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Thousands of years ago…
In the dark corners of a dimension known only to the damned, Mephisto watched. The lord of that Hellish realm, he thrived on the despair of others—collecting souls with cunning deals whispered into mortal ears. Yet even for him, temptation had its limits. The living feared the Devil by name, and even the most ambitious sorcerers hesitated before making a pact with something so openly monstrous.
And so, Mephisto devised a subtler trap.
From the fragments of countless souls he had devoured—fragments too weak or twisted to use directly—he shaped a single, powerful spirit: a genie. Unlike the demons who screamed and clawed in his infernal prisons, this creation had a purpose. The genie would grant wishes to any who released it, but each wish carried a hidden cost: a tribute in human souls.
And every bargain, every soul claimed, would flow silently back to Mephisto—strengthening his grip over Earth, moving him closer to his ultimate goal. One day, he would drag his Hell to merge with the mortal realm, making himself truly unchallenged.
Yet there was more. The wish-bearer themselves, blinded by greed or desperation, would unknowingly surrender a piece of their own soul. The more they wished, the more of themselves they lost—until Mephisto's hold was absolute.
The lamp that housed the genie was cast in blackened iron, scorched by the fires of Mephisto's realm. Over time, it changed hands—empires rose and fell around it. And the men and women who dared summon the genie left behind cities in ruin, like the once-great Agrabah, reduced to sand and haunted memories.
In fear, those who survived sealed the lamp deep beneath stone and scripture, hidden far from human greed. The warnings etched on stone tablets in an ancient Middle Eastern tongue told only of "a spirit that gives yet devours," and of a Devil whose power stretched beyond death.
Centuries passed. The world forgot. But the lamp waited.
—
- Deserts of Middle East Asia -
- January 25, 1939 -
Dust and heat wrapped the excavation site in a heavy silence, broken only by the clatter of tools against stone. In the heart of a half-dug chamber, Emil Kröger's eyes glittered with triumph. The artifact lay before him: a blackened lamp, plain yet strangely menacing, its surface etched with twisted patterns that almost seemed to move in the shifting light.
Beside it rested a stone tablet, cracked by time but still bearing words that clawed their way through centuries.
Emil barked an order, and the old servant who had led him here knelt beside the tablet, eyes darting nervously over the symbols. The man swallowed before speaking in a rough, trembling voice.
"Master… the words warn of a demon. A being… that grants wishes but feeds on souls. It says even cities have fallen because of it. Agrabah… named here… ruined by greed."
For a moment, the chamber felt colder, as though the ancient walls themselves listened.
But Emil only laughed, a sharp sound in the stillness. "Superstitious nonsense," he sneered. "A tool, nothing more. Hydra will know how to use it."
The old man dared to look up, fear in every line of his face. "Sir… please… this is not—"
"Silence!" Emil snapped, voice like a whip. "I did not bring you to teach me fear."
He ran a hand over the lamp's rough metal, feeling the weight of centuries under his fingertips. Even he could sense something unnatural there—a faint vibration, like a heartbeat buried in iron. But ambition burned brighter than caution.
To Emil, the lamp was a gift from the desert. Something that could lift him from a replaceable field agent to a man whose name might one day stand beside Zemo or Zola.
"Pack it," he ordered. "And the tablet, too. We'll bring them both back to headquarters."
As Hydra's men carefully wrapped the lamp and the cracked tablet, Emil stood back, already imagining the scene: presenting this treasure to Arnim Zola, perhaps even to Baron Zemo himself. The genie's power—whatever it truly was—could be turned to Hydra's grand plans. And Emil Kröger, the nobody, would become the man who delivered it.
Above them, the desert sun burned high in the sky. But deep below, within the lamp's iron walls, something stirred. A presence born of old bargains and older hunger. It felt the seal's weakness… the air of the mortal realm close again.
And it waited.
—
- Deep within the cold heart of Germany -
- January 26, 1939 -
Far beneath an old fortress turned research base, the air smelled of oil, burnt metal, and something harder to name—fear mixed with ambition. Heavy doors sealed off a chamber carved from rock, its walls humming faintly from hidden power lines. Few men even knew this place existed.
Inside, Johann Schmidt stood bare-chested under harsh lights, his breath coming in slow, measured draws. His eyes burned with restless certainty. Around him, men in lab coats adjusted dials and syringes, each movement sharp and silent. They dared not speak. Even a single tremor of doubt would be noticed.
To them, Schmidt was both patron and threat: the Hydra leader who had demanded they go beyond the edges of science—into the territory of nightmares.
At the far end of the chamber, a massive steel tank hissed softly, cables running from its base to a raised platform. Vials of a glowing serum—pale blue, almost ghostly—rested nearby. The serum was incomplete, stolen notes from Erskine's early work. But Schmidt didn't care. Perfection wasn't his goal.
Power was.
—
Schmidt looked briefly at his reflection in a piece of polished steel. His face, still human then, was stern but almost calm. He knew what this could cost. But the idea of living an ordinary life—of bowing before anyone—repulsed him more than death itself.
"Begin," he ordered, his voice steady, cold as marble.
The chief scientist, hands trembling, inserted the needle into Schmidt's arm. The serum burned as it entered, an unnatural cold fire racing through veins and bone alike. Schmidt gripped the metal rail, breath sharp, knuckles whitening.
The machine powered up, flooding the chamber with a low, vibrating hum. Lights flickered. Sparks danced along the cables. The temperature seemed to drop, then spike, the air growing painfully sharp in his lungs.
And then came the pain.
Not the pain of flesh, but of something deeper—like his very essence twisting under forces no human body was meant to bear. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat a hammer strike echoing in his skull. His muscles strained, bones felt as though they would shatter from inside.
His vision blurred. His scream—brief and raw—was swallowed by the roaring noise of the machine.
—
The scientists watched, horrified yet transfixed. Skin darkened, veins pulsed black, something under the surface shifting like molten wax trying to break free.
Then, with a final surge of energy, the machine died down. Smoke coiled in the cold air. The chamber settled into silence, broken only by Schmidt's ragged breathing.
Slowly, painfully, he straightened.
The man who stood there now was no longer truly Johann Schmidt. His features had been burned away, leaving behind a face raw and red as scar tissue stretched tight over bone. Hollow eyes stared from deep sockets, their intensity undimmed, even heightened.
A hush fell over the room, a silence of something almost like reverence, almost like horror.
Schmidt raised a hand to his ruined face, feeling it, tracing the edges of his new form. His expression—if it could still be called that—hardened into grim acceptance.
"At last," he rasped, voice rough but strong. "The mask fits the man."
None dared speak. They could only watch as Johann Schmidt—the man—was gone, and in his place, the Red Skull was born.
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