, Hank McCoy, who had tended to his injuries with his usual expertise.
Evan's playful smile persisted as he continued, his voice filled with a reassuring tone. "So, you should just lie down, let me take care of you, and recover as soon as possible," he advised, his eyes reflecting a sense of determination. "There's much to be done once you're back on your feet," he added a hint of seriousness in his words.
Ororo let out a resigned sigh, her thoughts drifting toward a well-deserved break. "More work?" she muttered, her tone tinged with a hint of fatigue. "And here I was thinking of taking the next few months off," she added, shaking her head.
Evan nodded, his expression mirroring her sentiment. "Believe me, I'd have preferred to take it slow and go on a vacation or something," he admitted with a wistful sigh.
"But we've won a great victory. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it," Evan emphasized, his voice filled with a sense of responsibility. "This might be our only chance to shift public opinion in favor of the X-Men," he concluded, highlighting the significance of their recent triumph.
Ororo couldn't help but roll her eyes at Evan's habbit of always thinking about the future. "Don't you get tired of planning everything?" she asked, her voice tinged with exasperation.
Evan responded with a nonchalant shrug. "Someone has to," he quipped, his eyes gleaming with a sense of responsibility. He moved closer to her, retrieving a plate full of meticulously peeled fruits from a nearby table.
With a gentle smile, he offered it to Ororo. "Anyway, eat up and relax for now," he encouraged, his tone softening. "We'll get busy soon enough," he added, acknowledging the weight of their responsibilities while urging her to savor this moment of respite.
...
In an underground bunker hidden beneath Camp Lehigh, Captain America and Dum Dum Dugan found themselves in a room filled with outdated computers and aging electronic equipment. Dugan, his brow furrowed with skepticism, glanced at the ancient computer screens that lined the room.
"Would there really be any evidence of Hydra in some abandoned server room from the forties?" he questioned, his tone reflecting doubt. He surveyed the room, his eyes scanning the dusty relics of technology.
"Maybe Romanoff was right... that bloody bastard probably sent you on a wild goose chase, Cap," he added, shaking his head in frustration.
Captain America met Dugan's gaze with a sigh, his determination unwavering. "That remains to be seen," he replied, his voice resolute.
He cast his gaze around the room, his keen eyes discerning subtle details. "Still, this place isn't abandoned. Look closely—there's not even a speck of dust on the floor," he pointed out, drawing Dugan's attention to the spotless state of the room, a clear sign that someone had maintained this hidden chamber meticulously.
"Now that you mention it... this place does look oddly well-maintained for a facility that had been abandoned half a century ago," Dugan remarked, his brow furrowing in deeper suspicion. His eyes fixed on the central computer in the room.
"Let's dig around and see what we can find," he suggested, determination flickering in his eyes as he strode toward the aging machine. Captain America nodded, falling in step beside him.
As they reached the ancient computer, the faded screen at its core flickered to life, casting an eerie green glow across the room. Lines of code began to scroll rapidly across the monitor, gradually forming the image of a face. The antiquated camera perched atop the screen pivoted, its lens focusing on Captain America with an unsettling precision.
In response, the face on the screen began to speak, its voice calm and resonant. "Steven Grant Rogers, born 1918," it declared in a heavily accented English, prompting puzzled glances and raised eyebrows from both Dugan and Captain America.
The camera then swiveled to Dugan, who shifted uncomfortably under its gaze. The face on the screen continued, "Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan, born 1912."
"Some sort of recording, I reckon...?" Dugan muttered, his forehead creased with uncertainty as he scrutinized the aging computer screen, his voice tinged with doubt.
The enigmatic face on the screen responded, its voice carrying a distinctive accent that seemed strangely out of place. "I'm not a recording, Mr. Dugan. I may not be the same man I was when the captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I am..."
As the voice trailed off, a smaller screen displayed the black-and-white image of a middle-aged man wearing glasses. Dugan squinted at the picture, a puzzled expression on his face. "That ugly mug looks familiar... does it ring any bells, Cap? You know this... thing?" he inquired, turning to Captain America for insight.
Captain America, still processing the surreal situation, began to pace around the computer, his brows furrowed with deep thought. "Arnim Zola was a German scientist working for the Red Skull... he's been dead for years," he explained, his voice laced with disbelief.
In response to Captain America's dismissal, the lines of code that composed Arnim Zola's digital form seemed to bristle with indignation. "First correction-- I am Swiss. Second-- look around you. I've never been more alive," Zola retorted.
"In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however..." The nazi scientist trailed off cryptically, alluding to a sinister transformation. "That was worth saving-- on 200 thousand feet of databanks. You are standing in my very brain." He concluded.
Captain America couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that settled within him as he continued to pace around the computer. "How did you get here?" he inquired, his voice laced with suspicion and curiosity.
Zola's response was eerily simple, delivered in his distinctive accent. "Invited."
Captain America turned to Dugan, raising an eyebrow in silent query. Dugan wasted no time in providing an explanation, his memories from years past resurfacing. "There was an operation after the war... I forget the hows and whys, but SHIELD recruited a handful of German eggheads. For their strategic value, or some such..." he recounted, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Zola, the digital remnant of the once-physical scientist, affirmed Dugan's words with a stoic nod. "They thought I could help their cause... I also helped my own," he clarified cryptically, hinting at a complex espionage forged during the tumultuous post-war years.
Captain America couldn't bring himself to accept the notion that Hydra might have endured after his plunge into ice, and he shook his head resolutely. "Hydra died with the Red Skull," he asserted firmly, his conviction unshaken.
Remaining eerily composed throughout the conversation, Zola responded with a chilling calmness. "Cut off one head," he said, the screen displaying the unmistakable symbol of Hydra overlaying his face. "And two more shall take its place," he continued, his visage splitting into two identical faces composed of lines of code.
Captain America's skepticism was evident in his voice as he issued a challenge. "Prove it," he demanded, his tone bordering on confrontational and chalenging.
Without hesitation, Zola initiated a response. The multiple screens within the underground chamber shifted, and they were instantly filled with a montage of old wartime footage.
Zola's disembodied voice echoed as he spoke, "Accessing archives..." The room was soon bathed in the eerie glow of historical images and data, painting a vivid picture of the past.
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