Alsace, France

HYDRA Base

1943

"Not necessity, not desire – no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything – health, food, a place to live, entertainment – they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied."

- Friederich Nietzche

The room was dark, appropriately, and the black velveteen curtains were drawn so that only the barest sliver of moonlight cast its ethereal glow upon the chamber. Shrouded in the black silken sheets like a corpse in its delicate wrappings, a fragile, pulsating being slept restlessly.

Long, slender fingers were splayed across the bed, twitching lightly, as if playing a melody across the silent air. The rigid contours of a crimson, muscled chest were enveloped in shadow, the moonlight faintly tracing the angular lines. The sleeping form was clearly exhausted – muscles bunched and tensed, strained from overwork, from listless misery.

Sleep was a priceless gift that he rarely indulged in – for so often, when he did indulge, it only served as a haunting reminder of the past he had once reveled in – and now all too often sought to bury.

Berlin, Germany

Burial site of Angelica Hofstadter

An oblong casket of mahogany wood – a silver-plated plaque at its center, reading:

Angelica Beate Hofstadter

September, 1900 – October, 1936.

Alone in a barren cemetery, the first frost of autumn causing the dead grass to crunch beneath his boots. Long, gloved fingers stroked the fine grain of the wood, as if bidding it farewell before it was lowered into the ground for eternity, frozen in time on that blustery day. The wind was chill, but its biting edge fell impotently against his mask. Finding the carved edge of the casket, he lifted up, longing to look at the peacefully sleeping face of his sister, longing to see her once more before she was interred.

The wind blew harder as he lifted up the casket's lid with delicate ease, the clouds above unfurling over the gray sunlight, thick and black and impenetrable.

Before him lay not his sister's body, but the emaciated corpse of a Jewish girl – the golden star haphazardly stitched to her ragged dress was obvious – but he knew this girl. He had taken the greatest pleasure in slaughtering her family one by one.

Her father. A slight man of forty.

Her mother. Heavy with child.

Her brother.

Her sister.

Her name was Golda. She was five years old, with tawny curls and a gangly frame. He had stared into her tear-filled eyes, the saccharine smile that played upon his lips only broadening as her little body quaked and rattled as she wept.

"Why do you hate us?" she mumbled. "God is God. My God is your God – Rabbi told us."

His smile widened and he knelt down before the little girl, grasping her blood-spattered shoulders. He laughed quietly. "My dear child, your God is not my God. I have no God. Jewish, Catholic, Muslim – I care not who you worship, or how."

Her eyes grew large and they gleamed in the dim light of house. "Then why did you kill Mama and Papa? Why did you kill my family?"

"The world is cruel, Miss Golda." He stroked her cheek with a gloved hand. "And the world was cruel to me, just as it is cruel to you. And for one to prosper, one must, in return, suffer. It is simply the way of things. But don't weep – your Yahweh promises a peaceful haven for the Israelites. Don't you think you will be happier there?"

"But I don't want to die." She whimpered.

He grinned. "Come here, dear child. Don't be frightened."

He beckoned her forward, with a well-practiced smile that spoke of a sweet, paternal gentleness.

She stepped forward tentatively.

"Now, I want you to close your eyes. Imagine something wonderful, and I promise everything will be alright."

"You promise?"

He chuckled and ruffled her hair. He pressed the barrel of his pistol to her forehead.

She flinched. "What is that?" Her voice was so impossibly small – he wanted to laugh, but he kept quiet.

"Shhh." He cooed. "Imagine, dear one. Just imagine how beautiful the world will be someday."

He pulled the trigger, and fired.

He could feel the blood warm on his face, spattering through the chill air against his mask – the bullet's point of entry bright red and fresh against the near-rotting corpse's face.

Staring at him with glassy eyes, the dead girl's lips parted, and she spoke – but her tinkling little voice, with its angelic, weeping innocence, did not speak. But rather – it was Mina' voice that spoke from the little girl's mouth.

"Everything you told me was a lie."

Now, Victoria's voice. "Everything you told me was a lie."

Angelica's voice. "What have you done?"

"Why have you killed?"

"Why do you kill?"

"You are a monster."

"You are evil."

"You are selfish."

"You care only about yourself."

"You are a liar."

"You promised me."

"No children. You promised."

"You lied."

"You always lie."

"What have you done?"

The little girl's eyes snapped open, glassy and black as night. "How does it feel to be a killer? Is your world as righteous as you promised it would be?"

"Yes." He whispered.

The corpse's sallow lips peeled into a smile full of blackened, rotting teeth.

"You are not a prophet. You are a godless wretch." The corpse reeled back and spat, "Burn in Hell."

"I already have."

With a repulsive retching, the corpse spat fire at him – the orange flames licking at his silicon face-piece, blackened smoke trickling deeper and deeper into his eyes, into his core, darkening the scene, opening up into a desolate dreamscape of silence and death.

Only the pitter-patter of rain broke the eerie quiet, and the swelling of a string quartet and the warm light of a decadent ballroom grew ever louder and clearer before his dulled senses.

The Berghof, Obersalzberg

Before the open balcony of the Führer's luxuriant winter chalet, the cool rain of a darkened evening sky falling steadily onto the marble tiling, he held her firmly in his arms.

A pulsating annoyance had worked its way into his veins as he examined the small, titian-haired woman below him – for he had to hunch over considerably to look into her bright emerald eyes. Slight but strong-willed, she had – disappointingly – worn a sleeved crimson gown, the glittering HYDRA pendant the only sparkle to her appearance. Her hair, too often pulled back into a messy chignon, fell loosely over her shoulders. He clucked his tongue. He had spent a small fortune on the tailored, cobalt blue satin gown that no doubt still lay in its box in the young woman's hotel suite, untouched. For nearly a month, he had lustily hungered for her pale flesh, the deeply slit seam of that gown, its plunging back, his gloved fingers splayed possessively across her exposed skin. Evidently, however, she had deemed his choice of gown too risqué, and had instead chosen a more conservative dress that covered her deliciously – alluring – assets.

Yet, as his slender hand moved ever farther down the length of her waist – a short distance, though it was – he suddenly concluded that perhaps it was not too terrible to be forced to 'imagine' her hidden features, as his hand came to rest firmly on her hip.

"Johann," Her voice was curt, her eyes steadfastly gazing at the marble floor beneath them.

He chuckled lowly, sensing the deep rage that filled her diverted eyes. Yet, he did not remove his hand, only gripping her waist more possessively, and he bent down to press a kiss onto her collarbone.

"Johann." She intoned more firmly, an angry snap catching at her words. He knew that tone well – her eyes were lifted defiantly, willing his own ice-blue pupils to stare into her lovely green ones.

"Yes, Fraulein Doktor?" He sneered playfully, leaning in for one more quick kiss, his lips brushing at her cheek.

"I would appreciate it if you refrained from attempting to undress me with your eyes." She answered, an expression of petulant disgust on her face as her eyes flickered to her cheek.

"If you had worn the gown that I so graciously took the liberty of having tailored for you, I would not need to imagine, now would I?" He retorted, although it was with a playfulness that his darling Victoria had grown accustomed to.

Her emerald orbs narrowed and she removed her hand from his shoulder, placing it firmly upon his gloved hand, rested on her hip, and forcefully moved it back to a more decent position at her back. "I prefer not to wear gowns that feel as though they'll fall off of me at any moment if I so much as move the wrong way. I know you're accustomed to half-naked hustlers from Paris but as a woman of more respectable status, well – I would rather a man ask for my credentials than where I purchase my lingerie."

She eyed him levelly, lips pursed, as if daring him to argue. He smiled at her coolly, biting the inside of his cheek in order to fight down the sting of her remarks.

"Touché, madam." He pulled her back into his arms, taking a moment to gaze into her beautiful eyes before bending in to kiss her once more, this time, letting his lips linger on hers, drawing out the moment, savoring the warm passion. As he straightened, he winked at her playfully. "You look lovely, Victoria."

She smiled somberly and shook her head. "You say the strangest things sometimes, you know."

He lifted an eyebrow. "My commenting on your beauty is strange? And here I'd assumed that it was a perfectly acceptable compliment in all cultures – forgive me, I am unversed in your exotic American customs."

His eyes sparkled with mischief, but hers were pricked with tears, her face contorted with a mixture of sorrow and betrayal. Reaching out, he cupped her face with a slender gloved hand.

"What is it, Victoria?"

At his touch, she averted her eyes and pulled away from his grip. Backing away tentatively, her eyes gleamed with tears, an unspoken grief etched into the fine lines of her face. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but instead she turned away, fleeing out onto the balcony, disappearing into the sodden courtyard of the Berghof.

For a moment he stood aghast, uncertain of what to make of her peculiar behavior. His ice-blue eyes darted about nervously, a burning feeling of embarrassment welling in the pit of his stomach – what had caused such a queer outburst? Had he truly just been snubbed before the entire high command of the Third Reich? He shook his head, sighing.

Peering down at the HYDRA insignia that was pinned upon the leather lapel of his dress uniform, he muttered, "You've already been humiliated before the entire high command. What's one more petty indiscretion?"

Like foolish, lovesick Romeo, he bounded out onto the balcony, not bothering to cast a glance at whatever observers there might have been in the ballroom.

XXX

He stirred in his sleep, an involuntary sensation of fear working its way further into his musculature, yet sleep, cruelly, still held its unwavering grip upon his psyche. Cruelly, it waited to spring upon him with ever vivid nightmares, working their way deep into the crevices of his mind, haunting him, jarring him from his steely composure. Leaving him helpless, drowning in a sea of twisting silken sheets, alone in a room where no one would ever hear him scream or weep. Utterly alone. Alone, as he had so carefully destined himself to be forever. To be tethered to loved ones was to sentence one's self to death. Love and compassion – they were what rotted at the earth's core; they were what destroyed a perfectly crafted universe. Love and compassion had been so cruel to him – had robbed him of what he had desperately longed for as a neglected, threadbare little boy. He was a man now. And though love and compassion had long given up hope for his blackened, corroded soul – his clever conscience still taunted him with a writhing vengeance.

XXX

The snowy Alps were shrouded in mist, the cold rain falling in fat drops against his heavy leather coat. The Berghof's courtyard was abandoned, all guests having retreated into the chalet, seeking warmth and rich light and escape from the bitter chill of the rain and the gusty winds that blew it about with force. The water fell coolly against his scalp, and rather than take shelter beneath his cap, he welcomed the pure sensation with ease. But something felt off. Something felt different and wrong. He couldn't place it, but the cool of the rain did not seep into his skin. It fell flatly, and its chill was muted. But he shrugged off the uneasiness and wandered forth, seeking his redheaded companion.

It did not take but a few moments of weaving in and out of the manicured shrubbery for him to find Victoria, seated upon a marble bench, curled up into herself, taking shelter beneath a looming Oak. The rain had made its way through the reddening leaves of the tree's branches, blossoming in a canopy of rich autumnal hues. Her form was hunched and shivering, the rain slowly soaking into the fine fabric of her gown and dampening her vibrant curls. Her shoulders quaked in the cool air, but not in the rhythmic way that a body would shiver. It was uneven and sporadic – she was weeping.

He sighed heavily, looking at her, and he shrugged off his coat. She looked up as he approached her and she hung her head – perhaps in shame, or simply sadness – and with a swift motion, he spread the heavy leather jacket around her quivering shoulders.

She sniffed and glanced up at him, her green eyes shining in the dim light, and she whispered her thanks faintly before returning her gaze to the ground.

"Victoria," his tone was that of a chiding parent. With slender fingers, he brushed against her cheek. As if struck, she flinched away, folding into herself. He rolled his eyes, inhaling sharply – angrily – but he willed himself to remain composed. "Victoria, what on earth has gotten into you? What is the meaning of this?" He sat down beside her. "Women usually swoon when I tell them they're beautiful. I feel as though I should be insulted – you didn't even bother to dramatically collapse into my arms. Or perhaps you were so taken by my flattery that you simply felt compelled to flee the scene."

"You are not a god, Johann."

Her voice was soft and somber. It was almost unearthly – so quiet, the barest whisper.

"Pardon, my love?" His was nonchalant, but he felt somewhat unsettled by her words.

She turned to look at him, her eyes a lush green no longer – but an icy blue, mirroring his own.

"You are not a god." She whispered. "But you are not a mortal either."

She lifted her porcelain-white hand to his face and brushed her cool fingers across his cheek – they ghosted across his neck, stopping just below his ear. She gazed at him with a look of pure sorrow – her eyes so bright and blue and terrifying and mournful – he wanted to scream but it was as if the wind had snatched his voice.

"You are a monster." She whispered, a single tear trailing down her cheek as she spoke. Her fingers seemed to catch against his neck for a moment. His eyes glanced down at her hand, then back at her. She closed her eyes, the tears falling with urgency now. With a swift pull, she lifted away his skin as if it were merely paper – revealing a raw, marled face of vivid scarlet.

He felt as if his heart had been torn out, the breath sucked from his body – the burning sensation, the flames licking at his flesh, the sting of the syringe, the nauseating scent of burning flesh – it engulfed him like a maelstrom, he didn't know what it was, how it was, how it existed. He cried out to her – to Victoria – but she simply stared at him morosely, her eyes gleaming with tears.

"I cannot help you."

Her voice was suddenly toneless.

"You have created a monster. You will burn and not a soul will take pity on you."

Bright orange, flames rose up, his vision seared with their intensity.

"Why have you done this?" Her voice cracked mournfully.

"You are a monster."

Monster.

XXX

He bolted from the bed, tangled in the silken sheets, stumbling blindly. Oxygen hurtled into his chest and his frantic breaths slammed against his ribcage. He fell against the cold floor, his body collapsing like a ragdoll.

Tears streamed down his face. He did not bother to brush them away. He let his head fall against the floor and he lay there, weeping.

He cried out for Victoria – for Wilhelmina – but of course, there was no answer, no reassuring, affectionate voice. Only mocking silence and the cackling laughter of his conscience. There would be no reprieve from this hell. For he had created it.

XXX

American Barracks

London, England – 1943

1300 Hours

"Wake up, child."

Her eyes snapped open. Yet there was still blackness – a cold, ethereal emptiness.

"Where am I?" she whispered.

A richly layered voice that she had come to find as a comfort – the familiar deep voice of the Norse god Odin speaking ominously in her mind. "You are safe now, child. You have escaped the madman's grasp. Well done. Although – you did not do it alone."

"Am I in Germany?"

"No. You are in London now, in an isolated cell in the underground allied headquarters. You were captured by an American company and brought here some days ago. But alas, you must wake now – an American soldier has come to question you. Do not worry, child. You are safe here."

Blinding white light flooded into her pupils – a warm yet ragged voice spoke to her urgently, persistently.

"Ma'am. Ma'am?"

But he did not speak in English. He spoke in German – perfect German, with only the slightest hint of an accent; it was American.

She blinked rapidly, clearing her sight, and she coughed, the oxygen stale in her lungs.

"Do you speak English, miss?"

She nodded weakly as her vision came into focus. A young man sat before her, in the beige uniform of an American soldier. His shirt was unbuttoned slightly, and peeking out beneath the fabric was the bright white of cotton gauze, thickly wrapped. His tone was somewhat shaky, labored – he must have been injured.

"Do you know where you are?" Speaking in his native tongue now, his voice took on a slightly different sound – a slight twang that sounded foreign to her.

Again, she nodded.

"Is your name Wilhelmina Hofstadter?"

"Yes." Her voice was raspy from disuse.

His hair was a deep bronze color, neatly combed back. His skin was a slightly lighter shade, and his eyes were a pale blue.

"My name is Robert Leigh. I'm a captain in the United States Army. You were captured by my company on the evening of April 17th from the private residence of Johann Schmidt, the executive leader of HYDRA, the former deep science division of the Third Reich."

She shook her head, clearing her throat. "Nein, he is not the leader." She whispered. "The Red Skull," she spat with disgust, "leads that damnable organization that my uncle worships. That bastard has brainwashed my uncle and every man under his authority."

The man – Robert Leigh – nodded at her slowly. "Excuse me; our information regarding HYDRA's finer details is often faulty. I'm sure you're quite tired, but, I have a few more questions to ask you. Can you tell me how old you are?"

"Seventeen."

"And you possess certain abilities that were imbued into your body via this 'tesseract' that HYDRA employs as its main power source?"

"Yes."

"Are you an enemy of HYDRA?"

She looked at him blankly. "If I were not, I would not have attempted to escape so many times. But I suppose you probably know all about that."

He smiled slightly. "We do."

"So where is he?"

"Pardon?"

"Where is Captain America? The man that I saved in that HYDRA factory – surely you are aware of those events. Did he organize this, my capture?"

Robert Leigh cleared his throat. "I am not authorized to divulge such information at this current time."

"Because I am a threat to you. I am not trustworthy."

The soldier cocked his head knowingly. "Not yet. But for now, you should rest. It would be wise for you to come to grips with your surroundings before we proceed with further questioning."

"Where are you from? My uncle told me that Americans were 'uncivilized creatures'. You speak with refinement."

He raised an eyebrow. "If you were taught that Americans were barbarians, then I highly doubt that you would know the difference between Montana and Massachusetts. I am from a southerly part of the nation, and that's probably the only useful information I could provide you with."

"I did not say that I supported his stance." She answered, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. She liked this soldier – he seemed so carefree and casual. He seemed human.

He resumed a serious tone. "You seem very calm for a captive. But, our reports do tell us that you've been itching to get out of Berlin for quite some time. Is that so?"

"The Red Skull effectively put me under house arrest. After I inadvertently divulged the fact that I had encountered Captain America, and spoken to him during a fight in a HYDRA factory some kilometers from the main base. Herr Skull was showing me a film reel that showcased this captain, when I realized who he was."

"Inadvertently?"

"I did not know who he was at the time of the attack on the factory. My uncle was attempting to engineer an experiment in which the tesseract would unwillingly imbue me with its full power. The Americans attacked soon after, and I was caught in the crossfire. This Captain America – he was nearly killed by a HYDRA flamethrower – I would have been as well but… I managed to put up some sort of shield against it. When the Captain saw what I had done – he wanted to rescue me but I knew that it was stupid – pointless. My uncle would find me; he's always found me and always kept me under a close eye. And besides… I had other tasks on my mind. Other things to take care of. Later, when I saw the film, I was shocked I suppose. Just… to put a face to the man that my uncle and the Red Skull so hated… it was… surreal, almost."

He nodded and cleared his throat. "Miss Hofstadter, are you fatigued, or would you not mind accompanying me to confer with my commanding officer?"

"I am not tired. Apparently, I have been comatose for some days. I am ready to wake up."

He nodded and gestured for her to rise – she looked down at the cot to see that several leather bands lay undone around her – restraints.

She followed the solider out of the cell into a darkened, narrow hallway. Two enlisted men stood at attention.

Captain Leigh nodded stoically and the two soldiers flanked her; one quickly secured her wrists in a set of iron cuffs.

"Safety precautions." Leigh explained. His expression, however, seemed quite doubtful, as if he knew that the cuffs were a pitiful defense against her if she chose to use her power.

He led them down a winding stone passage, eerily quiet and isolated. Odin had told her that she was in the allied headquarters, yet the place seemed abandoned – like a network of catacombs, macabre and dusty in the dim, crude lighting of the electric bulbs overhead.

She stared curiously at the back of the young captain's head before her, analyzing the finer details of his body in the lighting. He was quite tall and very lanky, and his hair was a deeper butterscotch color, now that she could see it in a more natural light – rather than the blinding white of the cell. He walked with a slight limp and his arms – for his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows – were riddled with cuts, some fresh and new, some old and scabbed. Several long, raised scars worked their way from his wrists up into his sleeves.

But there was something about him – something about his voice and the way he carried himself, although she was sure that she had never met this man in her life. Yet, his lanky features nagged at her psyche, that self-assured voice bright and vivid.

Blinding blue light.

Smoke and shrapnel.

The roar of detonating bombs and the rattle of machine gun fire.

Lines of black-clad soldiers flanked her.

A blur of blue and black – the sharp sting of a syringe.

Rapid darkness– her body being hoisted over the shoulders of a HYDRA soldier…

But his voice. It was distinctly American, even as it faded into muddled silence as her body slipped from consciousness.

A strange twang to it, as he frantically yelled.

"Ma'am."

Her head snapped up, her eyes focusing. They had come to the end of the passageway, opening up into a slightly wider, brightly lit hallway. Hurried voices with American and English accents echoed just down the way, and the metallic ringing of telephones and the garbled white noise of radio systems beckoned.

Leigh nodded towards their left to a dented steel door, a narrow glass window carved into the brick wall just beside it. He rapped solidly on the door. A muffled, raspy voice responded curtly.

"This way, ma'am." He said quietly. He ushered her in to a small, brick walled room, a large metal furnace dominating most of the far corner. A dented metal desk was pushed up against the wall, littered with papers. A middle-aged man with steely-gray hair and ruddy features sat behind the desk, broad-shouldered and muscular, yet seemingly tired and deprived. He held a flask in one hand, emblazoned with an eagle, and a half-finished cigarette in the other, head bent, as if pouring over the stack of paperwork below him.

"Colonel Phillips," Leigh intoned beside her, "Subject Athena is ready."

Athena? She raised an eyebrow. How curious.

The man looked up, his eyes decidedly tired and sunken. Never the less, when he spoke, his voice was quite awake – if not irritated.

"Wide awake is she, Leigh?" He cast a cursory glance at her. "Our medical staff expected you to be out for at least another forty eight hours. Or did Captain Leigh simply disobey his orders and disturb you?" His eyes moved over the young soldier.

He shifted uncomfortably beside her. "She showed signs of waking, sir. I figured there was no time to lose."

The colonel gave a measured glance at the captain before turning his steely gaze onto Mina.

"Would you mind allowing me a moment or two with our captive, Leigh?"

Obediently, the captain nodded and quickly undid her cuffs before slipping out of the small office.

"Sit down." The colonel's voice was gruff – a tinge of impatience in his tone. He gestured to the metal chair on the opposite side of the desk, facing him.

Gingerly she sat at the edge of the chair, her posture rigid.

"Your name is Wilhelmina Hofstadter, am I right?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"You are seventeen years old. You will be eighteen in approximately four months."

"Yes."

The colonel stared down at the stack of papers before him, not once looking up to face her. "You are originally from Regensburg, Germany. Your father went missing during a clandestine mission in the Sudetenland in 1926 and was pronounced dead in 1927. Your mother, the sister of Johann Schmidt, died in 1936 of cancer."

"Yes."

"You were officially adopted by Johann Schmidt, and have been in his care since 1936. Due to your premature birth, your immune system was compromised. In order to compensate for your medical complications, you were injected with a prototype of the Super Solider Serum developed by Abraham Erskine shortly after Johann Schmidt attained legal guardianship of you."

"Yes."

At last, he looked up at her, his eyes a deep brownish-green, fatigued, wizened. He placed a pair of silver-rimmed specs onto his nose before continuing to read, the papers before him apparently a stack of files on her. Her profile, as if she were a criminal. "You came into contact with the tesseract, allegedly an artifact once belonging to the Norse god Odin, and were, as a result of that contact, imbued with powerful electrical currents capable of vaporizing human flesh and bone instantly. As a result, you have been HYDRA's most prized weapon."

Looking up from his papers, he removed his glasses and set them down, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette, almost burnt out.

"Do you know why you're here, Miss Hofstadter?"

She lowered her eyes. "Because I am a weapon to HYDRA. And HYDRA is your enemy."

"Captain Steven Rogers and his company attacked a HYDRA facility fifty kilometers from the main base in the Alps nearly six months ago. According to his reports Johann Schmidt and Arnim Zola were conducting some sort of experiment that would ideally result in the full transfer of the tesseract's powers into your body."

"Yes, that was their goal."

"Did Johann Schmidt make you aware of Captain Rogers' identity at any time during your duration at HYDRA?"

"No. The Red Skull, however, did show me a film reel of the Captain. He said that he was known as 'Captain America' in the United States. My uncle never mentioned him, at least not directly. HYDRA has as many enemies in the Nazi Party as they do in the United States, I am almost certain."

The colonel eyed her levelly. "You do realize that Johann Schmidt is the executive leader of HYDRA, don't you?"

She shifted in her seat, an uneasiness welling in the pit of her stomach. "He is an executive officer, but not the leader. He is merely a scientist, a senior member of the organization. He made that much clear to me, as did the Red Skull himself. The Red Skull is the creator of HYDRA, and the master of its soldiers. My uncle worships him."

"The Red Skull? You've seen him before?"

She nodded emphatically. "Yes, yes I have met him face to face."

The colonel was silent, staring blankly at the paperwork before him. He sighed heavily before meeting her eyes once again.

"Why were you so keen to escape HYDRA?"

She felt her heart skip a beat.

The colonel gazed at her, his eyes tired, but no less intense.

"They wanted me to kill people. HYDRA's definition of revolution is to spur a man-made apocalypse. They plan to wipe out the peoples they view as inferior in order to make the world a paradise for those of superior intellect. They feel as though they are doing the work of the gods, with humanity's best interest in mind. They are convinced that the carnage and evil they will ignite is for a humane cause. I viewed it as insanity. That angered my uncle and his master. I attempted to escape. They punished me. Severely." Her voice caught in her throat.

"That night in the factory, when the tesseract fully released its essence into me – it was not because of my uncle's and Zola's experiments. The tesseract spoke to me. You probably consider it a hallucination, but whatever, whoever it was – it spoke to me, and it told me that the only reason I was being given its powers and its strength was because I had been chosen, predestined, to destroy HYDRA. Whoever controls the tesseract – whoever originally controlled it – they understand HYDRA's greed and arrogance. They understand that HYDRA will stop at nothing to destroy the world. I did not tell my uncle that it had said this to me. It would have driven him mad – he would have killed me. He had me massacre an entire village – simply because they refused to vacate the land so that HYDRA could construct its newest factory. They wanted to use me, and they would do anything to use this power within me. When I refused to comply – when I tried to escape – they whipped me, beat me, stuck me with needles and injected me with drugs over and over and over again. I could not take it. I don't want to be a part of it. You probably think that I'm an informant. I wanted to escape. I wanted to be free from their grasp; I want to stop that bastard the Red Skull who is brainwashing my uncle into thinking that he is a god-sent hero doing the work of heaven. They want to destroy! They will stop at nothing to succeed – nothing."

Her eyes had filled with tears and her breathing was quick and shallow, her chest quaking with a mixture of grief and anger. "You must believe me when I say that I want nothing to do with HYDRA. I want to save my uncle. I want to save the countless lives that the Red Skull will mercilessly take in order to satisfy his own selfish desires. I remember so vividly what it was like, pinned to the wall beneath his grip, his hideous face – he makes my skin crawl, he haunts my nightmares. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't live. Please believe me, Colonel. I can see it in your eyes, you are a skeptical, you think I'm some raving lunatic. Please believe me. I want to stop HYDRA. I feel as though I've been given some mission – when the tesseract speaks to me, it tells me that I must stop HYDRA, that I have been chosen to wield this power in order to stop them. I have no interest in taking over the world or making some sort of freak god out of myself. I just want to live again, like a normal human being, without this evil and fanaticism breathing down my neck incessantly. Please."

She sat back in her chair, breathless, her shoulders quaking as she regained her breath. Colonel Phillips still eyed her with that same steely gaze – maddeningly indifferent. Like her Uncle, almost. Although, in the creases of his face and the cool gaze of his eyes, she saw no arrogance. He was not a proud man, but a loyal and trustworthy one. He did not seek fame or glory. He only served his nation. He did not hold his head as if he were a king, flashing his rank to any who dared question him. With his beige shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair disheveled, and his eyes watery and red-rimmed, he seemed human.

At last, he sighed deeply. "Look. I want to believe you. But it isn't in my best interest to trust you immediately. It isn't your best interest to trust me immediately, or anyone in these barracks. It will take a day or so for your information to be processed – you'll need to fill out paperwork, and you'll likely be questioned by my higher authorities before we do anything with you. Captain Leigh will bring you to your new barracks. Slightly more comfortable than the one you're in now. It will be locked and guarded 24/7 – you must not enter or leave without the guards' permission. There should be a new set of clothes and something other things already laid out for you. Get some rest."

"What do you want to do with me?" she asked abruptly.

The colonel raised an eyebrow quizzically, before sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Oh, we'll throw you in front of a HYDRA battalion and see if you fight or flee. If they shoot ya, well, it's too early in the game for us to have lost anything. If they try to capture ya, we shoot them. Someone's gonna get shot either way – it's sort of inevitable, you know – death."

She blinked slowly.

He offered her a wry smile. "No, that actually won't happen. What will happen is currently classified. But, one thing you can rest easy knowing. And when I say 'easy', I mean that relatively speaking." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the surface of his death. "We might have brought you here alive, but that doesn't mean we'll let you stay alive if you give us reason to be suspicious of you. Know that if you try anything – if you try to contact HYDRA in anyway, if any of my men lose their lives because of you, because you turn out to be an informant of HYDRA, because you turn out to have any connection at all with HYDRA – we will not hesitate to kill you. I will personally kill you, in the name of all of the good men that I have lost to HYDRA. I don't care who you are, how young you are, how innocent you think you are, how special you think you are – I will kill you. And I will sleep easy knowing that I have killed you. Do you understand that?"

Silence.

Then, she nodded. "Yes." She said softly, firmly. "I understand."

"Good."

XXX

Alsace, France – 1943

The first orange rays of dawn poured through the leaded glass panes of the chalet, falling upon the plush carpets, the richly hued wood paneling, the intricate, ornate fineries that he had collected over the years. It lapped at every surface of the quiet room hungrily, thirstily drinking up the colors and textures that it traveled over. No music played in the room. The music of quiet silence and the steadily blowing wind beyond the windows created its own somber melody.

He sat at his desk, upright and rigid, long, gloved fingers clenched as if they were attempting to break the air that seeped between them. His mask – always composed, always flawless – seemed disheveled today, fatigued and drawn. He felt the seam tugging away from his face with every slight movement, yet he did not dare push it back into place. He could not touch it. He reeled at its alien feeling against his own skin, trapped, ensconced in a darkened pit of lies, deceit, and hatred.

"How long do you think it will be before we can occupy the main base again, mein Herr?"

A young HYDRA officer stood before him, bright eyed and alert, yet docile and nervous.

He did not raise his eyes from the twisting grain of the desk's wooden surface. "A month, at least." He answered quietly. His voice lacked its usual bravado – its cold harshness, its steadiness. "It would be convenient to convince the Americans that HYDRA is in a shambles after our most recent confrontation. If they think us weak, leaderless, and powerless – they will grow cocky, overconfident. They will be easier to undermine. No doubt they are investigating the place as we speak – they will find nothing of use to them. Our most important assets were removed before the attack."

"And… the young lady, mein Herr?"

His jaw clenched. "Find her." His voice hardened like ice. "The last location that Stephen Rogers reported to was the American barracks in London. They would first need to clear her before they could transport her to North America – they would carry out the routine safety precautions, which take at least a week to complete. I plan to dispatch a reconnaissance team to survey the city and the barracks – it is too early for us to orchestrate an attack. If we can maintain the ruse that HYDRA has fallen and that the Red Skull died along with Captain Rogers, we can discreetly continue our endeavors with only minimal enemy interruptions. A surveillance operation in London would allow us to pinpoint Wilhelmina's exact location and monitor her – if the Americans make any moves against her, we attack. The longer we are under the radar, the more time we have to regroup and reconstruct. Once HYDRA's strength has returned to its full capacity, we can turn our attention to our highest priority."

He steepled his fingers.

"Destroying the Americans." The soldier's voice was quiet yet fervent.

"Indeed." He smiled. "And we will destroy every one of them. And not just the Americans – the English, the French, the Russians – all of them. All of them will die. But not at once – slowly and systematically, a more refined version of Hitler's extermination camps. Our prisoners will suffer silently and passively, crumbling under our rule. Their screams will be silent, their tears muffled. Their voices will not be heard – for so long, they have drowned out the voices of the superior man, branding his genius as madness. No longer, soldier. No longer will they stand at the head of the world. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, mein Herr. We will not fail you."

A sad half-smile twisted at Johann's lips. "No, you will not fail me. Your loyalty, your courage, your respect – all will be rewarded in the end, when the world is ours, soldier. You will be reunited with your families, with like-minded scholars of superior intellect, of superior strength and mind. The world will be at peace and the ruling order will be in the hands of the expertly qualified. Who will your worship then, soldier? Hitler? Who will you worship?"

"You, mein Herr. And your successor, our queen – the wise benefactor that wields the power of the gods and strives to rejuvenate this world."

Johann chuckled quietly to himself, tracing the grain of the wood with a slender finger. "I can only hope that when your fellow soldiers return her to us, that she will be as wise and benevolent as you say. I fear that she will not be so agreeable. But the Americans will not treat her kindly – at least not yet. She will experience what it is like to truly be a prisoner – to truly be under the iron grip of a foreign power with unknown levels of strength. Perhaps this time will be a blessing for her – her bitterness will dissolve when she is overcome by fear. Perhaps when she is returned to us, she will realize who her true benefactors are – the ones that seek to protect her, rather than her harm and use her. Perhaps this will be a revelation for her. One can only hope."

He looked up at the soldier at last. "You are dismissed, soldier. I will dispatch the briefing when I have finished the revisions. Prepare your men."

The soldier clicked his heels and raised his arms above his head. "Hail HYDRA!"

Johann nodded grimly. "Indeed."

The soldier left, leaving the room silent again. The dawn was in full swing – the bright light of the risen sun shining warmly against his back.

But the morning did not offer the clean sense of calm and quiet that it usually did. It did not offer a reprieve from whatever troubling dreams had ravaged his sleep the evening before. When he gazed at the first orange rays of dawn, he thought of the fire that had eaten away his flesh – he thought of Victoria, bright red locks like the sun, skin like porcelain – creamy white. It was with a mixture of anger – deepest rage – and hollow sadness and a deep and empty nothingness that he thought of her. His feelings for her were a mystery to even him – he thought of her with contempt, angered at the thought of her spurning his proposal – running off as if she were merely a modern Cinderella, forced by the stroke of midnight to flee his arms forever. Discovering her to be an American spy had been insult to injury – the salt rubbed into his searing, wounded heart.

Yet – he saw the blood trickling from her mouth and the tears from her eyes when he had slapped her, like a lowly wretch – and he felt a mixture of disgust and anger at himself, for the animosity and suddenly barbaric nature in which he had acted. Years of neglect and uncertainty for what was to come had left him hardened and blackened. His rapid ascent from street urchin to decorated officer had left him haughty and conceited. To have a beautiful woman on his arm was merely the crowning jewel in his repertoire – the prospect of losing her – no, being snubbed by her – it made his blood boil with a viciousness that was not unfamiliar to his cold heart.

His immense familiarity with such feelings was what truly sickened him. He masked that ill feeling with a façade of selfish pride, yet his heart could not deny the way in which it made him shudder.

You are not a god. You are a monster.

His heartbeat quickened, and swiftly he rose, knocking aside the chair as he swept across the room, receding deeper into his quarters. Reaching the window, he swept the heavy black curtains closed, the sunlight cut off like a ragged scream, enveloping the chamber in darkness. He closed the doors leading into the study, leaving him utterly alone with the darkness.

His breaths were quick and shallow as he crossed to the washbasin, a narrow, rectangular mirror mounted on the wall before him. He removed his gloves, revealing slender, crimson hands, and he reached into his pocket, retrieving his cigarette lighter. With a quick press of his finger against it, a flickering, orange flame sprang up from the tiny metal lighter – illuminating the mirror before him.

What he saw there before him made his heart lurch in his ribcage.

A fabricated face – a cruel likeness to the drawn, gaunt face that had once belonged to him, that had once been made of his own natural flesh.

Now, there was only silicon and synthetic material, a hideous guise of the human he had once been.

He let the flame of the lighter die, and with hurried hands, he tore the alien material from his face, clawing at the mask as if it were choking him, sapping him of life. He clutched angrily at the final piece at his neck, yanking it from his shirt collar and throwing it down before him, the strange, flesh-colored material falling into heap at the bottom of the marble washbasin. With a swift motion, he brought the lighter down upon it – the flames licking at first tentatively – then lapping furiously at the silicon at his hands, jumping and writhing as it consumed the strange material.

The smell of burning rubber and smoke engulfed his senses, and it coursed through his veins with a sort of indescribable ecstasy – a rage and elation so hopelessly intertwined. He stared at the mirror before him, illuminated by the fire, and he gazed with a strange feeling of release and calmness at the hideous face that now stared back at him.

The thin, crimson lips twisted in a horrible grin, and everything seemed to fall into place at once within him. There was no rage – no sorrow, no love, no hate, no feeling of anything at all. There was simply, indifference – a resignation to that which he was and was destined to be.

Yes. He was a monster. A foul beast.

No longer would he wallow in his gloomy depression, drowning in a sea of nightmares, an endless abyss of dreams. No more would he dwell on his failures or find solace in his loneliness, his emptiness.

No longer would he hide behind a mask – no longer would he hide behind a prideful façade of bitterness and hate.

He was a monster. He would embrace the ghastly, bloodthirsty, barbaric nature of what he had inadvertently created out of himself, those years ago – alone, engulfed in flames.

The weak, spineless sap that had once inhabited his frail, fragile body – it no longer existed. The beast, the brute of strength and evil that replaced it – would live on and flourish.

You are not a god. But you are not a mortal either.

His lungs filled with the thickening smoke and breathed it in as if it were the purest air – fueling his strength.

"I wonder where you are now, little Golda." He whispered, smiling savagely. "Do you wish so fervently for life now, when you know that I survive?"

XXX

American Barracks – London, England

1943

0500 Hours

It had been at least forty-eight hours since she had awoken in that bright white chamber. She had been given a new room – a cramped, bricked alcove with a small cot and a washbasin. A pair of army-issue beige trousers and a button down blouse had been laid across the bed for her on the first night, a small pair of battered leather shoes placed at the foot of the metal bedframe. She dressed now by the sputtering light of a dusty bulb wired into the concrete ceiling, securing the final buttons of her blouse before tucking it into the trousers. There was no mirror in the room; she pulled her tawny curls into a small, undoubtedly slipshod bun at the nape of her neck with a rubber band that she had managed to scrounge from one of the soldiers that guarded her. She sat down tiredly at the foot of the bed and pulled on the shoes, lacing them up slowly, biding her time. Apparently she was to be introduced to some higher authority – Colonel Phillips's boss, as Captain Leigh had referred to him.

The young captain with the strange accent had been in and out of the small cell, usually to deliver a fresh batch of paperwork, and sometimes her meals. He provided quick snatches of conversation – a valuable source of human contact. She had come to dread isolation, after so many months of it in Berlin – the jovial captain put her tensed nerves at ease. Still – he was always at an arm's length, never divulging any information to her, even if it was simply mundane. Of course, she knew better than to be surprised by such treatment. She was the enemy, at least until proven otherwise. It was how that would be proven otherwise that caused her some concern.

Of course, she had not necessarily chosen to be transported across Europe and the English Channel to reach this place. Although, it had proven convenient. The Americans had gotten her farther away from HYDRA than she ever could have hoped to get had she followed through with her own hopeless plan of escape.

She stared down at her shoes, tracing out the scuff marks with aimless eyes. She knew that she should be frightened – frightened by the uncertainty of her predicament, frightened and worried and hysterical. Yet, she was not. She did not care what happened to her anymore. Prisoner or ally, friend or foe, it no longer mattered where she stood on the American front, or where she stood on the HYDRA front for that matter. She would rather die than be forced to passively serve a self-proclaimed ruling order – HYDRA held no emotional connection her.

But Johann, however, did. It angered her as much as it troubled her – the question of whether or not he was worth saving, if he could be saved at all.

The Americans were convinced that Johann and 'the Red Skull' were one in the same. A small part of her refused to accept that idea, but yet, her conscience would not banish the idea from her brain. What if he was no better than the Red Skull? Surely he was a separate entity from that creature – she had looked upon the gnarled crimson flesh of Johann's revered master with her own eyes. Yet… his lilting yet horribly indifferent tone, his ice-like eyes, his elegance and dignity – it was all too frighteningly similar to the way in which her uncle carried himself. What if Johann was the monster that Colonel Phillips and Captain Leigh referred to? If Johann were merely some senior officer, the likelihood of them even knowing who he was, was slim. But – Goering and Himmler and Rommel were senior officers. They were not Hitler, yet every allied soldier knew their names, no doubt.

Her stomach was in knots. She lay down on the cot, sighing heavily. There was no point in thinking of it now. She could not do anything about it.

A rap at the door sounded and she sat bolt upright, shoulders rigidly set.

The young captain appeared in the doorway. "Up and at 'em, Fraulein. We've got business to be taken care of."

"Will you tell me what business? Or is it classified?" she asked wearily.

"Oh, you're scheduled to meet with a few higher ups that I don't even know the names of. So, even if it were confidential, I don't have much to tell anyhow."

"Do they want a demonstration?" her tone had a bitter note to it.

The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Doesn't everyone? There's always a need for a demonstration, regardless of who you are. People don't believe things until they see them."

She stood up, silent.

"It will be a short ride to the location – that's confidential, if you'd like to know. Several of our higher ups and a few Brits will be present. You'll be asked to demonstrate your power and asked several questions. Most likely routine things – you won't need any briefing for it. You will be transported in an armed vehicle – alone. You'll be heavily guarded of course; myself and Colonel Phillips will be in a separate vehicle."

"In case I decide to suddenly go mad and destroy myself and whoever's nearest to me?"

He offered an indifferent expression. "No need to be a cynic, madam. All but my ass has been burned and blistered to a pulp in the name of 'rescuing' you. And I'll have you know the condition of my ass is quite important to me. I'd rather be safely away from the fire hazard you present rather than have my finer assets barbequed as well."

She stifled her laughter. "Then I shall do as told."

He gestured for her to rise with a flourish of his arm. "After you, milady. Your coach awaits."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I am so terribly excited for the ball." She retorted dryly.

XXX

The darkened sky of London greeted her morosely, the dawn seemingly having no inclination of delivering a rosy sun this day. Yet, to step out into cool, fresh air was refreshing in itself. Her wrists chafed against her cuffs and her arms ached with a familiar tension, having so often been thrust behind her back. Her time in the open air was to be short; she was prodded – none too delicately – into the back of a heavily armed military vehicle, and shut into the black and leather interior. Alone, isolated. She was closed off to the driver – the partition separating the driver's cabin from the rear of the vehicle had been sealed closed with a thick layer of steel and the windows looking out into the city had been blacked out and barred. A moving cage. Quite the pleasant thought.

Her wrists bound behind her back, she sat uncomfortably, her spine protesting as she refused to let it lean its weight against her already aching arms. The hum of the motor and the shift of gears rumbled beneath the vehicle as it rattled to life, slowly starting forward.

It was perhaps a forty-five minute drive – she had no sense of time to go by, no watch, no view into the morning light. Alone in a terribly dark vehicle – it could have been the middle of the night.

The location truly was confidential, if they did not want her to view their route. And, they did not want anyone to see within, to see her, alone in that car. A prison sentence, but also a blessing of safety – she was a captive, but she was at least being granted some semblance of protection. Still, she longed to hear the familiar voice of Captain Leigh. His strange accent, his sense of humor – terribly inappropriate at times, rough around the edges, and harshly honest – the carefree air of self-assurance about him was a comfort. Even Colonel Phillips' raw, human voice eased her nerves, even if he had made it plain that he would not hesitate to kill her if it was deemed necessary.

Johann would have despised both of them – tactless, uncouth, utterly American.

Somehow, it made it easier to like them – to trust them. And even though Colonel Phillips had advised against her trusting him or any other American solider – somewhere deep within, she felt assured that she could trust these men. Perhaps it was foolhardiness – innocence. But for the time being, it offered her an outlet of solace.

The car halted and the engine rattled to a dull silence. A soldier opened the door and gestured silently for her to exit the vehicle.

Out of the car, she was flanked by two beige-clad American soldiers, rifles slung across their backs, bare hands grasping her shoulders firmly. Her eyes darted about, taking in the new setting.

They were somewhere in the outskirts of the city, a shady, quiet lane lined with large poplar trees. Ahead of them lay a small, creamy white stone cottage, tendrils of dark smoke snaking out from a short chimney.

Colonel Phillips, now in view, gestured to the soldiers to release her from her grip and sternly commanded that she come forward.

"This is where I am to meet with your authorities, Colonel?" She couldn't help but be skeptical.

Captain Leigh came to stand beside her. "Tea party." He smiled boyishly.

"Shut up, Leigh." Phillips' tone was like iron. He started forward to the cottage.

"Yessir."

Mina cast a sideways glance at the captain. "How is your ass, Captain?" she asked as Phillips disappeared into the small building.

His lip quivered, as if to smile, but he bit at it, forcing his face to remain indifferent. "Would you like to see it and find out for yourself?" His tone was perfectly serious.

She returned her gaze to the cottage. "Do you take me for that sort of girl?"

"Not in the very least, milady. Although I did happen to hear that you German girls were quite – how to put this delicately – loose." He grinned.

"Don't always believe what the propagandists tell you, Captain. Although, I'm almost certain that Goebbels has fraternized with the women of nearly every nation in Europe. Magda was justified in being… 'loose' with her assets."

"I didn't think the general public knew about all that dirt."

"I think my uncle got himself fired from the Gestapo simply to escape the dirt."

"Smart of him."

Mina glanced around her, turning about to look at the convoy of vehicles behind them. "What exactly is the Colonel doing, if I may ask?"

"Like I said. Tea party."

"So he's having tea and crumpets with Churchill in the garden, I see."

Leigh winked at her mischievously before leaning closer, as if to divulge a secret. "Now, you have to keep this hush-hush but – you see, we're actually so good that Churchill has to get an audience with us. Of course, we picked a location that would keep our high profiles on the down low – we have to watch out for those propagandists shoving their noses in our business. We like to keep things quiet. So here we are out in the London suburbs for 'a spot of tea' with the old chap." Here he feigned an English accent that was so ridiculous she could hardly force her lips to remain skeptically pursed.

She shook her head and looked behind, in part to hide her laughter.

But what she saw poised merely fifty yards away made her heart skip a beat.

A tall, blond-haired officer leaned against one of the convoy trucks, dressed in an American beige uniform. But she knew this man – she had seen him before. She immediately recognized the catty smirk on his lips.

The officer that had taunted her in a cold HYDRA cell, threatening her with the execution of her uncle and her eternal imprisonment. His words rang hauntingly in her mind.

"It would be useless for you to refuse as, either way, you will support us. Whether or not you choose for your uncle to die is of no consequence to Herr Skull. Herr Schmidt is merely a scientist – he can be easily replaced. You, on the other hand, are not quite so dispensable."

But surely it was not him. It couldn't possibly be him. Why would he be here, and seemingly alone?

Or had HYDRA already found her? Had they really found her, so quickly?

She felt bile rising in her throat, her vision wavering as dizziness overcame her.

"Captain Leigh," she whispered, returning her gaze to the cottage, staring steadfastly before her, not daring to look back.

Leigh glanced over at her, his eyes narrowed as if he had detected her nervous tone. His eyes flickered to where she'd been looking. "What's up?"

"Do you see that soldier, leaning against the truck? Blond hair, six foot tall, thereabouts."

Moving his head just slightly, he cast a glance over his shoulder. A few moments silence, until he affirmed it. "Yeah I see him."

"Have you seen him before? Are you familiar with him?"

Leigh was silent again. He too returned his gaze to the cottage before them. "How do you know him?" his tone was calm, indifferent – he had not seen him before, that much was clear by his question.

"He is a HYDRA officer. I have met him before."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I would recognize that bastard anywhere. He threatened to kill my uncle – he threatened to make a slave out of me."

"Alright. Don't look back. Don't turn around, stay still. Look straight ahead of you. We'll wait until Colonel comes back out. If I go in, he might have gotten the hint and make a break for it. Just wait."

Ten minutes passed. They stood in silence, waiting as Colonel Phillips exited the cottage, flanked by an English officer.

"Sir," Leigh's voice still held its unwavering calm, but his tone sounded slightly off. "Sir we've got a security issue."

Phillips was a foot from the Captain and he perked up at the words. "What issue, Leigh?"

"Suspected HYDRA officer bout fifty yards back from us standing by the fifth truck. Blond hair, six foot tall. She recognizes him."

The English officer behind Phillips turned white as a sheet, but said nothing.

Phillips' eyes grew steely and cold. "You have got to be shitting me." He looked around, then back at Mina.

"When did you see him?"

"I had just glanced over my shoulder not but ten minutes ago, sir. I recognize him from the main base in the Alps. The Red Skull had ordered him to interrogate me."

Phillips was rigid. "Son of a bitch I thought I was done with HYDRA. You're sure this guy's one of their goons?"

Mina nodded stoically, but her heart pounded in her chest.

"He's not alone. This is either an ambush attack or a surveillance mission. Whatever it is, we're attacking first." Phillips looked to Leigh, then to the English officer. "Get subject Athena inside, Captain Leigh. Quickly."

Leigh nodded and grabbed Mina by the shoulders, propelling her inside the cottage. The English officer was at their heels. Mina could just make out Phillips' mumbled order to a soldier along the perimeter.

He was ordering a sniper to kill the HYDRA guard, if nothing more than to lure out his allies, if there were any hiding within the ranks.

A few moments of silence, and the Colonel made his way into the cottage, shutting and bolting the door.

As the door gave a solid click, a single shot was fired – and following it, the rattle of submachine guns.

And the hollow screams of men – their voices being torn out of their bodies, followed it.

HYDRA guns – she knew their sound, and the dying screams of the man whose lives they had claimed.

The Red Skull had found her.