Chapter 10:
[Drake POV]
[2 Weeks Later, SHIELD HQ, UK]
I stride confidently into the central command room, leaving a trail of fallen bodies in my wake. The room is occupied by five SHIELD agents, accompanied by a formidable squad of STRIKE commandos. Despite their attempts to appear composed, fear lurks within their eyes. The commandos unleash a barrage of gunfire, tearing through my body. I collapse to the ground, but within moments, my incredible healing abilities kick in, mending my wounds. Rising to my feet, a sadistic grin spreads across my face as I proclaim, "Now it's my turn."
With lightning-fast speed, I unleash a merciless assault on the commandos, swiftly eliminating them one by one. Suddenly, a group of six individuals steps forward, emerging from the shadows. I turn to the man leading the charge, clad in a tactical combat suit and a menacing purple mask. "This stage is yours now, boss," I declare, acknowledging his authority. The atmosphere is charged with fear as each of the five SHIELD agents locks eyes with him. The old man at the center, his expression filled with disbelief, utters in astonishment, "Baron Zemo? It can't be..."
Zemo lets out a chilling laugh, revealing the truth behind his extraordinary transformation. "Zola's super-soldier bio-enhancer has surpassed the limitations of my body," he explains, relishing his newfound power. The man facing him trembles, his voice betraying his fear as he asks, "What do you want?" Zemo's reply is laced with malevolence. "I desire nothing less than the burning of an empire," he declares, his words dripping with dark intent. Drawing his sword, he ruthlessly strikes down all those standing before him. The CERBERUS unit, observing with sadistic delight, revels in the screams of agony that reverberate through the central command room. With a sword stained in blood, Zemo turns to face us, his gaze filled with a twisted sense of triumph. "Soon, everything shall align with my vision," he proclaims, "From the ashes of the old world, a new empire shall rise, destined to rule over all."
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Washington DC, USA]
It's a refreshing morning for a run as I hit the streets of Washington, DC. I've always been an early riser, usually starting my run around 6 AM. At this hour, the roads are relatively empty, with most people still asleep or just beginning to wake up. While on my usual route, I noticed another dedicated runner, an African American man. We've crossed paths several times before, although we've never exchanged names or engaged in conversation. The man carries himself with a military bearing, evident in his posture and demeanor. As I approach him from behind, I courteously call out, "On your left," signaling my intention to pass him.
The man glances at me, his eyes widening as he notices my accelerated pace. I pick up speed, sprinting ahead of him, and take a sharp turn at a corner. I continue my vigorous run for a total of four miles. On the third mile, I pass the same man once again, uttering the familiar phrase, "On your left." This time, he pauses momentarily, clearly perplexed by my consistent appearance. Undeterred, I surpass him for the third time, repeating my earlier remark. I can sense a hint of frustration from him, as no one likes to be outshone, especially fellow soldiers. In an attempt to keep up, he increases his pace, but despite his efforts, he fails to catch me. As I complete the fourth mile, I spot the exhausted man resting under a tree. I approach him, offering assistance, and ask, "Need a medic?"
Turning his head to face me, the man's expression changes to one of realization. "Well, that explains a lot. I think I need a new set of lungs," he half-seriously remarks, recognizing the magnitude of my feat. "Dude, you just ran 13 miles in 30 minutes." I can't help but smile at his reaction. "Had a late start," I reply, downplaying my achievement. He chuckles in response, teasing me, "Really? You should be ashamed of yourself. Should take another lap. Did you just take it? I assume you took it." Extending my hand, I inquire about his military unit. As I assist him to his feet, he grasps my hand and introduces himself as Sam Wilson, a member of the 58th para-rescue unit who now works at the VA. "Steve Rogers," I respond, confirming my own identity. "Yeah, kind of put that together," Sam quips, referring to my history of being frozen in ice. I shrug slightly, admitting that it took some time to readjust. I express my pleasure in meeting him, although a twinge of discomfort lingers within me, perhaps due to his mention of the freezing ordeal. I still struggle with fully overcoming those memories, and the cold nights serve as a constant reminder.
As I prepare to leave, Sam interrupts my departure. "It's your bed, right?" he queries. Confused, I turn back to face him. "What?" I inquire. Sam explains, "Your bed, it's too soft. When I was over there, I slept on the ground, used rocks as pillows like a caveman. Now, I'm home lying on my bed, and it's like..." He struggles to find the words, and I complete his sentence, understanding his sentiment. "Lying on a marshmallow. Feel like I'm going to sink right through the floor." Sam nods, clearly relating to the unfamiliar comfort. Curious, I inquire about the duration of his military service. He reveals that he served two tours before transitioning to his current role at the VA. "You must miss the good old days," I speculate, reflecting on my own longing for the past. I think of Howard, Peggy, and Bucky, the friends and comrades I dearly miss. Sensing the shift in my mood, I swiftly change the topic, diverting the conversation away from personal nostalgia. "It isn't all bad. The food has improved significantly. Back then, we used to boil everything. And the internet, it's incredibly helpful. I've been doing a lot of web surfing to catch up on everything," I remark, attempting to focus on the positive aspects of the present.
Sam licks his lips, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Marvin Gaye, 1972, Trouble Man soundtrack. Everything you missed jammed into one album," he suggests, offering me a musical recommendation. Intrigued, I retrieve my notepad and pen, jotting down the details. "I'll add it to the list," I promise. Just then, my phone buzzes, indicating a text message from Natasha. "Got a mission. Meet you at the end of the block," it reads. Aware of the urgency, I inform Sam, "Alright, Sam, duty calls," as I prepare to depart. In a light-hearted manner, he jokes, "Hey, anytime you stop at the VA, do me a solid and make me look good in front of the girl at the front desk." We share a brief laugh, enjoying the camaraderie. Before parting ways, Sam offers a sincere piece of advice. "In all seriousness, you should check it out. It may help," he suggests, referring to the VA. I acknowledge his suggestion, assuring him that I'll keep it in mind.
A sleek black sports car pulls up beside me, driven by Natasha. Without hesitation, I hop into the passenger seat, ready for the next mission that awaits us.
[Spartan POV]
[New York City]
I swiftly patrol the rooftops of New York City, equipped with stealth-camo technology. EPYON, my AI companion, detects a potential operation happening below. Activating my stealth-camo, I make my way toward the designated waypoint on a nearby rooftop. From my vantage point, I observe an armored van being surrounded by armed masked goons. The driver of the van seems shocked and frightened, unable to comply with the goons' demands. The situation escalates when one of the goons fires an armor-piercing round, narrowly missing the driver's head. Reacting quickly, I toss a smoke grenade from my pack and descend to ground-level, taking advantage of the cover provided by both the smoke and my stealth-camo. In a series of precise moves, I neutralize seven of the goons before the smoke dissipates, leaving only one remaining. I draw my pistol and incapacitate the last goon with a stun-bolt. With the threat neutralized, I secure and restrain the defeated goons, leaving them for the authorities to handle. EPYON alerts me to a high-priority mission from SHIELD.
[Indian Ocean]
[Quinjet.] Aboard the Quinjet, Brock Rumlow briefs us on our mission, his fingers swiftly navigating the touch screen in the passenger compartment. "Our target is a mobile satellite launch platform called Lemurian Star. The pirates took over the ship approximately 96 minutes ago while they were in the middle of sending up the payload," he explains. Curious about the situation, Cap asks, "Any demands?" Rumlow promptly replies, "They're asking for a billion and a half." Cap raises an eyebrow, questioning the steep demand. "It's SHIELD. If I were a mercenary, that's the kind of price I'd ask," I interject half-seriously. Wanting to gather more information, Cap inquires, "How many pirates are we dealing with?" Rumlow displays an image of the mercenaries' leader, Georges Batroc, and replies, "There are twenty-five top mercenaries, led by this guy. Batroc is an ex-DGSE operative from the action division. He's at the top of Interpol's red notice. This guy has a reputation for causing maximum casualties." Karai chimes in, concerned about the hostages, "What about the hostages?" Rumlow reveals, "Mostly technicians, but there's also one officer: Jasper Sitwell." The mention of Sitwell surprises Cap, "Sitwell? He's usually never involved in ops." We all study the ship's layout displayed on the screen, strategizing our next moves. Cap formulates the plan, "The PARAGADES and I will sweep the deck and locate Batroc. Nat, your task is to disable the engines and await further instructions. Rumlow, your objective is to locate the hostages, escort them to the life pods, and get them to safety. Let's move." Rumlow rallies his squad, calling out, "STRIKE, you heard the Cap. Gear up!"
"Comlink check," Cap tests his microphone, and the rest of us follow suit. "Checked," I respond in unison with Karai and Nat. Nat gives Cap a knowing look as he approaches to grab his gear, teasingly asking, "Did anything exciting happen Saturday night?" Cap's response is matter-of-fact, "Well, all the guys from my barbershop are dead, so, no, not really." Nat playfully suggests, "I'm sure if you ask Kristen out, statistically speaking, she'd probably say yes." Cap rolls his eyes and remains silent. Following the 1940s super-soldier's lead, I leap out of the quinjet alongside Karai. Through the open comms, I overhear Jack's question, "Did they have parachutes?" Rumlow's response echoes, "No. No, they didn't."
[Lemurian Star]
We silently infiltrate the Lemurian Star, ensuring that our presence remains undetected. Cap swiftly incapacitates a passing sentry with a back-choke-hold, maintaining the element of surprise for as long as possible. Together, we proceed counterclockwise around the ship, systematically neutralizing any mercenaries in our path. The operation goes smoothly until we complete a full circuit of the vessel, abruptly halting in our tracks as a squad of mercenaries surrounds us, their weapons trained on us. "Don't move!" one of the mercenaries demands, their overlapping fields of fire presenting a formidable challenge. Concealed beneath my mask, a faint smile tugs at my lips. If only they knew the true caliber of adversaries, they were dealing with.
In a burst of lightning speed, Cap hurls his shield, striking down one of the mercenaries. With graceful precision, he catches the shield on its return trajectory and swiftly dispatches another enemy. Acting in perfect synchronization, Karai and I draw our pistols in a swift motion, delivering fatal shots to the remaining batch of mercenaries. Just as we think we have gained the upper hand, a mercenary appears around the corner, aiming his rifle directly at Karai's head.
A soft pop resonates through the air, and the mercenary crumples to the ground lifelessly. I look up to see Rumlow, Nat, and the rest of the STRIKE team descending in parachutes. Impressed by the shot, Cap comments, acknowledging the difficulty of hitting a moving target while suspended from a parachute on a windy night. Rumlow is undoubtedly one of SHIELD's finest. Karai asserts, "For the record, I let you take that shot." Rumlow smirks and playfully retorts, "Sure, you did, sweetheart." Karai growls, clearly unimpressed by his behavior. Like Ward, Rumlow has quite the reputation for being an asshole. With the immediate threat eliminated, we shift our focus to the next objective.
Nat, acting as Cap's personal cupid, persistently questions him about potential romantic interests. "What about the nurse who lives across the hall from you?" she asks, attempting to divert Cap's attention from the mission. However, Cap remains steadfast, prioritizing the task at hand. "Secure the engine room, then find me a date," he instructs Nat. Unfazed by his response, Nat vaults over the railing to the lower level, demonstrating her ability to multitask. Meanwhile, Cap leads us to the lower level of the bridge tower, utilizing our heads-up displays to eavesdrop on the mercenaries' conversations. "I don't like waiting," one of the mercenaries complains, "Let the others know I want this ship ready to move once the ransom arrives." Through the comlink, Nat confirms, "Engine room is secure." Rumlow chimes in, "STRIKE is in position, awaiting your command, Cap." Prepared for action, Cap gives the order, "On my mark, hit it." With impeccable accuracy, Cap hurls his shield, taking out one of the mercenaries stationed at the main control panel. Karai and I swiftly enter the command room, eliminating four mercenaries in a flurry of precise gunfire. However, one mercenary manages to evade us, fleeing around the corner. It's Batroc. Cap wastes no time and pursues him. "We're moving to the extraction point, Cap. Hostiles are still present," Rumlow alerts us over the comlink. Cap takes charge, informing Rumlow, "Copy that. Spartan, Karai, provide backup. I'll link up with you once I've caught Batroc." "On it," I affirm.
We circle back to rendezvous with Rumlow and the STRIKE unit at the life pods. As we approach, a fierce firefight ensues between STRIKE and the remaining mercenaries. I signal to Karai, silently coordinating our tactics to flank the mercenaries. Utilizing our stealth-camo technology, we eliminate the remaining enemies methodically, one by one. I tap my comlink, relaying the update, "Cap, all enemy targets have been neutralized. What's your status?" Through the comms, Karai and I can hear the sounds of a struggle. "Rumlow, get the hostages to safety. We're going back for Cap," Karai instructs. Without hesitation, we rush towards Cap's last known location. As we turn the corner, we witness Cap engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Batroc. Cap gains the upper hand, delivering a swift leaping kick that sends Batroc crashing to the ground.
Before Batroc can recover, Cap charges forward, propelling him through a door and into a room filled with computer equipment. Cap follows up with a powerful punch, further incapacitating Batroc. Walking into the control room, we find Nat at one of the computer stations. A sense of awkwardness fills the air as she greets us, "Well, this is awkward." Cap looks at her, clearly frustrated, and demands, "What are you doing?" Nat calmly responds, "I'm backing up the hard drive. It's always a good practice." Cap strides toward her, visibly irritated, and peers over her shoulder at the computer screen. "You're saving SHIELD intel," he observes. Nat remains resolute, stating, "Whatever I can salvage. My mission was to provide backup and protect SHIELD intel. Spartan and Karai reported that they cleared the ship of enemy threats. So, I'm fulfilling my secondary objective."
Though I strive to remain impartial, I understand Cap's frustration. The lack of transparency regarding Nat's additional mission objective undermines the trust and cohesion within our unit. In a military setting, full transparency and trust are vital for effective teamwork. Suddenly, my attention is drawn to movement. Batroc has regained his footing. Swiftly, I react and unleash a stunning blast, rendering him incapacitated once again. "Now, the ship is fully secure," I declare, ensuring that there are no further threats to our mission's success.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Triskelion, Washington DC, USA]
As I walked out of Fury's office, the weight of our conversation settled heavily on my shoulders. The Triskelion, once a symbol of hope and unity, now housed a project that seemed to contradict everything I had fought for. The enormity of the helicarriers in the hangar was a stark reminder of the power being wielded by those in charge. I couldn't help but reflect on Fury's words about trust and compartmentalization. It was true that secrets were necessary for our line of work, but at what cost? How could we function as a team when everyone had their own hidden agendas? The idea of soldiers trusting each other, relying on one another's unwavering support, seemed distant and unattainable in this new reality. Fury's story about his grandfather struck a chord within me. The loss of trust in people, the tightening grip on that lunch bag filled with ones and a loaded gun—it was a cautionary tale of how easily fear could erode our faith in humanity. I couldn't help but draw parallels to my own experiences, growing up in Brooklyn and witnessing the struggles of a neighborhood changing for the worse.
The revelation of Project Insight and its capabilities left me conflicted. On the one hand, the advanced technology could potentially eliminate threats before they even emerged, protecting innocent lives. But at what price? The idea of preemptive punishment went against the principles I held dear. Justice should be served after a crime, not before. Fury's mention of the "higher-ups" and their decision to implement this surveillance system fueled my frustration. It felt like a violation of personal freedom, forced compliance masked as protection. I couldn't help but feel a sense of bitterness at the notion of holding a gun to every person on Earth in the name of security.
Fury's reminder of the compromises we had made in the past was a bitter pill to swallow. Yes, we had done things that weighed heavily on our conscience, but we had done so to preserve the very essence of freedom. The helicarrier looming above me served as a stark reminder that this new system was not what we had fought for. It was a perversion of the ideals we had sacrificed so much to defend. With a heavy heart, I turned away from Fury and walked, my resolve solidifying. It was clear to me that I could not stand idly by while fear and surveillance took hold. There was still a fight to be fought, not just against external threats but against the erosion of trust and the encroachment on personal liberties. It was time for Captain America to once again take a stand, rally those who believed in the true essence of freedom, and fight for a world where trust, not fear, reigns supreme.
[Nick Fury POV]
I lean against the railing, gazing out at the helicarriers in the hangar. The weight of responsibility sits heavily on my shoulders, and the conversation with Steve Rogers has left me with mixed emotions. There's a part of me that understands his concerns, his unwavering commitment to ideals and principles. But there's another part of me that knows the harsh reality of the world we live in.
My own words echo in my mind, 'Some of us take the world as it is, not what we want it to be.' It's true—I've seen the ugliest sides of humanity, the darkness that lurks beneath the surface. I've fought battles that required compromises and sacrifices for the greater good. And while I've done my fair share of lying and keeping secrets, it was always with the intention of protecting innocent lives. But Steve's unwavering belief in trust and the importance of a united team resonates with me too. I understand his frustration, his desire for transparency, and a clear mission. Perhaps I've become too comfortable with compartmentalization, too accustomed to making decisions behind closed doors. Steve reminds me that true leadership is built on trust and open communication.
I push myself away from the railing and make my way back to the elevator. Steve Rogers may not always agree with my methods, but he stands firm in his convictions. And perhaps that's exactly what I need—a reminder to question my own actions, to constantly strive for a better world.