ALTERNITIES - The Day The World Changed

The Day The World Changed
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Earth-316
Sicily, Italy
July 19, 1943
Thursday 10:05am

As he watched the jeep flying through the air towards him, the young hero Alexander Valiant (or just Valiant to his fellow fighters) couldn't help but wonder if, maybe (just maybe), his father had been right. It had been months (almost four now) since the now-missing Ezekial Dillinger bestowed upon him the powers he currently weilded. Months since he disregarded his father's wishes and joined up to fight tyranny and fascism.

And only NOW, as he stared his mortality in the face, did the young Valiant find himself reconsidering his decision. As he dove to the side, the metallic vehicle crashed into the brick and mortar of a nearby pub. Tank fire and explosions echoed throughout the streets as he tried to regain his composure.

"Still alive little American?" asked a deep, accented, voice. It belonged to a towering teutonic titan who went by the codename 'Maciste'. Alexander had read about the character once or twice, a sort of wannabe Hercules-esque hero from the late 1800's to early 1900's. The tall Mediterranean bastard was the one who threw the jeep at him, like it was a simple cardboard box. Judging from the man's accent, and his codename, Valiant deduced that he was Italian-born. Which hit him as odd since the Herculean villain had been leading a contingent of Nazi soldiers.

Scanning the terrain, Valiant's opponent spotted him amidst the wreckage and ruin. "Ah... you ARE still alive. Good, Very good... was afraid you had... how you say... kicked the bucket early?" chortled the black-clad ubermensch as he strode up to the younger man. If Alexander had to guess, he'd put Maciste's height at somewhere between six and a half to seven feet. Which made the Italian powerhouse, this 'Axis Superman', about almost a foot taller than the young Valiant.

"Only thing I'm gonna kick around here, Goose-stepper, is your chunky box of a head." hissed the young hero as he lunged for his taller adversary, tackling the big man into some nearby debris. With that annoying laugh, Maciste sent Valiant flying with one swat of his right hand. Shrugging off bits and pieces of masonry, the Axis fiend stood up to his full height.

"What's the phrase Little American? I THINK... NOT?" he asked, smirking as he made his way towards his younger opponent. With a large baseball mitt-sized hand, the Fascist Scum lifted Valiant with minimal effort. "I think, perhaps... I'll do the kicking... yes?" he asked, with that smug look on his face.

Then suddenly, what sounded like a large explosion erupted near the two. The shockwave forced the 'Axis Superman' to drop his smaller adversary as the two turned towards the source of this noise... this disturbance.

WHAT THE HELL?

If you were to ask both men what they saw, they'd both probably tell you it looked like a 'swirling vortex of energy'... a portal. For a brief second, both men weren't enemies, weren't ideological adversaries, just two men sharing an experience beyond normal comprehension.

Then came something... shooting out of the portal.

It was big, and like some cannon projectile, collided with Maciste. The collision sent the Italian flying into a wall... then through it. And the next wall. And the one after that. A cloud of dust and debris filled the streets as Valiant stood there... stunned. Did he just see... a woman? Not only a woman, but one that could send that teutonic troll through thick walls like he was nothing.

But... but that's impossible... right?

As far as Alexander knew there wasn't any other 'heroes' in the vacinity. At the very least none of the female heroines he's met over the last few weeks. The closest one was Amazonia, and she was in France last he heard. So it couldn't have been anyone else... right? His answer came suddenly when a large muscular figure emerged from the debris cloud created by the Maciste-shaped missile.

"(Where... where am I?)" asked the stranger... a woman in a language Valiant recognized (but at the moment couldn't place it). A very tall, and BEAUTIFUL, muscular woman. She had black hair, a grey suit, and stood at least half a foot taller than him. Then he noticed the red hammer and sickle on her outfit, just above her ample chest.

A Soviet?

"(Huh.... hello?)" he asked in her native tongue, a bit unsure of what to make of her. The sexy Soviet dame looked right at him, and judging from the look he got... she didn't recognize him either. She looked around her, confusion only increasing. She recognized this place... it was Sicily.

"(Italy? But... the Invaders...)" she stammered as she spotted the Nazi Swastikas on fallen Germans, then the sounds of war and chaos reached her ears. Holding her head, the Soviet Superheroine glanced back at Valiant. "(This can't be... the War? But then... who are... you?)" she asked aloud, seemingly lost in a haze.

"(My name is Alexander Valiant. I'm from America. You okay miss?)" asked the young hero. This response snapped her out of her funk. She seemed a bit shocked, or maybe surprised to see him?

"(I... I don't know. This is all so... surreal.)" she responded. If Valiant had to guess (judging by the look on her face), this Soviet gal was feeling a sense of... deja vu? But... how could that be? "Wha... what year is this?" she asked in clear English. Now the younger hero was getting a bit weirded out too.

Before he could respond, tell her that it's 1943, their little question seminar was interupted by the return of a very angry Maciste. "Prepare to pay for that you Soviet BITCH!" roared the 'Axis Superman' as he let his large fist fly... right toward the newcomer's pretty face.

What occurred next started with a very loud, very sickening, crunch as the Blackshirt's fist collided with what must've felt like solid steel... breaking (hell... shattering) his hand in the process. The Soviet dame barely seemed to feel it. His mighty roar turning into an anguished cry, Maciste staggered back in pain. Grumbling to herself, the Russian heroine picked the Italian Supersoldier up by his suit's collar, lifting him up like he was nothing and with a flick of her wrist sent the Axis lapdog flying a few blocks away from them.

Valiant was speechless, not knowing what to make of this turn of events. "So... comrade... you were about to answer my question?" she asked, turning back towards him. Did he just see that? She not only took one hell of a punch like it was a baby love tap, but threw Maciste as if he were a small stone. She cleared her throat, getting the young hero's attention.

"Nuh... Nineteen Forty-Three." he responded, deciding it'd be best to answer her question. Was she another supersoldier experiment? Did Dillinger have something to do with this? He was so caught up in his own mental state, his own questions and observations... that Valiant failed to notice the lovely lady's shock.

Nineteen Forty-Three? But... that means I've been sent... back in time. But... I don't recognize either of these two superhumans... what's happened to me?

Her mental stress was interupted by a calm, reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You going to be okay?" asked Valiant. This his sudden guest was not used to, at least from an American. His kindness seemed to have the desired effect, as the tall heroine smiled back meekly.

"Da. I am fine, thank you." she replied, turning her attention to the distant thunders of war and combat.

Smirking, Valiant joined her side "Never did catch your name by the way." he added. To this the superheroine merely grinned.

"My name is Olga Yeznov, but back home they call me the Soviet Superwoman." she replied as they both went into action. There were people in need of helping... and evil that needed thwarting.

Elsewhere... in Germany...

He sat there, impatiently. Why had he been asked to come here? Why wasn't he instead spending his desired weekend in the Berghof? What was so damned important that his subordinates would risk their careers, and very lives, to bring him here? These were the questions that ran through the mind of Adolf Hitler as he sat in a room in Berlin.

An officer stepped in, looking... shaken perhaps? "Mein Fuhrer... sorry for the suddenness of this... but we've got someone he-"

"Shut up!" interupted Hitler as he stood up, his eyes burning holes in the younger man. "It's obviously important, otherwise I'd have those responsible hung from the top of the Brandenburg Gate by their scrotums!" this sent shivers down the officer's spine. The Fuhrer was about to lay into the poor bastard some more before a statue-esque woman, decked out in Nazi SS Uniform, strode into the room.

"Pardon him, Mein Fuhrer... he's young... perhaps foolish... but not the one responsible for this sudden... engagement. I am." said the blonde Aryan goddess as she looked over her shoulder at the quivering BOY. Shakingly, he saluted them both and walked out.

"And you are?" hissed the Dictator, looking his new guest over. She didn't look familiar at all... was she one of their newer officers? What good could a simple woman be to warrant such an outfit? He looked her medals over, they spoke of many great accomplishments, many great deeds. Yet this was the first time he had ever seen this woman, yet she had on medals that only HE was allowed to bestow.

Despite her attire and stature, Hitler couldn't help but feel a bit... uncomfortable around her. There was something about this woman that didn't sit right even with him.

"Allow me to introduce myself." said the Aryan Amazon as she clicked her heels, stood up straight and chopped her hand into the air. "Sturmbannfuhrer Ilsa Kohler Hauppman! Ready... and waiting to serve Mein Fuhrer!" she announced proudly, a sly smile to her face.

Elsewhere... in the Northern Atlantic...

The sound had been like thunder, and something significant had registered on their sonar equipment right above them. At first the Russian submarine crew was concerned it was some German trick... or perhaps they had blundered into some sort of elaborate trap. But the massive sonar blip was gone just as quickly as it had occurred. Curious, and perhaps a little bit bored (they HAD been out there for what felt like months with VERY little action), the crew figured it'd be in their best interest to investigate. Stalin would have them shovelling shit in some backwater gulag (or WORSE) if they had let something bad slip by under their nose.

The captain, Grigori Padorin, felt unease claw it's way up his spine. They were in the Northern Atlantic, full of large rogue chunks of iceberg AS WELL as German U-boats. Could it be one of those Nemet subs collided with a large piece of ice? A smirk came to Padorin's face, if it was... that would make for some good target practice.

At his command, the submarine began it's slow (and cautious) ascent to the surface. When they were within acceptable levels, Padorin used the periscope to better navigate his ship. Something DID hit some ice, a rather large chunk of it. If Grigori had to guess, he'd put it at the size of two aircrafter carriers. Or at least... it WAS. Something had hit it, and hit it HARD. A sizeable portion had been cracked off by said impact.

Captain Padorin was perplexed. What had hit the iceberg? Pondering on what could've happened, and hit with such force, brought back unpleasant memories of Tunguska. He was about to call off any search when an object broke the surface not too far from the 'impact point'. It looked like... a body.

A human body.

Now Grigori was worrying that perhaps he had spent too much time at sea, in this cramped tin can. He asked his second-in-command to look, to verify that he wasn't seeing things. His subordinate confirmed the sight. Sighing, the Captain ordered for the recovery of this body. Despite his reservations, he knew his superiors would want to know of this back in Mother Russia. He didn't want to be the one to have to tell Stalin that he didn't at least investigate if this turned out to be something of significance. At that rate, a shitty Gulag would be the least of his worries compared to the fate that would probably await the results of THAT.

Moments later, and after much hardship navigating the treacherous terrain, his crew brought back the body in question. What they brought back almost made Padorin question his sanity again. It was the unconscious, partially-frozen, body of a woman. A rather large (muscular) woman at that. With blonde hair that must've looked beautiful when it wasn't so thoroughly soaked.

"What is she wearing?" asked one of his crew. She was dressed in a rather gaudy costume. A red, white, and blue color scheme that didn't seem to serve ANY tactical advantage. In fact it looked considerably out of place on their submarine. But Grigori knew the pattern well.

An American? A Woman? Out here?

How she came to be here, and whether or not she was the thing that had broken such a large chunk out of that iceberg was not Grigori's job.

"Comrades... we're heading home. I have feeling that this will be of utmost interest to the higher-ups."