The Metahuman Agency: The Superhuman War

Supervillain

Jacqueline's vision swam into focus. She sniffed, coughing, the noise reverberating through her voice synthesizer. She stumbled slightly, slightly disoriented. She tried to scratch her scalp on instinct but again, her gauntleted fingers clang off her helmet. She groaned, the letting her hand fall to her side, her thoughts clearing slightly as she realized she was still inside of her suit.

"Of course I am..." Jacqueline said aloud to herself to herself, looking around her office. "I...didn't take this thing off...did I?" It was hard to think. The last thing she remembered was defiantly crushing her bottle of anti-psychotic pills. Then...then...what had she done next? She gritted her teeth, trying desperately to think, but it was like trying to peel back fog. God, she couldn't remember. All that was fresh was what she had just seen.

Afghanistan. Jacqueline teeth tightened at the memory. So long ago and yet, she had just witnessed it like it was yesterday. Had she blacked out and had a flashback to that time, the time when she was young and building the Skeleton Crew, piece by piece, in that war torn land? She must have...it seemed the only logical explanation. But how did she suffer a blackout like that? It was...disturbing that her mind had simply shut down and she had suffered memory loss. She felt cold sweat gathering at her neck. She desperately wished to scratch at it, flick them away, but of course, being inside the suit made that impossible.

She wondered if she should exit the suit. But no...no. Somehow that thought disgusted her. She couldn't step out of it. In her prime invention, she was strength, power, and she was feared. She needed to be all those things right now, to promote her image at its most fearsome, especially with apparent insubordination in her ranks.

Jacqueline smirked as she recalled what she had done to that foolish lieteunant who had dared to question her. Idiot should have kept his mouth shut. Now he was dead, reduced to a greasy smear on the floor, and she felt nothing but pride at that. Any attempts to question her command should be met with a similar response from now on. For she could see clearly now how her organization, how her incompetent men were bringing the Skeleton Crew down, like a collection of warts. And she'd pop any she found, any mercenaries out of place, especially now.

With San Francisco looming...

She could feel it. This was going to be the end. One way or another, this final assault would bring an absolute end to her goals. Her sister was dead. The Agency was dead. America feared her. The Skeleton Crew was being whipped into shape, at the price of a few morons who had undermined her operation at every turn, only undone by her brilliance in outfoxing them. Now...now all that remained were the stupid kids who refused to die. And the bad memories of her past that lingered in that blasted city. All would be cleansed soon enough. They would feel the true wrath of the Skeleton Crew upon them. Jacqueline smiled gleefully, giggling to herself as she rubbed her fingers together, producing a most wonderful scraping noise.

Her gaze traveled around her office, settling on the painting of her father. Since the construction of the Inferno, that piece of filthy artwork had hung there. Ever reminding her of her past, ever inspiring her to move forward, defying the bastard's frozen glare with each act she committed.

She had acquired the painting upon learning through her information network that her father had passed away. The painting had been commissioned to honor him. She sneered. She had secured it and now, it hung there, trying to judge her as he always had but failing.

Jacqueline raised her gatling gun and aimed it at the painting. Her father's gaze stared back at her, lifeless yet still possessing that same damned expression he had always held in life. Even dead, he judged her, but at last she could defy him.