XXVII
Transcript of the film Captain America: The Fight for the Pacific, produced by Senator Robert Brandt, released September of 1943.
[A tank rolls along, flanked by a row of palm trees. It comes to a stop, and Captain America ducks out from behind the bulky metal body of the tank, followed by four men dressed in the uniform of the United States Army.]
"The encampment's to the east, about three miles out. Ready your weapons, boys."
[Captain America cocks his rifle and shoots them a roguish smile.]
"We're about to show the Axis that the Allies pack a helluva punch."
[Sunlight gleams off his perfectly white teeth.]
[One of the soldiers gestures wildly, his eyes wide.]
"But Cap! There's a hundred of 'em between us and the camp!"
[Captain America takes off his cowl, stares off into the brilliant orange sunset. A tear brims in his blue eye, visible in a close-up.]
"I know. And we're gonna lose some good men today. Some true American heroes."
[Captain America shakes his head, regains his stoic expression.]
"But see here, Private. We're part of the U.S. Army. And we don't leave a man behind. Not now. Not ever."
[Captain America looks into the camera.]
"And we've got the support of the folks back home. The bonds they're buying are paying for every bullet we use to protect our country."
[He turns back to the men.]
"And if they're doin' their part, we've gotta do ours."
"For victory!"
[Captain America raises his fist as the others join the cheer.]
XXVIII
He knocks, three sharp raps. Footsteps echo from beyond. Walking, not running. Not alert to potential intruders.
The door swings open. "What d'ya – Jesus!"
Steve slams the shield into the man's face, sending him into the concrete wall at a punishing velocity.
"Housekeeping!" Agent Ward chirps at his side.
They push into the building as one unit. The corridor ends in a T-junction. Eld had taken the right, he knew that much from the video feed. Steve strains his ears.
Down the left fork – voices? Dr. Flagretti? Or Raina.
"Roberts, May, take the right. Clear as you go, but your priority is to locate and recover Eld."
May grimaces, but to her credit, she only nods, and the two agents split off.
The others look to him for further direction. It's strange, to have a senior agent like Coulson letting him take the lead. Steve's position in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s chain of command has never been made explicitly clear. In some ways, he's the most experienced with these types of operations. And he's often given deference because of his persona. Most don't feel comfortable telling Captain America what to do - with Fury as a glaring, eye-patch wearing exception.
Either he's treated like the font of all that's moral and just in the world, or he's coddled and protected from the big scary technology of the 21st century. Which is ridiculous – Steve'd take an 'advanced' cell phone any day over being lambasted by 'primitive' German artillery. Technology's as good as what you use it for.
Unlike some senior officers he'd had command of in the war, a few twice his age, Coulson doesn't appear resentful or disgruntled.
"Stick with me for now," Steve says as they take the left fork. "We're going to find Dr. Flagretti. I'm betting Raina and that 0-8-4 won't be far from her, but our priority is the doctor – taking down the rest of Centipede is secondary, clear?" The agents nod.
The left hall is as nondescript as the first. Opening doors, they do a visual check of the interior as they go.
Janitorial closet, a square room with a couple of bunks installed – and then a door with a keypad blinking at him. Steve doesn't bother with whatever device Coulson is pulling out of his pocket. Sure, technology can be an incredible asset - but there's something to be said for the traditional approach when time is of the essence.
He bashes the edge of the shield into the pad. Sparks fly as it beeps angrily at him. Two more hits, and the door gives a strangled whine and clicks open.
"The brute force method," Ward muses.
"That could have been booby-trapped to destroy everything inside," Coulson observes mildly.
"Oh, I hate when that happens. It's just not practical," Simmons says. "What if a lab tech botches her code and accidentally sets off the anti-intruder detonation sequence?"
"Raina must not have hired Supervillain Security Incorporated," Ward quips.
Steve shoulders through. The lights switch on with a faint buzz. The sterile white blinds him.
There are rows of gleaming benches, piled high with chrome equipment. Steve might not know what all the machinery does, but he recognizes a lab when he sees one. He'd raided half a hundred during the war, Hydra or Nazi or otherwise, and he'd spent his fair share of time in SSR labs as well, as their prize and sole supersoldier. They were mostly indistinguishable. Not much call for decorative flare when utility is the only style that really matters.
Though the Hydra labs often had the bonus of horrifyingly small cells in which to keep their human experiments, and morgues full of mutilated, dissected remains. Steve surveys the lab space and shivers despite himself, though it's tidy and relatively innocuous.
Simmons mutters to Fitz over her earpiece as she fiddles with the equipment on the bench.
"Let's move on. We can examine this later," Steve says.
Reluctantly closing a drawer full of pipettes, Simmons follows them out. "I think we found their main lab space. Or they definitely worked on the serum here," she says in a low voice. "They've got the ideal setup for it. We need to get Skye into their network before they destroy their own servers. The data could be invaluable in determining how far they've gotten."
"The lab techs must have been using laptops. Keep an eye out for any terminals," Coulson says, pausing at the corner for Steve to clear the next hall.
He crouches and peers around. At this height, he won't get caught by a headshot from a lucky guard.
There's no one.
"What, are they all out on a goddamn smoke break?" Ward mutters.
"If Raina found out Eld was wired, maybe she expected us and cleared out," Coulson offers.
Steve frowns. He wants to take them by surprise, not get caught up in an ambush orchestrated by a team that knows the layout of the building better than them.
Another turn reveals a break in the monotonous cement halls. A corrugated metal sheet, ten or twelve feet high, dominates the wall. It looks like it can be rolled up, opening the space, ideal for loading or unloading supplies. Opposite this is a cavernous space with rows of shelving, piled high with wooden crates. Through the metal gate must be a loading dock.
As Steve hangs back, considering the best approach to clear a storage area with abundant cover for just the ambush he feared, there's a wrenching sound of metal on metal and the gate rolls up.
They duck around the corner. Five men enter, wearing brown coveralls and complaining loudly.
"I'm just sayin', at least I got hazard pay, at my last job." A shorter man, stocky, with a head of fiery red hair, wipes his sweaty forehead with a rag. He stuffs it in his pocket. "This place is a joke. If I wanted to do manual labor, I could be loading trucks at any warehouse. I gave up a contract in East Africa for this shit!"
"Crissakes, give it a rest, Mulaney. You sayin' you wanna get shot at?"
"I'm sayin' I was led to believe this was a security detail, not a fuckin' moving company!" Mulaney snaps.
The loading dock behind the group remains deserted as they start stacking crates onto two dollies.
He glances back at his team. "Let's get the man his hazard pay."
Steve and Coulson slip around the corner, Simmons trailing Ward on their left. They're halfway into the storage area before one of Raina's employees turns.
Steve launches his shield at the closest dolly. Crates topple, crushing the foot of the man who'd spotted them. A litany of ragged curses ejects from his mouth before he crumples under Coulson's shot. Another gets an icer to the back of the neck courtesy of his second. He never even sees their faces.
Mulaney pulls a handgun from a thigh holster. He's quick on the draw, but Steve's already caught the rebound, and his shield is solid vibranium. The pistol is hopelessly outclassed.
Three, four shots thunk against the metal. In the fraction of a second it takes Mulaney to reassess his aim, Steve lunges and clocks him above the ear. The guy goes down like a sack of bricks. His gun discharges, ricocheting off the dolly and drumming into the concrete floor. It's not as deafening as it might have been, given the cavernous size of the storage area, but it's loud enough. The covert stage of this operation is over.
Steve kicks the weapon from Mulaney's grasp. The last two men sprawl on the floor, unconscious. Ward lowers his own icer, eyes resting on Mulaney. "Last man standing."
The redhead groans and covers his face with his hands. "I changed my mind. Not enough hazard pay in the goddamn world."
Steve crouches next to his head. "Where is Dr. Flagretti?"
"Who? Jeez, man, I think you gave me a concussion. I'm gonna have to go to the hospital!"
"I'll be sure to send flowers," Steve says dryly. "Where is the doctor?"
"I dunno! I'm just the hired help." Mulaney's eyes dart away from Steve, over his shoulder, presumably resting on the three armed agents behind him. "I swear -" He glances back and does a double-take. "What the – the hell are you wearin', man?"
He sighs. "Coulson, shoot him. He doesn't know anything."
"Wait!" Mulaney shrieks. As Steve hoped, he doesn't realize their guns are loaded with dendrotoxin instead of bullets. "I don't know what doctor you're talkin' about, but that Raina lady took the rest of our shift with her into the basement. Two levels down, go right at the bottom of the stairs." He points out a recessed door in the corner. "The interrogation rooms are down there."
Interrogation. Steve doesn't like the sound of that. He stands. "Coulson, shoot him."
"Hey –!" Mulaney slumps to the floor.
They move quickly. Steve is hyper-aware of each second ticking by. Does Dr. Flagretti know how dangerous her knowledge of the serum is? Is she resisting questioning? Can she even resist that damned ring?
As they pass the first of the two deeper levels, Simmons takes a sudden breath. "I – through there, I think I see a terminal!"
Coulson tosses her a little black stick. "Get Skye in there. I want everything you can on their progress."
"Yessir!" Simmons slips away.
The stairs terminate one level down. There's no window set in the entrance. No visual of the hallway beyond.
"Smoke? Gas canister?" Steve whispers, wishing he'd thought to check if they had some before departing the S.H.I.E.L.D. base.
He needn't have worried. "Yes and yes. Pick your poison." Ward opens his tac vest to display a stash of canisters. Coulson chooses for him, informs him it's a flashbang.
The delivery system doesn't appear to have changed much. There's a pin to pull. He readies the canister and pauses, hand hovering above the door handle. "Unknown number of hostiles. Stay low, and verify that your targets are combatants. We don't want to take down Dr. Flagretti in the middle of this."
He meets their eyes and sees steadiness, resolve. Steve cracks the door, tosses in the canister, and shuts it. Bright light flares, illuminating every gap in the frame.
As it fades, he wrenches the door open. He plows past three separate guards that can't even straighten up and look at him through the tears streaming from their eyes. Icers discharge behind him, the solid thud of ammunition meeting flesh.
One man stands in the center of the corridor, blinking but upright. Steve watches as an icer nails him in the forehead. Then another, in the upper right chest. He goes to pass him, making for the room he can just see up ahead. The outline of a door is clear, despite the tendrils of white smoke drifting lazily through the air.
The man doesn't go down. He looks about as surprised as they are. Metal gleams in the fluorescent light. Steve's gaze darts to the incongruous shine, on his forearm.
And suddenly, he gets the name. A silver appendage is grafted onto the skin, looking like nothing so much as an enormous centipede poised to skitter up his arm and onto his shoulder. The segments of its body are filled with a phosphorescent amber liquid. Steve watches it stir and slosh as the man flexes his hand.
His heart drops into his stomach. The serum. They've already got it. For a second, he wants to rip the framework out, toss it to the floor, and stomp it under his boot.
But the fury, the sense of violation, passes. If this man has been given a version of the supersoldier serum, then – then Steve's not the only one in the world. And he has a kind of responsibility to a fellow lab rat, who might not have known what he was signing up for.
Steve tilts the shield so that it's no longer in a position to crush his throat if thrown. He doesn't go as far as to raise his hands, but he hopes to convey as much in his tone. "That – on your arm. Did you ask for it?"
The guard frowns. "Well – yeah. They wanted volunteers. I was compatible."
Coulson and Ward appear at his side. The man tenses, rooting himself in a more solid stance. Most likely trained in hand-to-hand combat, unlike the majority of Raina's guards. Steve gestures minutely at the room just down the hall, and hopes Coulson understands where he wants him to move on his mark.
"Do you know what they did to you?"
"It was to make me stronger. Faster. They said it was a miracle." The man's gaze flicks to his forearm.
"And it feels good, doesn't it?" Steve says, recapturing his attention. "To be better. To feel like you're capable of so much more than you were before. Like your body's no longer holding you back."
He cocks his head and narrows dark eyes at Steve. "How'd you get one? I know everyone else in the project. Well – knew everyone."
Steve's jaw clenches. Probably dead, or malformed. What else was to be expected, working from theories and stolen information? Using trial and error?
The potential danger of this situation abruptly thumps Steve over the head. He's here, with Raina and her scientists, in her secret base, below her lab – if this had been a trap, or ambush, they could have made off with his biological samples. Easily. Maybe even without his knowledge.
If Eld had told them Captain America came in on this operation…
Well. They would've brought more than fifteen guards and one brand-new supersoldier. The consultant must have kept mum, even with that truth-telling ring. He owes him a handshake for that, if nothing else.
"I wasn't. I was part of a different project."
"There's more projects?" The man sounds uncertain. Maybe even a little hopeful.
Steve lets out a slow breath. "No. That project's over. I was – the only one. Me – and you, now."
Looking around the hall, at the slumped bodies of his coworkers, the man shakes his head. "If it's just us, then why are you here, doing this? Raina's working on it. She's gonna make us better. She's gonna make more of us."
The idea can seem appealing, in the dead of night, alone in his apartment. Someone else who would just – understand.
But there's that nagging sense of responsibility again. As the first supersoldier. As Captain America.
It might not be fair. He's not the government, he's not the president. He's not a lawmaker, a judge, or philosopher. He can't decide if making more supersoldiers – for anyone – is right, or desirable.
What he can do is make sure the technology stays out of unscrupulous hands. And Centipede is unquestionably willing to break the law to get ahead. And so he squares his jaw and answers honestly.
"I can't let her develop the serum further. I can't let her experiment on any more people. I'm here because she kidnapped a doctor – this can't go on. The project has to be stopped." Steve can see he wants to argue and bulls on. "I'm sorry. But you could come back with us. To S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. They can help you. Make sure Raina's serum isn't poisoning you."
"It's not poison! She helped me! Centipede helped me – they made me better!" he says, strident and angry. "Just stay out of it."
Steve hefts the shield, disappointment heavy in his gut. "Coulson. Ward. Get to the doctor."
The agents edge down the hall, giving the enhanced guard a wide berth.
He feints towards Ward, and Steve barrels into him, drilling him into the floor. The breath whooshes out of the man's chest, but he still gets a fist up to slam into the side of Steve's head.
Sparks shoot through his vision. The augmented power behind his blows is staggering. The man grips Steve's arm and flings him off. He rolls with the motion, coming back up in a crouch.
The guard snaps his leg out in a kick aimed at Steve's chest. He throws himself to the right, laying out flat on the ground before springing into a standing position, with a quick pincer-like motion of his core and his legs.
They jab at each other, a flurry of blocks and strikes. The guard has to be trained in hand-to-hand. But Steve can tell he is constantly misjudging his strength, throwing more momentum behind his movements than necessary. Unconsciously exerting maximum effort, when in his enhanced body he could pull his blows and still deliver bruising force.
And he doesn't seem to know what to do with Steve's shield. Everywhere he goes to strike, it's there. The guard growls with frustration. Steve brings the shield to bear in a tight, low arc, driving it into the backs of his knees. Losing his footing, the guard crashes headfirst into the concrete floor.
Steve goes in to finish it. Raises the shield above his head, drives it down – the man blocks at the last second. With his left forearm, palm turned outward in an automatic reflex to protect his head. The edge splinters the glass of the implant. The segmented body spills out its amber liquid.
They stare at the damage. The man chokes. "You – you!" His face twists. "I don't wanna go back to –"
He chokes again, but this time, it's wet and gurgling. Blood dribbles from the corner of his lips. Steve drops the shield and reaches for his neck, trying to find his pulse. Internal bleeding? He didn't think he'd hit him that hard.
His fingers rest on the side of the man's neck. A drop of blood splatters on his hand, and Steve jerks back. His skin burns. Not like a fire – like acid. He rubs it off on his uniform and watches the stain eat through the first layer of fabric.
"No –"
The blood sizzles on his neck and face, smoking gently in the dry basement air. The guard scrabbles at his arm, trying to rip the implant out.
Poison. He'd said it, and hadn't known how true it would be.
Steve kneels at his side, hands fluttering uselessly, trying to find a place to touch that won't burn.
It's too late. He closes his eyes. Lets himself stay there, for a minute, maybe two.
Then he stands, the last supersoldier again.
The sight of Dr. Flagretti, draped in Coulson's jacket, pale but unharmed, lightens Steve's spirits the slightest bit. With the senior agent's arm around her, she blinks up at him standing in the doorway.
"Oh – you're Captain America. I, um, have your genetic profile saved on my computer." Tears spring to her eyes. "Oh my god, I have your genetic profile on my computer. I didn't get your permission – I'm so sorry, we thought you were dead, and now – now this –"
Her shoulders shake. Steve kneels in front of her and gives her a small smile. "It's alright. Most people still think I'm dead."
Dr. Flagretti grips his hand tightly. "I'm glad you're not, you know."
A flush fights to creep up his neck. Steve forces it down and squeezes her hand in return.
Coulson puts a hand to his earpiece. "What? You haven't?"
His voice isn't loud, given the doctor's shaken state, but Steve can hear the sharp undertone. He taps his own earpiece twice to tune back in to their secure team channel.
"– not in the first sublevel, either. We can't find him anywhere." May's voice, terse and annoyed.
Steve nods to the exit. "Let's get you out of here, Dr. Flagretti. We'll take you to a facility and have you checked out."
The guard is still lying in the corridor. Steve doesn't want to frighten the doctor more than she already is, but there's not much he can do. She gasps. "What happened?"
Steve shakes his head, mouth a grim line. "I don't know. The serum – the implant broke and the serum did something. Burned him up. From the inside."
Dr. Flagretti stares a moment longer, then looks to Coulson. Her eyes are wide but her voice is serious. "You need to bring him back. The medical center in New York – my old medical center. His body needs to be examined immediately. Raina –" Her voice breaks slightly. She clears her throat. "Raina left just before you got there. If she tries to recreate this serum again, we need to know as much as possible."
Coulson is already nodding. "It'll be taken care of."
"And I want – I want to consult. I don't have to examine the body. But I need to be kept in the loop."
"Of course, doctor."
Agent Roberts is waiting for them near the T-junction where they first entered, Simmons and Skye at her side. Her face is troubled. "May's checking the hall one last time, but -"
She cuts off at an angry exclamation. "Eld!"
The agents exchange glances. "Take Dr. Flagretti to the van," Coulson orders Ward and Skye. The rest of them follow the hall to the right, where they find Agent May, arms crossed and glowering.
They duck in through the door, and Agent Roberts splutters. "E-Eld?"
The consultant is sprawled on a fancy chair, legs crossed at the ankle, managing to look at once casual and elegant. He has a sleek – pink? – cell phone in hand, typing something out on the screen. He holds up a finger, finshes his message, then glances up. "Oh. Hello."
Steve eyes him dubiously.
"What are you doing here?" Roberts demands.
Eld raises an eyebrow. "Hiding. Obviously."
"But - we cleared this corridor!" Roberts turns to Coulson. "I swear, sir, we did."
"Well, I could hardly know if it were friend or foe tromping about. Hence the hiding," the man points out airily.
"Tromping - we didn't tromp!"
"I did not particularly want to be found by Raina, and in the event it was a S.H.I.E.L.D. stampede, I simply thought it best to remain out of the way." Eld stands in a smooth motion, tucking his phone in his pocket. "Have you found Dr. Flagretti?"
"She's safe," Steve says.
Eld focuses on him. His green eyes are intent, but he doesn't do the typical double-take. Steve's shoulders lose some of their tension.
"I don't believe we've had the pleasure."
"Steve Rogers."
"Lukas Eld." He grips Steve's hand firmly, but releases it quickly.
"We've got Dr. Flagretti, but we just missed Raina," Coulson informs him. "And the ring."
Eld taps his lower lip idly. "Hmm. She used it to interrogate the good doctor, did she not?"
"Yes, we think so," Steve replies, curious at his speculative tone.
"May I see where Dr. Flagretti was being held?"
To Steve's surprise, Coulson agrees. Without another word, the team backtracks to the basement.
If Coulson's humoring the consultant, it must be for a good reason. The guy's sharp as a tack, Steve could tell that much from his – interview – while wearing the ring. And he's familiar with Raina. A little too familiar for Steve's comfort.
Eld peers into the drab interrogation room. It's functional, barely furnished. Still, the consultant traces the perimeter, examining the metal table and single chair, bolted to the floor. Severed plastic zip ties dangle from its arms.
"If I were her," Eld muses, "and I thought there was a chance I could be captured if I fled, I would not want the ring in my possession. Given its capabilities, it is a veritable certainty it would be used against her. Perhaps even worth the risk of destroying it, rather than see it in her enemies' grasp." He shakes his head marginally. "But no, I do not think she is so desperate as that, to willfully destroy a historical artifact. She prizes unique pieces." Eld's gaze darts away, and he inspects the room.
Steve looks around with clear eyes. "You think she hid it here?"
Eld shrugs. "Better to hide and retrieve later than chance delivering it directly into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hands. She knows this place. I do not think it would be overly difficult for her to slip in and out unbeknownst to you."
"But – where would she hide it?" Simmons asks with a frown. "There's nothing in here."
"She could've hidden it anywhere in the base," May suggests. "If she really didn't take it with her and hope for the best."
"What gave away your presence?" Eld questions as he walks over to the corner and nudges a drain set in the floor with a toe of his shoe. "How much time did she have with which to flee?"
Steve can imagine only too well a few reasons for a drain to be here in an interrogation room. He grimaces, grateful the doctor is in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. "I'm guessing from the time we took the loading dock until we got down here. Maybe a few minutes."
"So not much time at all, to hide something," Simmons says.
"We're having a full forensic team come out in the morning. If she left anything, we'll find it," Coulson says.
Eld crouches down. "I don't think that will be necessary," he murmurs. Pulling out a slim silver knife, from his sleeve, it looks like, he begins to pry at the drain cover. Steve and the agents watch in puzzled silence.
A knife is more subtle than a gun. In case he was patted down when he came in, Steve guesses. He wonders if Eld knows how to use it.
The consultant flips the drain cover off and slides his fingers into the drainpipe, feeling around. He stills, and a smirk crosses his face. "I believe this is what you're looking for, Agent Coulson."
Eld flicks something towards the senior agent, who catches it nimbly. He glances down and freezes. A small, innocuous gold ring sits in the center of his palm.
"How?"
"False bottom on the drain. She does like to believe she is clever. At least, more clever than you." He comes and joins the huddle of agents peering at the 0-8-4.
"I would be very careful with that," Eld says lightly. "That's worth quite a bit of money. Priceless, one might say." He smiles. "The only one of its kind on this planet."