Chapter Summary: SHIELD agents share intel. The first raffle winner is announced.
The Red Skull Arena
PenPatronus
Chapter 7
Bread and Circuses
The sun rose red in Prague. Maria Hill pulled her SHIELD uniform on over her pajamas as she sprinted down the hall. Despite the moldy beige carpet, peeling yellow wallpaper, and the stench of spoiled milk, the Keepsake Hotel was still the nicest place she'd stayed in all month. Stark Industries would undoubtedly pay for a five-star room but Hill knew from experience that the fewer stars a hotel had, the less likely she was to get assassinated. Maybe one day Tony Stark would understand the concept of "low profile."
A young SHIELD agent wearing a crooked tie opened up door #36 and let Hill in. Nick Fury stood beside a cracked television with his arms crossed. His king-sized bed obviously hadn't been slept in. A dozen mobile computer units sat up on the sweet-potato-colored blankets. "Good morning, sir," Hill greeted.
Fury's lips would disappear into each other if they were pursed any tighter. "Hardly, Agent Hill. Not only was Clint Barton nearly tortured to death, but it might've all been for nothing," Fury spat.
Hill winced in sympathetic pain for their friend. No wonder Fury wasn't sleeping. Barton was precious to them all. "Yes, sir."
"Agent Hill," greeted a blonde woman featured on the largest computer screen.
"Hi, Sharon—" Maria shook her head and rubbed her sleepy eyes. "Agent 13. You have news?"
Sharon Carter sighed and tossed a few stray locks of hair out of her eyes. "I'll share the good news first, if that's all right."
"Report," Fury growled impatiently.
"My team finished rounding up and interviewing the so-called civilians that were on that maglev train. A lot of them are associated with Hydra somehow or another. The rest were there because they were bribed or threatened or both. They don't know exactly where that train was headed, but we found a few lab tech interns who are familiar with those weapons the Avengers confiscated in Russia."
"And the bad news?"
Carter sat up straighter. "I received a message from Agent May, sir. Director Coulson's mole made contact with him from Tokyo at 0300. They have them. Hydra has the Avengers. They're alive. Stark and Romanoff and Steve–er, Captain Rogers…All six of them are alive."
Fury and Hill exchanged relieved looks that they immediately hid. "As far as bad news goes, I've heard worse," Hill said.
"They weren't killed on sight, but we might not like the reason why," Fury mused.
Carter nodded. "They're alive but…but none of them are exactly in one piece."
"So where are they?" Hill asked.
The left side of Sharon's face wrinkled in an apologetic look. "Unknown, ma'am, but Coulson's mole and the rest of that Hydra strike unit are on their way to Poland. In fact, chatter indicates that half of Hydra is moving in that direction."
"Why?" Hill and Fury asked simultaneously.
"Bad guy conference?" Sharon shrugged. "I wish I knew more. May said that the mole's message was brief and…vague."
"What else did he say?" Maria demanded.
"An antiquated phrase. We're not sure what to make of it." Sharon bit her lower lip. "He said bread and circuses."
Hill, Carter, and the young agent all waited for Fury's interpretation. Nick stood frozen for a long minute, and then rubbed his one good eye with a calloused knuckle. "One of the reasons why two thousand years ago the citizens of the Roman Republic allowed Caesar to turn it into the Roman Empire was because they were guaranteed food, shelter, clothing, and safety. They should've been challenging Rome's morals, standing up against the political corruption, but instead they allowed themselves to be seduced, to be distracted by entertainment. Entertainment like the gladiator games."
"Entertainment?" Hill prompted.
Nick braided his fingers behind his back and dropped his chin to his chest. "Men fighting man and beast for fighting's sake–for entertainment. Thousands of animals, slaves, and other innocent people were killed."
"So, Hydra is the new Roman Empire?"
"Hydra is using Caesar's tactics in their recruitment. They promise their followers money, meals, safety, safety for their families…And to keep the masses from questioning if what they're doing is actually right, they distract them."
"Don't all armies?" the young agent in the corner suddenly asked. "Don't all armies promise that?"
"No," Fury said in a tone of voice that made everyone else's heartbeats quicken. "When you join SHIELD you're told that it will be hard work, that you'll have to make sacrifices, that safety is never guaranteed. And because you know you're doing what's right, you do it. You do the right thing because it's right, not because of money or safety. That's one of the things that differentiates SHIELD from Hydra."
"Gladiator games…" Carter's face filled the entire monitor when she leaned closer. "They're going to make them fight each other?"
"There's no way they'd go along with that," Hill said. "Captain America purposefully kill one of his teammates? He'd die first."
Fury snorted. "If they're lucky, they'll just be in a boxing ring with some goon who wants to prove how tough he is to his buddies."
"And if they're unlucky?" Sharon wondered.
The young agent in the tie paled. "The Enhanced…"
"We know that Hydra's scientists have been experimenting on people," Fury said. "Surgeries. Gene manipulations. Radiation. Mutations. Exposing subjects to Chitauri technology and Loki's staff…Enhancing them. Miracles, or monsters, depending on your point of view."
Maria Hill had seen the surveillance footage smuggled out of Strucker's labs. "I think I'd prefer the lions' den," she said.
"What better way to see how their creations measure up than to make them battle the world's greatest superheroes?" Fury wondered.
"But there are better ways," Carter insisted. "Smarter, more efficient ways, at least. If they want to see how their own version of a super-soldier compares to Steve, why not just–just compare them? In a lab? Why have all of your agents put their ops on the back burner and invite them to some sort of modern gladiator games?"
"For the same reason that the Avengers were captured, not killed," the young agent in the crooked tie said so quietly that he clearly meant it for his own ears only. "It's all for show."
"Agent Fitz?" Fury prompted.
Leo Fitz adjusted his uniform and took a cautious step closer to his superiors. He cleared his throat before he spoke. "Like you said, sir, it's entertainment. Their sick version of it. They didn't kill the Avengers right away because they want to stage an elaborate execution. Not just to inspire their own troops, not just to promote their cause, not just to scare SHIELD, but to show the whole world what they're capable of. The public would react with fear if they heard that Captain America was killed, but they'll panic if every television screen on earth suddenly shows Cap getting torn apart by a monster." Fitz got up the courage to meet Fury's eyes. "It's a message. They're not afraid."
A sober mood settled on the room.
"So what do we do now?" Carter asked.
"We eat breakfast." Fury cocked his chin high, slowly loosened his arms, and slid his hands into his pants pockets. "And then we show Hydra that we're not afraid."
Grant Ward was having a "couldn't" day. As in he couldn't do this, and couldn't do that. He couldn't sleep on the plane ride from Tokyo to Poland. He couldn't figure out what was so special about the empty farmer's field they landed in until a maglev train suddenly appeared. And now, as he sat crowded in one of the train cars with a dozen other men wearing the Hydra crest on their uniforms, he couldn't take his eyes off of the dark red pool of blood on the floor. Whose blood was that? He knew it wasn't Romanoff or Banner's–neither of them ever made it onto the train. If Tony Stark was wounded, then any blood would be in his Iron Man armor. Ward didn't even know if Norse gods could bleed…
That left one of Ward's oldest and best friends. That was Clint Barton's blood.
The train slowed, then stopped without warning. The windowless door on the opposite side of the car opened. A chubby, red-faced guard that Ward had never seen before walked in. "Welcome to the Warsaw Armory, gentlemen," the guard announced. "Or should I say, welcome to the Red Skull Arena for what we hope will be Hydra's first annual Execution Week!"
"Hail Hydra!" Ward forced himself to shout along with everyone else.
Red-face took out what looked like a pack of playing cards from his jacket pocket. "The Opening Ceremony starts in an hour, so add your name to the raffle box right away."
"Raffle?" one of the agents sputtered. "What, are you giving out baskets of soap and candles as door prizes?" Everyone on the train chuckled.
Red-face grinned. "Better than that, boys. To start off the games, we're pulling five names from a box. Whoever's name we pull gets to punch an Avenger!"
"Which one?" half the car asked.
Red-face up his hands. "Your choice!"
Cheers rattled the walls.
Sixty minutes later, Grant was crowding into a massive underground amphitheater with a thousand other Hydra personnel. One of his oldest friends, a lab rat aptly named 'Skinny' who was in his graduation class at SHIELD academy, waved him over. "Haven't seen you in months, mate!" Skinny said in his Australian accent while he pulled Ward into a brief hug. "Can you believe we got the Avengers? Wild, huh?"
Grant summoned a casual but excited expression. "Never doubted we would, man. It was just a matter of time!"
"Too right," Skinny agreed. "Who are you gonna slug if your name gets pulled? I'd like to get my hands on Stark, that smug bastard."
"That's just because you're too scared you'll break your knuckles on Thor's chin!" Ward taunted.
"Oh and I suppose you have the guts to try that?"
"Of course not. I'm going to kick him in the balls," Grant chuckled. Skinny held his palm up and accepted Grant's high-five.
The chanting woke Clint Barton up. Nobody could sleep through the sound of a thousand people shouting, "Hail Hydra! Hail Hydra! Hail Hydra!" When Clint opened his eyes he found his nose inches from bright red sand. His shoulder throbbed. Someone had dressed the bullet wound but the bandage was loose and leaking. Somehow, when he noticed the blood dripping down his body, the sound of it plopping on the floor was louder than everything else.
Everything except for Natasha's voice.
"Clint!"
Barton rotated his head to the left. Natasha was upside down–wait, no–he was upside down. Clint tried to put his hands beneath his torso but they were behind him, chained around a steel pole. So were his ankles. Chained and nearly numb. When he wiggled them a few pins and needles fired across his nerve endings. Focusing on his stomach muscles instead, Clint held his torso steady and slowly leaned back until his head rested against the pole. A few ungraceful wiggles later and he got his feet under him, steadied himself, and slowly stood. He was briefly grateful that he was tied up when the scene swam and the blood loss caught up with him so quickly that he almost blacked out.
"Clint, stay with me."
"Natasha…" Natasha again. Stay awake for Natasha, for the team, Barton ordered himself. Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake…
"Hail Hydra!" a thousand voices shouted, and then instantly went silent at some unspoken cue.
Footsteps on Barton's right. Directly on his right, also secured to a pole, was Stark, then Rogers, then a semi-conscious Banner and a very unconscious (and drooling) Thor. The one-eared man–The Tycoon's brother, he recalled—walked out of the first row of many that made up the amphitheater. Barton couldn't begin to count how many Hydra agents surrounded his team. Agents with pounding fists and angry faces, all seemingly staring at him. Somewhere a speaker squawked, and the one-eared man began to speak into a microphone clipped to his collar.
"My brothers! My sisters!" his voice boomed, echoing off the walls. "We promised you that the Avengers would pay for challenging Hydra's new world order. Now we have them–we have them all–and this week each and every one of you will have a hand in the well-deserved tortures leading up to their executions!"
The chanting started up again. "Su-per-ior! Su-per-ior! Su-per-ior!" Clint glanced at Natasha but she shook her head. She didn't know the man—The Superior—either.
The Superior walked down the line. He clipped Thor's chin and Banner's cheek with his elbow. He kept his distance from Rogers, Stark, and Clint himself which was smart, because Barton was determined to head-butt the man when he got close enough. When he reached Natasha he gave her a smile that made her flinch, disgusted. "Who in here wants to throw the first punch?" The Superior asked the audience. The noise got so loud that Clint winced. His ears began to ring.
Another man exited the first row. This one, Barton knew. Strucker. He held a dented metal box that seemed to be overflowing with slips of paper. The crowd shushed when the Superior reached in and plucked out the first piece. He read the name, smiled to himself, and then tossed the slip over his shoulder. Barton watched it flutter to the ground inches from Natasha's feet.
The name on the sheet was unknown to Clint. Abraham Plantz.
"The first name," The Superior shouted, "and the first one who gets to throw a punch at an Avenger, is Pietro Maximoff!"
To Be Continued
