[center][img]http://i362.photobucket.com/albums/oo63/NMShape/coollogo_com-8436681_zps421d5ea2.png[/img][/center]

No one had ever been willing to let one of the last of the old guard of heroes, the old heroes who had fought against the forces of tyranny and fascism during the Second World War, the ones who had once defeated the most dangerous villain the world had known up until that time, be told that he was no longer competent and no longer fit to perform actual hero work. No one would tell the old, nearly blind but virtually invulnerable hulk that was Colonel Ironsides that he was no longer needed, no there was a job found for him, a great ceremony had been held in his honor and he had been given a position that sounded suitably glorious on the surface. He was hired as the head of security for the world renown Museum of Supers, a place where both great villains and heroes were remembered and their memorabilia was sold. He would protect the museum, be a grand attraction on his own for those who visited, and most importantly there would be no sense that one of the greatest heroes of a bygone age had been put out to pasture.

But in their attempts to avoid creating a public incident the powers that be had forgotten about one critical thing, that the relics of old heroes and villains often had power and that all that stood between one seeking to claim these items and the prize were a few dozen security guards and one aging hero who could barely function. The mere name of the man who had been a member of the team that had cast down the Good Doctor so long ago was a deterrent enough for most and the few who tried to interfere with the museum were mostly lowlifes who were dealt with by the other security personnel without trouble. But it was not enough to deter all who would wish to claim, or in a certain case reclaim an item that had been entrusted to the museum and one individual in particular was happy that the man guarding the museum was one of the old guard. It would be a chance for revenge after all.

On this particular night there were only three guards other than the old Colonel, the night shift being much smaller than the day shift, and it looked to be a quiet night, at least so far. Three men who sat in a room and played cards while occasionally glancing up at the array of screens that showed the input from all of the cameras throughout the museum. There was a single brief hiss of static from the entirety of the array as all the screens briefly distorted before returning to normal, the hissing sound did draw the attention of the one of the guards but after the screens returned to normal he ignored the incident, chocking it up to a glitch in the system and returning to the card game. That was the only sign that any of the merely human guards would have been given that the building was now compromised and they had entirely ignored it.

While the camera feeds still showed the halls of the museum to be empty they were now showing data that was being looped repeatedly rather than live feeds. Several tall, well dressed men in outfits that looked very nearly military and that bore 6 red diagonal lines emblazoned as a sigil upon their uniforms moved down the previously vacant hallways, one stopping briefly outside the security room and sliding a small disk roughly an inch thick under the door. A few seconds later there was a soft hiss followed rapidly by several thumping sounds as the guards inside were knocked unconscious by the compound contained within the disk. The man who had slipped the disk under the door remained in front of the door to ward against any possibility of the guards awakening and interfering in what was to happen next as the other men took up positions around the entrances to the museum.

It was only then that the one who was far more than a mere soldier entered, walking straight in, in full view of the inactive cameras. A man who wore a uniform much like the others, but a uniform that was far more ornate and symbolic of a higher rank, a furred mantle hung from his shoulders and the hem of it brushed against the ground behind his feet as he walked forward, black boots clicked against the tiled floor and the same sigil that was emblazoned upon the uniforms of the others was emblazoned upon his own. His face was hidden in deep shadows beneath a hood that had been pulled down across most of his face and should it have been visible it was a face that would easily be forgotten within minutes, a face that never would stand out in a crowd. His breathing was an audible rasping hiss and it was clear that it took an effort for the man to take in enough air with each breath. But still he walked with a perfect step and a manner that spoke volumes of his position.

The man who had entered last walked past several of his men, most of whom were young, all of whom bore what would once have been described as Aryan features, signs of an old regime's definition of perfection. As he passed they straightened to attention and snapped off a salute that almost any student of history would recognize, though there were subtle differences that distinguished it from the gesture that the Nazi's had once used, the hand was not stretched out but rather closed in a fist. The man paid them little attention though in truth his eyes did observe every detail of each of his men's salutes and had there been a flaw he would have later commented on it.

The first that the aging Colonel who liked to stand in the central room of the museum, the room that housed such exhibits as the Mask of the Good Doctor, and reminisce on his old glory days would know of the force that had taken control of it was when the sound of boots clicking on the floor came from behind him. While Ironsides was old, and nearly blind, he still had his hearing and the reflexes of one who had been present in hundreds of conflicts over his long career. The man could also distinguish between the sounds of the footsteps that he heard and those of the normal guards. Raising a massive cannon like firearm with one hand, the armored juggernaut spun round as quickly as his aging body would allow only to find that the man who's footsteps he had heard was simply standing in the center of the room. "Do not move." The Colonel's voice sounded loudly through speakers in his armor as the gun became fixed on the man.

"Colonel," The voice that spoke from beneath the hood was breathless and wheezing, "The years have not been kind. I had seen reports but I had thought they would be fabrications." The voice tickled at the old soldier's mind, he was certain he had heard it before, and somehow he felt that it was an utter imperative to place it. "But I suppose that very few age as well as I." The man's hand opened and a vial fell from it, striking the floor and shattering in an explosion of noxious gas and smoke. The Colonel's gun spat fire as a massive slug shot forth at the spot where the man had been standing, but there was no resulting cry of pain and as the stinking cloud spread throughout the room the old warrior found his vision rapidly fading even more than it already had. The smoke had an acrid taste as he breathed it in, and a pain in his chest slowly began to grow. "How does it feel?" The wheezing voice mocked, "Being old and infirm." There was a clicking sound and the old man spun towards it, firing another of the great slugs in its direction. But again there was no sign that he had hit anything.

Another vial flew through the air to strike against his helmet and shatter, this time releasing some form of acid that rapidly ate it's way into the metal that warded the old man's head. Again he spun and again the gun fired in the direction that he thought the vial had come from. Then acid made it through the metal and he felt the burn briefly before his skin repelled the chemical compound. "Still as resilient as ever?" The mocking voice sounded again, "I should hope so, I did not spend so long relishing the plans for this moment for you to fall to the first compound."

"Show yourself!" Colonel Ironsides bellowed, firing in the direction of the voice and beginning to cough as whatever the compound in the air was irritated his chest more and more. Despite his efforts the voice still sounded, and now it seemed to be echoing from every direction at once. 

"This was my mistake years ago. Your body is nigh invulnerable." The voice of the man with the hood spoke softly as if the speaker was lecturing. "I tried corrosives, and they were ineffective, I tried genetic harvesters but they failed, your cells truly are remarkably impregnable. But I did find that if I saturated them with enough fuel even you could burn. I'm not even in the room, your own body provides the heat." And as the voice finished the room erupted in flames as the thick cloying gas that had filled much of it ignited and a wave of fire spread out from the Colonel. 

It took only moments for the fire to fade as the fuel was consumed and the compound faded. In the wake of the fire the man in uniform walked back into the room from the alcove in which he had sheltered from the blaze. From beneath the hood his eyes watched the fallen titan to see if the man would stir again. It was merely an academic interest, though for this case there was some slight hope that the Colonel would stir again so that more pain could be inflicted upon one who had so wronged him in the past. And the Colonel did stir, despite fire that had ravaged him inside and out the man moved within his scorched metal suit. The metal clad head rose and looked up at the man in uniform. Behind what remained of the helm slate grey eyes widened as he finally realized who he faced and fire scorched lungs managed a last gasp of speech. "It's impossible. You died. It cannot--" then his voice cut out and the great warrior ceased his motion as death claimed him.

The hooded man gave his fallen enemy a series of kicks to the head, the black boots striking the metal with dull thuds as he did so repeatedly. Then apparently recovering his composure he turned away from the smoking corpse and strode with purpose over to the case that held the item he sought. It was a suitably grand exhibit though the man cared little about what his enemies thought of him. "This truly is a horrible likeness" the man wheezed softly as he examined the reconstructed uniform that vaguely resembled his own, above which a black mask, with 6 diagonal viser slits before the eyes sat. "But this," he said as his hand flipped a pistol out of the holster at his side, "Is truly mine." He pointed the gun at the box and fired, a greenish plasma emerging and melting a hole in the bulletproof glass that had warded the artifacts within. 

He re-holstered the pistol and black gloved hands reached into the hole he had made and carefully, with a reverence that was clear drew forth the mask that lay within. An alarm began to shriek as he drew it close to his face and brushed back the hood before sliding the mask into place over his face. A raspy breath sounded from behind the respirator as for the first time in decades he drew a decent breath. The red slits began to glow as he activated the numerous subsystems within the mask. "I am myself again." The voice hissed out, amplified and made more audible by the mask the man now wore, and as the alarm shrilly blared forth the Good Doctor simply walked from the room and as his men joined him, from the museum, to vanish back into the world that had harbored him for so many years after his supposed demise.