SHIELD HELICARRIER, ATLANTIC OCEAN, JANUARY 1ST, 0:01 AM, 1964
Somewhere deep within the hulk of the Helicarrier, there was a strange room. Unlike the thick steel making up the rest of the massive ship, the walls of the small room were made of plastic, the clear surface giving a glimpse of the sole occupant inside. A ragged, broken figure lay strapped to the only furnishing in the room, a large, flat plastic table, with straps made of leather, two plastic bags hanging from the side of the surface, with two tubes of clear liquid attached to his neck. His body was heavily bandaged, his arms covered in casts to protect the healing bones inside. Outside the room, two men in blue jump suits stood, guarding the sealed door, secured with a heavy magnetic lock, designed specifically to prevent the man inside from affecting it. Even their guns, an improvised mix of plastic and ceramics that the science division had cobbled together in a few days once it became clear who their prisoner was, were made just to keep any possible weapons out of his reach.
And in his cell, Magneto dreamt...
He couldn't move, his body made useless from the drugs, even if it hadn't been broken and useless from the battle. His power was a distant echo, always just outside his grasp. Even thinking was difficult, like he was moving through a black ocean, every thought sluggish and confused. But even this state of living death wasn't enough to truly imprison his mind. Yes, Magneto remembered, even though every thought was a struggle, images flashing through the void in a blur.
He knew he was a prisoner. Knew that the world beyond the darkness seemed flat and empty. He didn't know where he was, or who was keeping him, but if they had any sense at all, they'd have tried to render his power useless. For all it good it would do them. He would wake from this nightmare, and his wrath would make the earth itself shudder.
He swore it.
The dream kept going. Santo Marco. The X-Men. Captain America...
Sunshine...
In the real world, unseen by anyone, his broken fingers stirred for a moment.
He'd been defeated, his glorious mutant Zion brought down before it could ever flourish. Betrayed. Betrayed! His own people turned against him! Turning the backs on their very race, to side with the scum of humanity. Scarlet Witch, who he'd saved from a horrific death, Toad, who'd been less than nothing when he found him, and gave both of them a purpose. Made them part of something greater than themselves. And they'd thrown it all away, stabbed him in the back and watched as he'd been broken, humiliated by traitors and collaborators!
After that, he remembered nothing else, nothing but the abyss.
He'd find them. He'd find them all, if it was the last thing he did in this life, and he'd wreak a terrible vengeance for their sins. They thought him beaten, humbled, undone. Let them. Magneto focused on this one thought, this one light in his darkness. Something to cling to even in this land of shadows. Yes, let them have their false sense of victory. It would be all the greater to destroy them.
Because whatever else the world might see him as, liberator, conqueror... monster...
Max Eisenhardt was one thing above all others. A survivor.
He'd survived a hell worse than anything the human race had ever thought created by their cruel and distant gods.
And he had gotten out.
...
A SOLITARY ISLAND, SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC OCEAN, 0:02 AM, JANUARY 1ST, 1964
Somewhere halfway between Hawaii and Australia, there is a small island, little more than a rocky outcropping emerging from the vast ocean depths, like the others of it's kind formed during some long-forgotten volcanic upheaval when the world was still new. This place has no trees, no lush vegetation covering it, just rocks, and sand, and the occasional seabird stopping to rest on it's journey. The ocean waves beat against the rocky shores of this small, dead part of the world, as it has always done, carrying with it the detrius of the sea, marooned ocean life doomed to wither and die in the sand, clumps of grass and even the occasional piece of driftwood or the carelessly discarded leavings of civilization in the form of garbage.
And, over the past month, something else has gradually found it's way to this isolated place.
A seagull lands in the sand, hoping to scavenge whatever the ocean may have brought with it, when the sands beneath it suddenly seems to move! Alarmed, the bird jumps back. For a moment, there's nothing. Then the sand LURCHES after it, a small wave of sand erupting from the surface. Squalling in fear, the bird takes flight, disappearing into the cold, dark night. The sand settles back down, the form crumbling away into nothing.
Then, something begins to shift, and the sand seems to slough forward, like some bizarre, flat snail.
"...can't..." A voice speaks, as if out of nowhere.
The sands shift, drawn by some invisible force, moving further inland, towards the large rock sticking out in the middle of the island. And something begins to take shape at the bottom of the outcropping.
"...won't..."
Slowly, as the minutes pass, a small mound of sand begins to form, the shards in the sand mass glittering in the moonlight. The mass begins to move, the empty plane of it's surface shifting, shaping into something. Two dark, empty holes take form, followed by a thin, long line beneath them, like a ghastly caricature of a man's face.
And the voice begins to laugh.
"Hah...ahaha....AHAHAH!! I DID IT!! NOT DEAD!! NOT DEAD YET, YOU FUCKER!! SUNSHINE!! I'LL FIND YA, IF IT'S THE LAST GODDAMNED THING I'LL DO!! YA HEAR ME?! YA AIN'T EVER GETTIN' AWAY FROM ME!!"
The voice kept laughing, with no one around to hear it.
...
Laurel, Mississippi, 0:05 AM, January 1st, 1964
"I take it the uniform is to your liking, Mr. Bowers?"
Samuel Bowers finished tugging the hood portion of his new uniform in place, before turning towards the mirror. The man looking back at him almost seemed like a stranger. Though he'd never admit it even under threat of death, Bowers had never been happy with himself. Not looks of course, that kind of vanity was unbecoming for a white man, but somehow, he'd never felt like his appearance matched the image in his mind, there'd always been some part that wasn't good enough, that didn't measure up to the righteous christian warrior he knew he was.
And now he did. In his reflection, he saw everything he had always wanted to be. The white leather of the uniform seemed to reshape him somehow, transforming simple Samuel Bowers into a shining knight, a beacon of pure American virility. The costume had been modeled after Captain America, but rather than it's old colors, it had been colored a solid white, with one major exception. On his chest, just over his heart, was a shield-shaped patch with three bars of red, white and blue. Over the bars sat 13 stars, forming a circle around a larger star in the middle.
"It's... brilliant, sir!" Bowers said, still transfixed "I look like a warrior, a proper one now! The others are going to be over the moon for these!"
Behind him, the Hate-Monger nodded in satisfaction. Unlike Bowers, he was still using the same robes he had worn when they had first met, the black hood pulled back to reveal the face of his leader. The man beneath the hood was completely bald, a slight pale patch on his upper lip showing he might've had facial hair until recently, even his eyebrows had been removed for some strange reason, and there was... something else...
Bowers was sure he'd never met the Hate-Monger before the man had first contacted him all those months ago, but there was something in that face that seemed familiar. Something far in the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it...
Bowers shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. It didn't matter why, only that the Hate-Monger had come to him at his lowest, shown him a way out of his despair, a way back to the America he loved, America as it should be! But for that, they were going to need an army.
"Did you speak to the men, like I asked you?" The man said, seemingly picking up what Bowers was thinking about. Bowers nodded enthusiastically.
"Oh yes sir, I reached out to them, just like you said. 'Bout 200 or so, they agreed with what I had to say. Think the Klan isn't doing enough either, that we need to do more than burn a few crosses and yell a few words. Said they'd be ready and willing to fight for anyone with your kind of vision. If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I'm feeling a bit let down by The Klan, they talk a good talk, but when it's time for action, so few of them are willing to get their hands dirty..."
"Ah, but don't judge them too harshly, Mr. Bowers" The Hate-Monger said, walking over to one of the crates stacked along the far wall "It's an unfortunate reality that even good men often lack the iron will needed to reach out and seize their true destiny, to be willing to do whatever it takes to shape the world into what it is supposed to be." He opened the top of the crate and looked inside. Within were more uniforms, just like the one Bowers was wearing, but the Hate-Monger pushed them aside, reaching for something hidden underneath the white leather. "That is where you come in, Mr. Bowers. You, and those like you. The time for talk is long past, if it ever existed at all! You cannot speak to the negro or the jew as if they were an equal, or even men capable of reason! Would you reason with a dog, or a pig, or a rat? NO!!" He snarled, slamming the lid of the crate shut, almost making Bowers jump in surprise "They are beasts, and vermin! You do not reason with beasts and vermin, you dominate, and exterminate, as is our birthright! And that is the task that will be yours in the months to come, Mr. Bowers! Forget the Klan, they were a well-meaning idea too weak to accomplish it's goal! You will be part of something far greater!"
He walked back over the table, placing a large, triangular object covered in white cloth on the table. "You, and those we have recruited to our cause, will be but the first in an army to take back this great nation. Not a Klan! But an Order! An Order of Knights!" He pulled the cover away, revealing a smooth, polished triangle of metal, painted white, except a smaller shield in the middle, which carried the same symbol that Bowers had on it's chest, the 13 stars contrasting to the red, white and blue surrounding it. Bowers stepped closer, staring at the shield in the Hate-Mongers hands. He recognized it of course, he'd seen it in photos and on propaganda posters as a child, except back then, it had been colored entirerly red, white and blue, with only a single star in the middle.
"Is that..?"
"Indeed it is, the original shield of Captain America himself! There are still those in military circles who are loyal to this nation, and once they were informed of our great cause, they were able to obtain certain... artifacts for our use! This shall be our standard, carried into battle by the symbol of our great Order!"
Bowers nodded "That man, William Burnside. It's for him, right?" He'd only seen the man once, when the Hate-Monger had first brought him into the bunker in that strange capsule, the frozen body trapped inside. His leader kept Burnside out of view from everyone, even him, but Bowers trusted him, the Hate-Monger had never lied to him before, why would he start now?
"Yes, a Captain America this country truly deserves. He is adapting, slowly but surely, it's a long road to recovery from his ordeal, from discovering what his country has become in his absence, but I am making sure he is growing into the symbol we need. Focus on building our army, Mr. Bowers, and I shall focus on it's leader!"
Bowers didn't answer, and continued staring at the shield in front of him for a moment. "...so, if not the Klan, what then, sir? You called us Knights, but Knights of what?"
The Hate-Monger turned towards him, that oddly familiar face drawn into a bloodthirsty grin "Ah, but as those grand Knights of old, who fought for that most precious to them, so shall we! We fight for freedom! For democracy! For the very values this great nation was founded upon!"
"And the world shall tremble at the name of The White Knights of Liberty!"
...
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