Chapter 5
*
Gold... Why the Zen did I get involved with it.
Never mind the fort itself—it's a tough nut to crack: an underground bunker with granite walls and a single twenty-two-ton door, located in the middle of a massive military base.
I got in. I won't say how. I just won't. What if I need to again? There wasn't even that much metal there. Honestly, I'm not impressed.
But gold...
It's so damn heavy!!!
I can lift a ton. If I strain myself really, really hard—a ton and a hundred. I can normally carry about six hundred kilograms. Sneaking and jumping—three hundred kilograms.
Three hundred kilograms is thirty ten-kilogram ingots. And that's not much in terms of volume.
But that's me.
What about the bag? What do I use to carry three hundred kilos of metal? I didn't think about that when I broke into the Fort. And it only dawned on me along with the sound of tearing fabric.
And here it is, the attraction of unheard-of greed: standing in the middle of a bunker with gold, having the physical strength, but lacking the physical capability... The maximum is two ingots. In the left and right hand. I can't stuff them in my pants, can I? So that, tearing through the pockets, they would fall on my foot?
Zzzzeeeeen... I hadn't experienced such a fit of animal rage as I did then in fifty years, ever since an insect that I was carefully yielding the way to, allowing it to crawl across the path in front of me in full accordance with the concept of non-action, crawled around me from behind and bit into my leg.
For a whole minute and a half, I stood motionless, with my eyes closed, getting a grip on myself. Waiting out the outburst.
I gave up on it all. Pissed on the nearest stack of ingots. Took a couple from another stack and left the crime scene.
I'm not dealing with gold anymore! I'll fill my stash with something else. Some precious stones... When I find where to steal them.
I returned to the apartment I rented upon arriving in the States, exhausted and tired. Not physically, but mentally. Physically, I don't even know what could tire me out.
I threw the bag with the two ingots on the couch, and went to wash up.
And then there was an insistent, confident, even "masterful" knock on the door. Honestly, at the first moment, my heart even skipped a beat. Thoughts immediately started racing that I left a trail, they found me, I need to hide, run, conceal...
Then there was a pause, closed eyes, and a breathing exercise to restore peace of mind. Only after doing it three times did I go to open the door. I just threw my jacket over the bag with the gold.
"Victor Creed?" asked the man to me as I opened the door. He was an older man in a military uniform with the insignia of a US Army colonel. Next to him, also in an officer's uniform, stood a girl with curly black hair and bright red lipstick on her lips. However, I didn't see any insignia on her.
I set my "stone face" mode and silently prepared to listen.
"Colonel Phillips," the man introduced himself. "Strategic Scientific Reserve." Apparently, he expected some reaction. He's out of luck. The "stone face" mode was in full glory. I continued to hold the door slightly open and calmly looked at the visitors. After all, I hadn't yet heard a reason for me to let them in. Well, the guy introduced himself, so what? Maybe he just wanted to introduce himself, and now he'll turn around and leave? That could happen, right?
"May we come in?" he broke the silence that was beginning to drag on, not having waited for an invitation.
Well, I had no reasons not to let them into the apartment (not counting the stolen gold lying on the couch), so I opened the door and stepped out of the way.
The guests entered. I locked the door and followed them.
"So, Victor Creed, a citizen of France, arrived in America for the purpose of tourism. Is that correct?" the colonel laid an official-looking folder in front of him after sitting at the table.
I continued to look at him silently, waiting for him to continue.
"A diploma from Oxford in mathematics, from the Technical University of Munich in physics and biochemistry, from the Sorbonne in biology and medicine, correct?" my silence must have been really getting on their nerves. But I had absolutely no desire to confirm what they already knew without me.
Moreover, I still hadn't heard anything about the purpose of their arrival. The colonel sighed.
"Mr. Creed, we have come on behalf of the US Government." And what, am I supposed to fall to my knees and weep with reverence? Not gonna happen.
"Mr. Creed," the guy had good self-control. The "stone face" performed by me is quite a test of endurance. "There is a certain scientific government project that we would like to involve you in." Well, he got to the point—I should encourage him a little: I raised an eyebrow slightly, showing some interest.
"Professor Erskine recommended you."
"Bad," I thought. "Canon is dragging me in."
An answer, however, was required. I raised my eyebrow a little higher. Let them decide for themselves what I meant by that.
"Mr. Creed," the girl started speaking. Apparently, the colonel had run out of eloquence. "You are acquainted with Professor Erskine, aren't you? You studied together at the Technical University of Munich." Zero reaction from my side. "Did he tell you anything about what he was working on in Germany?" Zero reaction. "Alright, Mr. Creed. Do you agree to work with us?"
Now that's a serious question. And for me, it sounds like: "To get into canon or not to get into canon?"
* * *
"He somehow doesn't look like a scientist," Margaret Carter shivered chillily when the door of the official car closed behind them.
"Erskine specifically demanded him," the colonel said gloomily, settling more comfortably in the back seat next to her. The driver started the engine, and the car pulled away. "There are two options here: either this Creed is really good as a scientist, or he is good at something else. Something that corresponds more to his appearance."
"Meaning?"
"You read the interrogation protocols, didn't you? It was Creed who somehow got Erskine and his family out of Berlin."
"So, you think Erskine is counting on Creed to pull him out from us too if anything happens?" Margaret was surprised.
"Did you see how he moves?" the colonel asked slightly out of place.
"He moves beautifully."
"Too beautifully. Economically."
"What are you getting at?"
"He is dangerous," he replied. "I'm not sure we have even a single fighter of his level... Or rather, I'm sure we don't."
"Are you suggesting we eliminate him?"
"No. I'm thinking: what can we offer him? How to interest him? 'Cadres decide everything,' as Joseph Stalin claims. And I am inclined to agree with him. And this Victor could become a unique acquisition."
"Or a problem."
"Or a problem," the colonel agreed.
* * *
I took time to think. And that's exactly what I was going to do. Therefore, I threw off my clothes, put on shorts, and started warming up: nothing sweeping that required a lot of space for maneuvering, only statics and stretching—perfect for thinking.
And there is something to think about.
Marvel.
At first glance, the world I ended up in is no different from my previous one. Just minor deviations in history, a couple of countries with names that didn't exist "there", and a few that, conversely, don't exist "here" but are present "there".
But that's only at first glance.
Throughout my life and wanderings, I constantly encountered these differences. Mutants. Wizards. In general, Zen knows who.
In Siam, only for the first couple of years in the arena did I fight only with ordinary, well-trained people. Then those doors closed for me. But new ones opened.
Fights of these very "differences". They didn't happen often. And every time in different places. The "Battle of Dragons", so-called. Having gotten into it once, you stop doubting that the whole fantastic bedlam of Marvel is possible.
And I was by no means the coolest frog in the swamp there. Yes, several times I became the winner of the "Battle". But more often, I was carried out of the ring, despite the healing factor, claws, teeth, skills, and training.
I also received invitations to the "Battle" at the monastery...
So, canon.
Over the years I had lived, it would have been natural to forget not only the minor details but even the major events. But meditative practices turned out to be extremely effective for memory development. So even the notes I made right after transmigrating and kept with my stash in America weren't particularly needed. On the contrary, over the years of practice, I managed to remember such details that I didn't even expect from myself.
And everything I remembered about Marvel was a disaster. Any version of events: movie, comic book, cartoon—everywhere there was a global mess. And such a mess that you can't hide from.
And now I've lived up to the beginning of the described events. If until this moment it was "quiet", if you can even call revolutions, uprisings, the world war, and a bunch of other charms that, then from here the "action" begins.
And what should I do? Get involved, run, or hide?
* * *