“And lo, I hang my head in shame; for if this morning, God looked upon the world and asked, ‘did Satan wrought this calamity?’; would must I answer ‘No. It was but a man.’” – Bishop Desmond Tutu, October 10, 1990.

He dropped from the sky and stepped into the building without ceremony or fanfare. The glass doors parted for him as they would any other, no louder than the soft swish of his cape or the padding of his golden boots on the fresh-cleaned carpet. Yet the instant he entered, all other noise ceased – as if his towering figure, striding forward without a second’s hesitation or a sidewards glance, had absorbed it all.

One guard snapped to attention so fast he pulled a muscle saluting. The other could only stand there, slack-jawed, speechless, his mouth hanging open. The tall, shining figure took notice of neither – his face hard, his eyes forward. He reached the security gate and stopped.

“One of my students,” he demanded, “The clairvoyant. Where is he?”

The gaping guard’s mouth worked silently, unable to form a reply. His rigid companion was faster.

“Downstairs sir!” he yelped. His eyes flickered out of their disciplined lock, stealing a frenetic glance at the man’s face. “Shall I escort you?”

“Open the gate,” the caped figure said quietly.

A thin drop of sweat beaded down the guard’s forehead, though the air inside was cold.

“Yes sir. Of course sir. Just give me a moment to perform the routine security checks and I’ll-”

The man they called Captain Dawn’s lip curled.

*****

“Help me.”

Mentok’s voice quavered as he struggled to rise, and before he could even think about it Matt was at his side, sweeping away the wires and patches and blankets that hung like lead weights against the old man’s body. He wrapped an arm around Mentok’s frail, wheezing chest and pulled him upright.

“How long have you known?” he asked. Mentok didn’t reply. Breathless, he hung his head, panting, his free hand feebly swiping at the cannula drip still stuck in his left arm. Matt only hesitated for a second, then leant over and drew the needle from Mentok’s vein. The old man moaned.

“Sorry,” said Matt, but the genius just shook his head, sucking air through his teeth. He clutched the wounded arm to his side and crooked the other behind Matt’s neck.

“Always,” he croaked, “Knew.” Matt pulled him from the bed to his feet, which dangled uselessly against the floor. “All wrong. TV, jail. Moment I saw.”

He tried to stand, to take his own weight, but his shaking knees buckled beneath the hospital gown. Matt caught him, holding them both upright, his teeth bared. Even reduced to skin and bones, Mentok wasn’t light.

“Two fight. One emerges. Process of elimination. Heydrich, abilities. Shapeshifter.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” grunted Matt, struggling with each step, the old man dead weight – like carrying a corpse.

“Would have… forced hand. Killed me. Everyone. Out in the open,” replied Mentok. He drew a long, ragged breath. “Needed… find a way… stop him. More… time.”

“So you faked a coma? Scarlett Syndrome?”

Mentok shook his ragged head. “No. Real. Scarlett’s… misunderstood. Thoughts… move too fast, but… I… had to… learned to… focus…”

Underneath his arm, Matt felt the old man stiffen and straighten. Amongst the fear and the fever, the worn skin and sunken cheeks, a hint of pride glinted in the Russian’s eyes.

“I am master of my mind,” he said quietly.

They were only halfway across the room.

“So what’s the plan?” Matt asked, his heart racing in his chest, “Get you out of here, then what, what do we do, how do we stop him?!”

There was a pause – a dreadful, horrible pause. Matt stared wide-eyed at Mentok’s ashen face.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

For a moment, Matt’s heart stopped beating. “What do you mean you don’t know?” He felt his voice growing high, panicked. “You’re a genius, you’re the genius, you’ve had ten years, you-”

“Too strong,” Mentok said softly. They’d stopped moving, Matt standing, watching, horrified, while the old man gazed forward, his eyes blank, staring into nothing. It was the clearest Matt had ever heard him speak. “No way. Can’t stop him.”

The words hung in the air – in the stillness, in the silence. The room felt suddenly small, Matt’s head suddenly light.

“Ok,” he murmured. Then louder, “Ok. We just need time. You need… you need time.” He moved towards the doorway, striding into a loping run, pulling them forward, pulling them both forward, “Clear your head, get you better, let you… there’s still time, we just need to get you out of here, give you time to think, time to figure out a way to-”

A distant boom rippled through the complex. All around them, the lights flickered. Slowly, Mentok looked upwards as a line of dust breathed from the ceiling.

“Too late,” he whispered.

*****

Will heard it.

A far-off rumble, like an earthquake, coming from the inside of the building. He stopped in his tracks amongst the dust and scrub, fifty feet from the fence, a hundred feet from the west tower – staring at the building. Suddenly there was shouting, movement, the wailing of sirens. Will swore under his breath. He didn’t know what the hell was going on.

But he knew Matt was in there.

*****

“Run,” croaked the Mindtaker. In the lifeless room, the lights flickering in the ceiling, Matt looked down at the sallow, twisted body he was carrying, and the blank, curious expression on the old man’s face.

“But-”

“Go,” Mentok gasped. He retracted his arm from around Matt’s shoulders, sagging, half-falling to the ground.

“I won’t-”

“No time,” the old man rasped, “Warn the world. Warn the Legion. Find a way.”

Again, the walls trembled. The lights failed and outside the halls fell to black. For a moment, all was darkness – but then from the gloom came a glow. Emergency lighting, swimming like ghostly fireflies in the black. The last remnants of the dying light.

A tightness pressed around Matt’s chest. He loosened his grip and Mentok slid from his grasp onto the floor. The sound of the Russian’s shallow, laboured breathing heaved out into the dark.

“Run,” he hissed.

But before Matt could get move, there came the screaming.

Horrible, blood-curdling screaming. The sound an animal makes when it’s dying. Coming from above them, from the elevators, the end of the hall. From the guards, from grown men.

And an instant later, there was nothing.

Matt’s hands began to shake.

“Not that way,” murmured Mentok, “Not that way.”

“Where?” trembled Matt.

“Other way. Fire escape. Electric. Unlocked. Go.”

“If I leave, you die.”

“Yes,” the Mentok said quietly, staring into the coming dark, “But you live. Run.”

And so, with only a single glance of wordless thanks behind him, Matt ran.

*****

The old man lay face down on the cold floor – breathing, listening, dying. A million thoughts shouted in his head for supremacy, endless chains spiralling into eternity. They clashed and pulled at him, dragging him down, apart from the world, away from the real. They spoke fast – but the man listened slow.

There was a resounding crash, the sound of metal rending, tearing in two. Shouting, then banging, then screaming, then silence. Viktor Mentok listened and knew.

His legs were too weak to walk. His arms were too weak to crawl. Death was coming for him as surely as it had come for those it had just taken, those who had guarded, pitied, maybe even cared for him. He could not save them. He could not save himself.

But he could save the boy.

One last secret. A tiny neural implant drilled into the back of his neck, hidden beneath a layer of false skin. His eyes rolled back and his shaking fingers fumbled, but they found it and it came alive at his touch. Flashing green and red and calling for him to sing. Sing with it, call out, speak into the darkness.

Three words.

“Heart of Ash.”

And from the walls, from the floors, from this room where he had spent ten long years, where he had hoarded a million moments of clarity – from this room, came his machines. Built in secret, built from scraps, from the gifts of a silent stranger. His creations, neither grand nor glorious, slamming roughly into him, his arms and legs, pieces piercing and drilling into place, a second skin, a second skeleton, as strong as his body was weak. Cabling around his chest, steel along his spine. He took one shuddering step forward and then another, armour sliding into place. Bleeding. Agonised.

And alive.

For the first time in ten years, Viktor Mentok rose, tall and alone – hero and villain, machine and man. He walked from that room, his withered head held high, iron gauntlets around his arms, steel pistons beneath his feet, once more a titan, the eagle upon his chest. From the walls more pieces flew, his armour growing, crude weapons forming around his hands – hands he raised defiant at the figure of Death that rounded the corner, untarnished, unbeatable, shining in the dark. Wearing the face of his fallen friend.

Come Siegfried. Let us show them who we are.

“Dlya moyey sem'i,” he whispered to Death, and he knew Death understood.