Castle Lichter, Switzerland
Underneath the stone floors and between circuit-laced walls, there lay a dungeon. It was an archaic thing, a terrible, monstrous place, the souls of those who suffered the wrath of House von Lichter for their transgressions reputed to cry out from the walls. It had not seen use in nineteen years, and until about a week ago, it had accumulated quite the fine layer of dust. And within that dungeon, a man hung from the ceiling by a chain, arms interlocked behind his back.
The sound of strong soles striding down the stairs awakened him, blue eyes opening along with an indignant opening of his mouth, likely to spit a curse at the youth who approached. The small red disc on the back of his neck sparked, his words choking in his throat. The magenta-garbed warden stood before him with his hands interlocked behind his back, black uniform disguising his identity, but not his name.
"Mister Washington," he said, his confident tones echoing through the dimly lit room, "are you feeling repentant yet?"
The hooded figure cocked his head to the side, leaning closer to his captive.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," he chided, turning away. He reached into a pouch at his belt, yellow-gloved fingers removing a small rectangular prism. Absentmindedly, he passed it over and over in his hand, sliding it in between his digits as he walked.
"Know that your carriers are in good hands. Mine, that is," he said glancing back at the terrorist leader. "I'm still amazed you found the time and manpower to construct them. The Vice President's influence, I suppose, is oft underestimated. What did you call it in the memo? Proportionate response?"
He chuckled, shaking his head.
"Proportionate response indeed. Chemically enslaving a quarter million innocent people, threatening nuclear war on the entire world, killing those who questioned you...truly proportionate."
He spun, finger and thumb together under his chin in a mock thinking pose.
"What was the endgame? Burn the States, rule the ashes? Pretend to be a leader in your artificially constructed kingdom? Your drugged citizenry bowing to your every whim? The ramblings of a madman, given life. Given teeth. Nuclear teeth."
He took a step closer.
"War has changed, Samuel. War changed with me."
He flicked the prism, the knife sliding open.
"War ended with me. Soon enough, there shall only be peace, order, and justice."
He raised the blade up to Sam's eyes, showing him the Icelandic insignia.
"This was a gift from President Donn. Recognize the insignia? Iceland. Another moral cancer removed from our Earth. Symbolic of everything I've thus far done. Of everything I will do."
He turned to the side again, sliding the knife from palm to gloved palm.
"'But the trial, Lichter?' you say? Simple. There is no trial. You were never captured. Killed in action, yes. Alexander granted me permission to take the action I feel is most right. Which is what I've been doing so far, of course, but I was worried my conscience would prevent me from letting you live, were I ordered to make it so. No, this? It made the decision easier."
He turned back.
"I'm sure you're not scared of my knife. Invulnerability, yes. Well, if I talk in my normal tone of voice, I'm certain you'll remember."
He cleared his throat, putting on his American "Braun" accent.
"Remember me, sir? The CIA agent who tested your blood? That's right. I took it, and used it to find a weakness. A formula. Knife's coated in it."
He resumed his regular speech pattern effortlessly, no break in between.
"You shall no longer menace my world. Thanks for the helicarriers."
He placed the knife on Sam's throat.
"You know, Sam? I'm feeling merciful. I'll give you ten seconds to come to terms with your life thus far. To forgive yourself, perhaps. To understand. Ten seconds, then auf wiedersehen Sam Washington. Ready? Ten...nine...eight..."
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